The planning discussion can be found here.

<p><em> Bakura. Atunda, 11th of Helona, 17:55. The outskirts of Salis D’aar, nine huddled in front of a rundown shed</em></p>
<p>Once more the scream of concussion missiles in flight. Sweat glistened on the reddish-haired’s forehead as the second try had gone wrong. “Hurry up! We’re like standing here like the lonely tits.” “Gob, Bowl!” Frowning with concentration, the curly-head readjusted the giant’s wrung out wet shirt in the padlock’s bow, shook out a freckled biceps… and cracked it in a second whip. </p>
<p> “Amazin’” The lanky one nodded his kudos while big Bowl’ put his dirtied shirt back on. It used to be yellow. <em>Yellow and dark grey.</em> Something clicked past Math’s pick-up; till Bowl pulled and stretched it across his beer gut: <strong>You go, we’re gonna stay! </strong>BSA : In League 16, smaller on his both sleeves. Beneath an Acklay going over to attack. The beast’s claws looked sharp. “Yeah, next we’ll take yours.” Bowl gave a big-boned smirk and shoved him aside. With a crash, he unbolted the shed… </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> The interior lay murky. Only scattered beams pierced in from the damaged roof, widened out to spotlight disused engines, scrapped production lines, an iridescent puddle next to a pile of dented in barrels. Stepping in, the stench of rubber, petroleum and plast-fume made your eyes water. </p>
<p> Bowl didn’t care: he plodded in, booted a bale of plast film into shape and flopped. The beam beside him grew brown from whirled up dust; he but stretched with relish and showed jaws in an oversized yawn. “Ah, homey! Just like Mazy’s.” “Sure, Bowl’! Like Mazy’s urinals you mean, Datundas after a final.” Next to his chum’s comfy chair, Obry turned up his nose. Matheron guessed he was a mechanic. Why, he could be practised burglar, too—but not for the traces of dirt that looked like they’d soaked into his stout fingers; and that padlock had been more of the type you used when you really hoped for a case of loss, anyway. <em>Our luck. Heh.</em><em>I’d rather hoped to cut some.</em></p>
<p> On his vantage point next to the entrance, Matheron gave a small snort, then glanced at the two Kurtzen. Rounding him, they inched in much more cautious. And silent. Like the girl in striped pants: small, slim, eyes flitting under the very red hair, she seemed to scan heap by heap. <em>Like a tuskcat…</em> His eyes followed her. <em>Hi, fellow. You know they used calling me an old limping… tuskcat got seven lives… I spent three today, more than four before…</em><em>but kitty, your tits are sweet… </em></p>
<p> Grinning, the crust of blood and dust on his face became taut and cracked. <em>Like Cloudland Peaks’ fissured rock. That’s how some of Cathy’s face packs must feel. That I could feel you again! </em> Matheron leant back against the shed’s wall with a hazy smile. That day we had engine trouble; Gavin and I returned home surprisingly and you had that mud pack on—we must have stared like speeders…</p>
<p> “Maker, that stinks like a cathouse!” Only now the boy called nerd picked his way through the sea of black plastic. Tuskcat darted a checking glance. Bowler smirked. “Ooh, how would <em>you</em> know?” “Yeah, Zisah, <em>how</em>?” Obry led on, “We thought you’d only do cyber?” “Ha.Ha. You know, I see at least some…<em>flarg</em>!” He jumped when another screech gashed the sky. </p>
<p><em> Too close!</em> Matheron spun round, eyes widening as a second shade raced through the yard. A third, low down, across the opposite factory wall. </p>
<p> “Cirrian!” The TIE drowned his shout. “<em>Cirrian</em>! <em>Move your wag…</em>!” </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> The second scream took her breath; wallhopping, the TIE’s impetus all but bowled her over. Ahead, the warehouse’s door started to close… <em>Noo!</em> Cirrian’s eyes widened. Sped up by fear, she sprinted, squeezed in; Thayer shut and BOOOM: near, very near, smashed the blast. The earth shook; rubble drummed on the roof; metal plates rattled in the rusty production lines… </p>
<p> Envelopped in stinking murk, Cirrian stared up to the where scraps and dust trickled in by a fresh crack in the roof’s corrugated plasteel. Slowly, her eyes accomodated: revealed a dump; the three ganger types; Kurtzen; the small woman peering out from under a circular saw’s metal desk; the young man whose woman and child had just bled to death… </p>
<p><em> Thayer, you flarged shik! </em> How hard had she tried to finish him! All these weeks! Strip him of the mask of sophistication he tried deceive them with; Marjorie, Captison, her countrymen. Yesterday in the press conference she’d almost gotten him. <em>Very, very nearly</em>. It was obvious because afterwards he’d spat something about eating her ashes. The happier he’d finally been arrested: last night, after a <em>surprise</em> raid on one of Bakura’s outposts. <em> Surprise. Ha ha!</em> They’d transferred him to the BSA; the Baar Security Agency—<em>from where one doesn’t return…</em></p>
<p> Still now, right now, the Imperial Remnant invaded Bakura! This very morning, dissidents of their very own army captured the Senate – the newsflash spilled her green champagne. Only two hours later, an unknown squadron purposefully destroyed Salis D’aar’s radio communications. Then came TIEs and Imperial Star destroyers; they blew the Mekin XS along with an estimated five thousand! They bombed their capital<em>—</em>all over the city sentients ran, scared to death, dying… </p>
<p> And <em>Thayer</em> was back! Right in her back, too. That trio of laserbrained hools over there had not only pushed the muzzle from in between his eyes—they’d needlessly dragged him along! Just now, as he’d tried to lock her out when the TIE came, he’d revealed his true face again: a treacherous barve. Inveterate. Still they lolled about on trashsacks, watching like you might a peculiar holo! Well then, for Bakura and liberty, her task was mountains from over… </p>
<p> Bracing herself, she slowly turned round to the MCP she could smell over the background of this refuse pit. Thayer frowned. His face though dark with dried blood and grime, his greyish eyes penetrated her with that same authoritative insistence. “It just missed.” He whispered gravelly. “It <em>only</em> just missed, <em>Cirrian</em>. Next we move: <em>stay in line!</em>” </p>
<p> “Or <em>what, Commander Traitor?</em> You’ll shoot me?” She eyed him rancorously. “Pull the blaster you don’t have? Or lock me out when the next of those TIEs comes?” The camwielder’s voice became quiet. “You may have managed to <em>worm</em> yourself out of it <em>once</em> again. You may have duped <em>them</em>,” she darted a glance at Bowl and his comrades, “but <em>I know</em> who you really are, <em>Thayer</em>! <em>I know</em> what you did and I tell you: <em>your luck won’t last!</em>” </p>
<p> Exasperatingly, Thayer didn’t turn a hair. Not at her words, the filth on his high-necked double-breasted or her gaze, that paused a mocking five seconds on the area beneath his flies: the only patch in which the suit still shone with a full black. Or had returned to it. </p>
<p> “It’s war now, Cirrian. We can’t afford carrying on our feud.” </p>
<p><em> Insidious shik! </em> Eyes glittering, she stalked off abruptly and only turned back to stare at him from a few meters distance. <em>You and your masques! You and your gunrunning buddy Sirana! </em></p>
<p> She’d loved to target him, too—yet orders had been to concentrate on Thayer, whose ill will would not jeopardize economic upswing. Yet what on starsend now happened to separate them, they remained one arrogant double issue! Arrogant enough to disturb her privates. <em>Not in…!</em> Cirrian gritted her teeth; glowered as her glance brushed the young man whose woman and child had just bled to death.<em> If it’s for me he could shoot you right now! …Still there’s one thing I really want to know… </em></p>
<p> “All these weeks you worked as the Empire’s bladderweasel: You <em>invited</em> them. You <em>opened the way</em>. Yet now that they step in you take to your heels. Why?” She scrutinized him. “Out in the corridor just now you claimed that you had no choice. You said… that you were going to explain…?” </p>
<p> Under his mask of grime, Thayer’s face remained unreadable. </p>
<p> “What now? Will you answer me? Or shall I ask somebody to <em>emphasize</em> my question?” Cirrian gave a sidelong glance at the young father, who actually returned her gaze and got up. “Discipline is necessary—wouldn’t you sign that, Thayer? When it comes to a <em>traitor</em>, the necessary discipline <em>is execution</em>…” Thinking of how he’d lashed out at her with the statutes by only yesterday, her tone turned triumphant. “It <em>is</em> under Bakuran law. And despite your <em>ludicrous</em> diversion, I chanced upon <em>evidence</em>…” </p>
<p> “You want a quickie?” </p>
<p> “What!?” Did he just smirk? “Cut your chau…” </p>
<p> “With power, who needs trials?” Thayer’s voice was a flat whisper. “You should film this, too, Cirrian. … Why, of course, you’ll just threaten me… just a little bit; ask a few questions; ask someone to pull… When we’re done, you got evidence of torture; incitement of murder; murder. You got a body to move, Cirrian…you got nightmares…” </p>
<p> The journalist looked him squarely in the eyes. “So that you did also: <em>you</em> tortured <em>and </em>murdered without trial! Why then should <em>you live</em>?!” </p>
<p> For an instant Thayer looked startled; then stared vacantly into the junk. Plast film rustled. A shade momentarily cut off a ray of light, before a trio of screeches raced past and sent more pieces of rubble trickling in by the tapered crack in the corrugated roof. Thayer looked down. </p>
<p> “Suppose that means: no comment.” It came from the reddish-haired on a sack. The lanky one nodded. “Disturbing, isn’t it? Imagine you’re accused and not even <em>you</em> can think of a reason…” He broke off as the young father stepped behind Thayer; the small woman obliquely behind: eyes narrowed under the shock of red hair she looked upset… </p>
<p> “Well, then back to my original question: <em>Why</em> do you run from your pals? Why do you run from your buddy Sirana? Or do you still wait on him to call you to more important things than a journalist’s vapid questions?” </p>
<p> Thayer kept staring to the ground. “They are not my pals,” he whispered eventually. “Yes, I was working for a new order… but this isn’t it.” </p>
<p> Cirrian sneered. “How do you mean ‘this isn’t it’? Is there <em>another</em>? Isn’t that what you worked for all the time: to take our homeworld?” </p>
<p> “No. <em>I</em> wanted to <em>win</em> it.” </p>
<p> “Take, win.. what shall be the difference?” </p>
<p> “…prove that it’s by confidence, not fear, that you convince someone to <em>join</em> you… build a state in which people would work together… where you’d provide air when fellow sentients suffocate… not butcher them. I though Bakura could be …” </p>
<p> “A test object for some visionary idea of yours!? Plotting against our prime… with a fleet hanging ready above our heads?! Sorry, but that’s not how <em>confidence</em> is spelled!” Outraged, she snapped. “And now? We’re <em>bombed</em>! Thousands of sentients are <em>dying</em>!” She eyed him penetratingly. “Your little experiment failed, right? Some lab’rats didn’t play along… you were arrested and now… you’re terribly afraid of a <em>spanking</em>—<em>that</em>’s why you run, <em>isn’t it</em>?” </p>
<p> In his peek she spotted a frown, a minute twitch around his lips. </p>
<p> “Oh flarg, you’re so pathetic! Such an arrogant hypocrite! <em>You</em> tortured, didn’t you? <em>You</em> murdered behind closed doors and disposed of warm bodies. <em>You</em> butchered insurgents during the level-unrests of 12ABY? <em>That</em>’s why you ran from the Republic and from your <em>family, </em>too, no? Seems that’s what you always do when your sick little games don’t work out: you chuck up, run away and blame others! And <em>you</em> have the nerve to help subjugate a free world… <em>to make it better!? </em>Really, Thayer, your son is right to renounce you: you’re a stain on his honor, you sully the idea of justice and responsibility by your every breath! So tell me, <em>traitor</em>, what kind of world would <em>you</em> create?”</p>
<p> The echelon squawked by; set off more blasts that rustled in as a metall quiver. </p>
<p> When Thayer looked up his bloodied cheeks showed trails of white. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> Cirrian looked hard; Bowl, Zisah and Obry scowled; ahead, the young man’s hand tightened around the butt of his blaster; some way off, the taller of the two Kurtzen flashed a hostile stare… </p>
<p> His eyes clung to Tuskcat's for a long moment. </p>
<p> Then he unbuttoned his jacket… </p>
<p> One row down, then the other. Tears kept running; you saw in the dustied beam that fell from the latest skylight. He removed the holster, shuffled through Gunman’s field of fire and gave it to Obry, who looked up uneasy. “You know how to wear it?” </p>
<p> “Well.. yes.. suppose so.” </p>
<p> Thayer nodded; reviewing Obry, his eyes stuck to the other one’s pocket. “Destroy the IDsticks—they belonged to BSA agents and can likely be traced.” Zisah’s eyes became wide, Bowl looked puzzled. “Sure you'll find an old battery; the acid should take care of everything.” </p>
<p> “Talking of…,” he adressed all and nobody in particular, “Comms… and electrical appliances of <em>any</em> sort: switch them off. If you think you must call mum, dad or your special someone: don’t do it! Save them to know something an Imp might quiz about or that might drive them to desperate actions.” </p>
<p> Gazing at Tuskcat, Thayer removed the cufflinks, began to unbutton the starched, white shirt. Button after button after button. A bigger explosion suggested the corridor they’d come from lay now blocked. Pieces of rubble kept drumming on the plasteel, sand and dust trickled in by the cracks. When his hands reached the waistband, Gunman cleared his throat. “What's all this?” </p>
<p> “Clothes are for the living.” Thayer removed both, shirt and jacket, dusted it off and held it out to Cirrian. “They’re half good once spattered with brain matter.” The camwielder shrank back. “The smell of blood attracts predators, too.” He looked from Gunman to Bowl. “In fact, you should not waste a bolt where you can break a neck. A bolt… may be your a life.” </p>
<p> Obry coughed, Thayer gave a bushed smile and held the black double-breasted ready for Cirrian to slip in. “Come on. It is a good coat.” His eyes travelled her scantily clad body. “Nights will be cold.” </p>
<p> “But nights go and you’ll stay: You will be a good squad. You and Gunman, and Bowl, Zisah and Obry,” he looked at one after the other, “you proved you’re ready to move, hard and fast, put up a spirited defence of your homeworld. You…” His gaze wandered the smaller of the two Kurtzen, his companion, back to Tuskcat. “..will soon enough prove the same.” </p>
<p> “When they’re too big or too many, recall: <em>rocks from above; their chicks hate scree; atop rock debris you may fortify</em>—but mind nights and sky. Stay vigilant! Share your watches fairly.” His glance darted to the camwielder. “You have a cam on you, no? Zoom and night vision: use it to spy out, and spy them <em>first</em>.” </p>
<p> “Zisah can teach you about TIEs. Tuskcat can give a lesson in stealth…Cirrian, too—you’re made for reconnaissance. Make Bowl your model in insensitivy…” The big man scowled. “Physically I mean. As in making the best of what you get: muddy water’s still <em>water</em>. Bowl, you should sample it first, though; I’d guess you’re the most immune.” </p>
<p> “Obry…Boy, you got a mechanic! How likely was that?” His gaze jumped to the two Kurtzen. “You.. may know a few things that none of the others could think of. After all, you live upon this earth for a good moment longer. And you…” He faltered when his eyes met Gunman’s. “Words can’t express… but I am sorry. Deeply so. I.. got a family.” He swallowed. “You got 12 rounds. Make every bolt pay.” </p>
<p> “Yes…and recall that with every ressource..” Stripped to the waist, Thayer knelt down and folded his hands in his neck. “They may be more and better equipped, they may sleep indoors and get regular meals… and caf… but… in the end… he will win who fights best with the least. And keeps faith… in himself and his comrades.”</p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> They worked swift. Why, dusk was falling quickly: only a mauve glow still oozed in by the leaky roof. Bowl dragged out a piece of chain from under the heap of barrels. Obry and Zisah used broken glass to cut lengths off the disused conveyor belt. Tuskcat rolled them, on the side sought and folded yet intact layers of plast-film. Cirrian grudgingly found some rags and coated wire, one Kurtzen searched for band, while the taller sceptically bunched up the collected material for Gunman who tied it into handy bundles. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> It was a sweet night. A TIE-free night. Plains lay under a violet glow and the stink of death blew from the rubbles of Salis D’aar city.</p>
<p>Through the fields, Tuskcat ran and scouted ahead. Zisah followed, watching the sky. Bundles were shared after weight-bearing capacity: Bowl and Obry carried the most; in a big rucksack Obry had made after Riaksh’s idea. Ri was the smaller of the two Kurtzen; the other had frowned. But why, that’s what they always did, Bowl had said. Wrinklers, what can you do? That’s why it’s become permanent in their frontal bone. Not to worry.</p>
<p>Over her flimsy dress, Cirrian wore the white shirt; dirtied by now, tied in her waist, held by the dropped cufflinks…</p>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The image itself was crystal clear, even through the blue that holo-representation brings. Unlike most transmissions heading towards Bakura, this one was a visual recording, and from the time signature, it wasn’t sent that long ago. Through space and…more space, it criss-crossed across one end of the Galaxy to the other, to where Bakura was located. It was proving one point clear still at the moment, because even though the Holonet was controlled somewhat by the New Republic, even the Empire could secretly send messages without being caught.
   
The message bounced off a receiving station dish in Borleias, before crossing the great cosmos again to another station, in the orbit around Eriadu. Like it did earlier at Borleias, it bounced off with great accuracy, leaving no identification signal as it continually bounced across the Galaxy. It, after a long while, came to its final destination in one of the most remote places in the entre galaxy, where one such transmission could be sent.
   
Bakura.
   
The image flicked into existence as the computers there analyzed the message and played it back, before it was finally processed into a datachip. As per the usual protocol when messages are meant for Dodonna personally, it was screened by the ISB Agent on board, Captain VonToma. He would read and watch every message that had a code to it that was sent directly to Dodonna, fearing that it could activate some sort of mechanism that could further damage the operation they were running.
   
As soon as the coding process was complete, and he had reviewed it, he had immediately sent it up to Dodonna. It was urgent.

       
       

RAVISHER | COMMAND BRIDGE

Dodonna was standing on the command bridge, his presence exluding self-confidence and the typical Imperial demeanor that most commanders that belong to the Empire often have: dominance, in the dominate fashion that often dictators would use. He stood with his feet together, almost the position of attention, with his left thumb and index finger cupping his chin, his right hand in a fist as it touched his elbow, the arm ninety degrees parallel with his rib cage. He even had the pose of a thoughtful, but ruthless Imperial Commander.
   
Captain Ramus Uer was walking up to him on the command bridge, his black uniform looking sharp, crisp, as if it had just arrived from some sort of cleaners but that was not the case. He had the look of a mission undertaken, as if he had to complete it to survive, or to at least gain acceptance of a person. Thankfully, he did not have to gain the trust of his commanding officer, his footsteps echoed calmness, but yet a slight weariness, as if he was regretting to interrupt Dodonna in his thinking state.
   
“Admiral.” He spoke, his definitive accent ringing out in the command bridge, but none of the crew members had time to pay attention, they were working diligently as if this was their nothing else but their job. Either Captain Uer or Admiral Dodonna ‘forced’ this work ethic upon them, but by the looks of it, it was more of Uer’s doing, his ship apparently was more in tune to his command than Dodonna’s.
   
But they’d never vocalise their opinions outside of themselves.
   
“Yes, Captain?” His clear cut voice spoke, the accent not loss on Uer as he stood behind him, halfway between standing at full attention and the position of parade rest. One hand, his left, was behind his back, fingers extended and thumb clasped roughly against his hand. His legs and feet were spread apart, shoulder width, and he held his head high. In his other hand was a datachip, small compared to the others but the data it held, to VonToma, was ‘big’ enough for Dodonna to see.
   
“A transmission, from Muunilinst.”
   
“Muunlinst?” Dodonna asked, for confirmation. Uer gave a short, but respectful, nod of the head as Dodonna took the chip from Uer’s hand. He did so with the slightest of urgency, but still slow enough for dramatic effect. Uer watched carefully as his commanding officer took an about face and walked on, expecting Uer to command the ship for the duration that he was absent.
   
He walked into a nearby room, one door off the right from exiting the main bridge of his Star Destroyer. It was a standard meeting room, actually more or less a distinguished war room than anything, which was perfect for the moment. He walked over to the nearby holo-viewer, located in the middle of the shiny, sleek round table, and with the grace of someone not of his age slipped in the datachip.
   
“Please speak the confirmation code. Receiving Code Two five seven. Level Red.”
   
Level Red? Dodonna thought, realizing that it was a high level code, and it was even more so a surprise that VonToma managed to break through it. He breathed in deeply, before he began to speak the code that all Admirals memorized.
   
“Alpha-Epsilon, Seven Three Seven. Confirmation requested.”
   
“Confirmed. Beginning Playback.” The holo-viewer spoke back, before it began…


   

The image was of different quality than most holos that Dodonna received, thanks to the newest equipment that the Empire used for holo-transmissions. It appeared to be of a more higher quality than most transmissions sent, for instance the ship to ship communications. hub that they used for holo-representation. The image was of a man, in a pristine white uniform, one that Dodonna had last seen on one person. Thrawn.
   
He appeared old, but the man himself was younger than he appeared, which was good for some instances. The uniform looked pressed, clean, as if Uer had taught him a thing or two on how to clean items of the uniform. Blue, piercing eyes gazed out from the holo, as if staring down Dodonna’s gaze with hardly any movement. Tucked in between his left arm was a combination cover, white, and with the symbol of the Empire on it as well. He spoke with an accent, but with a soldierly gruff to his voice.
   
“Hello, Admiral.” The man spoke, breathing ever so slightly as he seemingly relaxed. However, from the angle that Dodonna was looking at he could never tell if he moved or if he did not.
   
“I am Grand Admiral Willem van Aath, commander of all of the Naval forces and Army units in the system of Muunilinst, currently pertaining to my orders.” Too much like a soldier, one would think, to talk like that in a message directed to one such as Admiral Dodonna.
   
“From my sources in various places have told me, you have made quite a name for yourself. Albeit secretly, but a name nonetheless. Perhaps it would bequeath you to know that someone such as myself would want to make an alliance with someone who gets things done.” He spoke, with an elegant touch to his speech. However elegant, it did not remove the soldiering gruff that he inhibited.
   
“If my word of services cannot be sufficient, then take another token offering of my services.” He spoke, his right hand slowly reaching into his pocket to pull out a thin, little data-stream layer, with a special number written on it.
   
“Two seven five, six four nine, eight. The secondary passcode is ‘Pendragon.’” He spoke, to which Dodonna widen his eyes. Its an Intergalactic Banking Clan account number, with the pass code. He thought, studying the image of Willem as he smiled.
   
“In any case, Admiral, I really do want to mend an alliance with you. If not for both of our views for the Galaxy, but for the Empire. For the Empire that was glorious, not the one that withers. Take care, Admiral. Grand Admiral Aath out.”

   
   

Willem sat in a small briefing room, small was the word that he would definitely use since it was originally developed for a staff locker room. The other briefing rooms in the Headquarters were massive in comparison. In his Moff uniform, he was conducting a debriefing with two people: his ersatz bodyguard Commander Antonius Maarco and Line Captain Octavian Zaafrian.
   
“Do you suppose the Grand Admiral ploy worked?” Maarco asked, the Intelligence operative slowly dripping his index finger against the hard, glossy table that was in the middle of this briefing room.
   
“I believe so. I think it implied I have more commanding tactics or authority than I do now. Which is good. How much money was in that account I gave him again, Zaafrian?”
   
“Fifty million.” He responded instantly, as if he knew what Willem was about to utter. Willem nodded: he was remembering how the IGBC was going to pay only half of that before Willem brought in the extra twenty five million. He ‘borrowed’ the money from some of his corrupt officers who did ‘bad’ things on the side.
   
“When should I be expecting a message from him, Maarco?” Willem asked the Intelligence commando, to which he merely shrugged in response. He was Willem’s only link to Imperial Intelligence, since Janus was away right now on some ‘important’ mission that ‘required all of his attention’.
   
“Anything from two minutes to two weeks. He’s an Imperial, so I’m guessing the two weeks.”
   
Plots within plots, Willem thought, as his fingers touched each other in a odd sort of relaxation, slightly pushing against each other as they rested in front of Willem’s face. It would be worse if he was a relic from the old Imperial order, before the battle of Yavin. That is exactly what I need.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Nekessla didn't believe in answered prayers until idiot Kix Davin opened her cell door. She was sitting in the corner farthest from him and jumped when the door ground open.

Kix's pretty-boy face sneered at her as he leaned in. "Huntress!" he exclaimed.

He looked way too happy, and she felt her stomach drop to her toes in fear. What in the galaxy would make him so pleased? "Asshole!" she retorted in the same excited tone, feigning glee.

He chuckled, in such high spirits that he didn't even retort. "Huntress, guess who I've brought to your cell!"

That stopped Kess in her verbal tracks. No, she thought, shocked. No way. There's no way he's really as stupid as I've always thought. There's no way he's done what I think he's done. The Gods don't hear prayers.

But this time, Someone did. Dark side assassin Garrick Mikaelian leaned into the doorway, running a hand over his short, slicked-back hair, smirking at her the way she's seen him do for years, usually right before he severed a person's connection to their soul.

The breath seemed to fall out of her in a rush that made her want to hyperventilate. She rose slowly to her feet. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn't care. She might've been able to keep from crying before, but not now, not so pregnant, and she didn't have to anyway. Tears spilled openly down her cheeks, and she let her voice crack as she spoke, the tears making her words more convincing then she might've pulled off on her own. "Kix, no! N-n-no, you –"

"Sorry." He grinned, clapping the assassin on the shoulder. "Imperial orders. Vual's promised not to mess up your pretty face too badly."

"Or the kid." Garrick smirked, cracking his knuckles. "You know, for the good of the Imperial population and all that." Turning, he clapped Kix in the shoulder in the same fashion. "Thanks, Lieutenant Commander. I'll knock to have a guard let me out, okay?"

"Sure, Captain." Davin winked at Kess. "Make it last." Then he stepped back and closed the door, sealing the Huntress Nekessla in with Garrick Mikaelian.

Tears hot on her cheeks, Kess stared at him, taking in his short hair, those dark eyes glittering in the dimness of the cell, the crisp, flawless Imperial uniform. Her voice broke. "You cut your hair," was the first thing that came out of her mouth, and she began to sob. Garrick crossed the room and swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and hugging her tight enough to hurt. She wept and wept, tears dampening his uniform shirt. He cupped her face and kissed her on the mouth, deep enough as if to drink her from the mouth down. Her hope was restored in the strength of his arms and the scent of his skin. She thought over and over again, I'm saved, I'm saved, I'm saved…

"Garrick, I'm sorry!" she cried, hiccupping with the force of her sobs. "I'm so sorry… I never meant for any of this! I shouldn't have separated from you on Kuat, and I shouldn't have waited to tell you I was pregnant! I conceived on Coruscant, do you remember? Before we left for Chandrila, before everything… Oh, Gods, please don't be angry with me!"

He smiled ever-so-gently, hands holding her face, his thumbs brushing her tears away. "If I was angry at you, I wouldn't have risked life and remaining limbs to find you."

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to him. "How did you find me? How?"

"Sauric." Garrick stroked her face and hair. "His visions. You know he's the only Force-user I've never questioned."

She stared up at him, then blurted out, "You cut your hair… That beautiful hair… I can't believe you!"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "A month in a cell, and you're worried about my hair?"

"I… I only cooperate with rescue attempts when my dark, handsome rescuer has long hair."

"Well, I'm so sorry to disappoint."

Taking her in his arms, Garrick helped her to the bunk and sat her down, then held her against him. Nekessla looked up at him. "I didn't think… I mean, I thought I'd die here."

"I promised you years ago no matter what happened, I would always come for you. And here I am."

"Mordar Vual," she whispered, very familiar with his Imperial avatar. "Gods, Garrick… I've never been so glad to see you in that uniform."

He smiled, then leaned in and kissed her. She returned it with passion this time, and all her fear and anxiety was gone, replaced by absolute strength and determination. In her heart, she no longer gave a damn that she was in a cell. Everything would be fine with Garrick Mikaelian. Everything always was.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, then slid a hand down her chest and rested it on her stomach. "Is it mine?" he asked again.

She stared at him, momentarily shocked, until she realized he was teasing, that he had asked the same thing in the Bakuran Chancellor's office. "No," she blurted out.

Garrick smirked. "No?"

"No. You saw Kix Davin. How could I resist his prepubescent good looks? I just threw myself at him and begged him to take me."

Still feeling emotional, the words came out sounding far more serious than she meant them to. Despite their situation, Garrick chuckled. "You always told me you didn't like blonds."

"A hollow lie."

Then Nekessla began to laugh, and when she started, she couldn't stop. All her pent-up emotions poured out, and she laughed until her ribs ached and she thought she might puke.

She composed herself just in time. Garrick put a finger to her lips, listened for a moment to something she couldn't hear, then said, "Someone's coming! Unzip your suit."

She made a small sound. "Gods, Garrick…" But she fumbled at the zipper of her bodysuit and unzipped it to the navel.

Unbuttoning his uniform shirt as quickly as he could, he pulled it off and then yanked off his Imperial-regulation undershirt. Tossing them aside, he lay Kess on her back and then straddled her beneath her stomach, pinning her down lightly while balancing his weight so none was on her.

"The room is soundproof," Garrick whispered, his lips against the skin of her neck. The small window of the cell door darkened with an approaching shadow. "Nobody wants to hear prisoners screaming."

Kess whispered back, "I never in my life thought I'd feel awkward with you, Garr, but this is awkward…"

The viewport darkened, then cleared.

"Shhh… He's almost gone." He pecked her neck just because. "Hold on a minute, make sure he doesn't stop to look in."

But the shadow didn't return. After a moment, Garrick climbed off her and helped her sit.

"Put your shirt on," she chuckled.

"Why? I'm supposed to be raping you, remember?"

"You take me to the nicest places and really treat me like a lady, you know that?"

"You love it." Garrick took her in his arms again, grinning. "Let's get out of here, baby. I could probably get us halfway to the hangar before anyone stopped us for serious questioning, and some mind tricks might get us the rest of the way."

She sighed, taking his hands and squeezing them. "I can't."

He frowned. "Your love for Davin holding you here?"

"You got the word 'love' confused with 'violent, rabid hatred,' but no. Worse."

The assassin's eyes darkened, his face suddenly serious. "Tell me."

She lay a hand on her rounding stomach. "Admiral Dodonna put something in me. Put something in me! Stuck it in me like he was planting a flag in Bakuran soil!"

A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. "Put what in you?"

"I don't know, Garr! Some kind of device! He can abort our child."

The assassin stared at her, then closed his eyes. "Nekessla…"

She didn't have to ask to know he was thinking of Danyel. "I know."

His eyes snapped open, the black irises reflecting her face like polished onyx. "I'll find him and kill him. Now, quietly. I won't draw any attention."

"Don't!" she cried. "I don't know if he's even in control of whatever he put inside me! His guards could have it, or worse – Davin could have it! And he so badly wants to use it!"

"Blond bastard," he scoffed. "I can kill him, if you'd like."

"No! Davin is mine." Her eyes flashed crimson. "I want to cut open his chest, pull back his ribs, and squeeze his heart until it stops beating."

Garrick asked softly, "Did the Admiral hurt you?"

Kess shook her head. "It hurt, but… I think it'll hurt worse if he activates it."

"He won't. Trust me. Did anyone else hurt you?"

"Davin."

"Frak, no, he did not!" He hissed. "That blond bastard! He was within my reach and everything just ten minutes ago! What did he do?"

"He punched me."

"Punched you? What, in the face?"

"In the face."

"That blond bastard!"

Kess grinned. "It's okay. I made it worth my while."

"Anyone else hurt you?"

She shook her head no.

"Can I kill everyone anyway?"

"Almost, you homicidal psychopath." She chuckled. "There's a guy named J.D. Find him. He's my sole ally in this place. He's taken such good care of me."

Garrick glanced around at the barren cell. "Yeah, it looks like it."

"No, he has!"

The assassin shushed her again. "Guard's coming back," he whispered, then pushed Kess back against the wall, reached up, and tore off one of her bodysuit sleeves. "Anyone else?" he asked, sliding a hand around her throat.

"Just… Just one. The odds of you running into him are slim, but you never know. The Ravisher isn't that big. His name is Traven Dunn. He's always treated me with respect and dignity, always like I was a lady. Good upbringing, I guess."

She fell quiet out of habit as the familiar shadow darkened their cell. When it passed, Garrick released her.

"Either way, he defended me from Davin and took me to the infirmary."

"Would he die for you?"

She thought longer. "Probably not."

"Then we don't die for him. Don't trust him any longer. And I promise, should the opportunity present itself, to rough him up only a little."

"Feel free to destroy anyone else."

"I'll cleave them into pieces."

"With what, Assassin? You're unarmed."

"No, my lightsaber is in my arm." He flexed his right bicep.

"It's what?"

"Faran put it there." Garrick grinned. "Your brother is a certified genius, you know. Anyway, have the Imperials forced you to do much?"

Nekessla scoffed. Settling back against the wall, she hugged her knees and told him everything from Tatooine to Bakura to Dodonna's dinner party to the shockball match and the resulting visit to the infirmary. By the time she was finished, Garrick's jaw was hanging open. "Yeah, I've been a bit busy."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Got any idea at all how I can spring you out of here?"

She nodded. "Find J.D. He's in Davin's unit. He might be able to help. He can go places unquestioned where you cannot, and he's a slicer. He can secure any holoprojector you might need to use."

"I don't have a ship any longer, Huntress. I can't get us out of here the same way I came in."

"We can't get off the Ravisher on our own, either. We'd never make it out of the hangar. Big D runs a tight ship, believe me. And I do not want the Black Paladins on my ass when we try to get out of here. That might be a one-way ticket to the great worshyr forest in the sky."

Garrick nodded. "Then I'll find us a way to get down to Bakura. We fight better under an open sky, anyway."

"Are you saying we'll escape from the surface?"

"Sure."

"How will we get off if we have no ship?"

He snapped his fingers. "I'll find a way to contact Iris. She'll know what to do."

"Perfect! J.D. can get you to a secure holoprojector. I'm sure of it. When you talk to Iris, tell her I love them all. And I'm still fighting it out."

"Will do." Garrick smiled. Then he reached down and took up his shirt, shrugging it back on, preparing to leave her. Nekessla watched him, admired him. He was the dark side sometimes. When the time came, all the Imperial forces on Bakura wouldn't be able to stop them, and that was more than comforting. That was hope.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<B>Bakura– the next morning after the victory celebration on the surface</b>:

Eventually, mercifully, dawn came to Salis D'aar. Bakura's sunlight washed out the light from the small fires that continued to rage throughout the capital and other major cities. Locally, the last pockets of resistance were being overwhelmed and mopped up by Imperial forces. Outside the centers of commerce and industry, all was relatively quiet. Unable to affect their own destiny, citizens of the Outer Rim world listened and waited to learn of their fate. They had nothing to say about it. Having not participated in the fight, they would be equally shut out of the peace. Still, there were others that hid underground making preparations to begin their insurgencies against their invaders.

Thousands of miles above the surface, something massive and grey orbited their world: a wedge-shaped battleship flanked by two others of the same design and escorted by several battle-damaged Star Galleons. Orbiting their conquered planet, the Galactic Imperial fleet led by Admiral Dodonna was even more impressive than it had ever been, as there was no ship left to resist them. The Imperial fleet dominated what was left of the Bakuran ships as easily as a rancor would a pack of cowed banthas.

Admiral Dodonna had now returned to attend to his fleet after the celebration on the surface, taking along with him his entourage including the Black Paladins. VonToma was once again at his duties, as well as his captains. With the sudden message from Muunlinst that appeared an hour ago and witnessed by his officers, the Admiral had quickly summoned an emergency meeting aboard his ship's conference chamber to discuss a possible new future for his new empire. Preparations for this meeting had been prepared as meticulously as the battle plan for Bakura.

Backed by his officers, Star Destroyer captains, field commanders, General Kabal, Traven Dunn of the Black Paladins, and Captain VonToma of the ISB, Admiral Dodonna stood staring out at the holoimage of the battered surface of Bakura. Even from his interior vantage point he was able to make out the capital city and the ranks of his Imperial forces occupying it. The visual of military superiority could not fail to impress any who saw it. Another image hovered near it, the same image that appeared an hour ago of the man in white uniform: Grand Admiral Willem van Aath

Eminently satisfied of all who were there, the Admiral began the session. "As you all have witnessed from the playback of the message by this Grand Admiral," he gestured to the blue hologram, "it seems that our little coup has brought the attention of Imperial sympathizers as far as Muunlinst. Even to the point of financial backing from the Banking Clan." Dodonna made it a point of seeking out and talking with as many different officers to offer their perspectives on the matter.

He continued. "I, for myself, have my suspicions about this van Aath, as I have not heard of such a man," Dodonna presented. "But possibly one of you might have been aquainted with his name. If not, I would like to hear your suggestions about this matter."

Captain Uer was the first to speak. "Admiral, I think it would be most advantageous to accept this alliance from this Grand Admiral. Not only does he wish to pursue our cause, he has the finances to do so."

Yes. It was advantageous. The news for now was both bad and good. On the bad side, the Bakurans– the insurgency more like it– had acquired its best soldiers to retreat underground and with it a good sized amount of weapons and vehicles to carry them into another battle. Thinking about it, he could not afford a long, drawn out war with them. On the good side, the remnants of the Galactic Empire, including Bastion, had more than a sufficiency of warships and vehicles, both troop transports and AT-AT's. With the aide of the Grand Admiral, the insurgents could be quashed in a matter of weeks, rather than months, or even years. As well, Sirana already had a secure amount of credits dedicated to re-building shipyards, so he did not wish to ask for more to aide his cause.

He could use those credits from Muunlinst. If he decided to ally with Aath– as he was toying with the idea of doing– he would have at least one Grand Admiral firmly on his side in the coming fight. Which would mean a smaller chance of accidental or deliberate sabotage of his future plans, and a better chance of actually having them understood. Dodonna could use more battleships and starfighters; he and his chosen commanders had spent those elements heavily in the campaign. As matters stood, his Imperial military had enough TIE fighters and attack craft for close support, but not enough to do a full-scale defense or assault if another was needed. The amount of stormtrooper ranks that remained on the surface was not exactly as he would have liked, but it was adequate, and he would play the hand that he had been given.

Dodonna nodded quietly to his captain, then glared at Captain Dunn. "Your opinion is noted, Captain Uer. Group Captain Dunn, what do you offer?"

Traven was caught off guard as he rubbed his tired face and looked at the holoimage of the surface, then to the data streaming next to it. He gave his comments. "If the offer of the Grand Admiral is true and he is not merely luring us into some predicament, I think it is to our benefit to look into this. General Kabal's most recent intelligence reports put the insurgency on the run, but I believe they may return again in force. Having more of a military stronghold will boost the morale of our pilots and our troops when it happens.. if it happens."

Admiral Dodonna contemplated that possibly, and felt to reply to his protege. "I believe you are right, Captain." He nodded, then rose a sole finger. "But first, I believe we may need to confirm about our possible new ally. For all we know, this transmission could be a trap. The assets– bait for us to take."

VonToma spoke up. "I've taken the accounts and confirmed it with the Banking Clan. It does exist and is available for our use. If you permit me, I can contact Bastion and confirm about Willem van Aath."

"No." Dodonna said flatly. "It is already enough this probable ally had most likely intercepted your latest transmissions to Bastion and found out about us. With the know-how of decrypting your transmission is enough to confirm he is indeed one of us, I would rather confirm this in person."

"So what do you suggest?" General Kabal interjected.

An idea formed in his head. Of course. "Captain Dunn, where is the location of your father nowadays? Have you contacted him lately?"

Dunn stiffened at the question. "I have not been in contact with him for a long time because of security matters, Admiral. Currently, he is living on Corellia and has rebuilt his company, building civilian vessels and yachts."

"Good. An excellent subterfuge." The Admiral almost hinted at a smirk. He tapped on the table to draw the officer's attention. "Gentlemen, I will be ordering Captain Dunn and a small entourage to Corellia posed as Bakuran business partners to meet his father. Daiman Sirana will accompany him as their representative to make the subterfuge intact. In reality, Dunn will secretly contact the Grand Admiral to dispatch his ambassador or representative to meet him on Corellia and make first contact. As well, if his father is still sympathetic to our cause, Traven will try to negotiate his alliance with us. Is this acceptable, Captain Dunn?"

He looked around at the assembled commanders and nodded. "Yes, Admiral. I will make plans to contact my father and the Grand Admiral to meet us on Corellia. May I ask to assemble my own team?"

"Permission granted, Captain." Dodonna nodded. "You are dismissed to make your preparations."

Captain Dunn quickly rose, saluted, and excused himself from the conference table.

"And what of us, Admiral?" VonToma spoke up.

"Yes, of course." Dodonna tapped at a console and the world of Bakura lit up with several tags on the display. The large continent that contained Salis D'aar appeared in the foreground, while the other landmasses and continents shrinked in the background. "Take a good look," he told his men. "This is what you will be assigned."

VonToma, and his field commanders gathered around the table.

"Here is our overall strategy. If need be, we can change and adapt it to fresh information and changed conditions, but the basic outline is here. Insurgents have been quashed by our forces, but several units have escaped, one here, near the capital city–" he indicated a flashing red light on the largest area– "and one small location here, past the outskirts"– he indicated a second flashing light. "Captain VonToma, you are to go to the surface and find where our hiding insurgents are and wipe them out. Your experience in intelligence and serving with the ISB will make this mission easy for you.

"When Lt. Commander Kix Davin is finished with his assigment escorting Captain Mordar Vual to the Huntress, he will be assigned to you." He looked at the ISB agent across the way and gave a smug smile. "I doubt the insurgents there would count as serious opponents, so I don't want failures."

"Yes, Admiral." VonToma replied. "They will not escape us."

"And once we have them," Dodonna concluded, "we have Bakura finally."

The warlord rose to his feet. "You have your orders. See to them. Strength and honor."

"Strength and honor!" they shouted back.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Salis D’aar

Sunlight flooded through the window, illuminating a single bed and the solitary figure wrapped in its sheets.  Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed, the result of a clumsy and half-asleep individual who decided to take a morning walk.  Uer’s eyes opened slightly, glaring at the wall as if expecting to find the source of his disturbance there.  However, after a few minutes it became apparent that the source of the noise was long gone, probably already on their way to the streets.

The combat pilot rolled over on the mattress, his shoulder blades resting comfortably against the soft material that made up his resting place.  Zak had not received such a good night’s sleep in years, usually crammed into small cubicle areas that the fleet simply named “bunks.”  Cipher’s arms braced against the mattress and slowly pushed his body into a sitting position.  A few seconds later, it became apparent that the party had taken more of a toll on the Imperial than he previously thought.  Instead of fighting the exhaustion though, Uer simply collapsed back down, back cushioned again by the bed.

He considered heavily the idea of just staying put for the rest of the day, or the morning for that matter.  After all, who knew when he would experience such luxuries again.  As soon as he returned to the ship, it would be a life of cold metal floors and old raunchy racks.  It was definitely not a life filled with glory.

Just when his eyes were starting to close once more, a loud rapping noise came from the wooden door.  The lieutenant commander rolled his eyes, trying to pull a pillow over his head to block the noise.  That however proved futile and so the pilot yelled across the room, not wanting to get up.  He hoped that the person on the other side of the door could hear him.  “What do you want!?”

A small chuckle came from the other side of the barrier, followed by the distinct sound of a man’s voice.  “Let’s go commander, time to get back to the ship.”  While he was still new, Zak recognized the voice, having talked with the younger pilot for most of the previous night.  

Uer turned his head to look at the clock, taking in the glowing letters, noting that it was growing close to 8:00.  While many considered it late for Imperial standards, the pilot still did not see the need for such an early rise.  “I’ll go back in an hour Earle.”  Again, the fighter jock tried to cover his head with the pillow, hearing a smart-ass comment still from the other pilot who apparently was backing away from the door and heading back down the hall, something about Dunn having his ass.

The lieutenant commander simply shrugged the comment off and set his alarm for another hour.  With that, he once again fell into the darkness, intent on staying there for as long as possible.


ISD Ravisher

   It was only out of sheer luck that Zak caught the last transport to the Ravisher.  Still, he needed to have reported in to Dunn an hour and a half earlier.  Yes, in simple terms his ass was grass.  As the shuttle touched down, the pilot moved to the egress ramp, walking down even before the object touched the deck.

   People were already working in the hangar, several on the Paladin ships that were in need of some repair.  Even though none of them met the brunt end of laser fire during the mission, there was still some cause for concern.  One ship took a piece of shrapnel in the solar panel and was out of commission for a few days.  

   Cipher broke into a run, pushing through the crowds and even knocking a few stormtroopers against nearby walls.  Hopefully he would make it to the ready room before the captain left for the briefing that the Admiral scheduled for around mid-day.  Of course, the dress uniforms did not make up the most comfortable running attire.  A nervous finger scratched at a rather itchy neck as the pilot approached the room.  It was obvious already that the older Imperial was already gone, but there was always some hope.

   Earle walked out of the ready room a mere second before Uer reached the door, stopping suddenly when he glimpsed the older officer approaching.  Instead of showing any military discipline though, the lieutenant started to laugh again before pointing to a small sheet posted on the door.  Cipher wondered if anyone took the time to name the man Chuckles before scanning the sheet to which Earle pointed.  It was of course a sheet that listed those who “volunteered” for deck duty, scrubbing the TIEs down to make them spotless.  At the end of the list was the commander’s own name, and with a roll of his eyes the pilot turned and started toward the bunkroom.  “Frak me, second day, and I’m already in the middle of trouble.”

   Well at least he had a few minutes before he needed to get back to the hangar and start scrubbing down the fighters.  His first destination therefore was the bunkroom that he now called home.  While he could tolerate wearing the imperial dress uniform, there would be no way in hell that he would clean in it.


   At first glance, the area seemed empty, but of course, after a more careful examination, one could see two or three curtains pulled closed around the racks.  While Uer still was not sure which one belonged to which officer, he tried to get an understanding of who was in the room and who was mobile.

   The lieutenant commander quickly pulled a t-shirt on and also some running shorts.  Odds were that the cleaning would take quite some time, and so he wanted to be comfortable at least for the most part.  Someone started to stir in one of the cubicles, obviously ready to get to wherever they needed to be, probably the simulators.  Without waiting to put a face to the figure, the pilot stepped out of the room and started for the hangar, hatch automatically sealing shut behind him.


   A nearby deckhand waved Uer over, noticing his face from the maintenance report that Captain Dunn issued an hour earlier, and also taking into account the older man’s uniform.

“What’s up?”  The mechanic paused for a few seconds, obviously not used to the greeting that his superior officer used.  Imperial customs had been very strict in mandating a common courtesy between the enlisted and commissioned ranks.

“Sorry sir?”  It was all that the young man could think of, and as a result, it produced an unusual response from Uer.

After making a show of rolling his eyes, Zak responded in a proper and over exaggerated manner.  “What can I do to help you specialist?”  

“Oh, sorry sir.”  He apologized for the misunderstanding and continued soon after, seeming a little more comfortable in the presence of the commissioned soldier.  “We need some help with a little debris problem.  Damned piece of metal ripped right into the TIE’s solar panel.”

Cipher gave a small smile, happy that the deckhand was addressing him more like a human instead of a superior being.  “Yeah, I caught sight of that as I was coming in.”  He walked over to the interceptor with the specialist in tow, hand reaching out to brush the panel, stopping when it reached the jagged piece of metal that protruded from the flank.  “What do we need to do?”

The younger man scratched his head, as if trying to think what they could do to quicken the process.  “Well sir, first we have to get the damned piece of metal removed.”

“After that?”  Zak questioned the man again as if by instinct, and as a result caught him off guard.

Again, he scratched his head before speaking.  “I’m not really sure sir.”

“Well then, let’s get started.”  Uer pulled a small stepladder over to the squint and braced his foot against the solar panel, hand gripping the piece of metal.  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Raising his hand to try to stop Cipher, the deckhand piped up a mere second later, issuing his thoughts into the matter.  “Sir, that’s not a good idea.”

The pilot glanced back over his shoulder and issued a small grin.  “You don’t know how much I hear that.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Bakur Ring, Salis D’aar industrial sector–

“Captain? The troops have all reached their assigned positions, and await your orders.”

“Very good,” Rinehart replied to his Bakuran adjutant, Begard, as he continued to scan the industrial building to his front with electrobinoculars. Finally lowering the binoculars, the ISB agent pondered the latest turn of events that occurred.

Post-invasion, Rinehart found himself all but reduced to an errand/message boy, working out of the Ravisher’s com-scan center. It was work fit only for some low level functionary, but the time spent there hadn’t been completely wasted; on the contrary, Rinehart now had first hand knowledge of the communiqué received from Muunilist.

“Grand Admiral Willem van Aath”. Unless some drastic upheaval had occurred at Bastion, this “Grand Admiral” was nothing more than a poseur. Just like all the other “Prince Admirals” and “Superior Generals” that the Empire–more specifically, what was left of it–had been forced to deal with. Rinehart had held his tongue while Dodonna had shared van Aath’s message with his lieutenants, keeping what he knew of the self-styled Grand Admiral to himself.

On the other hand, the credits van Aath had offered were very real, so it was apparent that the man had access to considerable financial resources, probably from Moneylend itself. And that was enough to cause Admiral Dodonna to dispatch General Kabal, Group Captain Dunn, Daiman Sirana, and others on a clandestine mission to Corellia to effect an alliance. An alliance that he, VonToma, was supposed to have helped forge, but the results of that effort weren’t too dissimilar from some of the smoking ruins scattered about Salis D’aar. Which was why that instead of advising and formulating strategy with the Admiral, Rinehart was given the thankless task of rooting out the opposition to Imperial rule.

And he hadn’t even been assigned any stormtroopers either; instead, the counterinsurgency forces available to Rinehart at present consisted of several companies of Bakuran soldiers, stiffened by a few platoons of naval troopers, along with a handful of Bakuran repulsortanks. Rinehart did manage to get Morgan Yvies out of custody though, the former head of the Baar Security Agency now more than willing to collaborate with the new masters of Bakura. Yvies’ knowledge would surely prove to be of immeasurable worth–identifying known and potential insurgent leaders, likely areas for guerilla activity, insight into how the Bakuran mind operated.

Even more important to Rinehart, Yvies could provide the vital clues as to the whereabouts of Matheron Thayer. Just thinking of his vanished agent’s name caused the Imperial’s jaws to clench together in rage. He was the one who caused all of Rinehart’s plans to fail; Thayer was the reason why he was sent to the surface on a combat operation that should have been handled by some lowly ensign.

Stifling the urge to smash the electrobinoculars against a wall, Rinehart took a deep breath and began to focus on the upcoming assault. The attack itself would be a standard clearing operation for an urban zone. The target area was surrounded, the naval troopers placed in a blocking position while the Bakurans would serve as the assault force.

The insurgent had to know that they were surrounded, which meant that were preparing to fight to the death. Rinehart could picture the insurgents in their stronghold: Grimly peering through targeting scopes, fingers taut on triggers, ready to fire at the first thing that moved. Well then, let’s see how they react to this.

“Hold your position till I give the signal,” Rinehart instructed his Bakuran adjutant, “and no one is to fire until ordered to.”

Jumping the makeshift barricade the Bakuran soldiers were crouched behind, the Imperial officer approached the insurgents’ strongpoint almost nonchalantly, arms clasped behind his back, humming an old SAGroup marching song while he did. Rinehart could sense numerous pairs of eyes on him as he knelt down in front of the industrial building, watching him as he gestured for the Bakuran troops to close in.

The Imperial immediately dove to his left as every window and portal erupted with blaster fire. Rolling to cover, Rinehart yanked out his comlink and shouted, “Riflemen, suppressive fire! Concussion grenade launchers, up! Repulsortanks, move in!”

The Bakurans responded with a withering fire, sending volley after volley of laser bolts at the insurgents’ positions. Grenades launched into the building exploded with a roar, momentarily drowning out the screams of wounded and dying guerillas. Rinehart even drew his own Luxan Penetrator, adding its firepower to overwhelming fusillade. The whine of blasterfire sounded in the distance, adding to the crescendo; the naval troopers, cutting down insurgents who were attempting to escape.

Drive turbines howling, a trio of repulsor tanks entered the battle. Though the tanks–Firehawks–were considered obsolete in most military forces, they would be more than a match for most weapons that the Bakuran insurgents were armed with.

“Cease fire!” Eyeing the shattered redoubt, Rinehart secured a megaphone disk and was about to broadcast an offer to surrender when he paused. He heard an odd sound coming from the building, a kind of ritual chanting, almost. Baffled, the Imperial looked to Begard.

“Funereal litanies,” the Bakuran explained. “The remaining insurgents realize that there is no escape, and that they are as good as dead. And now they attempt to find solace in the Balance, in that their sacrifice here will lead to an Imperial defeat elsewhere. If not here, then someplace in the Galaxy.” The native officer shook his head. “That’s why I left the Faith. It was determined that I receive the Bowl and not the Feather. I find it preferable to have more control over one’s own life.”

Rinehart listened broodingly, then signaled the tanks. “Open fire.”

Armed with a heavy laser and medium blaster cannon, the armored vehicles quickly reduced the remnants of the building to rubble.


Utilizing conscripted labor (ASP droids would have been too much of a provocation, even for their Bakuran allies) to clear and sift through the rubble, Rinehart made a disquieting discovery: The dead were a full spectrum of Bakuran society–male, female; subadults to the aged; common laborers dressed in utilitarian garb to the social elite wearing designer clothing. What looked to be a kindly grandmother was even pulled from the ruins, still clutching a glowing E-11 rifle in her dead hands.

Just like during the Rebellion, Rinehart thought grimly. Only this time, this uprising is going to be smothered in its cradle.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Leaving the meeting room Traven hoped that nobody had caught his earlier awkward tiredness as the Admiral had addressed him. Normally Traven was somebody who did fall asleep quickly as soon as he laid down in his bunk. But last night had been… difficult. After being in his hotel room Traven had been wide awake. Tossing and turning in the luxurious bed he blamed the relief of stress after the victory, the too late hour, the Bakuran wine, the too comfortable bedstead for the lack of sleep. But he knew very well that these weren’t the reasons. The true cause was some rooms away down the hallway. At early daybreak Traven got up without any sleep at all, taking one of the first shuttles back to the <i>Ravisher</i>. Work may be the best distraction.

Now after the briefing the Group Captain pondered about the task the Admiral had given him. Walking through the hangar towards his ready room, he noticed the young Uer working with one of the ground crew at the solar panel of a TIE. Traven was wondering what Zak’s father, Captain Ramius Uer, would say if he would see it. Father and son seemed very different. That made him think about his own father. Traven had tried to be a good son always, even when he knew that Tyrell Dunn wasn’t happy about his decisions all the time. There was no question that his father was proud about his naval career. But as the heir of Dunn Industries, everybody had expected that Traven would retire from the fleet after his first period of service had been over. That he would change into shipbuilding engineering like his father and grandfather before him. But the ongoing war made Traven think that the Empire needed pilots and especially officers more than engineers. So he stayed with the fleet and managed it to avert all attempts of his parents to convince him into an engagement and marriage with one of the debutantes from a peer family, they chose for him. Ironically one of them was his executive officer and wingmate now.

As if  his thoughts materialised her, Commander Jordan Lane stepped through the door that was leading to the simulator training area. She hesitated as she saw him, but then continued her walk. “Good morning, Sir.” She said without looking at him directly. “Here are the newest result of the pilot’s sim flights.” Traven took the datapad, she offered to him. “Good morning, Commander. I’ll check the data later. Thank you. But it’s good that I meet you. We have to talk.” Jordan’s eyes widened slightly. “Y…yes, Sir.”

They entered Traven’s ready room, sitting down at the small conference table. “Some stimtea, Commander?” Traven asked to break the uncomfortable silence, pointing to the thermos flask and cups somebody of the galley personnel had placed there at the beginning of their shift. “Yes, Sir, I would like some tea.” Jordan replied still avoiding his look. Traven poured two cups, handing one to her. The invigorating scent of the tea filled the room. After a first sip from his beverage, Traven began. “Commander, what I wanted to talk about is the new mission the Admiral gave us.” Jordan relaxed by his words. “A new mission, Sir?”

After he ended his report about the earlier briefing, Jordan commented with a little smile. “Going to Corellia sounds more like shore leave, Sir.” Traven returned the smile. “Yes, even when we’ll have some work to do there, it will be nice to be on a Core World again. The Admiral wants that we take my cousin with us, so I will contact him a little later. He’s no morning person.” Jordan frowned. “With us?” Traven looked up, meeting her eyes the first time. “Yes, the Admiral allowed me to assemble my team. As my wingmate I want that you to be a member of it. I also thought that Uer and Bal’ak should join us. I plan to use one of the civilian freighters, we captured a while ago, as disguise. So it will be two pilots and two gunners. And except Daiman we should take a sixth person with us. Any ideas?” Jordan thought for a moment. “What about General Kabal? If our disguise is being the crew of a freelancer freighter, he could be our <i>muscles</i>.” Traven nodded. “That’s an good idea. It’ll add some authenticity.”

The captain refilled the cups with tea, leaning back in his chair. “Now to something completely different, Jordan.” She looked scared by the use of her first name, but remained silent. “About what happened last night…” Traven continued. “I was trying to think about an apology for my behaviour, but then I realised that I don’t feel sorry about it.” Jordan’s expression changed from fear to surprise by his words. As she didn’t replied, Traven carried on. “I know that there are commanding officers in the fleet who would take advantage of their rank and forcing a female officer into something after such… incident. But you don’t have to fear that from me.” Jordan cleared her throat. “I know that, S… Traven. And I’m not sorry either.” Now it was Traven’s time to look astounded. “I think we are in trouble.” He said lowly. This time they were very aware that both of them wanted it as their lips met again.

“We <i>are</i> in trouble.” Traven murmured as they broke the kiss finally.

~~~

Three hours later Traven waited, his hands behind his back, in the hangar while a shuttle from the planet’s surface landed. As the ramp lowered the tall figure of his cousin appeared. Daiman smiled. “It’s quite a while that I was on a star destroyer.” Traven smirked. “And not much changed. Welcome on board of the <i>Ravisher</i>, Cousin.”  Daiman looked around. “Where’s that hot XO of yours?” Traven blushed, well knowing that the older man wanted to tease him only. “Commander Lane is planning the rosters of the fleet’s squadron. That’s her duty as XO of the Group Captain.” Daiman patted his cousin’s shoulder. “I know, Trave. But I would have liked it to tell her hello.”

Traven led him to his ready room. “Maybe you can meet her later in the mess hall. Take a seat, Daiman.” But his cousin was looking around still. “So this is your office? Nice Imperial tones, no private items…” Traven sat down. This time his voice was teasing. “Well, Cousin, opposite to you business guys, I don’t need to impress with good taste or opulence. I just need my rank and skills.” Daiman laughed by his words. “Consider me impressed, Captain. So what’s this mission you mentioned as you contacted me earlier?”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“Corellia?” The voice of Zaafrian, the Captain of the Line, spoke up in the briefing room with a tone of dissent. His voice carried so easily across the room, like a knife cutting into butter, after the message that Dodonna had sent back played within the room. Willem hit the power switch, and the blue, shimmering field of Admiral Dodonna faded into nothing. The lights slowly came back on the room, now lit by the artificial lighting source and the dim light caused by the sun setting.
   
“That is a silly idea, to go to a Republic world and meet with a high ranking Imperial official. I tell you, the New Republic Intelligence probably thinks we’re stupid as frell to meet there.” He continued on, looking at Willem with a look of pure distrust, not directed at Willem but at the man who sent the communiqué. Willem, with a smile, commented back on Zaafrian as he sat down within his chair.
   
“On the contrary, it has two solutions, and I concur that none of them is New Republic Intel trying to catch me.” He spoke, his voice sounding proper for an Admiral than the usual tough-and-tired voice he often inhibited in meetings of this sort. No doubt he was merely practicing how to talk like a rich, upper-crest Imperial. It was difficult; however, since his voice was already quiet enough to a point, his voice sounded threatening.
   
“The first one is that Dodonna finds me not trustworthy, and will send one of his agents or himself to meet me there. True to behold, I really don’t expect him to think I would actually show up on this planet, he probably thinks too much like an Imperial behind-the-desk Admiral, I think Intel is right on this one. I think this one is the more likely of the two.”
   
“And the other, sir?” Lieutenant Commander Anton Maarco spoke next, his voice coming out in a half curious, half understanding tone of voice: as if he thought what Willem was going to say next, but he was not sure of himself if it was truly correct. Willem smiled, rubbing his chin as he leaned back in his chair.
   
“I’m not worth his attention; just barely enough so he calls me on my bluff and watches as I wait there for however long we stay there. Frell, the only reason I see us even going to Corellia is because he has some other business to take care of on that planet.” He said, with Maarco smiling a bit as he watched the way he used his language revert back to his original style.
   
“I think you should take Maarco, if anything, sir.” Zaafrian said, with a tone of worriment in his voice yet again, seemingly only thinking about his ‘Grand Admiral’ in question at the moment: something Willem found refreshing for the moment. Zaafrian was one of those politically minded people, following the course of actions on his own accord and not of his command’s.
   
“It will be me and two other of my men. I won’t bring any of the armor, nor the weapons we normally use, in case we need to pass through a number of checkpoints. Probably short-range blasters, something like Mandal Hyper or those DL-11 blasters that are out on the market.” Maarco responded, the infiltration expert on this mission. Willem nodded.
   
“What is our cover?”
   
“We’re going as simple traders, you will use your father’s name as your own to represent our ship, a modified YT-1300 freighter named the ‘Peregrine Tangent’. Miss Williams will play the role of your daughter, and I your pilot. The other two men that will accompany us will play a simple role of two passengers along for the ride. We’ll carry a stock cargo, probably something like jewelry or perhaps even something more believable, like food crates.”
   
“As long as we get through security and don’t do anything stupid, then we’ll be alright. CorSec’s got other problems to worry about while we’re there, so if we keep a low profile and Dodonna’s men do the same, then it will be fine as rain.” Willem spoke, sitting a bit straighter in his chair.
   
“Prep it up, the ship needs to be ready in the hour, I’ll be back in a bit. I need to send a reply message back to Dodonna.” He said, with nods in reply as Maarco and Zaafrian stood up and left the room. Willem sighed, letting out air as he leaned back in his chair, his hands on his temple, slowly rubbing his forehead as an attempt to purge the slow and steady pounding in his head.
   
His eyes darted over to his pictures on his desk, only three of them on the desk itself. The first one in his view was a picture of him and his two children on holiday a few years ago, him in the middle on a beach, in a chair, with his two children in swim gear next to him. The sun was behind the camera, and Willem was smiling along with his two loves, his white shirt shining bright with a book in hand.
   
Willem smiled, and his eyes moved to the next picture on his desk. It was him, dressed in his Admiral uniform, with three other Admirals on the steps leading up to the Imperial Palace. They were all smiling, each with a look of happiness and accomplishment on their faces, knowing they finally reached the rank of Admiral. Willem remembered the other three, only one is still alive and the rest died in the remaining conflicts.
   
And the last one, to which the smile on Willem disappeared, was him and his wife standing together, smiling, at a restaurant on Zeltros before the Endor incident. Willem looked away sharply, he did not need to tear up before he sent a message to Dodonna. His eyes failed him, however, retreating to the man and woman dressed in professional attire, with his arm around her shoulder, staring at the camera with an open smile.
   
With that look, he headed out of the room to his quarters, to retrieve his white uniform…

   
   
The image of Willem appeared on the hologram.
   
“Dodonna, I have receive your message and I have complied. My representive will meet your’s on the surface of Corellia. I cannot wait to meet you, nor can I wait to finally work with someone who gets his objectives done. Until then, Grand Admiral Aath out.”

   
   
ISD Nightbringer, high orbit about Muunilinst

   
The Ninety Fifth Interloper Fighter Group, Fifty Sixth Tactical Combat Squadron was removed from its original position around Bastion before it was sent to the Nightbringer for its new assignment. The group sat in its briefing room, with a man sitting at the front of the room with a smile. His sharp uniform gave him the prescence of an officer who has seen combat against the New Republic, and the Defender squadron could attest to this. The Nightstalkers could attest to this very well, since they are the only unit that operates as a deep strike unit.
   
Their leader was a charismatic but yet proven military unit captain who led by a ‘follow me’ personality: he was always at the front, doing it right and the way that most soldiers would be able to follow on. Simple, but efficient. But this is not what intrigued Zaafrian as he stood in the briefing room, about to explain the rest of their mission on this vessel.
   
It was the fact that he was Willem’s son.
   
“After when Rubicon Team arrive at Corellia, I suspect Willem will wait for about several days before he’d risk sending us a transmission. From what intel Military Intelligence has provided us, we will wait here with the Nightbringer until we are given an order. If he does not send us the message that he is alright and gives us a time table, then we will go there and make a large distraction”
   
“A distraction for what?” Commander Jaack Rinehalt Aath asked, his hands clasping in front of him in a inquisitive look. Zaafrian smiled, not at the question but how the younger Aath held himself like his father: smart, demeaning, and apparently with the courage of a lion.
   
“A distraction for them to escape. If it comes to it, we send in the Second Battle Group. I doubt it will come to it, or even if we will be called in, but contingency plans are contingency plans. Also,” Zaafrian began, switching subjects as he sat down in front of the group.
   
“Dodonna is a true Imperial, men. From what we've gathered from Intelligence, I would presume he'd kill you if you disobey an order, he'd rather not bother with a court marshal. I have not known him to do this based on the Intelligence we have received, but we do know that he has ties to the Admiralty, and in his day and age the Admiralty was a clone of Vader.” He referenced the old days, where mistakes were never tolerated twice, for they were not given the change to make them.
   
“I expect all of you, like the rest of this ship, to behave like an Imperial. That is all, dismissed.”.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Lt. Commander Borden and Squadron Leader Laakim Bal'ak sat at opposites sides of the long plasteel dining table in the messhall of the <I>Ravisher</I>. Quiet conversations from the other officers who sat behind and alongside, buffered the silence between them. There might have been a time when Laakim would have found such a silence awkward– might have been a time when he would have felt compelled to inject himself into that silence, seeking good conversation from among his pilots when he was in charge of Rancor Squadron.

Not today. Not ever again. The Rancors were no longer the center of Laakim's world, the focus of his attention. Now it was the Black Paladins and their leader, Traven Dunn. The Group Captain was merely a force to be reckoned with– one that could not be ignored, but which, when taken into account, could easily be maneuvered around, as an ImpStar maneuvers around a star.

He stared down at his food, which consisted of palm-sized circles of thinly sliced red meat in a dark sauce, surrounded by intricately carved steamed vegetables. Laakim picked up a knife and fork, and began to slice his meat. He glanced up at Commander Borden. "Rare medallions of nerf in Habbis sauce. Delicious, and all the more so as spoils of war."

Borden reached for his utensils, cut a small bite, and tasted. He chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "It's excellent."

Laakim took a sip of wine, a fine Bakuran vintage confiscated from the celebrations the day before. Marvellous stuff. He made a mental note to remove a case from the storage lockers before they were distributed to the higher ranks. He did not intend to ask permission. "What news from Captain Dunn?"

Borden put down his fork carefully and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "I just heard Admiral Dodonna has assigned him some top priority mission. Something along the lines of exiting this system and confirming some contact in the Core Worlds. I don't have all the details yet, but I speculate something is going on."

"Figures the Admiral would give his lapdog an assignment this quickly," said Laakim. "I take it the rest of us are to stay put and wait until his glorious return? Or are we going to be put out to escort more TIE Bombers?"

Borden raised an eyebrow. "You know berating a superior officer will get you in trouble, even if you think you deserve his rank."

"It's where my skills can best be put to use. You already know that. And there's another matter."

"Which would be?"

"Our Wing Commander, Jordan Lane. Don't you think she's spending quite a bit of time with him, lately? Almost attached to the hip, somewhat? I think there may be something more to them than just a friendly rivalry between ranking officers."

The Paladin pilot took another bite of food, but he seemed to be too distracted to taste it.

"You know I'm right," said Laakim firmly.

Borden swallowed. Sniffed. "You're just making assumptions, Bal'ak. You know if you make such an accusation without proof or if you are wrong, you will be drummed out of the Paladins and end up some shuttle pilot for the Bakurans."

"But if I am right, it could mean the end of Captain Dunn and Commander Lane. An affair between officers is enough to get them both out of the Paladins. If that happens, it means I take leadership of the squadron… and you become my next Wing Commander."

"Really?"

"Really."

Borden sipped his wine, then the corners of his mouth twitched up just a little. "I'll consider it," he said.

"You do that," said Laakim. He watched the Lt. Commander, imagined the wheels turning inside his head.

"I've heard some curious reports," Borden said finallly, "about Commander Lane. I've noticed her flight logs in the sims have always been logged at the same time as Captain Dunn. That probably means nothing, or it could speculate something." He shrugged.

Laakim smiled slightly. <I>There it is, then.</I> "It's a start," he said. "And I have plenty of time to put the pieces together."

"So just like that, you're going to usurp Dunn?" He chuckled. "Laakim, I didn't know you had it in you."

A comlink chimed. Laakim brought it to his lips. "Yes?"

"This is Captain Dunn, Squadron Leader Bal'ak. Please report to me. There is a mission to discuss."

"On my way, Sir." The comlink shut off.

"Our supreme leader calls me," he reported. "Time to see what it is." He rose from his seat, leaving what was left of his food for his wingmate to finish up.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

ISD Ravisher

Leaving the details of running the necessary business dealings on the surface of Bakura in the capable hands of Bartek Roth and his selected team, Daiman had boarded the shuttle to the Ravisher almost wishing the trip wasn’t such a short on so he could fit in a nap on the way.  The late night before, combined with all the ones he’d kept since his arrival on the planet he was about to leave were catching up with him. “Spast, I must be getting old,” he thought as he peered out of the shuttle’s viewport and yawned.  

Contrary to his Cousin’s belief, he had not spent that morning sleeping off the effects of the night before. Rather, he had been up before sunrise, assuring that the plans for the shipyards along with refineries and metals processing plants necessary to provide the raw materials for them would run smoothly in his absence.  Tiring, but it had all been worth it and would continue to do so if they could all continue to work together for the greater glory of the Empire’s return.

His cousin had requested his presence on the Ravisher, at Admiral Dodonna’s orders, regarding a planned mission for securing more materiel, support, and resources for the cause.  And Daiman himself had thought up an idea of his own while trying to fall asleep last night that he wanted to propose as well.  

The shuttle had touched down smoothly aboard the massive ship’s hangar deck and Traven himself was there to meet him as he walked down the ramp before escorting him to his office.  Daiman had not been on a Star Destroyer since his days in the service and he barely contained a smile at the memories of those days, even the less than pleasant ones.

Traven’s office was rather as he’d expected it to be, austere and neat just as the man himself had tended to be much of the time since childhood.  Still he couldn’t resist teasing him about it, just as he’d not been able to about his XO Jordan Lane. Some habits from younger days would never die.  And his cousin knew him well enough to take the joking just for what it was without offense.

“So what is this mission you and the Admiral would like to include me in on?” he asked, taking the seat in the surprisingly comfortable chair Traven offered him.

Daiman listened as Traven went over the proposed mission to Corellia, his casual posture as he leaned back in the chair across the desk from the Paladins’ commanding officer no way a reflection of the absolute attention he was actually paying to each detail.

It was a good plan.  In spite of Corellia’s well-known standoffish reputation, it was still quite open to shipping traffic and the freighter crews from across the galaxy that came and went through its airspace around the clock.   

The only sticking point he saw was the fact that his own name and visage was quite well known thanks to the holonet news features of various types, both serious and frivolous.  Passing himself off as a passenger on a freelance freighter would be a bit suspicious given his reputation.  

He already had his usual people hard at work keeping any hint of what was happening on the outer rim, world along with his involvement with it, from coming to light.  In the past his strategy of utilizing his vast network of “resources” bribery, payoffs…whatever else it took, to keep his underworld connections hidden from the New Republic and everyone else who could use it against him had never failed him yet.

His best strategy during the Bakura takeover set-up, as with several other incidents he’d been involved in was to just “hide in plain sight”.  Use his position and his legitimate businesses to provide cover for everything else.  

That, along with a few other things, gave him the ideas that would improve on the plans Dodonna had come up with and Traven had just laid out.   

“This mission idea is a good one, Cousin.” He spoke once Traven had finished. “But why go through all this subterfuge when we can fly there in style and be welcomed?”

“How so?” Traven gave him a quizzical look, raising his dark eyebrows questioningly.  “Corellia isn’t exactly the type of world where one can just fly right in unquestioned, Daiman.”

Daiman gave him a smile in return. “Trave, you forget where you come from.” He shook his head, continuing good-naturedly.  “Money talks, Cousin.  You know that.  Even on Corellia.”

He paused for a moment, grinning at the smirk Traven had given him at his last comment.  “There’s a shipbuilding industry trade conference going on this week, if I recall in my advancing age.  As a matter of fact, it was at the last one I attended a year ago where I last saw your father. And he does miss you.” Daiman noticed a look of slight discomfort pass over his cousin’s face before he regained a neutral, yet inquiring expression once again.

“Anyway, Trave.  The plan I’d like to propose is to have us attend this trade conference with you and your pilots as my associates and General Kabal as my bodyguard. Since I usually attend most years anyway, no one would think to question my being there or that your father would be meeting with us as anything other than businessmen networking as is normally done at such events.”  He watched as Traven considered the idea, nodding slowly in agreement, adding with a grin, “And Commander Lane can take on the guise of being my personal assistant.”

“I do believe that would work well, Daiman. Even that last suggestion.” Dunn smirked.  “We’ll have to clear it with the Admiral of course, but I don’t anticipate that he would have any reservations.”

“Excellent.  We can take my own transport as well then.” Daiman grinned. “As you likely remember the amenities are much more hospitable than you’d likely find on any freighter.”

He then shared the thought that had come to him during his brief period of last night’s insomnia. “I’d also like to suggest an additional source of funding and other support in the form of another person sympathetic to our cause.  I’ll discuss it with the Admiral of course, but this business associate of mine, Mr. Dresandii would be more than willing and cooperative.  It would be advantageous to contact him to meet with us on Corellia as well if given the okay by your Commander in Chief.”

“There is another gentleman, a Grand Admiral who has recently contacted us and is also willing to provide considerable financial backing.  If your associate can be persuaded to assist our fight as well, all the better.” Traven replied.  “The important thing though, Cousin is can he be trusted?”

“I have known him since the war and we’ve had several mutually beneficial dealings over the years since as well.” Daiman answered. “ Ambroz had…issues with certain elements of command claiming to be in support of the Empire, but who in reality were only furthering their own self-interest at the expense of their own men. He’s no happier with the New Republic than any of the rest of us and would welcome the chance to expand his influence with a man of decisive vision and action like Admiral Dodonna.”

“Very well.” Traven nodded, getting to his feet. “The Admiral was in a discussion with some others on their own duties to be done, but we can meet with him and present your ideas to him afterward when he is available.  As for now, care to join me for lunch and reacquaint yourself with the joys of a star destroyer’s kitchen?”  

Daiman laughed as he stood himself, “As long as I can reacquaint myself with Commander Lane while were at it, I can choke down whatever they serve us.” His laughter continuing at the look Traven gave him in reply.

“Some things never change when if comes to you, Cousin.” The Captain said, leading Daiman out of his ready room toward the mess.



Mess Hall, ISD Ravisher

The large room was crowded yet orderly.  The ship’s personnel, pilots and stormtroopers, officers and enlisted alike sharing in the mid-day meal.  The conversations in differently accented voices from many worlds combine in a moderate level of sound that brought back even more memories for Damain as he and Traven wound their way through the maze of tables and chairs to find a place to sit, trays of food in hand.  

Sirana was aware of many openly curious glances sent his way, but he ignored them. Halfway through the room. Traven nudged him discretely with one elbow to get his attention before nodding in the direction of a table near the rear of the room, empty of occupants outside of the lone lovely female pilot already seated there.  

“Ah, Commander Lane.” Daiman set his tray down on the table’s surface and sat down next to the Paladins’ executive officer. “This dubious meal has just been improved immensely by your company, don’t you agree Cousin?.” He smiled at the dark-haired woman before looking over at his cousin who had just taken the chair across from hers.  Suppressing a mirthful chuckle at the glare Traven gave him in lieu of a reply.

Jordan turned toward him and Daiman was amused to see a slight blush on the woman’s face.  She was indeed a good match for the man he considered a brother.  Beautiful, intelligent and strong-willed enough to succeed in a role many other woman would have been driven away from.  His aunt and uncle had indeed been wise to have tried making a match of the two of them years before. Daiman was aware back then how Traven himself felt about Jordan as well.  Who knew at that time though what a circuitous route life would take them in leading them to ending up in the same place again years later?  It must be difficult at best to have such feelings for each other, yet have to constantly fear others finding out about those emotions.  

“Hello, Captain Dunn.” Jordan’s greeting was friendly and Daiman noticed she was quite adept at keeping her appearance as nothing less than professional in the presence of so many others in the room. “And thank you, Mister Sirana. You are far too kind, I…” her response ended abruptly at the arrival of a pair of uniformed troopers as they sat at the adjacent table.  Seeing the reaction of not only Lane, but the way his cousin stiffened and the undisguised look of distaste on his face let Daiman know their company wasn’t likely very welcome.

One of them, a crew-cut blonde wearing the rank of lieutenant commander upon his tunic gave the female pilot a leering smile while his goateed, shaven headed compatriot flashed him a grin from across the table.

“Hell of a party you threw last night, Sirana.” Kix Davin said, picking up his fork and digging into the nerf stew on the plate in front of him.  “Haven’t had a night like that since that one shore leave on Nar Shaddaa.”  He glanced over at the other trooper, “Remember that Nash?”

“How could I forget?” The grunt nearly growled as he tore a piece of flatbread in two.  “Drokkin Rebel.”

Daiman raised his eyebrows looking over at the man. “Get into a nasty brawl did you?”

“Heh, you could say that.” Davin answered after chewing on the mouthful of food. “She damn near kicked your ass worse than that Trandoshan did.” He laughed at the glare Cadman gave him.

“Redheaded witch.” Nash’s eyes flashed at the memory. “Frakkin spook was nothing but trouble from the get go.”  

“Come on Cadman. You have to admit, NRI or not, she did have a nice ass.” Kix drained the contents of his drink container aware of Daiman’s intensely curious gaze on him.

Nash grunted in reply then smiled almost grudgingly.  “That she did.  But it was those eyes that got me. Like the mist you see on the tropical Leniain Sea on Rhinnal.” He turned a shade of red as he looked around at the others. “Damn, listen to me. I sound like some mushy frakking poet or something.”

“Sounds like you two had one hell of a time? Woman troubles?”  Daiman asked

“Yeah, one woman who was a whole lot of trouble.” Kix Davin told him the story of the operation against a New Republic Intelligence station on the Smuggler’s Moon that they had both been involved in.  Of the tenacious red-haired woman with the Corellian accent in charge of said station and the problems they’d run across in dealing with her and her people.  

“Who would have thought one damn broad would be so hard to take down.” Kix grumbled, the memory of the events on Nal Hutta’s moon still obviously fresh in his mind.

“It couldn’t be her.” Daiman thought to himself. After all this time, there is no way a solid lead on her would just fall into my lap like this.  

“I had dealings with an agent of that same damned institution myself years back. A little hellcat as I recall. In fact she sounds a lot like this woman you are talking about.” Sirana’s voice was casual, but Traven looked over at him sharply. “You don’t happen to recall this woman’s name and what she looked like exactly?” He asked.  

“Navin.  Val’kia. Frakking. Navin” Cadman spit it out like a curse.  “Couldn’t forget it if I wanted to.” He had the scars to remind him if he did.  Between himself and Davin, they gave Sirana a description of the woman that matched “Irrinna Chayce” to a tee.  

Daiman had already been on his way to convinced it was the same woman though at Nash’s recall of how her eyes looked.  He used to associate Irrinna’s eyes with the ocean surrounding the Obrelindin Islands back on Anaxes where they had once spend a week’s holiday.  Every morning a gossamer mist hung over the green waters visible beneath it.  He’d never seen another human with an eye color quite like it.

“Gentlemen.” Sirana kept his voice calm as he regarded the two troopers. “I believe you may have just earned yourselves a nice reward as well as my gratitude for sharing this information with me.  This woman you talk about sounds a great deal like someone I have been searching for high and low for years now.  Someone I would like very much to find and deal with personally.”  

Davin and Cadman looked at him in surprise.  “Hell, I can tell you exactly where she was last time we saw her.” Kix grinned chillingly as he gave Daiman the name of the establishment in the Corellian Sector of Nar Shaddaa where he had seen her last.  “Can’t promise it’s still standing but…”

Sirana shook his head, unable to conceal an edge of hopefulness from his voice. “It’s the best lead I’ve had in years so I will follow up on it at least.”

“You want to reward me, Sirana?” Cadman’s smile was wicked, “You take real good care of that Rebel for me.”

“Mister Cadman I have every intention of doing just that.” Daiman replied in an icy voice as he stood ignoring the disturbed looks both Traven and Jordan were now giving him as they got up from the table as well.

After they’d left the mess hall, Traven had commed Admiral Dodonna advising him of Daiman’s request to meet with him and in Maximillian’s office, Sirana had told him of the proposed change in plans.  As well he discussed the possibility of contacting Ambroz Dresandii on Umgul to gauge his interest in throwing his support behind Dodonna’s campaign.

 The Admiral being amenable to the idea given all that Dresandii’s support could mean, yet still cautious as was expected.  Daiman assured him that the head of the Dresandii Corporation would prove a valuable ally and resource and Dodonna had consented.

After leaving the meeting, Traven arranged for the use of an encrypted long-range holotransmitter, which he used first to contact the Umgulian business tycoon.  

Dresandii was in the middle of some business on his homeworld, but told Daiman he would return his transmission within the hour.  In the meantime, Sirana put the wait to good use by taking care of several arrangements of his own.  

First call went to his crew on the surface of Bakura advising them to prep the Irrinna for the hyperspace flight to Corellia.  Next he contacted his corporate headquarters on Anaxes and had them confirm the attendance of himself and five associates for the Corellian Intergalactic Starship Industry Conference, giving the false names of the others to register under for both the even and for accommodations at the Nebulon Palace Hotel.  

Other transmissions were made regarding even more secretive business matters that he needed updates on.  Sandoz was on top of everything at the Coruscant SiranAxum headquarters as usual and gave him the full reports on everything he knew Sirana would have priority interest in.  A good man to have on his team, Dorgan Sandoz truly was and earned every bit of the impressive salary and bonuses Daiman paid him for the work he did.  

Lastly he discussed another job to add to that list of things Dorgan could be trusted with handling well.

“Yes, Navin.  On Nar Shadda, Corellian Sector. Goracca Boulevard, Mid-Levels.  Place called the Hyperdive” It almost amused him to think of her working in and running such an establishment.  The kind of working man’s cantina he preferred slumming about in himself given the chance. And if not for the fact the he was committed to this mission to Corellia, he’d undertake the trip to Nar Shaddaa himself.  But instead he’s entrust one of Sandoz’s men to take care of gathering whatever information he could on the name given to him by Private Cadman and the anything else he could find out about this Navin woman.

He told himself not to get his hopes up.  Too often in the past few years, less so as time went by, he’d thought he had found her, only to have those hopes dashed time and again.  This time his gut feeling though…  

Getting his mind back to the business at hand, Daiman signed off from his call to Coruscant just moments before receiving one on his own private comm from Umgul  

He issued the invitation to Ambroz Dresandii to join them on Corellia for the conference if he were able to so that they may discuss business arrangements of a mutually beneficial nature involving shipping and transport as per the conversation they’d had the last time they met. Keeping it vague and open because if the New Republic and their allies were spying on him, they likely were doing the same to Dresandii on his NR home planet.

If Admiral Dodonna’s push to reclaim the galaxy for the Empire continued toward a successful end, the New Republic would he a thorn in the side of men like he, Dresandii and Mal’fey no longer.  A day he greatly looked forward to indeed.


 
Bakura, Near the Warehouse/Factory Complex of SiranAxum Industries

The gleaming, polished surface of the Nubian star yacht gleamed in the light from the stars and moon hanging in the Bakuran sky that managed to peek through the streaks of smoke still present in the air.   Safely ensconced in the guarded warehouse docking bay during the battle, Daiman’s most prized craft in his small private fleet had remained undamaged.  

The six occupants, five human plus one that was also half-machine were getting themselves settled in for the journey to Corellia after taking a shuttle to the surface from the Ravisher.  Kabal, the tall cyborg General having to duck as he came through the door to the main cabin with a scowl on his face.  His cover as bodyguard to Daiman and entourage the ideal cover for the man.

Outside of Daiman, each of them carried perfectly forged false identification documents and were attired in clothing appropriate to their cover story.

After a quick tour of the ship, the pilots and the General made themselves comfortable in the lounge area as Daiman settled into the pilot’s seat and checked over the instruments in preparation for their departure.  It had been too long since he’d flown this ship himself, but outside of certain members of his staff there were few he would trust such a task to.  His grandfather’s ship was too important to him to let just anyone pilot it.  Maybe his cousin, should he need a break.  

He considered asking Jordan Lane, now looking even more fetching then usual in her simply styled business attire if she’d like to take the co-pilot’s chair, but figured he’d given his cousin enough grief these past few days when it came to his XO as it was.

Instead the seat was occupied by the son of the Ravisher’s Captain, Zak Uer, an interesting young man whose love and knowledge of starships of all types was the apparent during the conversation about them he shared with Sirana as they passed time waiting for clearance to depart Bakura and head toward the Core.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

(continued from here)

Bastion

The corridors of Imperial Intelligence barely hummed with the soft footsteps of the different agents, technicians, and other important members now occupying the halls.  The atmosphere was calm, collected, and cold—the Imperial Ideal, as some would say, and it mattered little to the people there how it looked.  They gave their lives for the Empire, not the decorating.  Until…

“I’m freeeeeee!  Woo hooooo!”

Everyone jumped or jolted from pure shock and terror as Marsh Flick, technician and underestimated genius, bolted down the hallway, hands pumped into the air, and shouting at the top of his lungs.  His curly hair fell in disarray in his eyes, making his gait weave side to side in the passageway as he ran and narrowly missed collision with the frozen occupants.  At one point he grabbed one of the shell-shocked secretaries who had been on her way to a meeting, twirled her around, kissed her and went back to his fast scamper towards the housing quarters for the residents.

The dormitory seemed unoccupied, and so Marsh took advantage of his new bounty by yelling at the top of his lungs:

“No more meetings!  No more Korren!  No more meetings!  No more Korr-”

“Enjoying yourself, are you, Flick?” an oily yet sinister voice inquired calmly.

Marsh immediately straightened and smoothed a hand over the unruly mop on his head, swallowing hard as he finished his race at a slow and steady pace up to Bail Korren… his soon-to-be former boss.  “Yes, sir…”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”  The sarcasm cut through the air like a knife.  “I’m sure you and Agent Williams will be welcomed warmly by Dodonna once I send my transmission.”

“Tr-transmission, sir?” Marsh let his chocolate brown eyes widen innocently.

“Yes, I’m just sending him a dossier  about your… collaborations with Williams.”  Giving Marsh a chilling smile, the Alderaan officer crossed his arms over his broad chest.  “I thought he would like a… description of you two as preparation.”

Maybe knowing that he was already free gave Marsh an extra shot of courage, but he suddenly returned the glare.  “That’s bantha shit.  You’ll just project your hate for Petra.”

“What I do in my file to Dodonna is my business, Flick.  Your job is to get your ass out of here in 0200 hours or I’ll personally space you out.  Go.”  With an angry turn on his heel, Korren stormed off.  In truth he did hate Petra Williams with an animosity that made any plantlife near him wither away and die, but he hated whenever anyone pointed out the actual stupidity to his hatred.  

Watching Korren walk away, Marsh shook his head.  No matter what Petra had done to initially cause this rift between her and Korren, it surely didn’t deserve this cruelty that their boss inflicted upon her whatever chance he got, trying to ruin her actual good reputation in Intelligence and force menial and demeaning missions on her despite her skills.

He walked into his room and started putting his sparse belongings into a plain duffel bag provided by the organization: no labels, nothing distinguishing.  His clothes would do fine; since he worked as a techie nobody cared how he dressed and Marsh could get away with wearing anything he cared.  

As he packed he glanced at some of the gadgets he had made during his time with II, including a communications scrambler.

Slowly a mischievous grin crept over his face.

I need to give Korren a good-bye present anyway…  And what better than to give him a meaningful gift that he would remember for years?


0201 hours later…

“Teli!”  Korren’s hand hit the ‘com-button with a hard and loud thump that shook his heavy desk.  “Teli!”

The nervous and soft female voice answered shakily.  “Y-y-y-yes, s-s-s-sir?”

“I’ve tried ten times already to send this communiqué to Dodonna!  What the hell is going on with my ‘com system?”

“Sir, we’ve had no reports of maintenance at all today, just one of your technicians checking some errors he said he detected,” she answered primly as he could hear the keys to her computer clicking from her checking.

“But now it’s not—Technician?”

“Yes, sir.”

Korren’s right hand rose, his forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge to his nose.  “Teli… do you have a name?”

“A… Marsh Flick, sir.”

“FLICK!”  


Thankfully at this point Marsh Flick was safely on his way to Corellia in a private vessel procured by Intelligence, sitting back in his seat and chuckling as he imagined Korren’s face purpling with rage when he found out what Marsh had done.

“Pet, the scams I do for you,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled out his databook to read.

It seemed like a dream, that less than six hours ago Petra called him and told him the good news that they were both free from Korren’s tyranny, at least for a while, and would now be working under better conditions hopefully.  As soon as he heard the name “Dodonna,” Marsh searched everything in the holo’net and in the II archives about Dodonna and his campaign in Bakura.

Everything seemed perfect: a new planet under the Empire’s control, a hard-nosed yet just admiral, and (best of all) working with his best friend as her assistant and being able to keep a better eye on her than he could only on comlinks with her.

Speaking of her… Marsh pressed a button on his wrist ‘com and dialed the familiar number.

“Williams.”

“It’s 0800 standard time, and do you know where your children are?” Marsh spoke in the lower depths of his range, grinning when he heard her chuckle.

“I think I just found mine.  How are you doing, Marsh?”

“Just wizard, Kid.  The accommodations are spectacular, the view is amazing… and somewhere about thirty lightyears back Korren is about to explode.”

There was a pause.  “Marsh Flick…”

“Let’s just say I gave him a good-bye worth remembering.”

“I’ve completely and totally corrupted you… I am so proud.”  She managed a dramatic sniffle, causing him to return her earlier laugh.

“He had it coming, and it’ll take weeks before they figure out how to fix it.  He was going to try and send some hate-mail to Dodonna about you and your record.”  Marsh scoffed softly.  “Bantha-”

“Don’t insult poor banthas, Marsh.  We’re almost there.”  

“Yeah…  So how’s your flight?”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rations’ bar, gnawing on it absently as he waited for her reply.  “Good service?”

“Yeah… You won’t believe the cute guy they have posing as pilot.  I haven’t seen something like that since-”

“LA LA LA!” Marsh interrupted quickly, grimacing and putting the bar down, his appetite gone.  “Petra, you promised you wouldn’t do anything slutty to get yourself in trouble…”

She sighed, her pout audible.  “But I did when I was on Muunilinst.  Can’t I have time off for good behavior?”

“No!”  Marsh remained firm.  “I know you too well.  Besides, where…?”

“There’s always the Lightyear High Club.”

“LA LA LA LA!” Marsh repeated louder, earning confused looks from the crew on his shuttle.  “No!  No means no means no!  No!”

“Since when have I ever listened to you?”

He groaned, knowing she was right.  “Gods above… someday you’re going to meet some guy, fall madly in love, and then have to tell him about all the bad frak-buddy decisions you made before you met him.”

There was a quiet pause, then Petra spoke.  “I think that ship has sailed, Marsh.  There was only one perfect man in the Galaxy, and Dad’s dead.  Nobody will ever measure up.”

Marsh winced, knowing he had unwillingly prodded a sensitive spot for his friend with the clumsiness of a two-year-old.  “Pet, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I have a pilot to earn my wings from.”

Letting it slide, Marsh answered, “Go get ‘em, Tiger.  Over and out.”  And with finality he pressed the OFF button for his wrist ‘com, now noticing the strange looks from the people around him.  “Back off, snoopers.”

They all looked away quickly as he yet again propped his databook up onto his chest and started reading.


“We are now approaching our final destination: Coronet City, Corellia.  The weather is a balmy 72° and looks like it’ll be climbing up slowly as the day progresses…”

Peering out the small window, Marsh felt his grin slowly increase as he watched the cloudless and bright blue sky, clearer than any he had ever seen in his life.  He quickly shoved his belongings into his rucksack and put it over his shoulder as he stood and walked towards the front.

“Technician Flick,” one of the officers stopped him.  “You realize the cover you have been given for this trip?”

“Yes, I’m immigrating from Carratos and hoping to find work in one of the factories,” Marsh responded.  After all, everyone and anyone wanted to get off of Carratos since the fall of the Empire and the garrison stationed there withdrew.  The place crawled with every type of unsavory company and others desperate to escape, a story that would certainly make him favorable with the Corellians.

“Good.  You are to rendezvous with Agent Williams and Moff Aath soon.  Until then, keep yourself busy and act the part of an eager future citizen.”

“I know.”  Marsh unconsciously wiped a sweaty palm on his pants, remembering Petra’s warnings when she first told him about their mission together, and to keep himself safe.

“If you have one slip-you you could end up dead…”

He straightened his shoulders and held onto his bag firmly, walking down the ramp and into the hanger.  Marsh knew he could do this, repeating that to himself as he took a deep breath…

Then doubled over coughing.

“Careful, the air’s purer here,” an amused CorSec agent nearby informed him.

“Think I got the memo,” Marsh managed, his eyes watering slightly.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Garrick knocked hard on the cell door, and didn’t have to wait long for the guard to come. It was a stormtrooper; not one from Davin's unit. “Captain Vual, Lieutenant Commander Davin wants to see you.”

He nodded approvingly as he stepped out of the cell. “Good.”

Kess snarled at Garrick as he left the cell. “Good riddance!”

He looked to Kess as he straightened his uniform, frowning, then back to the trooper. “Lead the way.”

As the trooper began to close the door, Kess rushed it, screaming something in Shyriiwook that Garrick could not translate fast enough. Fangs were bared, claws were extended, and the trooper jumped back, barely closing the cell door in time. “Someone really needs to keep that animal on a leash!”

Garrick chuckled as he let the trooper lead. ”I doubt it would make a difference. Besides, I don’t need a leash to handle her.”

The soldier looked over his shoulder, “Well, lucky you, sir. The rest of us do. Especially Lieutenant Commander Davin, or so I hear.”  

After a few turns, they arrived. The trooper opened the door and motioned for Garrick to enter.

Davin was just finishing up a conference call or some other kind of work and looked up with keen eyes as the two men entered. With an unreadable smile on his face, he sat back in his seat, crossing his arms. “You look like a speeder wreck.”

Garrick cracked a small smile, straightening his jacket with an arrogant smirk. “Believe me, it was worth it. Although I could use a new uniform.”

Davin gave a nod, dismissing it with the wave of his hand. “A fellow soldier JD can see to that. I’m putting him on you until the Admiral has time to personally review your file. We've just felled a planet – things are a bit chaotic. I hope you understand.”

Garrick almost glanced up at the ceiling in the direction of the heavens, wonder what he had done for the Gods to find such favor in him. ”I understand, Lieutenant Commander.”

”Good.” He motioned to the trooper. “Take him to JD.”

He bowed slightly to Davin. “Have a good evening, Commander. “

"Good evening, Captain."

The trooper that escorted Garrick was not a conversationalist, and the minutes spent walking to JD's quarters were quiet. When arrived at JD’s cabin, the trooper knocked. A tall, well-built man in neat uniform opened the door and frowned. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

Garrick's first impression of the soldier was someone who had seen a lot of combat and had powerful opinions about it. He had a soft face and eyes he knew Nekessla would admire. His lover had the ability to look into people's eyes and understand their nature immediately. Garrick could sometimes do the same, and he knew just looking at him why Nekessla trusted him. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve.

After a moment of silence, he could tell the trooper wasn’t going to answer. Clearing his throat, he spoke for himself. "As of this evening, I have been cleared by Lieutenant Commander Davin. Until a full review of my personal file can be completed, I’ve been placed under surveillance. Your surveillance. I am to be under your watch until I am fully cleared by Admiral Dodonna.”

JD sighed, his eyes hardening. Garrick recognized dislike on his face and he knew it was because he thought Garrick had hurt Kess. “Great," he said with zero enthusiasm, "sir. Let him in. I got him.”  

The trooper nodded, clicked his heels, and continued on down the hall. The assassin stepped into the room as JD cleared the door, and he closed it behind them. As the young Imperial returned to his small reading area, he sat down and eyed Garrick's torn uniform with great disgust in his eyes.

The assassin tugged at his jacket. ”I am going to need a new uniform jacket. Lieutenant Commander Davin tells me you can assist me with that?”

JD gave a nod then headed to his wall locker and opened the door. A moment of rummaging later, he tossed Garrick a jacket. “One of my extras. It should fit you… sir.”

“This should do. “ He pulled on the new jacket and moved his gleaming Captain's insignia.

JD sat again, looked down at a datapad without reading it, and twiddled his thumbs. Then he started, his eyes dark. “I trust you left the Huntress at least able to breathe on her own?”

The assassin didn't answer. He went to the mirror on the wall and adjusted the jacket, then slicked a hand through his gleaming black hair. Kess' words made him miss his hair. Leaving the question unanswered, he said, “So what is your story? How do you know the Huntress?”

He stayed quiet for a, searching for the right words. “I fought… beside her.”

”She was on your team?”

 “No.” JD looked to Garrick, his eyes intense. “She led our team.”

It was in that instant that the assassin spotted loyalty. ”Ahhh… I see. And you two… were friends?”

He shrugged, choosing his words carefully. “I wouldn't go that far.”

”So you are saying she made no friends while in custody of the Empire? While leading your team? Surely she had made some allies…”

The slicer sighed. “This hasn't exactly been a vacation for her, Captain. She had little time for friends.”

”True, but if she held command of a team over Lieutenant Commander Davin she had to have some support. I’m just curious as to which members supported her, and which did not.”

JD's dark eyes narrowed. He didn't like this line of questioning – he couldn't see where it was heading. "What do you want to know that for? Keeping score, Captain?”

”You could call it that." Garrick moved to stand directly in front of him. "Now please answer my question.”

He shrugged, tossing his datapad to his bunk. “A lot of the guys didn't look at her as their favorite leader, but they respected her. Probably uneasy with a woman leader. The only person she seemed to really hate was Davin, and she wasn't a fan of Nash Cadman either.”

Garrick nodded, taking mental notes. “And did she have any allies? Other than yourself, of course.”

JD answered truthfully. "She said she appreciated Captain Dunn's respect for her.”

The assassin leaned in close. “She trusts you.”

“Yes. I've proven myself worthy of her trust. What of it?”

”She tells me I can trust you as well. Can I trust you, JD?”

Confusion and concern crossed the younger man's face. He studied the assassin for a very long time, then scowled, totally uncertain of how to answer this unnatural line of questioning. Is he trying to get me in trouble? He did his best. “I will do what is ordered of me, sir.”

"Nekessla tells me I can trust you. I hope she’s sure about you." Garrick leaned in close. He was speaking quickly, as if pressed for time. "But keep in mind that if you betray either one of us, I will cause you so much pain you will beg to be put to death. Do you understand me?”

Confusion and concern morphed into anger and disbelief. He stood up quickly, and though he was shorter than Garrick, he made his height count. “Captain," he demanded, "permission to speak freely?”

Garrick gave him a nod, intrigued. “Granted.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, threatening me like that?" He was shouting, his face flushing. "I've said nothing, I've done nothing – and you threaten me!”

The assassin moved forward in slow steps. “I am the father of her child! And I will threaten who I need to, kill whomever I need to, to keep my Huntress and child safe! Anyone! Anyone! Those who get in my way will pray for death before I am done with them!”

 A long moment of silenced passed. JDs eyes narrowed before widening. He stepped back away from him, looked him up and down, and then said quietly, “Garrick?”

The dark side assassin in Imperial uniform nodded once.

His jaw fell open. “Garrick Mikaelian, what the hell are you doing?!”

”I’m rescuing Nekessla, that’s what I’m doing!” he retorted.

JD collapsed into his chair, running a hand over his face. “Oh, Gods… I've seen Nekessla, and she's told me about you! Things are going to get real messy on board, aren't they?”

"I sure hope so." Garrick tightened his right fist, and his knuckles cracked. ”So I’m assuming I can trust you?”

He nodded emphatically. “I don't want Nekessla here. “

”Well, neither do I. “

The two men faced each other in silence for a long time. At last, JD seemed to understand what Garrick was doing, and he asked softly, "What can I do?”

”I need to get to a holo without Davin or anyone else of importance finding out.”

 “I can do that. She sent you to me, didn't she?”

”Yes. She said you could help me. Can you get a secure line for me as well?”

 “I'm a slicer. I can secure a line for you. Where are you calling?”

Garrick grinned. ”I'm calling Zeltros."

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Jordan sat stiffly in the lounge of the Irrinna, uncomfortable in her business suit.  Despite the duration of their intersystem journey, they had to keep up appearances as much as possible to avoid any trace of suspicion.

Which meant that she had to remain in such clothing until they had left the planet's gravity.  She barely stifled a sigh after realizing she was toying with the fabric of her pants.  To add to the discomfort of her attire, she had been given a rather feminine pseudonym to use for the mission.

"Having problems there, Miss Ashleigh Kellar?" Bal'ak queried, tone neutral but eyes glittering.

"I am fine, thank you, Mister Arlos," she replied evenly after a brief pause.  Something flashed over his face at her small sign of vulnerability, something she did not like.  "I appreciate your concern," she added.

Traven's eyes had narrowed at Bal'ak's comment, but her response prevented him from replying.  In hindsight, that was a good thing.

"Good," he answered before leaning back in his seat, apparently enjoying the ship's luxurious offerings.

Jordan picked up the datapad seated near her and began reading articles on current Corellian news.  Up until this point she had only had time for mission-related documents; now, with a week to occupy, she was determined to know as much as possible about the planet, about Mr. Sirana's company, about the conference they were ostensibly attending.. everything.  Not only would it solidify her persona as Mr. Sirana's personal assistant, but it would also keep her mind off of the highly attractive man seated not two meters from her current position.. someone who thought her attractive in turn.

She read for some time, during the course of which some small talk was attempted by the others in the lounge and the yacht departed the gravity well and entered hyperspace.  Once she could stomach no more of the latest gossip about so-called Corellian celebrities–Why do humans care about such things?  It is a terrible waste of time and intelligence–Sirana and Zak Uer entered.

"It looks like we are completely on schedule," Sirana stated.  He smiled at Jordan.  "Why, Miss Kellar, even I would mistake you for my assistant."

Was that a compliment?  Jordan could not tell.  It was quickly followed by a comment from Zak: "It's a far cry from the pilot I flew with back on Termina."

She smiled faintly, honestly appreciative of his recollection of their past time spent as wingmates.  "I believe that is the point."

He grinned then.  "Now there's the commander I know."

"You two flew together before joining the Paladins?" Bal'ak asked, surprised.

Zak nodded.  "Five years ago, during the Termina Cold War.  The commander here replaced.. my previous wingmate.  It worked out pretty well, overall."

"I obtained a good amount of combat experience there," Jordan agreed.  "It was a difficult assignment, but I am glad for it."

"I hope you're not implying anything, Miss Kellar."

Jordan smiled, realizing deep down that if she were to pull off this disguise she had to soften her features, and her attitude, a decent amount. Thus she attempted to reply in-character.  "Of course I am referring to the strenuous task assigned me as your wingmate, Mister Venn."

Out the corner of her eye she registered the almost-concealed shock written on Traven's face.  She would have to explain this to him later.  Or should she?  He would have read her file prior to her transfer to the Black Paladins.  He would know she had spent time on Termina.  Whether he had made the connection between herself and Zak Uer, she did not know.

The light banter continued for a few moments before Sirana interrupted.  "I hate to break up the reminiscing, but we do need to discuss what will be coming up here."

"My apologies, sir," she replied automatically.

Sirana arched an eyebrow.  "I believe my assistant would address me as Mr. Sirana," he said gently, with a twinkle in his eye.

Jordan blinked in embarrassment.  "Of course, Mr. Sirana."

"Thank you.  As you all well know, we'll be traveling for a week to get to Corellia.  In that time it may be a good idea to acquaint yourselves with the conference we are attending, since our cover depends on that.  If you have any questions about it, please don't hesitate to ask me."  

Traven interjected then.  "We will serve the evening meal here in four hours.  At that time we should discuss what we know about the mission and what must still be learned.  We have a lot of time until we reach our destination; we should use it wisely."

Jordan barely prevented herself from saluting.  "I must remain in character" would become a mantra for her over the subsequent days.

Sirana nodded.  "Finally, the cabin arrangements are as follows: Traven and I shall share one, Mr. Uer and Mr. Bal'ak will share one, General Kabal will have his own, and Miss Kellar will take the last."

Everyone assembled nodded, and with no further comments forthcoming, each went to his or her temporary quarters.

---

Jordan lay back on the bunk in her temporary quarters, relishing the comfort of the expensive yacht.  She had been on such caliber of ship fewer than five times in her life, and due to her extensive experience on military-grade ships she was concerned that she would be unable to sleep well during their week's travel.

Her mind drifted back to the meal shared in the mess hall, a brief alarm stirring her senses at the memory of Mr. Sirana's reaction to the story of some woman on Nar Shaddaa.  It had not, on the surface, seemed such a remarkable tale, but his reaction.. disturbed her.  She had become slightly more wary of the man since then.  Not on the level of his professional duties, nor on anything relating to their mission, but on an interpersonal level.  Vague tendrils of feelings from the time after the Academy's rejection teased her thoughts, and she pushed them away.

The next logical step of recollection fell on the moment she had been informed of her false persona's position in this mission.  Mr. Sirana's personal assistant.  She knew nothing of such duties, other than what she had experienced in person and briefly viewed in holovids.  This would be difficult for her.  She had never been much of an actress, other than hiding feelings.  For her to soften her stance, her visage, her entire way of carrying herself.. it would take some work.

To remove the tiny fear of failure from her awareness, Jordan turned back to her datapad and proceeded to spend two hours poring over information on Mr. Sirana's business dealings relating to the conference on Corellia.

---

Movement.  She needed movement.  Her neck cramped, her mind full, Jordan stood, stifled a yawn, and left her quarters.  Realizing her need for liquid refreshment, she headed toward the lounge, as it sat between her and the ship's galley.

Once she arrived at the lounge, however, she moved no further.  Freezing in her tracks, Jordan silently stepped backward to remain just out of sight.  His sight.

Here was a Captain Dunn she had not before seen.  He was stretching his arms, taut muscles extremely visible through the thin material of his undershirt.  After a moment, he completed his warm-up exercises, dropping in one smooth motion to the floor, easily doing a set of fifty push-ups.

She could not draw her eyes away.  The man was gorgeous.  A well-toned precision machine working for the good of the Empire.  A gentleman with a solid sense of decency and more than his fair share of courage.  Jordan's gaze began to travel.  Hands that protected the Order, destroying the enemy with carefully crafted shots.  Arms that precisely guided a sleek fighter through a decisively dangerous dance with death.  Chin held high with determination and confidence.  Lips that set her brain afire and her inhibitions–

Jordan stifled a gasp at the thoughts that bubbled unbidden to the visual arena of her mind.  She did not– she could not– she would not focus on such things!  The idea should never have entered her thoughts in the first place.  It proved the existence of holes in her armor she had believed to be patched, fixed, whole.

It proved that she, Wing Commander Jordan Lane, was no longer the strong woman she had been in the past.

She needed time alone to think.  Allowing herself one last glance at the man who produced feelings within her no other being had, Jordan swiftly departed the lounge in search of the sanctuary of her temporary personal quarters.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Traven didn’t count how many push-ups it had been so far. He knew only that the exercise helped him to get rid of the tension his body was beginning to build up. While the last days Traven had disregarded the training routine of his daily schedule. Being on a mission now was no excuse to neglect this duty any longer. The pull of his arm muscles told him that it was about time. As he caught a movement from the corner of his eye, Traven slowed down. Steps behind him did let stop him in his movement. With one fluid motion Traven got up to his feet, panting slightly. The steps belonged to his cousin, who was leaving the galley with two glasses in his hands.

“Here.” Daiman handed the one with R’alla mineral water to Traven, while he kept the glass which colour gave away that the content was Corellian whiskey. “Because you are in training, I thought you would prefer something more healthy.” Traven nodded, a thankful smile on his lips, as he took the offered beverage. “And it is a little early for alcohol, isn’t it?” His cousin shrugged. “Well, somewhere is sunset always.” Daiman clinked his glass against Traven’s, his gaze moving to the exit towards the hallway. “Hasn’t that been your lovely Commander who left as I entered?” Traven swallowed the mouthful of water, before replying. “Commander Lane? I didn’t notice her. Maybe you intimidate her, Daiman?” Daiman smirked about that comment. “Me? I don’t think so.”

The following hours Daiman and Traven spent with a game of dejarik. They stopped as the members of their mission team entered the lounge at the agreed dinner time. All members, except Commander Lane. After their meal Mr. Uer and Bal’ak entertained the company with anecdotes of dogfights and bar brawls. Silently Traven followed their stories, watching his pilots showing off. <i>Was I ever that young?</i> he mused, but his thoughts drifted away wondering  if Jordan was feeling alright.

“…don’t you think so too, Trave?” Daiman’s voice distracted him. “Hmm? Pardon, I didn’t hear your question.” Traven felt sheepishly. Like a pupil caught by a teacher while being inattentive. “That answers my question.” Daiman commented amused. “I said that I think that it’s bedtime. And obviously you are sleeping with your eyes open already. Is that a skill you learnt in briefings with the Admiral?” Traven cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed in front of his men, who were chuckling about Daiman’s joke. “No, it has been a special class on Carida.” He answered dryly.

It became quiet on board after everybody retreated to their quarters. In their room Daiman was undressing as he interrupted the silence suddenly. “Do you think that everything’s alright with your wingmate?” Traven narrowed his eyes. “Why the interest, Daiman? I noticed it on Bakura already.” Daiman look surprised by the tone of his cousin. “Calm down. I’m not interested in her, but I like her. So I’m just worried.” Traven relaxed as his trace of jealousy subsided before he realised it even as what it had been. He ran a hand through his hair. “I am worried too that she didn’t appear in the lounge.” Daiman gave him a questioning look. “So isn’t it your duty as wingmate to check if she’s not sick or something like that.” Traven nodded slowly. “I think you are right.”

Traven felt nervous as he stood in front of Jordan’s quarters. Balancing a plate with food and a bottle of water he hesitated a moment before knocking at the door. There was silence first. Patiently he waited. Maybe she was asleep already. Or not properly dressed for receiving a visitor. Finally he heard her voice: “Who is it?” Keen to avoid any attraction from the others Traven answered lowly: “It’s me.” Like he would have to explain, as if she wouldn’t know his voice, he added. “Traven.” Again there was silence inside the quarters before the door opened finally. Jordan, wearing her business suit still, stared at him surprised. An unsure smile appeared on his face. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I was wondering why you didn’t come to dinner.”

A blush rose on her cheeks as Jordan addressed him: “Thank you, Sir…” Her eyes checked the hallway quickly, making sure that they were alone, before she continued. “… Traven. I did not realise it was so late. I have been consumed by my studies.” Her excuse sounded a little rehearsed. “I… I appreciate your concern.” She ended. Traven smiled. “Ah, I guessed that. So what do you think about the plan? I would like to hear your opinion.” As he changed the topic to a professional talk, she relaxed apparently. Her voice sounded like the one of an experienced officer. “I think it’s a sound one. I am very impressed by the credentials with which we have been provided. I do not see any flaws, save mistakes made by those of us… unused to the positions we now assume.”

Standing still in the doorway, carrying the plate and bottle, Traven shifted his weight from one foot to the other, before speaking. “Yes, I think the same. Almost a little boring, isn’t it?” Jordan didn’t realise the joke he had made only to make her smile again. “I suppose so, though I wish to perform my duties to the utmost of my capabilities, thus I am spending an extensive amount of time in study. I have never had to act so… feminine… before.” Her eyes widened suddenly as she noticed that he was holding her dinner still. “I apologise for my rudeness, Sir. Please, come in and sit down.” She swallowed nervously. In her embarrassment Jordan reverted to the formal mode of address, as she stepped aside to let him to enter her quarters. “And please allow me to take those off your hands.”

Their fingers brushed as he handed the food over to her. Hiding his own nervousness, Traven looked around in her quarters, realising that the bunk was the only place to sit down. “It’s a fine ship, isn’t it?” he small-talked. Jordan nodded quickly. “I admire it very much. I have rarely been on such a fine vessel.” Almost carefully Traven sat down on the bed, continuing the innocent topic. “It reminds me of my childhood. When we travelled to resort planets or visiting Daiman and his parents. Travelling through space felt always so exciting when being a child and now it’s the normal course of life.” Again Jordan nodded. “I agree, though I rarely visited resort planets while young. My parents wished for me only to study.” Traven looked surprised as he replied. “My mother thought it would broaden my horizon. Well, she thought the same about dance lessons.” Jordan’s look became a little wistful, so he tried to raise her mood. “You’ll like Corellia. It’s a wonderful planet, just that it’s full of Corellians.” That comment produced an honest smile on her face and he couldn’t but return it.

Awkwardly Jordan took a sip from the water bottle, while still holding the food in the other hand. Traven moved to the side, making space for her on the bed. “When you sit down, you can eat more comfortable.” She froze for a moment after his remark, before sitting down. As far as possible away from him. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Traven.” He sighed almost. “Sir is for briefings and public.” Jordan avoided his look at all. “My apologies, Traven. I’m unused to such a casual form of address. I have rarely been allowed such pleasantries.” It was hard to say who as more surprised by the choice of her words, but he answered simply. “But you deserve such pleasantries.” Again she blushed, whispering. “Thank you, though I do not know why you would say such a thing.” Traven looked at her. <i>Because you are the most beautiful woman I know.</i> he thought, but loud he said. “I… well… think  that you…” <i>Damn, Dunn, stop stuttering like a teenager.</i> He cleared his throat. “You work hard all time. Harder than all other officers. So you are allowed to relax in your off duty time.”

Jordan swallowed as she placed the plate and bottle on the floor before turning to  him finally. “Thank you, Traven. I have not been… so highly regarded in a long time. I appreciate it. I truly do.” Their eyes locked. “And I appreciate that you are around.” This time she didn’t look away. “You do? I am glad that my hard work is of benefit to you.” It was his turn to blush. “Not only your hard work.. I enjoyed the dances while the victory celebration. I had been a long time that I felt so… carefree. And I enjoyed that we… kissed.” Jordan’s eyes widened as she blurted out before thinking: “Why?”

Traven chuckled, then smiled. “Because we should have done that years ago already. On the opera’s balcony.” Again something made her look away. “You really think so? But that was before everything went so terribly wrong.” Morosely Jordan was staring at the floor. “Yes… before Endor.” Traven nodded, but Jordan whispered. “ I was not speaking of Endor.” Confused he frowned. “What do you mean?” Scared she avoided his look anew. “I think your good opinion of me would change if I explained.” Her voice was more quietly. “I would not wish for that.”

His voice was serious. “Nothing can change my opinion of you.” In shock Jordan stared at him for a moment before speaking. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I did not make it into Carida upon my first application. They denied me. No explanation. My parents reacted poorly to the news. I… I was forced out of the house. They did not want a failure for a daughter.” Traven’s look softened as he reached out to touch her shoulder. “They were wrong. You are everything but no failure.” Involuntarily she flinched at his touch. “I certainly felt like one. I have been fighting to remove that blemish form my past since then.” Traven didn’t remove his hand. “But you are a Commander now. And you are here. And I am very glad about it.” Without thinking he leant closer. “Very glad.” She was trembling slightly at his proximity, fear and excitement fighting each other. “I have regrets about the past too.” Traven whispered. “I never told you how I felt as we said good-bye in the museum.” Their lips were near to each other again. Her voice was very softly. “I wish I had said something as well.” Simply he smiled as he cupped her face for a kiss.

First she leant into the kiss, their hearts pounding, but then all of a sudden Jordan broke it off, shaking with fear. “Traven, I…I apologise, but I… cannot!” Confused by her reaction his gentleman education returned. “No, I apologise. I didn’t mean to take advantage of the situation.” Jordan was next to him, but still trembling as she looked away sadly. “It’s my fault. I have never… had a good experience… with this.” His hand touched her shoulder gently again. “I would never hurt you.” This time she turned around to him, her eyes filled with vulnerability, but her smile hopeful. Tentatively Jordan was raising her hand to his head. He was smiling as she touched his hair softly, patiently waiting as she began to explore. It hit him with surprise as her hand slid to his neck, pulling him into a kiss that was overwhelming with emotions and longing.

After a little eternity later Jordan broke the kiss, leaving both of them breathless. She smiled shyly, but her eyes were sparkling. “I trust you, Traven. You may have realised that already, though.” Traven smirked, his eyes showing that he understood her kind of humour. “No… show me again.” He answered. Jordan chuckled actually before kissing him again, with all the suppressed passion of the past weeks. Their arms wrapped around each other as they got more comfortable.

~~~

It was early morning as Traven awoke. Still tired it made him smile nevertheless as he realised that Jordan was snuggling next to him, her head resting on his chest. Traven didn’t dare to move, so he was watching her, surprised that she looked even more beautiful in sleep. But as if she was sensing his gaze Jordan awake, a shocked yelp escaping her lips. Traven chuckled. “A good morning to you too.” She touched his cheek. “You are still here.” Traven nodded. “No other place I wish to be.” Her hands were touching his hair. “I like this tousled look of yours.” With a smile he leant in to kiss her again.

~~~

One hour later Traven was sneaking into his own quarters. To his relief Daiman was sleeping deeply. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed that his cousin had been away the whole night. Slowly, trying to avoid any noise, Traven began to undress to use the refresher before changing his clothes. Daiman’s voice startled him. “Damn, Trave, you are quite an early bird. Why are you up already?”

A mischievous smile appeared on Daiman's face as he saw that Traven's clothes were still the same as they had been the day before.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<B>Bakura. Salis D'aar Capitol Building.</b>

The press conference had been organized and set up by the Bakuran networks under strict Imperial control. Several holocams and uplink systems pointed to the location of the event as the hour approached. A semicircle of modular risers and seats had been set up near the base of an AT-AT. In the middle of the seating was a raised dais with a podium, positioned so that the speaker would be just, and only just, above the eye level of most of the reporters. A spinsilk Imperial banner was draped over the front of the podium, and a larger one was draped from a backdrop behind the speaker. Both were dwarfed by the AT-AT, with its gigantic version of the symbol looming over everything. Any symbols of the New Republic were conspicuously absent.

The orientation of the seating was such that the reporters would be near, but not in, the shadow of the walker. It would be back-lit in a spectacular way that would show off its might to best effect. Admiral Dodonna expected the image to be on almost every  holovid screen on the planet that night.

Even the reporters had been "ordered" after a fashion, press releases going out to those news sources likely to be most favorable to the Empire's proposal, and to only a few factions that were sympathetic to the Imperial cause– Bastion included.

The warlord stood just inside the Bakuran capital building, looking through a small window of one-way glass at the jammed seats, and at the podium, which was surrounded by holocams and microphones. The window was located in a small security room off the grand lobby which was the formal entrance of the building.

Dodonna stepped into the entrance lobby, inspecting the grand stairway leading up to the second level, the wildly impractical crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling, the paintings on the walls. The effect, he hoped, was not one of hopeless luxury, but rather of classical elegance. The air was perfumed to hide the ever-present smell of ozone, smoke, and death. Soft music issued from hidden speakers.

He smiled. He felt confident, ready to face the public. He turned to Rinehart VonToma, who struck an imposing figure in his ISB uniform and dark boots. After spending time completing one of the first objectives against the insurgency, the Admiral had ordered him back to aide him in the preparing of today's event. "You did an excellent job organizing the news conference and my speech, Captain. A most impressive piece of propaganda you wrote."

VonToma frowned. "You realize this is a security nightmare, don't you? As for the rest, you really need a press secretary."

"Captain, see what you can do about lining up some press-secretary candidates while you're here. Quietly and discreetly, as you usually operate."

"As you wish, Admiral. Assuming you survive the press conference." He gestured at the door. "Shall we get this over with?"

Dodonna nodded and they stepped out through the durosteel-paneled double doors, an escort of stormtroopers leading the way. Holocams turned toward them like missle turrets.

In the near distance, Dodonna could see the plaza filled with Bakuran onlookers. Most of them probably had not a clue who he was, but they certainly knew <I>what</I> he was.

VonToma stepped up to the podium. "Greetings, Bakurans and citizens of the Empire. I present to you, Admiral Maximillian Dodonna, representative of the Galactic Empire."

Admiral Dodonna made a show of surveying the assembled crowd. He worked on projecting the impression that he cared about <I>them</i>, each and every one, as individuals. "People of Bakura, I bring you greetings from the Galactic Empire and its Imperial remnants." There was a murmur among the assembled as he said "Galactic Empire," which became much louder as he said "Imperial remnants." "I stand before you today to extend a hand of friendship and cooperation in a time of confusion and fear. The galaxy has been plunged into darkness, and there is much disorder and uncertainty. But I have come to tell you that there is still strength and stability in the stars– that there is still order that stands against chaos and the unknown.

"I am happy to declare this remnant of the Galactic Empire has annexed Bakura into its new order after the assassination of our beloved Emperor. This may puzzle some of you, anger you, even frighten you. You may wonder why I invoke the Galactic Empire rather than myself as overseer of this planet. I remind you that I have served the Empire loyally for many years, and most recently as Admiral of its starfleet. I do not renounce this, nor do I regard those years with anything but pride.

"But our galaxy has changed, and– as the incursion of the Ssi-ruuk has shown you in the past– without a strong military power, the Rebel Alliance, or New Republic as they call themselves now, no longer can serve you, no longer can keep you safe or free. In the current situation, the galaxy is too vast to maintain order. Imperial Center is too distant to aid you. Even the regional government of this system has failed you. But the remnants of our glorious Empire remains strong and have not bowed down to its aggressors, nor sold out their people to the enemy. Your system has known war, border raids, and uprisings since the fall of the Empire, and now stands on the brink of disaster.

"Your current Prime Minister, Gaeriel Captison, has confessed her inability to keep the peace or to protect this world." There was much whispering among the reporters. "You have heard the rumours, and they are true. Captison has resigned her position and left. She has not betrayed you, but she has certainly, by her own admission, failed you. You know it to be so.

"During this transfer of power, we must seek present and immediate solutions for order and protection; for those solutions to have strength and longevity, we must turn back to embrace the Galactic Empire's policies once more.

"This is not betrayal. This is not treason. The New Republic that you served, that you all served, has failed. It will never succeed, not without order, not without peace, and it will not give you freedom from your enemies. I remind you that the New Republic was built from worlds ceded by the assassination of our Emperor. And if Imperial Center once again flies the flag of our glorious Empire, order and freedom will happen again.

"But for now, I have chosen to pledge my loyalty to Bakura not merely because of the opportunities it brings the Empire, but because of its traditions of honor, integrity, and justice it carried under its rule.

"The Galactic Empire remains strong, and we stand against the aggression of our common enemies. We stand between you and the tyranny and harsh rule you know you would suffer under the Ssi-ruuk if they invade again.

"We are strong. But together with your freely given aid, we could be stronger. I extend the hand of friendship, and the pledge to join you in our common defense. I hope that you will see the wisdom in taking that hand, before the freedom to choose is lost to Ssi-ruuk aggression."

He paused, again scanning the assembled press. "Will now take a few questions." Hands rose, reporters called to him. He picked a woman for a major Bakuran network. She might ask a difficult question, but she was unlikely to go on the offensive immediately.

She stood. "Admiral Dodonna. Noma Wun. Bakura News Network. What do you say to the recent rumours of Bakura's leaders being executed when the Empire assumed power?"

He tried to look mildly shocked. "Well, Noma, first just let me say that, to the best of my knowledge… those rumors are false." There was murmuring, and the mood suddenly seemed to relax a bit.

Once the murmurs died, he suppressed the shock, replacing it with a look of concern. He continued. "For the record, insurgents have attempted on the lives of some of your leaders when they declared their loyalty to the Empire, done in the name of the New Republic. A few survived only through the heroic actions of our stormtrooper corps, and especially those troops under the command of Captain Rinehart VonToma." Dodonna turned and bowed his head toward VonToma. "Just several hours ago, VonToma quashed the insurgency responsible by levelling the building they were secured in."

Rinehart smiled slightly, and Dodonna held his bow for several beats. <I>Let the holocams linger on VonToma. Everyone loves a hero.</i>

Then Dodonna turned back to the crowd. "I speak from personal experience when I say that safety is a concern. Peace is fragile and easily broken by those who do not accept Imperial rule and rally against it. For that, I will make sure our forces will be on continual patrol under Captain VonToma until all insurgency is crushed. Otherwise, kiss your spouses, hug your children as though it were your last day, because you never know if it might be."

He called on a young Falleen reporter from another news service. "Admiral Dodonna; Xinon Gen of Bakura Times. There are rumors that the Empire will bring slave labor again to the alien community. Comments?"

"Thank you for asking, Xinon. I have indeed planned a large role for the alien community, but it is no longer practical that the Empire returns to its past policies. We plan to recruit those of sentient races into the workforce as all other Bakurans, equally. One of our prime investors has planned the construction of new shipyards to build our fleets up and we need all the workers we can find. Of course, all will be paid with a generous wage."

He scanned the faces of the reporters. <I>Time to take a hard one</i>. He pointed to a balding man sitting near the back. "Admiral Dodonna, Vin Huller of Bakuran Life. So is this transfer of power one authorized by Bastion or was this your doing to rule over us as a warlord?"

Dodonna smiled and scratched his snowy beard. Exactly as he had expected. "The Council of Moffs is well aware of what has happened here. Captain VonToma was dispatched by Bastion to oversee that this operation be run smoothly and it has. Therefore, this could not be my own doing. I come not to enforce tyranny, but to stand side by side with you against it!" He shook his fist in the air. "Long live the Empire! Long live Bakura! Long live its people!" The Admiral quickly stepped down, flanked by his stormtroopers. Rinehart quickly took to the podium.

"This now concludes the press conference…"

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The transport lounge was spacious, enough for someone who wore the rank that Willem did. The lights were dimly lit, as if to corner itself for someone who did not tolerate the light well at all. One table harbored in the middle, as if anchored from its legs, and assortments of tables were adorned around it evenly so. A polite and quant setting, almost a perfect symmetry to it. Like a painted canvas. However, like all imperfections in a painting it was also surfaced and well seen in this as well.
   
The imperfection was Willem himself.
   
He sat on the side, the lower end of the left corner, with a cup of steaming caffa in his hands. His wrinkled fingers cupped around it, as if to keep his hands warm from the surrounding emptiness. It was cold, the recycled air, and it was getting under his bones and driving him mad. He sighed, feeling the warmth from the cup rising upwards, as if it was now reaching over his body.
   
No sounds were coming from him, only the occasional release of breath. The only other sound that was barely permissible in the room was the hum of the engines as the ship passed through hyperspace. Everyone, as far as Willem understood, was asleep in their assigned rooms. The two operatives that were members of Ghost Squad providing backup were in their quarters, and Petra was asleep as well. The only one he was not sure about was Maarco, and that came from experience.
   
He saw him approach from the hallway, haggardly, but what made Willem flinch was that he made no sound at all.
   
Most likely comes from experience.
   
“Moff Aath.” He spoke, walking with purpose over to the caffa machine. With a uniformly desire, he took the nearest cup and poured caffa into it a bit rushed. In the other he grabbed five sugar cubes and dropped them into the caffa, still in the process of being poured. He grabbed the crème and added it to the mixture. He yawned as he took a spoon and turned the liquid around in a clockwise circle, his eyes drooping low to the caffa, the color now a light brown.
   
He smiled as he moved to sit at the table, the silence of his steps making Willem consider his value to the mission as a whole. His eyes watched the Commander as he took the cup by the handle and sipped it, slightly burning his tongue in the process. However, he showed no signs as he put the mug back on the table, his eyes glancing upwards to Willem.
   
“So, sir, what’s the plan?”
   
“You're Intel, don't you know?”

“This is important sir. I just want to make sure we're on the same page..”

“True, true.” Willem said, taking one long sip from his cup of caffa, thinking about the briefing he was given. He smiled outwardly, towards Maarco, thinking for a moment how great it was to have a subordinate who asks questions about the mission, before he coughed. He cleared his throat, a typical gesture, before he spoke. His tone was soft, like a mother’s, but firm and resolute.

“You and Petra will make contact with them at this ship trade conference, my face is too widely recognized with that whole Muunilinst incident and High Port. I will wait at the apartment you have with your two guards here, and then hopefully you will bring them to the apartment, and then we will meet. Simple, simple, simple.” He stated, taking a long sip from his drink as he relaxed against his chair, his smile still locked on his face like an unflattering limpet.

 “Posing as a corporate trader?” The Intelligence Operative asked, his eyes dripping low to his caffa. He brought the cup to his lips, closing his eyes as he let the liquid enter his mouth, the burning sensation a sensation that he considered one of many of his guilty pleasures. He sighed, watching and hearing Willem speak as he set his cup of caffa down on the table.

“Bingo.”

Maarco cringed, not entirely looking forward to another dry non combat op.

“Do you know if Janus is coming along for this?” Willem asked of Maarco in a calmer tone.

“Last I checked he was placed on the pending roster..” Maarco continued with a nother sip of Caf. "Probably placed on hold by the Ubiqtorate…"
 
“On hold?" Willem spoke with annoyed disbelief.

Maarco gave a nod without glancing in Willem's direction. "Intel lost contact with a field operative exploring those underwater ruins. Janus may have to take her place if she's been terminated."

“So he says…” Willem replied with a hint of disappointment in his tone.

"Not buying that?" Maarco asked with an emerging smirk.

"Not in the slightest." Willem replied with serious gaze out the viewport.

Maarco gave a chuckle. "Can't say I blame you.." He said in a contemplating tone as memories of Mygeeto passed through his thoughts.

As he spoke, Petra slipped into the back quietly and discreetly, letting her presence be known only by a soft clicking of her heels as she watched the two men with dark yet all-seeing eyes.  Nodding at Willem she simply picked up a cup of caf and waited to see if she would be recognized or ignored.  But she gave a small smile of a flirtatious nature to Maarco before sipping her drink.
   
Willem was the first to notice the female Intelligence operative, his eyes locking with her's for the very briefest of seconds as he nodded in reply. Maarco turned his head to look at her, and with a seductive smile he returned the greeting. Willem rolled his eyes at this
   
Smirking a little, Petra simply walked across the room with a sway to her hips, knowing Maarco's eyes would be on her.  Knowing he was actually not married and it was a part of his cover had certainly warmed her to his looks, although that was all there was to it.  "So, 'Dad,' any updates on our Corellian rendezvous?" she asked Willem with barely traceable sarcasm.
   
"Correct, Elina." He responded, his voice low as he took a sip from his caffa. It seemed disrespectful, but not to him. Elina would of never…He was thinking about her again, and he closed his eyes before he spoke again, coming back to the present world. "You and Maarco in disguise will meet our contacts at this ship and trade conference, and then you will bring them back at Maarco's apartment."
   
"Yes, sir."  She finished her caf and sat down at a chair, delicately crossing her legs as she watched him with those cat-like eyes of hers.  "Will my cover be the same, or will I have to switch to a new one?"
   
"More or less. Maarco is, so it would be wise to do the same. You're a businesswoman, Mirkia Chang, and Maarco's your bubbling assistant. I wanted to ask you something, since Janus brought this up before I left and I wanted to double check with you." He coughed before he went on. "What do you know about Dodonna's intelligence operations?"
   
Petra closed her eyes for a moment, trying to think through her memory of any references to the military leader.  "Hmm… Very little, sadly.  I was never given clearance to that kind of information due to my supervisor's… discretion."  A huge weight hung over her words, but she added an airy shrug.  "Plus I never had time for gossip.  I like to focus on my job and do it well."
   
“So we would hope." Maarco said, a little smile on his face as he took the caffa to his lips and drank it quickly, burning his throat but the pain not registering that much on his brain. Willem nodded in the affirmative, sighing. "It's always good to know. Excuse me." He said, walking off, leaving Maarco and Petra alone
   
As soon as the door shut behind the Moff, Petra looked up coyly through her eyelashes at Maarco, not saying a word.  She waited for him to make a move.
   
But he made no move. As he often made himself available he did not make the first move. He was too much of a knight to do so, certainly adding a small niche to his enigmatic nature.
   
A soft chuckle escaped Petra's lips finally as she set back and relaxed in her chair.  
   
"What?" He enquired, his voice dripping with a inquisestive tone as he kept the smile, mirroring her movements by relaxing against his chair as well, his right elbow leaning against the table, his hand supporting the weight on that side.
   
"I'm just observing."  Moving her legs to stretch a little, Petra did a little roll to her neck also to untense the muscles there.  "It's rare to find a gentleman of your standing as of late, especially in our area of work."
   
"All we are is our convictions, and how we hold ourselves in our day to day lives." He softly uttered, his smile relaxing and his shoulders gently rolling back, relaxing his back against his chair. "It is also equally rare to find a outspoken woman such as yourself, definitely in our line of work."
   
"It's a gift," she spoke dryly of his observation of her.  "I've been able to see the inside of every brig on Bastion because of it, on a regular basis."  But after all, she was Nabooan and therefore could use her fiery and passionate heritage to defend anything she did, letting her natural purring accent creep into her voice.  It gently brushed over him like the softest clingsilk.
   
Compared to her, his accent was rough, coarse. It belonged to someone who worked in the salt mines of Davios IV, or the mineral fields of some distant planet. "I will never know how, or why, those happened when you have an excellent duty record and a lot more successful mission record than most Adjustment agents could ever hope for."
   
She shrugged slightly, but a cool look came over her eyes.  "You would have to take that matter up with my boss," was all she said in reply before glancing down at her lap, not sure what to say to him.  She respected him for working in Intelligence, but at the same time she wondered if he was as masterful in intimate situations.
   
"If you need anything from me during this trip, or when we get to Bakura, don't hesitate to ask me." He said, streching out his legs slowly, gently, before he stood up. He was preparing to leave the room, it seemed, but he waited a few seconds, as if to strech out his arms.
   
She watched him, pausing for a moment as if to speak, then nodded simply.  "And the same to you about me… Maarco."  Letting her voice simply roll out his name as if it was a delicious treat she wanted to swallow, she simply went back to sipping her caf with an innocent look on her face, only a small gleam in her eyes.
   
“Morin’” Spoke a sound, suddenly, Maarco and Petra jerking their heads towards the door, the entrance to this little dramatic house of horrors. The two Ghost Squad members filed in, their facial features making them look like twins as they moved to the table and sat down, their eyes floating to the two occupants that were located there before them.
   
“If you excuse me.” Maarco said, before he quickly exited out of the room, in the direction that Willem left. The two commandos smiled and looked at Petra, remembering their time on Mygeeto, but only to the Commandos.
   
"Wow, those legs…"

“I haven’t had sex in four years…”
   
“You two, shut up!” Maarco said, his presence back in the room. “Every single planet we go on, it’s always sex this, sex that…”

               ===========

   Maarco hurried down the corridor towards the starboard side bunk that Willem, Maarco, and the two Commandos occupied for the remainder of the trip. He entered the rather small and compact room that housed the bunks, and saw the Moff/Grand Admiral sitting down on his bunk with a book in his hand. A Thesis on Pure Reason, Maarco read the title as Willem turned his head to look at Maarco from his position.
   
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander?”
   
“Is Janus coming at all?”
   
“He didn’t say he was, why?”
   
He smirked, realizing his only competition couldn’t stop him from the Intelligence woman.
   
“Oh, nothing.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<p><em> Datunda, 14 th of Helona. Arden highschool. Noon. </em></p>
<p><em> It was day three: the third day after Salis D’aar had been shattered by the Remnant’s surprise raid. The first day of school, if you could say so, after yesterday too big parts of both staff and students had not shown up—dead, wounded, frightened or lost in the general confusion… </em></p>
<p> 12:15 Erect in his brown checkered Telaan suit, professor Haiman gazed over the fourth class he should teach today – senior grade, sociology. Here, too, the youths appeared to have aged: stiff, serious, pale, they sat there in tensed silence; scrutinized him out of anxious, worried or reserved faces. Elleu wore dressing over her eye; Xofer had his arm in plaster; Toob featured a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose and sat unusually quiet—several of his students had still not returned… </p>
<p> With a deep breath he checked off their presence; eventually leant forward on the big desk. “I am glad for every one of you who could come.” He clasped his hands; the ventilation whisked discomfit silence. </p>
<p> “Four weeks ago, when I asked you to speculate – what might come of a core-worlder turning up here to stir our political landscape – you came up with a variety of scenarios. Many of you sketched repercussions on the forthcoming elections: Thayer’s ideas giving new impetus to Tinnick or, first building firm opposition, doing the namely for prime minister Captison. </p>
<p> “A few pictured a setting in which dissatisfied members of our army rallied round him; he turned out to be a New Republican agent; or in which sanctions were imposed in reply to his and our prime minister’s clandestine. Two even debated as far-reaching involvements as a connection with the newly landed galactic player SiranAxum… </p>
<p> “However, diverse as your essays might have turned out, in one point you did all agree: in that sooner or later – after he either lost credibility, or our system of checks and balances kicked in – democracy would prevail. </p>
<p> “Right now, reality looks a bit different.” </p>
<p> He turned round and activated the wall-mounted screen that lit up with the close-up a grey-beard in stern, olive-brown uniform. Now, you recognized the balcony: it was the Capitol’s; sideways on the open space in front of which towered military equipment, as high as the magnificent building… </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> “His goodbye doesn’t look quite homey.” It came as a whisper, then the screen froze and the classroom sank back into awkward silence. </p>
<p> “This speech was made two hours ago. Let’s have a look at his <em>arguments</em>: which <em>reasons</em> does Maximilian Dodonna name for which we, the people of Bakura, should welcome his seizure of power?” Haiman nodded at the youth who had difficulties putting up even his undamaged hand. “Xofer?” </p>
<p> “Well, he names war, border raids and uprisings…” </p>
<p> “But that’s rubbish! The last war was when <em>they</em> came, the last uprising was that of the automata and the Ssi-Ruuk he mentions in every second sentence did not dare to attack since prime minister Captison saw to the extension of our fleet!” Annoyedly the youth with the bruised face threw back his head. “Anyhow, I do <em>not</em> believe she <em>resigned</em> or left on her own volition, and one thing is for sure: <em>if</em> they had come to <em>help</em> they should <em>not</em> have <em>bombed</em>!” </p>
<p> The class woke to consenting murmur; a leggy flaxen-haired, however, leant back with a disparaging expression. “Yes, but if everything was that <em>perfect</em>, how come some aged warlord could burst in? And how’s that it were our <em>own</em>, Bakuran, troops that first moved against the senate?” </p>
<p> “Why, for that Thayer-bladderweasel they sent did incite them! That was the point, anyway: it was on <em>purpose</em> they sent someone who would get himself noticed, that we’d all be staring at <em>him</em> while they sabotaged in from the back! A milking diversionary tactic…” </p>
<p> “That only worked, for Captison and her bunch forgot sentients’ needs over backstarsman isolationist ideas! ‘We won’t sell out Bakura!’ But not a bit of it: no sell, no investors, no jobs! You can’t <em>eat</em> independence, you know! It doesn’t pay your rent or buy you a decent speeder—that’s why someone like Thayer could first get a foothold! And then, they were lax about public security: under Tinnick, that glove puppet of theirs had been x-rayed and they’d caught them at B6-station!” </p>
<p> “Under <em>Tinnick</em>, we had little Bastion here every day! He’s half of an Imp himself!” </p>
<p> “Just for someone got spunk doesn’t make him a flarging Imp!” </p>
<p> “No. But what <em>you</em> call spunk here’s really no different from <em>their</em> ways!” </p>
<p> Leant against the the edge of his desk, Haiman watched his students: such disputes usually worked as first-rate class pullers; now as well, glances jumped back and forth following the ping-pong—only the faces, the glint of the eye, remained shuttered… </p>
<p> “Toob. Riona. Enough on causality. Let’s get back to the future: what does Dodonna intend by his speech? What are his <em>actual</em> plans for our homeworld? Seon, what do <em>you</em> think?” </p>
<p> The small, brown-haired jumped. “Me? Nothing, Mr. Haiman.” </p>
<p> “<em>Nothing</em>? I think that is hard job for an intelligent young sentient… to think <em>nothing</em>.” </p>
<p> Seon frowned defiantly. “Oh please… he’s gonna build his shipyard, we’re gonna work, we’re gonna be paid badly. That’s that. What use in talk?” </p>
<p> In his suit’s pocket, Haiman’s hand cramped as all glances lingered on him. “It is essential we become clear! Why, have you paid attention to what Dodonna answered in regards to Miss Xinon’s enquiry about slave labour and the alien community? Elleu, please sum up in your own words.” </p>
<p> “Dodonna… plans to recruit <em>all </em>sentient races into the work force.” </p>
<p> “Good. Now the <em>exact </em>formulation: <em>why</em> does he say would he<em> not</em> bring back slave labour, although we <em>know</em> it <em>is</em> part of the Empire’s policies?” </p>
<p> “He says it was no longer practical.” </p>
<p> “Right. And what do you think does <em>practical</em> mean in this context?” </p>
<p> “<em>Practical</em>… now.. that means as much as… <em>useful</em>. I think in our context it means it would cause more problems for him than he could possibly gain from the matter.” </p>
<p> “And why?” </p>
<p> “Why, because we’re raised to liberty and equality—he would face resistance.” </p>
<p> “Yes! Yes, very good! Now, if <em>you</em> intended to build up a vast fleet, for which you needed all <em>labour</em> that you could get… if you further had an immense military machinery at your disposal – that you <em>needed </em>to pay, anyway—how would <em>you</em> like if as many as possible of your <em>work force</em> provided the wished for labour <em>without</em> any wages?” </p>
<p> “That depended…” </p>
<p> “Leave your <em>self</em> out! You <em>are</em> Dodonna; you just conquered this planet—on <em>what</em>?” </p>
<p> “On… how much it would cost to suppress revolts?” </p>
<p> “Correct! On how much <em>you</em> are willing to <em>pay</em>…” He jotted down something; across the screen his hand vaulted up white across the shade of the AT-AT… </p>
<p align="center"> <em>The Liberty of a people <br />
depends <br />
on how expensive <br />
it becomes for an oppressor<br />
to break its <br />
Spirit</em></p>
<p> He gave their minds a moment. </p>
<p> “But what is it that: a people’s <em>spirit</em>? What is this instance that decides on how we react if someone threatens our ideals? On whether we tolerate, or resist?” Haiman stepped into their midst. “Where does it come from? How… does it form? Spirit… <em>Courage</em>…or.. is it, perhaps, some elusive quality that is <em>given</em> … to only a few <em>chosen</em>?” </p>
<p> He walked through the rows, looked them in the faces. </p>
<p> “No.” Elleu’s voice, energized all of a sudden. “It is formed. By many things; like.. culture, the values that are upheld… and a people’s history: the experiences they made, as a people, especially in times of adversity.” </p>
<p> “Yes, very good. And now, based on that, how about us as individuals? After everything that moulds us – pushing tries of parents, teachers, others; and our own experiences – is there not yet another important variable? Is there not yet another all-decisive factor?” </p>
<p> One by one they began to return his gaze; in the eye a glint… </p>
<p> “Exactly! You <em>choose</em> who your models are,” he jotted: </p>
<p align="center"><em> you are free to choose</em></p>
<p> “No matter which history, culture, stratum; whether your parents gave you a shining or rather unfortunate example—through all of your life, <em>you</em> choose which actions you take: tolerate, or resist. And with that, you are responsible…” </p>
<p align="center"><em> you are responsible </em></p>
<p> …for everything that you do, or omit.” </p>
<p> “For tomorrow, I will give you but one task: think! Become <em>clear</em> of what <em>your</em> ideals are; which the ones are of a Dodonna or his Captain VonToma—which ones… you wish to prevail.”</p>
<p> “And now, before you’re sent… let us dedicate a moment to the ones who can now no longer be with us. To what may have been <em>their</em> ideals, and what <em>they</em> would wish to add… to our <em>spirit</em>.” He straightened and looked them in the faces. “I ask you to rise.” </p>
<p> </p>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Salis D’aar, Bakur/Danisai Ring

The Robiden Tower had originally been built as an administrative support building for the Salis D’aar spaceport. Designed along the “Mondeo Modernist” style, the tower had been constructed of stone mined from local quarries, which gave the building its distinct alabaster color. Observation decks ringed the tower at several levels, giving a breathtaking and commanding view of Bakura’s capital. A solitary figure prowled about the uppermost of those decks, pausing occasionally to gaze out over the city.

Rinehart VonToma raised his electrobinoculars to his eyes once more, observing the security measures that had been abruptly put into place that very afternoon. All Bakurans would now required to carry identity cardchips, possession of which would be necessary if one wanted to be employed, purchase goods or services, or travel about any area that was not off-limits. A series of citywide checkpoints had begun to issue the cardchips, with growing lines of Bakurans waiting with a resigned patience for their identity cards. Speeder traffic, restricted to ground-level flight, only added to the congestion.

This was the first, and most obvious of the security measures. Soon, the more fruitful and effective ones would be put in place as well. This would consist of moles carefully selected from the native populace and inserted into the residential and commercial sectors of Salis D’aar. They, along with Bakurans induced to inform on their families and fellow citizens, would provide the intelligence needed to crush any subversive movement before it could grow.

Yet one fact continued to gnaw at Rinehart as he put away his binoculars: Matheron Thayer had yet to be discovered, either dead or alive. The ISB officer disliked that fact; it was unfinished business, an unknown factor that you couldn’t anticipate. The one-time Imperial agent would remain a threat, a blade hanging over Rinehart’s head. The man had succeeded in turning Bakurans against one another; who knew what he could accomplish in rallying resistance against Imperial rule?

“You seem troubled, Captain,” Morgan Yvies remarked as Rinehart reentered office suite the Imperial had commandeered. The Bakuran seemed unruffled as he spread namana jam over some flat bread. “You should set aside your worries, at least during lunch.”

“If it were that easy, Director Yvies,” Rinehart replied as he sat down and poured himself a cup of caf. “I’m amassing quite the collection of dead insurgents, but none of them seem to be the one I’m looking for.”

Yvies proffered a bowl of sweetener cubes. “How many lumps do you prefer, Captain?”

“ Oh, three or four.”

The Bakuran grimaced in distaste. “In any event,” he remarked, “I strongly doubt that Thayer remains in Salis D’aar. Especially with the damage the city suffered. He’d be torn to pieces if recognized by a crowd. No, I imagine he joined the crowd of refugees fleeing into the countryside. In their panic-stricken flight, none of them would be recognizing who’s who.”

“The countryside. Lost among the disorganized rabble, without supplies . . .”

“Not necessarily,” Yvies pointed out. “It is possible that he may have found sanctuary among the Kurtzen.”

Rinehart recalled what he knew of the hairless, pale-skinned indigenous beings. “He would be permitted to remain among them?”

“If he was lucky enough to encounter some of the more elderly ones. They still recall that the medical aid the Imperial regime offered saved their race. They would be more accommodating than the younger Kurtzen. The Kurtzen youth aren’t quite so insular as their elders. Many of them have adopted Core World attitudes. Very pro-New Republic. More technologically savvy than their antiquated, nomadic forefathers,too. Even if their elders knew nothing about Thayer, they would. And Thayer would be seen as an enemy.”

The ISB officer stirred his cup of caf idly. “In any event, Director Yvies, I deem it vital that those refugees be rounded up. I don’t want to give Thayer the opportunity to hide among them, nor allow him to rouse them to resistance.”

“I wouldn’t worry about them, Captain,” Yvies snorted. “Most of them are probably lacking in food and shelter, and they’ve grown soft in the cities. It wouldn’t take much to induce them to return.”

“A forcible roundup may be preferable. Then we can start identifying any holdouts and diehards through surveillance and tracking sensors. We can isolate those groups, and destroy them.”

“You’ll be redeploying troops from Salis D’aar?”

“Obviously. You said it yourself, Yvies: Thayer isn’t in the city. Let’s just say that I want to crush the head of the serpent, before it can strike.”

“Mmm, and I was going to use the imagery of a serpent myself, that of a constrictor slowly crushing the life out of this nascent insurgent movement. My recommendation is that we pacify Salis D’aar first. After all, what would Admiral Dodonna say if you were rush headlong out into the rural areas, and there were to be an incident in the capital? It wouldn’t look good to the Admiral if we were not to secure our base of operations, especially after he’s built you up to be such a hero.”

It all depends on how it was reported to Dodonna. I’ll stab you in the back before you can do the same to me, Yvies. Rinehart flashed the Bakuran a cold smile. “Your concern for my welfare is touching. What sort of white terror do you have planned, Yvies?”

The Bakuran let the verbal jab slide. “Oh, just a simple purge, that’s all. The family of Senator Peiron, for starters. It’s time we made sure The Orray was caged.”

“Make your list, Yvies. We’ll seize your targets in a midnight raid.”

“I knew you were a traditionalist at heart, VonToma. Still, there’s something to be said for the tried-but-true ways.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

On board the Peregrine Tangent
En Route to Corellia

Maarco opened his eyes to see Petra at the end of the bed, slipping back into her clothes and shaking her hair out of its messy tangle.  “Leaving so soon?” he inquired, stretching before sitting up in his bunk.

Petra didn’t even glance at him as she zipped her pants before sliding on her jacket.  “We’re less than an hour from Corellia airspace.  You should get up too.”

He rolled over to his side, the sheet still at his hips, while studying her.  The bruises from the droid on Muunilinst were starting to heal thanks to bacta, and the rest of her appeared to be flawless to his eyes.  Clear skin, golden-brown eyes, long and thick dark hair… And there was still something about her right now that unsettled him, the cool professionalism she displayed after such an intimate act between the two of them.  

“Was it that bad?” he finally asked, watching her carefully for any hint of her feelings.

Nothing even flickered in her eyes as she slid her hands down her front to smooth away any wrinkles that would appear in the cloth before she finally met his gaze.  “You were very good.  And we now need to get back to work.”

“So that’s all you wanted: a quick frak.”  Maarco frowned when she didn’t even react to that.  “You’re a perfect fit for Dodonna.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a slightly raised eyebrow of interest.

“You both have Hoth ice in your veins.”

Instead of flinching or showing any sign of hurt from his harsh comment, Petra let one side of her lip curl up.  “I’ve been working at it.”

Before Maarco could say anything else she walked to the door and pressed the controls to open it.  She walked out of his quarters and into the cold hallways, following her path to the lounge where she found Moff Aath sitting and surveying a datapad.  

“We’re nearly at Corellia, Miss Williams,” he said without looking up, making a mark with his stylus.  “You should make sure your belongings are packed.”

“Yes, sir.”  She continued through the lounge to her room to recheck her single bag.

Opening her bag, she picked up the single holo that she carried with her, looking at it with eyes that misted over in the only sign of emotion she allowed since arriving on board.  In the photo, a young girl with her eyes and a wide smile sat in an older man’s lap, her head rested on his shoulder and his beard tickling her forehead.  She sighed and sank onto the bed.

Dad, I’ve become a heartless bitch.  I’ve killed and whored myself for your cause.  Would you be ashamed of me?

The smiling image of Landon Williams gave her no response.  

Petra hugged it to her chest, wishing for the millionth time since her father’s death that she had anyone in the Galaxy that she could trust.  Marsh she couldn’t fully tell him everything, because he would worry too much about her.  Jeg only wanted her for her body and her skills.  Korren… the idea was almost laughable.

In her imagination she could almost feel her father’s arms wrap around her and squeeze her gently.  Swallowing hard, she whispered, “I miss you so much, Daddy.”


'Docking Port Alpha Six
Coronet City, Corellia

Moff Willem Aath glanced at the two Intel officers working with him, both at one side of him, before nodding subtly.  “Elina, why don’t you call your… friend, to see if he’ll join us soon?” he asked Petra.

Petra nodded, pulling out her comlink.  “If you’ll excuse me, Father.”  She stepped to the side, hoping that Maarco didn’t mention the slight hint of red in her eyes from earlier.

Thankfully the Moff suddenly pulled him to the side and started talking to him about connecting with the other group that they were expecting, from Bakura.  Petra dialed the number into her ‘com unit and waited for a response.

“Marsh here.”  The cheerful tones made her chuckle.

“Heya, Marsh.  I’m on Corellia now.  How are you holding up?”  He always knew when it was here, so she felt no need to actually name herself every time she called.  Besides, in their line of business it was dangerous.

“Hey!  Did you know the Corellians have a type of whiskey?”  She could hear the click of a glass in the background.  “Another one.”

“Marsh?  How many of those have you had?” Petra asked cautiously.

“Uhh… Lost count?” he replied hopefully.

“Oh gods.”  Petra covered her eyes with her hand, rubbing her temple.  “No more, Marsh, I’m cutting you off.”

“But Petra!” he whined.

“No but’s!  Three drinks and you’ll be dancing on the tables soon, and I don’t feel like dragging your sorry ass to wherever we’re staying.”  She ignored the disapproving look from the Moff, although she caught the cough-laugh Maarco tried to do subtly to hide his amusement.

Finally convincing Marsh to put the glass down and meet up with them in the city, Petra hung up and looked sheepishly at Willem.  “Uh… I apologize, sir.”

“Elina, is this… friend of yours… a security risk?” he asked severely.

“No, sir.  I promise he won’t be a problem.”  After I kick his ass, she thought annoyed as she straightened her appearance.  “We’re meeting him at Hanger B23453, sir.”

Willem nodded and signaled for their luggage to be taken.  “Our things will be waiting at the pilot’s home quarters,” he informed her in a low tone.

Maarco joined her side, offering his arm as an escort.  Petra glanced up at him through her eyelashes, unsure of his move and its appropriateness.  “I believe I owe you an apology, Petra,” he said quietly as he held her elbow.

“You don’t need to,” she responded in the same undertone.  “I can understand that I offended you.”

“No, no…” Maarco shook his head.  “It wasn’t my being offended.”  He sighed and looked into the distance thoughtfully before finally completing his thought.  “I keep forgetting that you’re an Intel officer, and that you need to prove yourself even more because you’re female.  I also keep forgetting about the woman from your file and the woman I saw in my bedroom.”

“Anton…”

“No, let me finish.”  He looked into her eyes.  “I also know there’s another woman underneath both of those masks, who is more beautiful than the galaxy can contain.  I just hope you find someone who can remove those masks.”

Petra pressed her lips together for a moment.  “And you know you’re not the one?”

“I know that you’re not going to let me in.  I envy the man that you do.”  And with an almost brotherly kiss to the forehead, he finished, “You’re a good woman.”

“Thank you, Maarco.”  She finally gave him a small smile.  “From you, that’s an honor.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The quarters that Kabal had been provided were spacious for guest quarters.  Daiman had been a kind enough host to provide Kabal with bed to accommodate his size.  It sat unused however as the cybernetic General rarely ever slept in a bed.  Some jested that a bed would not hold the weight of his enhancements.  Kabal however knew this to be false, his cybernetic parts were made mostly of upgraded polymers since his refit, and he weight only 350lbs, well under the weight limit for most mattresses.  The real reason the bed was not used was because the getting into and out of bed was inefficient.  He could use the 10 seconds he saved calculating more ways for missions to be a success, and obstacles overcome.  As his artificial eye’s iris open and was filled with red light, Kabal’s organic eye fluttered and opened lazily.  In his field of vision scrolled the familiar systems data.

0500-Alarm subroutine activated
0500-Power settings set to “Awake” mode
0501-Organic system metabolic rate set to “Awake” mode
0502-Connection with Transporting vessel reestablished
0503-Running diagnostics…
0505-Alarm subroutine complete, Good Morning Kabal, would you like a status report?

Kabal brought his left hand up to his organic eye, the index finger split open to reveal a very small spoon, which Kabal used to wipe the sleep from his eye.  He had designed it after almost gouging his eye out when first using his cybernetic arm.  Lacking simskin, the tactile response of his hands was limited, thus each finger had a different tool for the finer motions.  The General checked that his power system and heartbeat were operating normally, even after all these years he still did not entirely trust his computer with his metabolic rate and heartbeat.  

“Proceed with status report” he said to himself

0507-Status report, recharge completed at 0457.  Batteries are at full capacity, 48 hours of battery life remaining.  A hyperspace jump was made during the night; per your request, a download of the conference attendees and their staff was made at that time.  Download was able to complete before a new jump was initiated.  Data was sorted and compiled per your request.
0508-End of status Report, entering standby mode

Kabal relaxed and stretched his back and chest muscles.  His artificial view had changed, so now he saw a dark room with his organic eye, and a brightly lit red tinted room with his artificial eye scanning in infrared.  As it always did it highlighted every object in his view path one as a time and started analyzing it.  It was useful, but eventually very boring.  He had been working on a subroutine to override it, but the invasion and occupation of Bakura had been his primary concern over the last few weeks.  He was relieved to be allowed to take this small break from command.  Even if it was to pose as a lowly bodyguard, but it was an order, despite his personal issue, and it was proving to be a nice distraction.         

“Initiate workout mode” Kabal said into the darkness.    

0510-Workout mode initiated, commencing, scrolled across his view.

Electrical impulses were sent to his back, chest and abdominal muscles to make them contract as if they were doing pull-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups.  After 20 minutes of this he finally got up for the day.  

Exiting his room, Kabal walked the short distance through the decorated bulkheads to the mess hall, the door opened with a hiss at his arrival.  It was early, the others were still sleeping, taking the time to rest before the big landing.  Kabal did not do such things.  He had woken up the same time every day since his initial activation.  Walking over to the food processor and activated it.  “Food supplement 87, and 32oz of water.” The General said into the unit.  Some humming commenced and out slid a tray with the requested meal.  The orange liquidy material smelled relatively fruity, but closely resembled vomit.  Taking his tray, he sat down at the table, and tried to eat at a leisurely pace designed for relishing one’s food.  It was an eating habit from his former life.  One use to savor fine wine, and delicate tastes.  A lifestyle he’d enjoyed before the unfortunate set of circumstances that resulted in his current state of existence.  Now, while his biological systems did need nutrients, he longer could savor the taste of a well prepared meal, complimented with the correct wine to make your dinner one of the most enjoyable parts of your day.  Kabal’s digestive system was far too delicate for that now.  Instead he had a pre-programmed list of 100 different meals that he could upload to a food processor.  The result was more akin to baby-food then any other description.   Kabal required 64 ounces of fluid per day to help cool his organic coponents and assist with lubrication.  Alchohol would effect his systems far more then they use to, having less body mass, he had the tolerance marginal to that of a teenage female, as such water replaced what used to be a main staple in his diet.  Still old habits die hard, and Kabal still considered meal time of the utmost importance, even enough to warrant the ineffiency of his eating method.

After finishing, the General retired back to his room.  While the others slept, got up, dressed, fed, and started their day aboard the Nubian cruiser.  Kabal busied himself calculating exit strategies for the conference should things go wrong.  He organized the people attending the conference in order of importance, and then cross referencing that with height, weight, known medical conditions, known security personel, hobbies/interests, and title. He sent this along to the others, hoping that they would review it, but knowing that they most likely would only peruse it.  After that task was complete, he began to go through the ship’s public logs.  While the security cameras, and flight controls were encrypted, just by conversing with the droid brain on the ship, Kabal was able to piece together a rough estimate of what everyone did and when.  Daiman’s movements were of particular interest to Kabal, which he used to compile a basic routine of his day.  This routine was then used to mold a security plan around said schedule.  This was to reinforce his identity, should anyone question his credentials as Daiman’s bodyguard.  Looking at the chrono, Kabal realized that it was almost 1000 hours.  Shutting down his computer terminal, he activated his holo-emiters.  The preprogrammed holograms sprang to life, hiding Kabal’s cybernetic parts, and clothing him in what looked like a professional black suit and tie.  Sliding on sunglasses to hide the slight shine of his artifical eye through his hologram, Kabal headed towards the morning meeting.

He arrived precisely at 1000, to find Captain Dunn and Commander Lane already sitting at the wood trimmed black marble table.  His system’s scanned them involuntarily.  They seemed in good health, but their internal temperature, endorphin levels, and heart rate were slightly raised, perhaps they were in a rush before they came.  Kabal minimized the alarm, but made a note of it in his log.

“Good morning General.”  Traven said from the head of the table.

“Morning” Kabal replied dutifully

“Did you sleep well?” Commander Lane asked crossing her legs in her business suit and sorting through her pile of papers.

Turning to Commander Lane, Kabal replied “My recharge cycle was sufficient.”

“That’s good…” Jordan started to reply.

“As was mine” Traven interrupted.  The awkward social situation was thankfully broken by the arrival of the rest of the crew for the morning meeting.  Traven greeted everyone, and then started the presentation.  Traven went over some of the data that the General had compiled.  The heavy hitters and what each person’s role on the team and cover stories were.  They were told to memorize this information over the next day.  After 2 hours, the meeting ground to a halt, and Traven closed with “We land 25 hours from now.  So for the next 24 hours you will be off duty except for regular ship monitoring responsibilities.  I wish I could give you more, but enjoy it please.  Dismissed!”

As the others filed out of the room, Kabal walked over to Traven.

“Captain Dunn, may I have a word?” the cybernetic General said more like a statement then a question.

“Of course General, how can I help you.”

“You left out key material in your presentation, may I ask why?” Kabal asked raising himself up to his full height.

“Because I did not feel that it was relevant to this meeting or the mission.” Traven started, “What you gave was far too much information General, most of it irrelevant.  I seem to notice that you have a very set routine, and that of all of us on this mission, you have seen fit to socialize with no one.”

“Socializing is not productive or efficient; time should not be wasted on it.” Kabal replied coldly.

“I disagree, during this mission the lives of those men and women could be in mine or your hands, and our lives in theirs.  Not just this mission, but any mission, and you don’t know them at all, that is a strategic oversight on your part General.”  Traven continued “Now, from my own experience I know that it is not easy to cultivate relationships with people with whom you are not familiar, and I understand that your unique status may make it hard for others to be comfortable around you.  Take this next 24 hours to relax and reflect.  Socialize, try to see what make the crew tick.”

“I will try” Kabal said holding his tongue.  The Admiral had made Traven the leader of this mission.  Kabal had accepted that for the time being, he would be under the command of this Group Captain, but if this whelp thought he could order him to be inefficient, then he would be very…

“Remember, that’s an order” Traven said leaving. As Traven walked out of the room, Kabal started seeing text run through his head.

1043: Imperial Protocol 1- Cannot disobey an order from a superior Imperial officer
1043: socializing subroutine created
1044: learning matrix integrated into socializing subroutine
1044: deleting log and memory banks of Protocol 1 activation
1045: New mission parameters: for the next 24 hours relax and socialize.

Kabal came to, and shook his head; he scanned the area, and concluded that he must have had a short.  “I wonder what the rest of the crew are doing.” Kabal thought as he left the room.

Eight hours later, Kabal sat in the same room sans hologram, staring out the viewport into the starlines of hyperdrive.  “It does not compute.”  Kabal said to himself.  He raised a glass to his lips and savored the taste of the fine liquor contained within.  He was well aware that more then 2 of these would leave him with a terrible hangover tomorrow, but that seemed trivial compare to his current emotional state.  He had failed at his mission, and it was only the second time that it had ever happened since his activation.  He had tried to socialize with Mr. Uer and Mr. Balek while they were playing a holographic pilot game.  They were agreeable to let him play.  Connecting to the device wirelessly, he controlled the craft with only his thoughts instead of the slower hand movements like the other players.  His faster reflex time allowed him to put up impressive scores and defeat the other two men with ease.  Kabal thought this would grant him a rank of status in the male population of the ship, as men tend to respect those who out perform them at competitive activities.  This hypothethis was proven false, as this seemed to aggravate the men and cause them to dispurse with haste.  Kabal then tried to get to know Daiman, a very important task as he was suppose to be initimately familiar with the man he was suppose to protect.  But after a half an hour, somehow the conversation switched to the frequency of sexual relations Kabal has had.  This conversation was uncomfortable for the General, as his appearance did not make relationships easy, and the risk of infection was too great for simply casual relations with an everyday lady of the night.  On some level, Kabal felt that prostitution simply would not do, though he did not know exactly why.  Traven was helpful, as he watched a holodrama, and afterwards discussed it with the General.  He was unable to find Commander Lane, and so with an 1-3 record, the mission would be declared a failure.  Just then, he heard a knock on the door behind him.  Swiveling around he saw Commander Lane framed in the doorway.

“I heard you were looking for me, is this a bad time?” she asked

“No, not at all, I was just in the middle of a comfort drink, care to join me?”

“I’d better not, I just got up to get some blue milk, but Zak said that you had been looking for me before.” She said trailing off at the end of the sentence.

“Well thank you for coming to see me, but it’s moot at this point.” Kabal said turning back to his drink.

“Oh, is that why you’re…upset” Jordan said walking into the room and sitting at the end of the table.

“Upset, is that what I am.  I’m not sure, I believe I have all the clear signs of depression.  Perhaps I am depressed, but I have only myself to blame.

“Perhaps I can help.” Jordan offered sipping her blue milk.

“Perhaps” Kabal said, and then he proceeded to explain to her his mission to socialize, and the occcuring instaces of failure.  The Commander sat back, bringing her sweatpants covered knees to her Imperial academy t-shirt.  “I don’t think you did that bad.” She said casually.  

Kabal’s head perked up, “I’m sorry did I not speak clearly, perhaps my speech subroutines have been effected by the alchohol already.”

“Well, they are, but that’s not the problem.  The boys were probably just jealous of your skill at the game.  Guys can get like that sometimes when someone outshines them.  With Daiman, well that’s probably a subject that comfortable to him to talk about, and with Traven, sorry Captain Dunn, you had success.  Socializing cannot be accomplished in one day, it takes time to build relationships, and cultivate them into friendships and possibly even more.  It’s hard and not even always fun, but the rewards are well worth the investment.” Jordan stated finishing her milk.

“Well, what about your old life, you know before all the metal, what were you like back then.  I’d imagine you weren’t always this inept at being social.”

“I’m not sure.  The operation replaced my damaged spinal column and brain with computers, so the memories I have of that time are scetchy at best.  Everything since then is crystal clear.” Kabal answered.  “From what I can piece together, I think I was a person of some importance.  I know I was a good chemist, and I lived alone.  Everything else is kinda hazy.”

“That’s too bad.” Jordan admitted, and then she got a spark in her eye.  “General, may I ask you a personal question?”

Kabal sighed, what did he have to lose “Why not”

“How old are you?”

“I believe the good Doctor actually made my organics a bit younger when he rebuilt me but I was first activated 7 years prior to the battle of Yavin.  I was 38 at the time of my surgery.  So I am 61 mentally.  I age slower due to the extensive modifications to my internal systems if that’s what you were wondering. ” said the cyborg as he drained his drink.

“No, actually I was wondering if you were around during the time of the Emperor and Darth Vader.”

“Around, ha, I knew them personally, Vader himself taught me how to fight with a lightsaber.” Kabal replied with a chuckle.

Jordan had never seen the General smile let alone laugh before, it was quite the sight, and she was slightly taken aback.  She recovered quickly and said “Well the reason I ask is because I never met them, and I was wondering if you could share your impression on the men that made the empire what it was.”

Kabal accessed his databanks, and downloaded the image onto a datacard.  It popped out of his wrist.  Taking it out of his wrist, he gave it to her.  “This should give you a better impression of those men then any explaination that I could give you ever would.  Kabal had encoded some of his memories of the emperor and Darth vader addressing him personally.  He hoped it would let Jordan understand what she was fighting to reestablish.  

“Thank you very much, I don’t know what to say.” Jordan replied

Standing, Kabal said “How about good night.”

“Agreed, good night General.”

The next morning at 1130 hours, they all desended the ship’s ramp.  Kabal and Jordan were flanking Daiman, Traven and the others trailing behind.  The real Mission was about to begin.