Nerra voa Numa

The bustle of the spaceport felt oddly comforting. Boil squinted against the harsh Rylothian sunlight as he stepped off the hoverbus, letting himself be jostled along by the crowd. Food carts tempted him with sweet aromas, pilots called for cargo or passengers, engines roared and sputtered on the landing platforms, droids and beings alike called and beeped and whistled.

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The debarkation processes for civilian freighters and transports were far less organized than those the Grand Army of the Republic had used, but it had a liveliness to it, an energy that reminded Boil of the anticipation that had filled him the first time he watched the oceans of Kamino shrink into a cloudy sphere before vanishing altogether in the blur of hyperspace.

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He hadn’t felt that excitement in years.  When the Imperial troops loaded into the cruisers – that is, the Star Destroyers – it was like watching some parody of Boil and his fellow soldiers. The clones set out under orders to drive back the mindless Separatist droids and defend the citizens, and their focus was palatable. The stormtroopers were commanded to instill order – even when there was no disorder to be found – and their energy felt…wrong.  

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Boil had worn the stormtrooper armor for years as he trained new recruits. He remembered how civilians had looked at the clone troopers when they came to the cities during the war – yes, there had been skepticism and dismissal; but there had also been relief, friendliness, appreciation. As a stormtrooper, he only felt positive emotions from a select few Core Worlds. Everywhere else, the civvies looked uneasy, mistrustful, even scared.

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But he had been able to chalk those feelings up to the vast changes in the galaxy. The war had begun and ended so suddenly; residual turmoil was expected. He went on as he always had: a soldier following orders.

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And he had fellow clones in the ranks that he spent time with. They mostly kept to themselves; the natural-born recruits viewed them as either superiors or inferiors. They had quietly complained about the degraded plastoid armor and inefficient helmets, reminisced old battles, spoken to each other like only brothers could. But one by one, they died in skirmishes with criminals, or were forced into retirement by their superiors, until Boil was the last clone at the Arkanis Imperial Academy. He’d never been without a brother before, and the loneliness had almost swallowed him whole.

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He had known it was only a matter of time, but that hadn’t stopped the swooping sensation in his gut the day his supervisory officer told him to clear out his bunk and come to her office. He’d signed the discharge doc absently, writing his nickname without thinking. The officer had scowled and ordered him to resign it with his birth number.

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And now, here he was: a clone on Ryloth with a limited credit supply, a bag of clothes, his old armor, and no idea what he was supposed to do now.

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A passing Rodian caught his eye and frowned, like she was trying to figure out if she knew him. Boil ducked his head and hurried on, securing his headwrap closer to his face, trying to obscure it best he could. It had been ten years since the end of the war, and most civilians seemed to have already forgotten its existence. But there was still an impression that the clones were somehow responsible for the hardships of the war, which could lead to…problems. Boil ran a gloved hand over his face. Getting a job would be difficult.

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Maybe he could be a mechanic. Or a mercenary. Or maybe a bodyguard. He’d have to find a place to buy a good blaster – the Empire hadn’t let him take his standard-issue blaster with him. Outside of war, he wasn’t sure what he could actually do. Maybe –

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“Nerra.”

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Boil froze. The voice was high and feminine, coming from somewhere off to his right. It was said quietly, almost absently, but it struck him to the core. He had a flash of a ghost town in a canyon, a small girl calling after him –

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He spun around.

 

A young, teal-skinned Twi’lek woman was walking past, pushing a hovercrate brimming with electronic scrap. She wasn’t looking at him; she focused on the crowd in front of her, shooing away vendors that got too close.

 

Boil felt his breath catch, turning to tell Waxer – but no, Waxer had died years ago, what was he thinking?

 

He didn’t recall stepping forward. All he knew was tripping over his own feet as he hurried after her. “Ex – excuse me? Ma’am!”

 

She kept walking.

 

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Why were his hands shaking? He stumbled to a stop. “Numa?”

 

She jerked to a halt, whipping around to face him, her head-tails swinging. Her eyes widened. “What did you say?” she demanded in heavily accented Basic.

 

“I – ” Boil faltered. “You called me ‘nerra’.”

 

The woman’s face flushed a darker teal. “It’s – it’s just an old habit. I didn’t mean to –”

 

“No, you – you called me ‘nerra’ when I was here. During the war. Me and Waxer.”

 

She fell silent. Her wide brown eyes were streaked with violet, taking in his face, his height, his orange-marked greaves visible just below his oversized poncho. Very quietly, she asked, “Boil?”

 

He laughed. It had been so long since anyone called him by his nickname. He wasn’t sure why it happened, but his knees gave out.

 

And then she was there, little Numa, alive and healthy, if still a little too thin, kneeling in front of him, her hands holding onto his shoulders as he shook.

 

“You’re alive,” he gasped. “I’m so glad – you’re alive. So many people died – so many we couldn’t save…”

 

“Shh.” She looked around, apprehensive. The crowd had parted for them, and Boil realized he was attracting stares. “Come with me. I’ll help you.”

 

“No, it’s – it’s alright,” he grunted, fighting to pull himself together. The last thing he wanted was a patrol of stormtroopers to see him like this.

 

“I don’t know – what came over me. I just – I’m glad you’re alright, that’s all. I’ll be going –”

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“No,” Numa said fiercely. “You helped me. You helped my people. It’s my turn to help you.”

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Boil let Numa pull him to his feet, surprised by her strength. Wordlessly, he took the hovercrate from her. She hesitated before nodding slightly and leading him through the winding streets. He wiped his face with the cloth of the headwrap, embarrassed.

 

He followed her into the residential quarter, the chaos of the spaceport fading away behind them. It was a quiet area, save for the wind whistling through the rocks around them. The homes had been hewn into the stone; they were much better-kept than the village he and Waxer had found Numa in all those years ago. Adult Twi’leks chatted outside of homes as children chased each other. Several of them called out to Numa, throwing Boil curious looks. He kept his head bowed.

 

Finally, Numa had him park the hovercrate along the side of a particular building. She tossed a large rough blanket on top of it, camouflaging it with the stone. That caught his attention. He looked at Numa sharply, but she either didn’t notice or chose not to respond.

 

“Uncle Nilim!” she called, leading the way inside the house. The entry room opened into a sparsely decorated common area, with cushions and seats arranged around an outdated holoprojector.

 

An aging, blue-skinned Twi’lek man appeared from an interior room. It took him a moment to see Boil, then recoiled when he did. He held a frantic arm out to Numa, crying something in Ryl.

 

She said something very quickly in reply, her lekku twisting and gesturing, and Boil remembered a lesson on Kamino in his childhood; Twi’leks used their head-tails to communicate in tandem with their oral language. He’d never paid attention before. It was like the hand signals he’d used with other clones.

 

The man still looked skeptical; he skirted the edge of the room before approaching. He and Boil stared at each other for a long time before the Twi’lek finally gave a small nod. “You are older. But it is you.” He pronounced every word deliberately, with great care. He seemed to be practicing his Basic.

 

“And it’s you,” Boil responded, realization dawning on him. Numa had run to this man when Ghost Company had liberated her village. Boil had always assumed he was her father. But she called him ‘uncle’…

 

The man smiled. He placed a hand on his heart as he bowed his head. “Nilimb’ryl. Nilim Bril,” he introduced himself. “I am honored to finally meet you, Nerra.”

 

“My name is Boil. Uh, thank you,” Boil said hastily, bowing his head too.

 

Nilim gestured towards the common area, and Boil followed the two Twi’leks as they sat on some plump cushions. Boil mimicked them, grunting as he lowered himself to the seat. He was getting old.

 

“I told you we would meet again someday,” Numa said, beaming as she nudged her uncle. She looked to Boil, sitting forward eagerly on her cushion. “And where is the other? Waxer?”

 

The air rushed from Boil’s lungs. It never got any easier.  

 

He didn’t need to say anything. Numa’s face fell. She extended an arm and touched his shoulder gently. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“He’d be glad you’re okay.” Boil forced a smile. “He always wondered if the war left you alone once we liberated the planet. It sounds ridiculous, cuz we only knew you for a day…but you left a big impact on him. On both of us.”

 

He set his pack down and reached inside. Nilim shrank away, reflexively grabbing his niece’s arm. “It’s alright,” Boil said quickly, holding up his hands. “I don’t have a blaster. I just want to show Numa something.” He didn’t move until Nilim nodded.

 

Boil moved his assorted belongings aside until his hand closed around his helmet. He hadn’t worn it since the war, but he’d been allowed to keep his armor, and the detail on the bucket was still intact. He stared at the visor, his reflection gazing back at him.

 

“When we found you, Waxer realized you might think we were droids, so he took his bucket off so’s not to scare you.”

 

“I did think that,” she admitted. “I remember being scared – I thought the droids were going to take me too. Then when I saw his face – ” she laughed. “I’d never actually met a Human before, so I wondered where his lekku were.”

 

“And when I took mine off, you pointed at us both and said ‘nerra’.” Boil was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t want to leave you behind. I did. If it had been up to me, I would have left you there, to continue my mission. Waxer was always a better man than me.” He hung his head, grip tight on the helmet.

 

“You’re a soldier,” Numa answered, her voice soft. “Sometimes you have to make hard calls. But you made the choice to help me. And you saved me. You saved all of us.”

 

Boil chuckled. “Heh. Well you saved us, too. Those two-legged insects would’ve eaten us if you hadn’t gotten us outta there.” He lifted the helmet from his pack and handed it to her.

 

She took it, her brow creasing as she examined the cartoonish figure painted on the side. Waxer had painstakingly added the decal to both their helmets.

 

Discomfort settled on him as Numa silently stared at the drawing of herself. “We both wanted to remember you,” he offered awkwardly. “When the war started, we knew we were fighting for the Republic, but it was just an idea. It’s not like we’d ever lived in it, or knew why it was better than the Separatists. But we saw what happened to the civilians caught in the middle. Waxer wanted us to remember who we were really fighting for. For you, and for people like you.”

 

Numa remained silent, her expression unreadable, her lekku still.

 

Nerves fluttered in Boil’s gut. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. “Our armor was the one thing that was our own. We never had possessions – we moved around too much, and it’s not like we had much shore leave. So, we clones started painting our armor to make it our own. Different colors for different companies, accents for battles, tally marks for fallen brothers… everyone was different.” He fiddled with the hem of his pack, waiting for a response that didn’t come. “It was the best way we had of honoring people. We always said our armor showed who we were, and who made us that way.”

 

Numa said nothing. Carefully, she set the helmet beside her. She stood abruptly and hurried from the room, refusing to look at him.

 

Something caught in Boil’s throat and he gulped, rocking forward on his cushion to stand, but Nilim laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Give her a moment,” he advised.

 

Boil slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

 

“People end up where they need to be.”

 

What a strange thought. It reminded Boil of something a Jedi would say. A flash of – anger? shame? – shot through him before dissipating as quickly as it came. Keeping his voice low, Boil looked at Nilim. “Where are her parents?”

 

Nilim’s gaze drifted, his smile slipping away. “My brother and his wife were killed in the attack in Nabat. I have raised Numa since their passing.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Boil said. The only family he’d ever known were his brothers. He didn’t know what it felt like to have parents – or to lose them – but he imagined the pain was the same. A wave of guilt drove him to his feet. “I’d better get going. I’m only making things worse.”

 

The Twi’lek’s eyes widened, startled. “Numa will not want you to go. You are welcomed here.”

 

“I’m a clone,” he said gruffly. “I’m not welcomed anywhere.”

 

“Stay.”

 

Numa stood in the doorway, cradling something decorative. The whites of her eyes looked vaguely red, and her mouth was held in a thin line. She shifted from foot to foot, looking almost apprehensive.

 

“This is a Kalikori,” Numa said, holding the decorative piece reverently. 

 

“It is a totem,” Nilim explained, “passed down the line of a Twi’lek family.”

 

“It honors all who have come before. It is our way of remembering our family.” She held it out to Boil, and he took it gingerly.

 

It was a long series of intricately carved figures, arranged in a T-shape with charms and carvings hanging from the points. Stone, wood, metal, and clay pieces were engraved with symbols and shapes. It was easy to see that great care had been put into creating it.

 

At the bottom of one of the strands were two small orange and white blocks joined by a teal rectangle with some sort of script chiseled into it. Boil’s mouth went dry, a prickling sensation springing up behind his eyes. “What does that say?”

 

“Nerra voa Numa,” she answered quietly, watching him closely. “Brothers and Sister.”

 

Tears spilled from his eyes as Boil held the Kalikori tightly to his chest. His shoulders shook and his breaths turned to gasps and sobs. He turned his face away, ashamed. He hadn’t cried like this since he’d learned of Waxer’s death.

 

Hands rested on both of his shoulders as he wept; one large and calloused, one slight and gentle.

 

“Boil.” Numa paused, taking a deep breath. “For the last ten years, every time I saw a clone, I would say ‘Nerra’, hoping that one of them would react to it the way you did. I’ve wanted to find you ever since you left. I don’t want you to leave again.”

 

“We added you to the Kalikori years ago,” Nilim murmured. “You have been a part of us all this time. You have a home here, if you wish.”

 

The words stuck in Boil’s throat. “I…I need to think on it.” He dashed a hand across his eyes, fighting to steady his breathing. He handed the Kalikori back to Numa, and she gently set it down.

 

“Of course.” Nilim squeezed his shoulder. “And while you think, I will be making lunch. You are hungry?”

 

“Thank you,” Boil said, successfully distracted by the idea of a home-cooked meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that wasn’t rations or Imperial-regulated meals.

 

Nilim left the room. Boil and Numa sat in near-silence as Boil worked to control his breathing. The tears kept falling, but they were drying, which he was grateful for; Numa was watching. From the other room, he heard Nilim shuffling about, cookware scraping together as he worked. Once he trusted himself to speak, Boil pitched his voice low. “Numa, why did you hide those electronic components?”

 

She looked to him appraisingly, and suddenly she seemed much older, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was no longer the frightened child that had trailed behind him all those years ago.

 

“Because beneath those electronic components are blasters for Syndulla’s resistance. The Free Ryloth Movement never truly dissipated. The war never ended here.”

 

Between them, the Kalikori and his helmet rested side-by-side. “I want to help you.”

 

She beamed, and before Boil could move, she’d thrown her arms around him tightly. He started in surprise before returning the hug.

 

When she drew back, her eyes were dancing. “I’ll message Cham and let him know you’re with us. Not a word to Uncle Nilim, though. He’s not on board with me being in the resistance yet.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“I’m glad you’re with us, brother. There’s much work to be done.”

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