Beskadala
The Armored Maiden
Samovar, planet of abandoned cavernous mining shafts, manufactured craters, and porous landscapes of other dilapidated mining facilities. The world had been stripped by the old Galactic Empire for its resources. Dug up, turn, reaped and mutilated, its landscape was earth on top of unkept earth. Disturbing this ecological graveyard, kicking up drifting plumes of dirt pulverized by repulsorlift pressures into a fine mist was a beat up and scratched landspeeder. Beneath the shadows of crumbling refinery towers with their crocked and crumbling exhaust stacks like rotting tombstones. And through corp-slave blasted mountain tunnels, the landspeeder sped through the tortured remains. Weaving between the dead giants that were the refinery towers, the landspeeder took a sharp turn into the hollow carcass of one of these giants.
Pulling up inside the giant’s bowels, the landspeeder came to a stop beneath a warped threshold. Its massive frame once held enormous blast doors now long lost and replaced by a curtain of random scrap metal hung on gas cables. On the scrap metal were etched script, letters and words from a language hardly spoken – the straight and jagged runic script of the Mandalorians. Stepping out of the landspeeder was the reluctant inheritor of that ancient culture. Planting her landing foot, Beskdala Ordo, the Armored Maiden as she had become to be known in the mercenary circles, lumbered away from the landspeeder. Her body was encased in a chrome beskar Mandalorian Armor. An armor she had forged after a band of lost Mandalorians raided a Sith-Imperial shipment.
In those days she had thought the times were to change. But, once again, enslaved to the lethal nostalgias of a warrior’s purpose the Tribe she had tried to forge was absconded to rebel against the Sith and be crushed again. As she passed beneath the curtain of scrap metal and traverse the sand dunes that had blow into the ruined tower, she wondered if there were even any purpose to hat code – that Way of life anymore. Cresting the dune hill, Beskadala stopped for a moment to eye the hut at the bottom. It was made of stripped plates and cables, wielded together, and laced with wiring it was a crude hut of cylindrical shape and size. From its windows a bright orange light glowed, and the sounds of enraged flames whistled in the dead wind.
Beskadala resumed her stroll and descended the hill. Reaching the bottom she was confronted by a group of children. Some were clad in junk metal, clumsily soldered together to form clunky replica’s of Mandalorian armor. Others just wore tunics of ragged fabrics. The one wearing the junk Mandalorian helmet rushed forward, barely keeping upright and continuously adjusting his helmet, so it didn’t slump forward.
“You’re back!” the little Mando yelped, as he ran to Beskadala’s side trying to keep with her strides.
“What yah zap this time?” he continued, “Some runaway smuggler? A Rogue Darksider?...Oh, you hunted a Sand-Demon!”
“No,” Beskadala flatly replied.
“What?!” the little Mando groaned, “Come on tell me!”
“No,” said Beskadala.
The little Mando halted and crossed his arms, hoping his displeasure would cause Beskadala to stop as well. But, the maiden kept on walking towards the hut.
“Do say anything else besides no?” the little Mando yelled.
Beskadala did not reply for a moment, then briefly laughed, “Yes.” And said no more.
Entering the hut, Beskadala brushed away the fabric curtain flaps and stood before a large forging furnace. Its flames in full jets of bright blue spires. Nursing the flames and feeding it scrap was a brass-golden helmed Mandalorian with dark armor set made from the scrap of the Samovarian wastes.
“Welcome back,” she coolly said, greeting Beskadala with her soft and cold voice.
“Have seat, I’m just forging a new table for the little ones.”
“The last one fell a part after they had decided to pretend it was a starship to raid.”
Beskadala quietly nodded and moved to sit on a crate that had been re-forged into a stool. She reached into one of the many pouches mounted on the combat vest that was strapped over the breastplate of her armor and removed a large key-chain of credits. She tossed them on the small salvaged stand beside her. The loud clunking thud they made, made the dark armored Mandalorian turn her head and look at Beskadala.
“That your haul?” she asked.
“It’s yours, Hammvra” Beskadala protested.
“Payment for the armor.”
“It is simply my Way, Maiden,” replied Hammvra.
“Your payment is appreciated however.”
“Are you staying for long this time? The little ones would enjoy that.”
“I don’t think so,” said Beskadala.
“Hoh?” jeered Hammvra, turning away from the forging furnace to face Beskadala.
“And why is that?”
Beskadala didn’t have a real answer. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t be around other Mandalorians. Even if she had come to be very fond of Hammvra and her Foundlings. A small family, hidden away, home to their own little solace of peace. It’s what Beskadala had hoped to create. But, it seemed she cursed not to. Or perhaps had been punished by some, force, not to. Not wanting to use trauma as an excuse or to claim their visage as Mandalorian pained her, Beskadala elected to just shrug and pointed tapped the bounty hunter’s fob dangling from a clap on her combat vest.
Hammvra nodded slowly, “I see.”
“A busy occupation, no, this Bounty Hunting?”
“It is,” Beskadala sheepishly answered.
Hammvra returned to her flames and the new children of metal and fire it was exhaustively birthing. With tongs she prodded the melting remnants of the chunks of scrap and nudged them into new spot of fire and molding. For a small moment, the sounds of crackling flame, the vents of gas feeding the furnace’s fires, and the ambient sounds of mock battles of the foundlings outside filled the silence between the two Mandalorians.
“You know, you are welcome to stay,” Hammvra said.
“I’ve already answered this once,” interrupted Beskadala.
“And I found your first answer insufficient in reasoning Maiden,” countered Hammvra.
“I don’t belong here, with you,” Beskadala said, “…..with any of your kind.”
“Our kind,” Hammvra snapped.
Beskadala flinched and fixed the dark transparent T of her visor onto Hammvra’s back.
“Aren’t you a Mandalorian?” Hammvra said.
Beskadala said nothing. Another question she didn’t want to honestly answer. Hammvra sighed and placed the tong onto an equipment’s tray mounted to the side of the bulbous body of the furnace. She then tapped some commands into the control panel and the flames began to descend into the bowels of the furnace taking the metals with it. A lid closed the furnace and entombed her new creation in an embalming hold of extreme heat. When finished, Hammvra looked back to Beskadala, she marched up to her and looked down on her.
“How much longer are you going to punish yourself,” Hammvra said, cornering Beskadala.
“Have you not repented, or are you a judge who can never be satisfied?”
Beskadala said nothing.
“I cannot persuade you to return?” Hammvra whispered to Beskadala, resting her hand on her shoulder.
Beskdala shook her head and softly replied, “I don’t know.”
Hammvra sat down beside Beskadala and removed her hand to bring to herself, crossing it with the other on her chest.
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