Re: Imperial Renaissance

There’s a point in everyone’s life when they know they’re going to lose. You know this statistically, strategically, sometimes your gut tells you. This was one of those points in my life for me, the difference between heroes and cowards is what they do at this point. If you know you’re going to lose, you got nothing to fear, right? I was telling myself that with every fiber of my being when I drew out that vibro dagger against General Greivous’ bastard brother and if I was going to go down, I should at least do it in flames, besides, I need to get into the prison anyway.

“LEEROOOOOY JENKINS!!!” I screamed as I charged at the…..whatever it was.

I felt what could be described as meteor hitting my chin, it was enough to black me out.

I woke up with a very sore jaw, I think some of my teeth are broken. My sight was blurry and I had eye crustys like it wasn’t even funny, how long was I out for? The vinegar smell of sweat and piss lingered as I picked myself up off the concrete floor, I knew where I was. Déjà vu, you’d figure after the first time I was in a cell, I would go out of my way to stay out of another one and all I do is end up in one. Here I am thinking I’m a good escape artist on top of that.

Then came the issuing, the standard prison issued soap on a rope, issued orange jumpsuits with your prisoner number on your left breast, sneakers with the Velcro straps, white elastic underwear that came in one of two sizes: large or medium, undershirts that came in the same sizes. Nothing had a cord on it this was to keep us from making a choking device that we would use on another inmate or ourselves. Chow was limited sewer trout, turd brownies, eggs over nasty and other prison slang for food that we couldn’t identify by sight, taste or smell. Last time I felt like this was in boot camp. Was this some sort of irony?

My cell was a 6x8 room made up entirely of concrete except for steel bars that were operated by a lever. I had a prison issued cot that was actually better than the ones we had in SpecForce. Every night, I would pick out a new fragment of a broken tooth which was the mannerfdroid’s doing. I already lost track of time, I had no clue how long I’d actually been here, no one talked to me and I didn’t talk to no one. Been there, done that. I felt this unusual comfort in here for some reason. This prison had prisoners of all types, the most prisoners of war, former Imperials that had committed treason, prisoners that had committed crimes against the state, Bakuraan insurgents. Just full of all the types that Math would love to have fight beside him.

In about two weeks I could find a way to get out here, along with everyone else in here, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. These men would just end up right back here. I had to get them to believe that they weren’t just prisoners. I had to get these men to believe that they had the power to change history. I had a lot of work to do.

The next day, in the prison yard, I pushed someone, his fist hit me like a mallet.

Déjà vu.

White Lies

Tensed, carefully keeping the telltale Imperial commando’s armour hidden behind the orange on green curtains, Matheron peeked out of the living room’s window. Below, on the city ring, the yellow pools of lamplight gradually faded. Blue-collar workers and shabby suited parts hurried down to the hoverbus station, looking down and accelerating their steps where they passed the Imperial, likely droid, patrols. So far everything looked unsuspicious—yet even the rush hour with its picking up noise of repulsors could not cover Cirrian’s whimper, the smell of blood and burnt tissue, or her sudden loud groans of pain. Matheron set his teeth. Well at least, he thought with a glimpse round at the doc, Melnia, and the new arrival, Traven, who assisted her in treating the injured, Cirrian and Seon survived. Unlike Obry’s young buddy Zisah. Or their unexpected saviour, Telemachus, who –staying behind to hold up that cyborg general– had offered his own life to buy theirs.

Whereat, perhaps Telemachus had managed to survive and was now an inmate of Salis D’aar penitentiary? In that case though –having been captured in a dead stormtrooper’s armour and helping out a bunch of rebels– you could start out from that the Imperials would torture him. Meaning that, even though the Nabooan was tough, the plan they had cooked up in the course of their short meeting was compromised. They would have to find alternative ways to attack and help out the detainees. If they survived so long that was. If he drokkin’ managed to keep his eyes open! For even if, after the firefight in the warehouse, they had done what they could to lose possible pursuers, the Imperials could still track them. Two battered guys supporting a wounded woman made for a conspicuous sight, and in this climate of fear it did not take much: One intimidated neighbour; one bughugging citizen grassing on . . .

What would not even matter anymore, of course, should that Traven be not the New Republican contact Melnia believed him to be but really an Imp mole. In such case, Matheron reckoned, a flying squad could raid this flat any minute. While they could not move. Shot and wounded, her knee reduced to mush and splinters, it was a wonder Cirrian had made it till here. Seon, with his likely broken ribs, might not live through another fight, either. Instinctively, his eyes flitted back to the alleged NRI agent. Traven. A man in his thirties, short brown hair, lean, handsome—rather a bit too striking for a secret agent. He spoke the exact, high basic of Coruscant, moved efficiently, self-controlled and, judging from a slight limp in his left leg, seemed to be injured as well.

Nothing conclusive. Nothing that would give you a definite indication for or against what the latter claimed to be. Looking over Cirrian and Seon, Matheron took a deep breath. He hoped the new comer was an operative of NRI! Where companions were concerned though, hope wasn’t enough.


Minutes later, when Obry brought in another pot of hot water, Matheron stepped up to Seon. Stay alert, he mouthed and briefly squeezed the youth’s shoulder before following the curly-head back out onto the hallway. Noticing him, Obry paused and turned over.

‘I’m very sorry about Zisah,’ Matheron said softly. ‘He did an amazing job slicing Sirana’s holoterminal…’ He broke off. From what he knew, the young slicer had been but a limmie-buddy, or fellow hooligan of Bowl and Obry’s. The common bond in such firms could go far, however, and the past days undoubtedly had reinforced it. They had welded them all together. To the point that, by now, even he did miss the guy’s scoffing.

Obry looked him in the eyes, ‘What happened?’

‘We hid in a warehouse when we were surprised by … a thing that looked human but actually has to be a cyborg. We covered it with some rounds but it shrugged it off like dust.’ Matheron looked at the floor. ‘It hit Zisah right in the head.’

Obry swallowed, briefly gazing through the hall stand. ‘Bowl ran into something similar.’

‘Cirrian told me. But Bowl still lives, right?’

‘Yes. He and two miners hide out in an old farm somewhere in the mountains. It seems they got Marrjo though.’

Giving a quick glance round at the living room’s closed door, Matheron put a hand on Obry’s shoulder and directed him over to the kitchen, where Elleck went about brewing caf and preparing some kind of pancakes. Opened packets around suggested it contained meal, powdered milk and soaked rusk; still the smell made Matheron’s mouth water. Ignoring Elleck’s disturbed look down the Imperial armour, he took up position next to the kitchen window and peered out at the grey inner courtyard: Entrance, doors, dumpsters; a late blue-collar jumping onto his bike, doves cooing and a curtain fluttering from one of opposite building’s many windows. ‘Has everything been quiet?’

‘No worries,’ Obry assured. ‘We got a fine view on the entrances. I got a cam and special antitheft device installed in my old Aratech up in the parking level as well. Zisah set up self- removing partitions for the flyer data, and the copier and rolls of flimsiplast are well hidden.’

‘Good,’ Matheron murmured, well knowing that, should the Imperials or their police find himself, the wanted youth or blaster wounds as on Cirrian, that would be circumstantial evidence enough. He stepped away from the window and turned round to address the both of them. ‘Anyway, while we don’t know if we can trust this Traven, you must stay on guard and not give away anything about any contacts, security measures or plans.’

Obry’s face darkened, ‘You think he’s a spy?’

‘It’s just possible. However, he could also be our one link to the New Republic. That’s why we can’t risk anything before we achieved certain knowledge.’ Impulsively, his eyes checked the hallway, then flit back to the window, up along the courtyard’s façades to where the window frame cut your view. ‘What happened on your side?’ He turned to look at them, ‘Anything I should know?’

Obry shrugged, ‘There’s been an interview on the morning news.’

‘What about?’

‘Some Imperial big shot…Admiral Aath… visiting their new police academy.’ Obry snorted. ‘He says that, within six months, police droids shall be replaced by newly trained Bakurans.’

‘And denounced how our bombings had hit far more civilians than troopers,’ Elleck supplied with a grimace. ‘A direct backfire to our yesterday’s leaflets: We point out how, deploying those droids, Dodonna disregards Bakura’s greatest trauma. They go ahead promising to replace them, and try to make us out to be terrorists!’

‘You should make a reply.’

‘I will!’ It sizzled as he splashed another ladle of mixture into the pan and slew it. ‘Anyhow, right now any bughugger may kid himself that, by joining their so called police force, he’s actually doing his fellow countrymen a favour.’

‘Shrewdly set up.’ Matheron commented, cautiously scratching around the itching place where the wound in his cheek finally was healing. ‘So they mentioned they were hiring?’

‘Kind of.’ Half turning from the stove, Elleck tossed the browning dough-cake. ‘But they also happen to perform intense security checks.’

Matheron sat down. ‘Of course,’ he mumbled. ‘They expect us to try and infiltrate them. Especially in the armed forces. For jobs that’d equip you with but.. a cooking spoon or spanner however, a lost identity card shouldn’t be as big of an issue.’
 
Obry knit his brow. ‘And if you got in as a cook or mechanic—what should it be good for?’

‘One mechanic,’ Matheron said quietly, ‘can sabotage many transports.’

‘While as a cook…,’ watching Elleck slide the ready cake upon a growing heap, the curly-head’s eyes grew wide, ‘…you could cripple an entire corps!’

Matheron grinned. Upon a sound from the hallway but intimated the others to silence, stacked some pancakes onto a plate and topped them off with a generous helping of namana preserve. ‘For Seon.’ He mumbled. ‘The boy’s hadn’t had chew in days.’ He turned to go, then paused looking down his black armour. ‘Sorry to ask, Elleck, but have you got anything to change?’


Soon after, frying vapor permeated the entire flat. The breakfast table was stacked with two plates full of greasy rusk-lump-and-meal-pancakes. Elleck, feigning tiredness, had withdrawn to the bedroom. Only Obry remained on his observation post next to the kitchen window, watching the inner courtyard through yellowy frilled curtains. Seated, dissolving five lumps of sweetener in the weak caf and filling the air with the ding-a-ling of his stirring, Matheron felt strangely high. He’d brought the first pancakes to Seon, had seen the boy dig in and now sat –freshly showered, bandaged, and dressed in an old jumper and the pair of too short pleated trousers the camwielder had picked out for him of his late mom’s wardrobe– back at the plast-clothed table, enjoying every sip of the sweet hot liquid. This was so much better than being shelled, hunted and shot at! Now if they could get in contact with the New Republic . . .

Eventually, Melnia and Traven came over as well. ‘Cirrian sleeps now, ’ the doc announced upon Matheron’s questioning look. ‘However, she’ll still need a trip to the hospital. Without the joint being replaced, she’ll never be able to walk again.’

‘Forget it!’ Obry muttered. ‘Elleck’s mom wasn’t a wanted rebel and they let her die in the streets.’

‘We can’t just walk into some hospital.’ Matheron agreed. ‘We’ll have to find a surgeon who treats her outpatient. After she’s out of danger by now, however, that gives us a little time.’ He turned to give Traven a tired smile. ‘Sorry, first of all. I fear the hello was a little bumpy.’

Traven smirked and sat down opposite him. ‘No problem.’

‘Good.’ Matheron poured him some caf. ‘So let’s start from scratch: Melnia says you’re an NRI agent?’

‘That is correct.’

‘By now, I guess the Imperials pretty much blockade this planet. How did you get to Bakura?’
 
‘NRI got ways.’

‘I know.’ Matheron sought the younger man’s eyes. He did not kid himself into thinking the operative did not know who he was. If he was sent by the Imperials, it had most likely been VonToma who had briefed, and equipped him with a death warrant with the name Thayer signed across in bold capitals. If he was an operative of NRI in turn, it would be Matheron’s old comrade Phaeden who would want him silenced. Either way, he could be sure that he himself was on the younger man’s hit list. ‘So,’ he pumped, flashing a cold smile, ‘how exactly did you manage to get through?’

‘The Imperials’ fleet isn’t as big as to cover the entire orbit—I pulled some stunts.’ Traven tilted his clean-cut face and smirked. ‘One would think you should be happy to see me.’

‘That depends,’ Matheron looked him down. ‘Did you kill the required Imperial?’

Traven’s eyes fleetingly narrowed, then flit over Melnia. ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘It would not have been wise to attract attention prior to meeting you now, would it?’

Matheron leant back folding his arms. You’ve got a point. He thought. Unfortunately, by now I’ve got no means of knowing if we can trust you. Speeders passed. The old kitchen clock tick-tacked down seconds. ‘Let me be blunt,’ he spoke up after an endless moment. ‘I will be very happy to welcome you… if you are indeed sent by the New Republic. Regrettably, I cannot know. I would have to interrogate you to determine and, frankly, I would prefer to spare us both the hassle. So, to hopefully shorten this: Is there anything by which you can prove your affiliation?’

Cup in hand, gazing through a jar of Namana preserves, the younger man seemed to ponder. ‘No,’ he looked up at last. ‘Being unidentifiable is part of my business. You’ll just have to trust me.’

‘I feared you’d say that.’

Traven smirked. ‘Anyway, my task isn’t to get involved. My orders are to observe, assess the situation and report back.’

Pausing to poke at her pancake, Melnia looked up, ‘I thought you were here to help?’

‘Let me put it like this: The decision as to if, how and when the New Republic will send help, will be made on the basis of facts that I am ordered to compile.’

Well great! Scrutinizing him, Matheron took a deep breath. If his opposite number spoke the truth, they ought to do what they could to protect him, lend a hand and speed up the process. If no, this operative just put down a droykin’ good lure by which to lead them to involve and successively expose their every resource. There was only one element that did not quite seem to fit. ‘If you’re instructed to keep out of things,’ his grey eyes bore into the younger, ‘why did you go against orders and risked to personally meet the Resistance?’

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“It wasn’t my intention to meet the Resistance.” Traven answered, his voice calm. “As little as crashing my ship. Sadly instead of running into some uniformed Imps like you did obviously, “ He nodded towards the black armour, piled in one corner of the room. “I got in trouble with some tin cans as I came into town. Melnia’s nephews helped me out. So I met her.“ Traven gave the doctor a friendly smile. “She helped me with my leg. Now I will help you and your group to stay alive.”

As if it would be the most normal situation for him, Traven refilled his cup with caf, putting another greasy pancake on his plate. Serving in the Imperial fleet since almost 20 years, Traven had eaten way worse food than this. A lot of his enviers thought of him as spoilt rich boy. But they forgot often that Traven was a soldier most of all. An officer, who accomplished his missions always. Even often against all odds.

“I think I need that recipe.” Traven smirked, eating another bite of his pancake. His remark earned him a chuckle from Obry. But Matheron Thayer showed not even a hint of a smile. Traven chewed slowly, buying himself some time. He tried to look at that man without staring directly. Traven had heard the name Thayer before in talks of Admiral Dodonna and Captain VonToma. Mostly the other two men had ignored Traven, when he had been in the room during their discussions. He assumed that VonToma had thought of him as <i>just a pilot</i>, while the Admiral trusted him, so he didn’t care that Traven was listening. So the Group Captain had been quiet and learning.  

Traven knew that Thayer had worked for the Empire before, organising the invasion on Bakura even. Then something made him change the sides. By his accent Thayer was Corellian, so it was easy to presume that he was a mercenary. Because of the neutrality of their home planet while the war, many Corellians had worked for the more lucrative side. Funnily enough a lot of smugglers had been fighting for the rebels, realising too late that it had been the taxes and strict customs duties of the Empire, which had given them their job guarantees. Now they had to look for other fields of activities.

But Mr. Thayer didn’t seem to be a former smuggler. Traven was not sure, but his vis-á-vis seemed to be too well-educated. It would be a challenge to find out the price of the resistance leader. But first Traven needed a stronger base for his story. Thayer was still not convinced.

Traven finished the pancake.  Pushing his plate away, he leant back in his chair. “Like I said before: I’m stranded. And if you don’t have a tractor beam that can get my ship out of the sea offshore, you’ll have to put up with me being here.”  He took a sip of his caf. “Maybe you can help me to steal a ship after I have gathered the information important for the liberation of the Bakuran people. “

“Stealing a ship from the Imps?” Obry’s eyes widened as he turned from the window to the people at the table. “That’s impossible!” Thayer crossed his arms, glaring at Traven. “NRI got ways, hmm?” Traven nodded. “Correct. But first I need information. The number of Imps, co-ordinates of their garrisons, schedule of their transports to their fleet…”   

Traven emptied his cup. He winced by the bitterness of the now cold beverage, but he needed the caffeine. With all the rebels around, Traven didn’t plan to fall asleep again. He got up from his seat, walking to the old fashioned caf distiller. Carefully he refilled the water and ground beans. The smell of fresh caf filled the kitchen quickly. Leaning against the kitchenette, Traven looked at his <i>team</i> as he took a deep breath.

“Of course I will need also the numbers of resistance fighters. My boss would like to know with how much help we can reckon with.” Traven glanced at Melnia. The doctor trusted him already. He needed to lure his most important ally here.

“If you guys can tell me, where the Imps have their storage buildings, I can devise a plan how we can get the necessary med supplies for Melnia’s hospital.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Win over the woman, why don’t you? Matheron frowned noticing doc Melnia favour Traven with an all too keyed up smile.

Though, so far, nothing of what the alleged NRI agent brought forward was evidential. Everything he claimed -that his ship crashed, its wreck was out of reach and New Republic Intelligence demanded figures… of not only the Imperial forces but both sides- could be just a cover story—tailor-made by the Imperial Security Bureau to infiltrate, spy out and ultimately wipe out the Resistance. And then, defying his occupational mistrust, it could all be true—making this young Coruscanti occupied Bakura’s lifeline to the New Republic. A line that he, after everything he had done to the Bakuran people, could not risk to falsely cut.

Stirring cold caffa, he looked over Elleck, watch-keeping Obry, the understandably enough expectant expression on Melnia and finally back at Traven. ‘I appreciate your offer. However, you will help us most by hurriedly completing your assigned mission. The sooner you’re back on Coruscant and convince the Council to send help, the sooner all of Bakura will be able to breathe again.’

For a moment Traven looked reluctant. ‘I’ll still have to gather the necessary information, anyway.’

‘I will give you an estimate of the Imperial forces, including co-ordinates of main garrisons. And then we’ll see to your transport.’

‘But what about the wounded?’ He gave a sidelong glance at Melnia. ‘They do need supplies by now.’

‘True. But that’s our task. Why, as things stand, you are Bakura’s only link to the New Republic and we can not put you to risk.’

Traven smirked. ‘I appreciate your concern but that is not yours to decide.’

‘Who’s your superior inside NRI?’

‘Suffice to say, Mr. Thayer, I am not accountable to you.’ Traven paused. ‘Also, I fear that if I’ll have to report it is you, a turncoat and traitor, leading the Bakuran Resistance, it will not exactly inspire the Council to send help.’ He gave a look round about. ‘The same, by the way, goes for reports on terrorists.’

At once Melnia sat bolt upright. ‘He is not leading us! And the majority of the Resistance is not involved in any acts of terror!’

Matheron took a deep breath. ‘Branding someone as terrorist is a matter of opinion. Our honoured senators would rather think back of what was necessary for the Alliance to first get free of the Galactic Empire. Anyhow, Melnia is right: The majority of Bakurans is not to blame for any of this and my status, in fact, is that of a prisoner.’

‘Heh, right,’ chuckled Obry from next to the window. ‘I nearly forgot. About time we get your guard outta the can.’

Idiot! Matheron cursed inwardly. He didn’t have to know we’re preparing a run on the penitentiary. Why don’t you tell him how we intend to infiltrate Imps, too?

Traven looked from one to the other. ‘You plan a prison break?’

‘Sure.’ Matheron replied cynically. ‘We’re gonna bust them all out, steal you a ship, assassinate all ranking Imps—Oh, and hijack one or two ISDs. Considering, I don’t think we need any help.’

Traven smirked. ‘Very well. Then you won’t mind me putting myself to risk in helping Melnia get the necessary supplies now.’ Standing, he picked up the remote and called up a city-map in Salis D’aar’s Tri-D text. ‘Where’s the next likely storehouse?’

Re: Imperial Renaissance

ISD Ravisher Pilots' Locker Room

Zak pulled on clean tanks, trying not to wince at the feel of well-earned muscle soreness in his shoulders and upper back following the early morning workout against the biosynthetic training dummy in the ship's gym.  It had been far too long since he'd used sparring as a tool to help him think.  As well as work off the aggravation he was feeling over his current dilemma.

Call it instinct, the respect he had for Captain Dunn, or just blame his general dislike and unease when it came to Commander Bal'ak.  Bottom line, there was just something about the Group Captain's  getting shot down that didn't sit right with him.  But how to handle those suspicions and who to approach with them.  That was the hard part.

He'd not been aboard the Ravisher nearly long enough to learn who, if anyone, was loyal toward who.  He briefly considered even the resort of going to his father, but even though the old man was the second most influential officer on the ISD beneath Dodonna himself and loyal to the Admiral to a fault, he'd always picked up a vibe of dislike toward the air group Captain from him.  At best Ramius would give him one of those looks he'd seen on his father's face since childhood whenever he tried to speak to him about something the senior Uer had no interest in dealing with.  At worst, well as much as it pained him to even consider it, who could say that what he said to him wouldn't get back to Bal'ak and Zak end up having an "accident" of his own in the future.  

It wouldn't be the first time in the course of his career with the Imperial Navy such a thing was known to have happened.  Stories of rivalry and accompanying treachery had flown about, albeit in nervously whispered terms, since even before his time on Carida.  Even the pilots of the 181st and the crewmen who serviced their fighters had passed tales back and forth in hushed tones about the squadron's hanger while he hung about as a kid back on the capital world.


No, whatever would be done, could be done had to be carried out with great care and with involving as few people as possible.  But again, the question came down to who and the man looking back at him in the mirror over the locker room sink just didn't have the answer at the moment.

With a sigh he splashed cold water on his face with cupped hands, ran fingers through his still slightly shower damp hair and then shrugged on his uniform jacket before leaving for breakfast in the mess.  Maybe over a plate of less than stellar chow he'd come up with something that a near sleepless night and bout against an artificial foe in the gym hadn't been able to help with.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

I could feel the urge to just sit down and take a break. It’s a feeling I have started to adopt from the other pilots who’ve been flying their craft for more years than I have. It’s that rush after a fight, the urge so great to kick the gods of the sky in the face and laugh, that urge to dance among the stars and dare your enemies to tangle with you. It’s that rush that often kills pilots too, making stupid mistakes both in and out of the cockpit. I’ve learned to subdue it, to quit the urge and just sit down, breathe, relax. My old flight lead told me that love and hate are emotions you leave on the ground, on hard plate; never let them in the cockpit.

Flying like that gets people killed. Ask all of those traitors from my first tour of duty, if you can talk to the dead.

Sitting down in the officer’s club, I sighed, taking a gulp of my alcoholic beverage. Gods, it might taste terrible,  but it always helps me becoming more fluid and more ‘relaxed’.  When I let my drink settle on the table for awhile, I leaned back and began to think about the day’s events.

We just launched an attack on an insurrectionist held outpost, and our flight lead suddenly crashed on equipment failure. I took a finger and gently swirled the ice blocks within the glass in a circle, thinking to myself.

A real and honest flight commander would always inspect his craft. Dunn seemed like that kind of man. To think he would take off in his personal fighter without overseeing its readiness from the chief mechanic made me ponder; the mechanical problem that forced Dunn to crash were definitely delibitating enough to be something that’s within the digital cores of the TIE, or perhaps some small component within the ion engine itself.

Regardless, an experienced mechanic could have fixed problems like that.

Sabotage? Maybe. But from who? It couldn’t have been the XO…Bal’ik? From what I’ve seen of him, he seemed like a nice enough guy, if a little harsh. What kind of officer wouldn’t be a little harsh, especially an executive officer who is in an elite squadron? I don’t think it was him, but then again, who knows.

My wingmate? I took a sip of my beverage as I thought about that. No, I thought after a few seconds, he definitely doesn’t seem like the type who would sabotage his commander’s TIE Fighter and then get into an argument with the XO right afterwards.

I smirked. Next time I should probably jump in and stop him, but on my first day in the new squadron I am not going to make an enemy of the XO. Maybe Uer understood that, or maybe he didn’t. At this point, I really don’t care. First priority, survive. Second priority, duty. Third priority, pleasure. Right now, it’s pleasure.

Maybe the girl? Oh, I shouldn’t even consider that. She would have to be a model officer just to be an Imperial officer in the first place. Ruthless, maybe, but I doubt she’s the betraying type.

Or maybe it even isn’t sabotage at all. Maybe it’s just a coincidence and the chief mechanic got sloppy. Who knows? He’s MIA, and Ba’lik is in charge. I'm fresh out of a new squadron with no friends in either one so far. If they ask for my help, then I'll think about it. But for right now, no. Frak no. I don't need to make enemies just yet, not until I get some dirt on them.

I finish my drink and lean back, cracking my neck before I shove myself forward and stand up. I was walking to the door when I stopped, a thought coming to my mind. I analyzed it for a moment before I slapped my forehead, sighing.

“Oh, right. Ba’lak.”

I need a card or something with all of the names in this squadron, just for reference.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The group stared at the map of Salis D’aar. Obry pointed at a bigger building, scaling up that part of the view. “There it is. I saw that the Imps brought their supplies to it. Lots of crates.” Elleck nodded. “That’s one of the BRC storehouses. I worked for them some years ago. I know that place.” Matheron looked still sceptical. “How many ways in and out?” he asked, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I am sure that Elleck can give us a diagram of it. And we need a schedule…” Traven checked the time on his pilot chrono.  He caught Thayer’s stare at his wrist. “Expensive model.” The Corellian remarked. His body language showed refusal. Traven wasn’t sure if it was against the idea or against him. Or maybe the thought of a NRI agent having a chronometer above the worth of his pay grade. “A gift.” Traven shrugged casually. He wasn’t even lying. His mother and her high-priced presents. “From a special someone?” Obry chuckled, nudging Melnia teasingly. “You’ll have no chance, Doc.”

“When will we start?” Traven asked the group, ignoring Obry’s comment as he saw Melnia’s embarrassment. And also to avoid any more personal questions. Elleck looked at his own chrono. “Well, now it’s… Hey, we have New Year!” Traven was confused. It was forenoon. But then he remembered that most planets followed the Galactic Standard Calendar based on Imperial Center time. Or Coruscant as his <i>companions</i> would call it.

Traven remembered the luxurious parties his parents had each year while the festive season. It had been a privilege to be on the guest list. The Imperial High Society, most exclusive meals and beverages, specialties from all corners of the Empire, top-class musicians and entertainers. That had been his world, when he was home on leave.  Before Endor.

And now he sat here on Bakura around a cheap table in the small kitchen of an old flat. Traven rose his cup of cold caf, a slight smirk around his lips. “Happy New Year.” He said, tooking a sip. “But the party has to wait until we have freed Bakura.” <i>Of the rebels.</i>

“So how do you plan to do it?” Thayer pointed vaguely into the direction of the building on the map. “Simply going in and out? That sounds too easy.” Traven looked thoughtful for a moment. “We will need some disguise. Imperial uniforms or coveralls like the workers in that store house wear. And then we will have to hope that the codes, the NRI gave me, will work.” He answered the other man’s question, for once hoping that the <i>Ravisher’s</i> security officers had been slacking and that nobody deactivated his own access codes after the crash. It would be hard enough without the rank cylinders usually being part of his uniform.

With one hand Traven rubbed the stubbles at his chin. “And we should shave and shower, Gentlemen. We need to look authentic if we go as Imps.” Melnia frowned at his words. “Just Gentlemen? What about me?” Traven stared at her surprised. Not for a moment he had thought that she wanted to join their raid. “We are going as Imperials. It would be too conspicuous. There are very few women working in storehouses for them. Even less wearing their uniform.” <i>And one of them was on her way to Bastion.</i> Traven tried to suppress the bitterness he felt. He hadn’t thought of her since he had started with his squadron the other day. And now wasn’t the time nor the place to wallow in self-pity. He had a mission to accomplish.

“He’s right.” For the first time Thayer agreed to something Traven had said. “You can give us a list of what you need and we’ll get it for you.” Melnia didn’t look convinced yet, so Traven added. “We are replaceable. You as a doctor are not. Your people in the hospital need you. “ Frustrated she sighed. “All right. Give me a datapad, I’ll write down what the hospital needs.” Quickly Obry handed one to her and she began to type, still sulking. Elleck got up from his chair. “I know where I can get the coveralls for us. I’ll be back soon.” Obry joined him as he left the kitchen. “I’ll go and observe the place. Number of the guards, when they change… such things.”   

As they were gone, Thayer and Traven just stared at each other, being quiet while Melnia was still writing down the names of pharmaceuticals. There was only one alpha position in a pack. Both men knew that they had to work together to implement their plan. “I’ll check how Cirrian is doing.” Thayer broke the silence finally, walking to the room where she and Seon had been resting. Traven was not sure if the retreat meant, that he had <i>won</i>. If felt more like a ceasefire.

***

Some hours later four men, dressed in grey coveralls with ID cards at their chest, entered the area of Bakur RepulorCorp. The place was huge, but clearly arranged. It was no surprise that the Empire had requisitioned the building. Their own would have been only a little more unembellished. Getting through the gate was almost too easy. Traven experienced a moment of nervousness, but obviously the rebels had good forgers. Their identifications stood up to the scrutiny.

Elleck led them through the hallways until they could slip into an empty office. “Now let us see if your codes are good enough.” Thayer pointed to the data terminal. “Slice into it and get the stock requisitions we need to get the good stuff.” Traven sat down at the desk. Facing the three men in front of him, he switched on the computer. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for the right password. Taking a deep breath Traven started to type his access code. As Imperial Group Captain his authorisation included most of the Fleet’s transactions, so hopefully this one as well. The computer was painfully slow as it started to process. The men changed anxious looks. Traven anticipated an alarm any moment. But then the screen changed into a menu.

“Obviously just a jalopy.” Traven smirked, choosing the correct programme to give in Melnia’s wish list. “Well, Gentlemen, let’s do some shopping.” Pretending that he needed longer to type all the pharmaceutical terms, Traven used the situation for his own advantage that the three rebels didn’t look over his shoulder. Changing the programme, he opened a message channel to the <i>Ravisher</i>.


<b><i>TO ADMIRAL DODONNA:

ALIVE IN SALIS D’AAR. GATHERING INFORMATION ABOUT THE REBELS. WILL REPORT IN ASAP.

GROUP CAPTAIN TRAVEN DUNN
</b></i>

Traven pressed the send button. Hopefully the Admiral wouldn’t think of it as a trick.

“I have the requisitions on our datapad now.” He said loud.

Lucky Strike

Comaren. Perigen. Symoxin. The best friends of the injured. Keeping his head low, Matheron hastened to help move the requisitioned crates of painkillers, anaesthetics, saline infusions and pints of lab blood that two droids kept piling on the issuing counter. Obry, Elleck and Traven did the same. Few more minutes. With the attested requisitions on their data pad everything went smoothly. The stores supervisor had given their list but a casual glance; already two of their repulsor-trolleys were packed. Just keep looking down. Mind cams. Pretend everything’s normal. Few more crates and they would be out of here.


“I’m so sick of this!” The storm commando that was Nash groused via internal comlink as Kix and he rode their speederbikes along Salis D’aar’s outer city ring. “Rebel-scum keeps blasting our garrison and instead of hunting them down as we’re supposed to we gotta comb the city for one missing spoilt navy!”

“Gob.” Kix muttered out of habit, though he understood his lieutenant too well. All but two days now they were searching for the crashed and missing group captain Dunn. Had combed the area—an entire party of commandoes accompanied by Daiman Sirana’s not too bad bodyguard Bartek Roth—and acted according to darned protocols. But all that got you in this rebel-ridden dump of a planet was killed! Another comrade butchered; Roth’s sensor-enhanced van hijacked and the bodyguard’s corpse –that they had found the evening prior- well chilled within the fridge of the latter’s own flat. Sirana wouldn’t be pleased. Hearing their reports of fruitlessness, Admiral Dodonna at any rate wasn’t: He wanted the whereabouts of Dunn or proof of the latter’s death. Hence their New Year started just like the old one had run out: Searching round town, scouring checkpoints for any sightings or bits of information that might, for some reason, not have made it to HQ.

While Thayer, who according to VonToma, was to blame for the trap at the mine in which too many of Kix’ former squad had lost their lives, was still walking about unpunished.

“Stinking sons of Murglaks!” In view of two Bakurans’ hostile stares, Nash started once more. “Tell you what, Kix—and tho I can’t stand him!—that VonToma’s got one thing right and that’s how deal with those farkled sneaky Abos! For every Imperial killed, round up ten.. no, twenty of those barves and shoot every motherfrakkin’ last one of them!”

“Nash?” Kix shot his lieutenant a glance. “Shut our motherfrakkin’ face and look out! The sooner we find Dunn, the sooner we can settle the score with Thayer.”


Finally they were done. Every item checked off, crates of meds packed and loaded into their freshly sprayed van. Thanks to Traven’s slicing -the apparently flawless requisitions list- getting off the BRC site was trouble free: No questions asked, nobody even sparing a second glance. Unluckily, the same could not be said of guards at the checkpoint. Had controls in before been strict, by now –likely due to T’s yesterday’s bombing at the penitentiary- the Imperials had risen standards to paranoid. And though their forged IDs and delivery note seemed to be OK, and Traven’s answers to the guard’s questions for their origin and destination sounded all in order, the trooper demanded they get off and began to inspect their transport.

Standing next to the droids, watched closely by another duo of stormtroopers with their E-11s at the ready, Obry and Elleck exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Matheron broke into a sweat. Why, no matter how much the Imperials knew about his involvement in the resistance, his defection sufficed to secure him a top spot on their wanted list. And though disguised in a grey coverall, false moustache and some camouflaging cosmetics Cirrian had insisted on applying to cover up his scars—to close scrutiny this would not stand up. Over, in the back of their van, the inspecting troopers seemed on the verge of dismantling the inside lining.

Under the sweltering midday sun, his make-up was getting runny…

Noticing, Traven looked across to him. For a moment their eyes met, then the Coruscanti moved up to their inspectors. “We have got a schedule to keep,” he remarked. “How long do you intend this to take?”

“As long as it takes.” One of the troopers looked up briefly. “Or longer if you get funny.”

From his position to the side, Matheron saw Traven’s jaw muscle work. “What is this supposed to mean, trooper?” The way Traven said it the word sounded like ‘poodoo’. “That you would wilfully delay the delivery of much needed Imperial supplies?”

Watchful, one of their observers -from his insignia a lieutenant- turned his bucket and slowly came up. “There’s a problem?”

The way he held his rifle suggested ‘no’. Traven though appeared unimpressed. “Indeed,” he confirmed authoritatively. “This is urgent medicine, destined for our wounded! Our documents have all been checked and found valid and the freight was inspected, too, so—if you keep delaying these supplies any longer I will personally lodge a complaint!”

Inwardly Matheron winced. Idiot! He thought. Here they stood surrounded by droids and blasted stormtroopers and that twit of an agent did what he could to draw even more attention!

For a moment lieutenant Hollis stood just as stunned. Matheron suspected that under his bucket he laughed or would take them into custody right away, when the other’s body language suddenly changed.

“I ask you to refrain from that, Sir.” Hollis stood to attention. “My men and I are merely following orders. In your case anyhow I am sure we can shorten the process.” With a wave of his glove he ordered his men to stand back.

“Thank you.” Traven turned away and signalled the three of them to get back into the van.

From the corner of his eye, Matheron noticed the lieutenant behind snap to a salute.


By the time the two storm commandos arrived, lieutenant Hollis knew he had made a mistake. Right, the transport worker he had waved through was an Imperial officer. But only now that Lt. Commander Davin held up the pad with Captain Dunn’s static holo in front of him and asked whether he had seen him, Hollis recalled the man’s name—as well as the missing person announcement they had received somewhen last afternoon.

“Yes,” Hollis admitted reluctantly, “he did indeed come through.”

“Really?” Kix asked somewhat irritated. “Why didn’t you inform HQ?”

“I.. he.. was in haste to deliver meds to some hospital and…”

“He delivered medicine?”

“Yes. Pretty much put the pressure on me to let them pass.”

“Them?” Nash moved up. “There were others with him?”

“Yes,” Hollis confirmed ever more uneasy. “They were four. All clothed like transport workers to be exact.”

Nash produced his data pad, called up the wanted list and shoved it in Hollis’ hands. “They did not happen to look like any of these guys?”

Hollis looked over the static holos; looked more closely, activated identikit and fitted out one with a moustache.

“Thayer!?” Aghast, Nash enlarged the moustached holo of the Corellian. “You’re trying to say Captain Dunn was accompanied by Thayer?! Dunn pressed for you to let them pass?! And you did!?”

“I… am afraid so.”

Nash cursed. Kix shook his helmet in disbelief.

Hollis looked from one to the other, “You think Dunn went over to the rebels?”

“To me,” Kix growled, “this sounds a lot as if our Navy captain just helped the insurgents acquire a load of meds intended for our own comrades. Anyhow,” he opened a channel to the Ravisher, “we got to report him! Can’t wait to hear what the Admiral has to say about his protégé covering Bakura’s most wanted terrorist.”


Melnia was overjoyed. Inspecting the crates of much needed anaesthetics and painkillers the quartet had delivered to her improvised hospital, she beamed, flung her arms around Traven’s neck then, blushing, looked over Obry, Elleck and Matheron. “Thank you! Thank you all! You can’t tell how much this means.”

Matheron gave a brief smile in turn. He imagined: After the Imperials had appropriated the city hospital for their own, Melnia’s place had to be flooded—with victims of the air raid, the massacre at Arden High and anyone else in need of treatment who, for some reason, could or would not get an Imperial ID. At least by now they got painkillers, he mused with a sidelong glance at Traven. Thanks to a man who’s saluted by troopers. A spy who, most likely, did work for the Imperials and had pulled this medicine run only to worm himself into the resistance’s trust—obtain information on members, structure and plans—in order to crush them.

While everyone around seemed in the mood to party. One of the nurses broke out cans of chilled Westriver Brew. Everyone drank to their success. Matheron watched Traven. A traitor with innocent smile. They had to get rid of him before he collected any more information. He’s got to die! Right now though, in front of the enthused doc and partying staff, the mole was a hero—terminating who would not likely boost the assembleds’ morale.

Deliberately, Matheron raised his can, “Cheers, Trave! You know I had misgivings, but this noon you showed what you’re made of.” He grinned, “Not to mention saved my ass.”

Traven smirked, “Glad you noticed.”

“Indeed,” Obry joined their toast. “And now that we can trust you—those codes of yours will make our prison run a lot easier!”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Elina von Aath.

The name inspired workers to work harder, accountants to count more precisely, and New Republic agents to suddenly become nervous and curious. Even Imperial Officers knew to treat the woman with more respect than they are required to do so out of sheer fear of her adoptive father. She was the steadily growing power in the steel business, already jumping from Vice President of the Malastare branch of the recently renamed Hydrocon Steel Manufacturing company to the President of the Bakura branch of Hydrocon. But all of the fear of her did not stem because she was a mean person. It was her adoptive father’s family name that did it.

She now oversaw the entire profit chain of the Bakuran system, and with the reacquisition of the Bakuran Shipyards she and the rest of the company knew that profits would be only up if the New Republic kept their hands out of the mess.

 “How long?” She asked, sitting behind the pilot within the cockpit of the landing shuttle as it descended into the skies of Bakura, What her chief science advisor had said was that Bakura would be a world that would always know rain intimately; Elina realized that he was too poetic for his good, but he was definitely correct. The world was raining now as the shuttle cut through the idyllic clouds of the world. She leaned over the chair to ask, her belt unsafely unbuckled.

“Four minutes approximately, Miss Aath.” The military-trained corporation pilot replied, looking over his shoulder for a brief second before snapping his head back to the viewport and his onboard sensors. Elina was glad; not only were they close to landing on the planet’s surface but the pilot was more focused on flying than talking. No bullshitting. Elina liked that.

Her small communicator began to ring in her coat pocket. Her fingers opened her trendy coat and pulled the communicator out and pressed answer after her eyes scanned the name of who was calling. She pressed down on a green ‘ANSWER’ button, and then immediately a holographic face looked up as it expanded into view. Elina smiled.

“You can just walk up here into the cockpit if you need to talk, Maarco.”

The man, with semi-short brown hair, nodded. “I don’t like standing up unbelted when landing, Miss A—“

“Elina. Frell, you’re a family friend, Anton. Relax.”

“Not when I’m on duty, miss.” The commando, who took up his duties protecting civilian VIPs, and therefore the boss’ daughter, very seriously spoke with a short reply. The man, for good or bad, always took his job too seriously for Elina’s tastes. Especially when it came to Elina herself.

The woman sighed. “Be like that, then. What do you need?”

“We have the vehicle set up as soon as we land. Customs has already been taking care of and your luggage has been delivered to your apartment. The only thing we need to worry about is any potential threats on the road from the space port to your housing.” The man said quickly and professionally, not wasting any breath on useless details. Like her pilot, Maarco wasn’t stupid.

“You’ll be close by?”

“Same apartment complex, different room. So will one other agent. You’ll be safe, I promise.” The unsmiling commando replied, staring back. The shuttle began to pierce the high clouds and hit the low clouds.

“Has my itinerary changed at all?” She asked in general as the pilot brought the shuttle in lower. He might be a good pilot, but the both of them that the only people who should know about her itinerary would be her chief of security, which at the moment were Maarco and herself. Elina fully agreed with that, and she smirked when she saw Maacro shaking his head left and right.

“Good.” And quickly the woman closed the communicator and pocketed it back into her coat before relaxing. She was like her father; flying did not affect much at all anymore.

The shuttle made a gentle arc across the city, the pilot in constant communication with the functional starport and continually trying to acquire a landing zone. The Lambda-class shuttle arc’d in the sky before it began to settle a descent path down through the rain. Elina leaned forward to look out of the cockpit and down near the landing pad. She could make out two repulsorlift vehicles, both with tops on them to block out not only the weather but blaster fire, Elina surmised.

“We’re at a safe speed, Miss Aath; you can unbuckle.” The pilot stated, his hands moving across the controls with a speed and agility that impressed Elina. The executive unbuckled herself but remained, as the shuttle began to turn into a descent, the landing struts extending and the ship preparing to finally land…

-Two hours later, in the Hydrocon Steel Administration Building…-

The building was a former administration building for a bank that had disappeared since the invasion of Bakura, built to look appeasing to the eye and its window reflected out. It did not show anything inside its windowed surface, its sleekness reflecitng almost all light that would shine on it. Outside of it was a plaque that gave its former name, but since Hydrocon had moved it, it renamed the building to the Hydrocon Company Headquarters Building. Like a typical business, it wasn't never imaginative.

But that was the farthest thing on the woman's mind as she walked within the building.

Elina von Aath walked with a bit of spark in her step as she rounded another corner, a datapad in her hand as an assistant followed her, with a bag of more datapads and various items of intelligence vital to Hydrocon Steel developments on Bakura. The man behind her carrying the items of interest was not unknown to Elina; her father had informed her that the man was an agent of Imperial Intelligence, and that there was nothing to fear from him if he was following too close. He was a Patriot, her father told her, and that made her more at ease with this intern compared to others.

As she entered the meeting room, an overdone room with one long table that was made from a dark wood and lightning that made the room feel a little too cozy, she saw the men and women who were to be heading Hydrocon’s efforts here on Bakura. Markus, Shipping and Trade. Belinda, Personnel and Worker Resources. The Bothan V’krai, Administration and Accounting. The Twi’lek Baraka, Construction and Assets, and Harisun, Division Vice President. All of the important managers were here for this district, Elina thought, so there was no real reason to wait for…She struggled to remember the name, then shrugged.

She’d probably hold another hat and take over PR herself again like she did on Malastare. They couldn’t afford to wait for the PR department president at the moment.

“Good morning.” She stated. This was a test as much as it was just a friend greet; she could see who was the brown nosier, who didn’t like her, and so on. She got two good mornings, a nod and a soft smile from Harisun and the rest were hellos. Great, the woman thought as she sat down in front of all of them, placing her pads on the table as her aide sat next to her. ‘Those will lead me nowhere. I’ll have to befriend all of them now.’

“So let’s get this meeting out of the way so we don’t waste time. Baraka, where’s our primary foundry being built?”

The Twi’lek woman, who was somewhat aged, spoke quickly, taking out a similar pad to verify her memory. “An old building near the Green Zone that’s close to our planned shipping routes. I can show you.” She said, tapping the pad. Elina shook her head quickly.

“No, you’re smart. I trust your judgment. Is there a catch?”

“Probable. There is some concern in the nearby neighborhood about bringing in worker droids.” The Twi’lek said, looking down at her pad before looking up.

She was nervous. Elina shrugged it off.

“If PR was here, I’d tell him to alleviate concerns. But let’s talk about that for a moment. We’re going to hire only Bakurans for these plants here in this system. I know we could save more than the quarterly average if we kept droids for all developments, but that’s not why we’re here. We need to appeal to the Bakurans and the less droids, the better.”

“So no droids? At all?” Markus asked with a bit of…Elina’s vocabulary wasn’t effectively coming to mind but it sounded more like a snide remark than anything. Elina put him in her mental ‘Watch’ list.

“I don’t think Bakurans would want to work in the actual smelters, but, yes.” Elina shot back, making sure to keep eye contact on Markus, hoping he understood her message clearly. Tone of voice, especially in business, was very important. If Markus was foolish enough to fight her, then he’d commit career suicide.

“Belinda?”

“We’re good. We’re going to put out ads with PR and we have all of our Employee Resources staff ready and doing some groundwork.”

“You have Race Affairs in place?”

“Not until tomorrow, but tomorrow we’ll get it completely set up.” The human replied, nodding. She was young, but Elina noted that she was ready to work.

That pleased her.

“Good. V’krai?”

“Our databases are fully functioning and operational. Payroll’s set up and we’re just waiting for employees.” The Bothan replied, tapping his fingers against the table as he talked. Nervous habit, Elina thought.

“Harisun, anything pressing I need to worry about?”

“At the moment we have nothing pressing. In fact, I think we should actually hold a meeting when we have something to discuss. Let’s say…one week after we start to produce starship steel?”

Elina could understand that. To be honest with herself, she didn’t even want to be here in this room at the moment. She wanted to sleep. If Harisun wanted to be the top hat for a day, that wasn’t a problem with the woman at all.

“I’m fine with that. Give me updates on your itineraries daily. That’s all for now.” She said, and she adjusted her datapads. “Hope you all are ready to work in the next few weeks.” She said with a smirk, and the rest of the group somewhat chuckled or smiled. Then they left.

Elina only waited for a moment or two before sighing. The aide waited patiently before the woman stood up, creasing out the lines in her dress coat. She didn't want to get too excited to get to sit down and enjoy a good meal and a good night sleep. Knowing the dangers of operating a company in a rebuilding planet, she knew that sleep and dinner could easily become harder to obtain.

“Let’s go.” She said to the aide, handing him the datapads. The man placed them in his satchel and nodded, and the two of them left the room and out of the company administration building.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

First the greasy pancakes for breakfast, now the cheap beer on an empty stomach. Traven was wondering how the rebels could survive with such poor diet. Maybe the Empire should simply wait until they had killed themselves by their <i>lifestyle</i>. Sitting down on one of the cargo containers, he pretended to drink from his own beer can, just sipping very little to create the impression that he was drinking like Thayer and his comrades did. Traven preferred to stay level headed.

The idea of walking into an Imperial detention center with a primed group of rebels wasn’t to his liking. It could make things easier. Or more complicated. Traven never went on a mission inebriated. And he didn’t plan to start it today. Listening to the plans Thayer, Obry and Elleck were discussing, he watched the three men. Obry seemed to be the most zealous one. He was still enthusiastic about their success in the storage. Thayer was more sceptical, knowing that the Salis D’aar Penitentiary was something completely different. Elleck listened to the other men, adding his opinions from time to time. Like him Traven was paying attention to the strategy the rebels were creating.

 “So quiet, Mr. NRI?” Thayer addressed him, his arms crossed. Traven got up from the crate he was sitting on, moving closer to take a look at the map, they were gathered around. “Well, I have a problem with that we are discussing this topic here. Nothing against Melnia’s helpers, but the less know about this the better. Don’t you have another hideout nearby? Or can we go back to that apartment?”

Elleck nodded. “Yes, there’s another pla…” A piercing glare of Thayer stopped him in midst of the sentence. “We can go to the apartment again.” The Corellian answered instead. Traven rose an eye-brow. “I understand that you still don’t trust me. Even after saving your life back then.” But he shrugged as if he wouldn’t care. “We can go to that old place and hope that they do not have a trace that leads them there. Before we leave, I need to talk to Melnia.”

Traven walked through the room to the doctor, who was writing down an inventory of their goods. He lowered his voice. “Melnia, I want you to get rid of all boxes and packaging with the Imperial crest on it.” She looked surprised at him. “Do you think, that they will search the hospital? We are well-hidden.” There was graveness in Traven’s eyes that made her shiver almost. “Let’s say that I have a very bad feeling about this. Their plan is very uncertain. Too much can go wrong. But it is the only scheme we have. And if they catch us, you can be sure that the Imperials will get all information they want from us. They have their methods.”

Melnia paled. “It sounds like a suicide mission. Maybe you can prevent the whole thing.” Traven shook his head. “The problem is, the longer we wait the harder it will be. The Imps will enforce their troops as soon as they realise that the resistance took their supplies under their very nose.” The doctor sighed deeply, then nodded. “You’re right. Please take care.” To his surprise she gave Traven a tight hug. “Thanks for the help, Traven.” Awkwardly he patted her back, not sure how to react to such an open sign of affection.

And he was very aware of Thayer, who watched them with narrowed eyes.

***  

Some hours of waiting and litres of caf later they got a delivery of grey Imperial uniforms, brought to the apartment by another resistance member. Traven chose one that seemed to be his size. As he examined his appearance in the mirror to smooth his hair back, he finally looked like himself again. Even when the colour wasn’t his usual black, the uniform felt natural. He didn’t look like in disguise. Not like the others.

Traven frowned at Obry, who was wearing his jacket with the top button open. “That is not how an Imperial officer looks like.” Quickly Obry closed the collar, muttering. “Gods, how can they breath like that?” Thayer, buttoning his own jacket, grinned at him. “That was the truth about Vader’s force choke. It’s the uniform that does it by itself.” Elleck and Obry started to chuckle, while Traven forced himself to a smirk to keep a low profile. If they ever would have seen, how an officer was dragged away by troopers after he had failed or doubted Lord Vader, they wouldn’t dare to talk like that.

***   

Melnia was sorting the new medical supplies into the closet in her makeshift examination room. Following Traven’s request she and her nurses had got ridden of the Imperial boxes. Most of the dressing material was even made on Bakura, so their neutral wrappings didn’t provide any information about their origin. She was almost done with her work as one of the vials, containing an analgesic, slipped from her fingers. The material of the ampoule cushioned the impact on the floor, so that it didn’t break, but instead rolled under the cabinet.

Melnia sighed about her own clumsiness, caused by the lack of sleep while the last days. Kneeling down, she tried to reach the vial in the small gap underneath the closet. Surprised she realised that her fingers didn’t touch the plastic of the ampoule but something metallic instead. Her eyes widened as she pulled those objects from under the closet.

Some dog tags. As she tried to read them, there was no name on it, but just an ID number. She didn’t need to see the crest of the enemy on it, to know that they were Imperial. Only the Empire, with its politics to make their soldiers anonymous and replaceable,  would disclaim a name.

“That bastard!” Melnia cursed loud, her hand clenching around the dog tags. “That frakking bastard.”

She had to warn the others.

***  

The Salis D’aar Penitentiary was in the outskirts of the capital city. A modern complex of buildings, equipped with the latest security system. Not bad for such an isolated planet in the Outer Rim. In another situation Traven would have been impressed, but not today. It would have been better for their request if it would have been an old-fashioned prison like the ones on Tatooine. But they couldn’t change that.

Getting in wouldn’t be easy, but getting out would be an almost impossible endeavour. Traven was glad that he hadn’t to care about that. They would march in. He would contact the commanding officer. They would arrest Thayer and his men. Getting the needed information about the resistance would be in the hands of the ISB then. Contritely Traven had to admit, that he had failed in getting the facts he wanted.  It wasn’t simply his area of expertise.

The stormtroopers at the gates controlled them thoroughly, but the resistance’s forger seemed to be a master. Their IDs and the marching orders about their commencement of duties stood up to the trooper’s scrutiny. Elleck and Obry looked almost relieved as their speeder was allowed to enter the walled court. “I told you, it would work.” Thayer whispered to them. Little did they know, that just a moment later an ambitious gate keeping trooper informed his superior officer about the arrival of the sought-after Group Captain Dunn.

The next security check was a little more laxly. After all it was only the administration wing of the prison. Part one of their plans was it to locate an unoccupied computer terminal to find out the cell numbers with the help of Traven’s codes. While Thayer had been sceptical, the others had supported that course of action.

They walked through the long corridors, lined with doors to different offices. Correction officers in Bakuran uniforms, passing by while looking busy, were always escorted by Imperial representatives. Traven was impressed by the calm discipline that was dominating the scene. Opposite to the chaos in some parts of the city, it was pleasant to see that at least here the occupation seemed to work without incidents. So far.

They had been in the building for a couple of minutes as an Imperial officer with the rank of a captain, a group of six troopers in tow, appeared in the hallway. They were still around ten meters away as the captain addressed them already.

“Halt. In the name of the Empire.” Alarmingly the troopers levelled their guns. “Stay calm.” Traven whispered to his <i>companions</i>. “I will handle that.” Slowly he walked towards the other officer, his hands visible away from his own blaster. But before he reached the group, Traven heard the beeping of a comlink and Thayer answering it.

<i>How can he walk in here with a switched on comlink?</i> Traven thought as all of a sudden the bolt of a blaster hit him into his back. The impact threw him onto the floor as the stormtroopers opened the fire against the resistance fighters.

Last resort

Seeing agent Traven struck and going down from the bolt, Matheron felt a grim kind of satisfied. Sent by the NR! My wag! An Imperial spy, that’s what their helper actually was—as exactly Doc Melnia, till now the new comer’s greatest fan, had just found out and confirmed Matheron’s lingering fear. The triumph of having shot the mole though was leveled when the five stormtroopers raised their E-11s.

In a split second, Matheron realized they had been fooled. If Traven had not organized those troopers as a welcoming party—at any rate he had utilized the resistance’s hopes and plans against them and led them right into this trap. A polished corridor. Surrounded by Imps, right in the middle of a maker-damned high-security prison. Hopeless.

Instinctively, Matheron dove for the floor and returned barrage.

“Run,” he yelled at Elleck and Obry. “Run for Maw’ssake!”

But it was too late. Obry, hesitant to leave behind his companions, was hit before he even yanked out his blaster. Elleck, having made it just behind a too small caf-automat, realized with a jolt how Thayer started to sprint as well. Only not towards the double door they’d come from, but straight at the troopers. Firing. Drawing fire. Suddenly lit up in a blue halo and stumbling into a feet high slide—that momentarily had the troopers sidetracked.


Now or never, Elleck thought to himself and ran. Down the corridor, around the next corner—a hail of blue bolts stunning the opposite wall while he skidded door-to-door knocking and checking for an open bureau. The troopers closed up fast. Already Elleck could hear their footfall rounding the corner. The first bolt soared—when one of the doors actually opened. Right into the face of an eavesdropping office worker. Panicky, Elleck jumped in, drove his elbow to the man’s face to be sure and locked himself in the bureau.

Just in time. Outside, the troopers skidded to a halt. Banged, then rattled at the doorknob.

Panting, Elleck looked round. A one-desk office. Its one worker bent on the floor, cursing and holding his bleeding, possibly broken nose. The door in his back, like all the ones he’d seen in Salis D’aar Penitentiary’s administrative building, solid metal—designed to stand up to a mob of prisoners with a desire to kill.

A mob of prisoners, of course, was nothing compared to stormtroopers.

And for what Elleck planned now, as a last resort, he could not afford a witness.

Hectically, he yanked out his blaster and stunned Mr. Broken Nose. Then squatted down in front of the latter’s desk, produced the data-stick look-alike his contact had sent along with their forged ID-cards and plugged it in the according port on the back of the computer-terminal. ‘This device,’ the slicer had claimed, ‘might allow us remote access to the Penitentiary’s network—including any computer-controlled hardware.’

The troopers’ bangs had the door shaking. “Open, mudcrutch!” One yelled, “Or I’ll flackin' get ya and you'll wish you never were born.”

I’m sure of that. Distraught, Elleck stared at the terminal’s monitor that remained a bleak black. How long would it take for his slicer-contact to realize this thing had been activated? What the heck had the guy meant by computer-controlled hardware, anyway? Feking printers?

Elleck hoped not. Listening to the thrum of laser inexorably eating into the door’s metal, he prayed their slicer actually was in the society of Eppie Belden.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

His last memory was the impact of the blaster bolt in his back, making him fall paralyzed to the tiled floor. Surprisingly it hadn’t been as painful as grazing shots or other injuries, Traven had experienced in the past. His body simply collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.

As Traven opened his eyes again, he realised that he was wearing a breathing mask. His vision seemed to be blurred, but he could see some movements outside the Bacta tank. Just a moment later a couple of hands pulled him out of the liquid. The Bacta was still sticking to his body, just dressed in some white briefs, the standard clothes for this kind of treatment.

“How are you feeling, Captain?” The chief medical officer asked as he helped Traven to take off the mask. Traven took a deep breath, as much as to see if his body was working again as well as to get rid of the sickly sweet smell and taste of the Bacta that was still in his nose and mouth. He knew it would be weeks until it would be gone.

“Alive.” Traven answered, his voice still weak. The doctor smiled slightly. “Excellent. My assistants will help you to clean and get dressed. I will report to the Admiral that you’re responsive again. “  

***

Dressed in hospital clothes Traven reclined on a bunk in the sick bay of the <i>Ravisher</i>.  In accordance with his rank he had a room for himself, but as one of the medical personal left after an examination, Traven saw that two troopers were guarding just outside the door. That wasn’t a standard procedure. He wondered about that as much as about the fact that he had seen nobody but the chief medical officer and the nurses.

“How long will you keep me here, Doctor?” Traven asked as they undertook another check up. The medic looked at his datapad, avoiding the Captain’s gaze. “You need to rest still.“ The doctor replied, his eyes still locked to the readings. Traven sighed, sitting up in his bed. “I can rest in my quarters.” Finally the other man looked at him. “I am not allowed to let you leave the sick bay, Captain. Orders from the Admiral.” The doctor turned around, taking a smaller datapad from a nearby table, handing it to Traven.

The Captain switched it on. Then his eyes widened as he began to read. An official indictment. They would court-martial him. Traven paled. They accused him for treason against the Empire. Lacking the prison planets of the Imperial zenith, it meant execution nowadays. Traven read it again, feeling vertiginous. Why wasn’t Admiral Dodonna talking to him, listening to his report, before coming to such a decision?

***

The High Court of the Imperial Navy consisted of Admiral Maximillian Dodonna and the Captains Uer, Polum and Pagent, commanding officers of the fleet’s capital ships.  They had even granted Traven a chance to tell his version of the story. Even if he was sure that they had passed their judgement on him already. The trial was just a formality.

After the hearing Traven had to wait for only one hour before his guards brought him back to the meeting room, which was used as court room. He stood at attention in front of the table where his judges sat. While Polum and Pagent looked neutral, Uer seemed to have problems to control his apparent anger. Dodonna however appeared calm, even if he looked as if he had aged over the last days.

“Group Captain Traven Dunn, as Chief Judge of the Imperial High Court I will pronounce your sentence now.” The Admiral addressed his former protégé. “Only your excellent service record of the past prevented the maximum penalty for treason, which would have been execution.” Dodonna did let the words sink in, before continuing. “Instead the High Court decided that you will be deposed from your position as Group Captain of this fleet. Instead you will be send to our garrison on Tatooine. The stationed squadron needs to be shaped up. But be warned, Captain, if there will be only the shadow of a doubt about your loyalty…” The Admiral didn’t have to complete the sentence. Traven understood perfectly.

“Your shuttle will leave in one hour. Dismissed.”

***
The belongings from his quarters in two bags, Traven entered his former ready room. He wasn’t surprised as he found Laakim Bal’ak on his chair already, his booted feet on the desk. “Dunn…” the younger pilot smirked at him. Traven fought the urge to hit the other man. “Bal’ak… so you couldn’t wait until I am gone before you… <i>move in</i>?”

The incoming Group Captain rose from his seat, trying to look threatening. “This is my ready room now. Finally my room, my rank, my pilots…” Suddenly Traven realised that his crash hadn’t been an accident. But without evidence he couldn’t accuse Bal’ak. Not showing any emotions Traven took the framed holo of his squadron off the wall. “But this belongs to me still.” He answered laconically as he was putting it into his bag.  <i>And it will remind me of your betrayal, Bal’ak. One day you’ll pay for it.</i>

***

As Traven arrived at the shuttle that would bring him to his new post, he was surprised about the small farewell committee that was waiting for him. Flight Lieutenant Aganox, Lieutenant-Commander Uer as well as the Paladin’s Chief Engineer Lieutenant Grotag saluted at the boarding ramp. Traven returned the salute.

“At ease, Gentleman.” Traven didn’t plan to show that their gesture moved him, so he just nodded at them, offering them a handshake.

“Clear skies, Captain.” Aganox shook Traven’s hand firmly. “If you need pilots on that dust ball, call us.” Even the normally more boyishly Uer looked serious. “We don’t believe the accusation. I don’t care what my father says. There’s something fishy about this whole incident.” Grotag nodded as well. “No TIE of our fleet would crash like that. It smells of sabotage.”

Traven couldn’t tell them that it had been the truth that he gave medical supplies to the rebels. <i>No, to civilians.</i> he corrected himself. Instead he managed a slight smile.

“I appreciate that. I really do. But be careful.” He lowered his voice. “Bal’ak’s hunger for power knows no limit.”

He looked a last time through the hangar of the ship that had been his home for many years. Then he boarded his shuttle.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

I guess my lips were too loose.

I wasn't exactly enraged when I heard Group Captain Dunn was axed, but I wasn't quiet about this either. I guess people actually care when you throw your thoughts around like credits in a pazaak game. That's why I'm sitting here in this shuttle, waiting for it to take off and take me to Tatooine. I guess this is Lady Fate's way of punching me in the stomach and sending me on my way.

I remembered how the Paladins looked…well…not really. Just Uer's face. Or rather, his eyes. I couldn't even really get a read on them, after I told him I had to choose between a honorable discharge or re-assignment to Tatooine, which I figure is just a simple duty post where I can drink quality water, fly an Interceptor, feel good and then go onto the next post. I told Uer that. I don't know if he liked it or not, no matter what he told me.

But who cares? He's not my wingman anymore, and I could care less.

I hear the final boarding call, and I know this is a moment where I could get off and tell the Captain I wanted a resignation, but I know better. My father would disown me. My family would hate me. I would hate myself, to be truthful. I love the Empire. I love the Navy. I couldn't give this up, even for the drama like this. Even Uer had to see that.

I feel the shuttle begin to take off from the Ravisher, and then I feel a little more calm. I'm going to fly again, with no problems. With a little bit of luck, I can fly for Dunn again. Seemed firm, but fair. Better than some Captains.

I look at my chrono. Long flight. Running a hand through my hair, I close my eyes. Maybe things will be better. Maybe worse. All I know is that I've not going to be on the Ravisher for any more…and I was fine with that.

“Long flight, huh?” The pilot next to me says. I turn my face over to him and just stare. Small chit-chat is stupid and I don't want to hear it from a rookie who just passed flight school. The rookie looked at me before he just turned his head away and looked uncomfortable. That was fun.

I'm going to miss that, especially.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The security of Elina von Aath was at times incredible, and at times lax. The man sent to guard her, from the bowels of Imperial Intelligence's Inflitration and Extraction branch of the Bureau of Operations, was a man that not only she knew well, but someone her father trusted with his own life, let alone his daughter's. Antonius Maarco, Lieutenant Commander, walked down the hallway with one foot in front of the other, and he looked nothing like he normally did.

'Carnor', or at least the name he chose for this assignment, walked into the small room in the quarters on base. The man was average in height for a human, about six foot one inch, with brown eyes and brown hair that was cut in an average style. As a business aide, he couldn't draw any attention, and such everyone either dismissed him as a simple aide or distrusted him for a simple business spy.

Not an actual spy.

"What did I miss?" He asked as he walked into a small room, the special quarters for Elina von Aath's small security team in her hotel that hugged her own quarters. The two other men in the room looked up at him and nodded in the negative. Nothing new.

'Carnor' took quick note and brought up the biographies of the two men here in the room with him. The one sitting by the door, with a pistol in his hand, was Hannock. That's all he needed to know, his last name. That's all they had on file too, which made it harder for outside agencies to track. At least, not the agency he worked for. Hannock had salt-and-pepper hair, a thin goatee that made him look well-cultured, or at least well-aged, and his blue eyes gave away that perception of intelligence that his other companion, watching the holograms he brought with him, severely lacked.

Tanneric was a tough bastard, but he made a lot of small mistakes. And if it was up to 'Carnor', he'd be the only one providing security, or at least the agency he represented, but Malastare Steel wanted to have an in-house security team, and 'Carnor' hated that he had to play the game.

But it was a game that Elina had to play too, and if she could play hard ball, so could 'Carnor'.

The spy cracked his neck as he looked at the two of them, dropping the small bag of donuts for them as he reached over and grabbed his blaster holstier, beginning to attach it to his chest.

"Plan of action change any?"

"Yeah, actually." Tanneric replied, before Hannock stood up and handled him a small holo.

"The resistance leader, supposedly, has been captured. Matheron Thayer. As well as some other of the resistance. Substaintal, the propaganda said."

Matheron Thayer… 'Carnor' thought to himself, thinking about the villain Willem had hoped to face off against had been captured so easily. He attached the holster to his belt as he put his sidearm underneath his sport coat, looking at Tanneric.

"So the luncheon with—"

"…has been cancelled." Hannock interrupted, looking Maarco in the eyes. Maarco knew very well all of this, but he was playing a part, and he wasn't selected for Inflitration and Extration for being able to be read.

He took acting in his primary school, and he did not regret it at all.

"Damn…My turn?"

"Yup, and besides, she's asked for you again." Tanneric said, and Maarco could taste the jealousy in the air, a taste he rewarded with a smile. A little dash of arrogance always helped, he thought to himself, as Hannock smiled back.

"Sleeping with the boss?" Hannock asked with a wink as he patted the holster and blaster; it was secure and good to go. 'Carnor' gave him a smile and then walked his way out of the small security room.

"I'll grab some food on my way back." He said as a goodbye, closing the door and taking a hook to the right, walking down the velvet red carpet to the door that marked Elina von Aath, President of the Bakuran branch of Hydrocon Steel's room. The commando knocked twice, and then rubbed his foot against the bottom of the door. There was a stone silence for a few tender moments, before the door opened and it revealed the President herself.

She wasn't old. Compared to most businessmen and women that Antonius Maarco had met over the years, she was actually very young. She was barely out of her early thirties, near Maarco's age, and she looked as beautiful as he remembered.

She had brown hair, framed by one off-colored blonde bang that stuck to the left side of her face. The business leader had already placed her makeup on, her brown eyes softened by the eyeshadow she had on her face. Maarco smiled as he looked at her. Her body was not exactly seductive or voluptuous, but it was fit and trim, and it was well-taken care of, and in Maarco's eyes, it was something he could very much appreciate it.

"Ahh, 'Carnor'. I'll be one moment." The President said, acting at all surprised. The door code was one way to tell her who she was, and she was already waiting for him if it only took her a few moments to get the door. Appearances, appearances. The woman grabbed a few holos in her hand and she walked with her 'aide', who in turn was an Imperial Intelligence operative who was posing as a counter-corporate spy who was posing as an security guard who was posing as an aide…

Maarco never understood why Intelligence needed to get complicated, but Maarco understood completely that you should never question Intelligence if you want to get anywhere.

"So, Matheron Thayer. My father really wanted to talk to him." Elina started as they walked, walking down in step to the nearest elevator, which was a slight walk away. That was good, they could talk. But that question caught him a little off-guard, raising his eyebrow.

"Really?"

"He intrigued my father. Smart man, well educated, versed, betrayed the New Republic to join the Imperials and then betrayed us to join the Bakuran resistance…he is a very interesting man to my father. I'm glad Thayer's not dead. I hate death." Elina spoke as they walked, the last part not surprising Maarco at all. The woman was against death in general after what happened on Coruscant, so much that Maarco could assume she was fully against any sort of death penality, even for treason.

Good girl, he thought to himself.

"What are we going to do?" He asked her as he began to take down some notes on his own holo. He was acting, but he also had to do work for her, and that was fine for the agent.

"We'll push hiring to begin to be more aggressive. We still need workers and there are a lot of jobless Bakurans who need to fill those slots. We're already planning to build another refinery where an old mine-refinery was, in the footlands near Salis-Daar." The woman said as they entered the elevator. "What I like about this is that now we won't have such a huge threat to business without inference from local rebel groups. This isn't going to be another Serreco."

When the doors closed, she sighed, and she looked at Maarco.

"Don't correct me on the name. I missed you, Maarco. It's sad that this is the only free time you and I can share, a short elevator ride."

The commando smiled softly. "I know, but when Intelligence finds no more need of me as your aide, we'll talk."

"And more, I hope." The woman chuckled, giving him a wink before Maarco smiled back, winking back. There was no time for a kiss, as the doors opened and revealed them to a few more members of Hydrocon Steel's executive board that were underneath Elina von Aath on the planet. They smiled and nodded, and ushered her to the nearby repulsorlift that would take her to the administrative building. And the entire time, Maarco took notes, wearing his business coat and his holster, looking none the wiser, a simple 'aide'.

Oh, what tangle webs he wove.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Salis D’aar Penitentiary. Sitting on his cot, the orange convicts overall glaring against the unrendered ferroconcrete wall, Math stared at the segmented rectangle of light that fell from the latticed window of his solitary cell. That’s a rescue mission gone flooey. They had intended to break out Marrjo and whoever else they could free of the Resistance. Instead, Obry, Elleck and he were now prisoners as well. Due to that phoney Imp, Traven, who had lured them into this trap! He deserved the bolt in the back!

Only right after, the troopers had hit Obry, too. Hopefully, at least Elleck had succeeded inserting the code that should grant access to Belden’s slicers. If no—Doc Melnia had promised to look after the wounded Seon and Cirrian.

Absently Math listened to the cell block’s muffled sounds. Out on the yard, a prison guard barked orders. Instictively, his thoughts leapt to Rinehart VonToma—the ISB agent he had taken orders from, before Admiral Dodonna’s bombing of Salis D’aar downtown had driven him to go over and cast his lot with the Bakuran Resistance. Obviously, after all trouble he had since caused, VonToma would be delighted to get ahold of him. Math dreaded it.

The thought that kept messing him up though was of his son. Gavin. Despite best intents, he had flopped as a father. Had abandoned and alienated his boy for the illusion of a just New Order. Gavin despised him. And now he would never see his little partner again.


Suddenly Math pricked up his ears. Footfall. Then the cell door banged open. With brute routine, two commandoes put him in gyves, dragged him from his cell, out on the prison yard and into the back of an armored prisoner transport. Where he was greeted by the troubled faces of Elleck, Obry, Marrjo and… Bakura’s deposed Prime Minister Gaeriel Captison. All footcuffed and chained to the van like death row inmates. Marrjo, in addition, looked wrecked, as if he had been through days of interrogation.

Chained next to Captison, the petite brown-haired gave him a puzzled look over. Math couldn’t blame her. Few weeks ago, spick and span straight from Coruscant, he had applied as her campaign director; then, following orders of his contact man VonToma, had dropped her and sandbagged her reputation. Eventually recognizing him, Captison fixed him in a withering glare. „It’s a small universe, Mr. Thayer, isn’t it?“ Her glance flit from his leg irons to the two commandoes who jointly rode in the back. „Seems somewhere along the line everyone gets their just desserts.“


10 Minutes later the transport stopped in front of a slaughter plant in the suburbs. A walled in factory building, stinking of dung and blood, the yard of which grunted with swine herded to the slaughter. In the driver’s cab, Lt. Cmdr. Kix Davin and his deputy Nash Cadman exchanged a glance. Eager to ensure the terrorists responsible for the death of their comrades would meet their deserved punishment, both commandoes had volunteered for this transport. This destination though appeared more than a little uncommon.

Puzzled, Kix gave another glance along the graffiti-covered stresscrete walls. „You sure the ISB wants them delivered here?“

„It’s fitting, no?“

„Whatever VonToma plans for that scum. Let’s hand them off quick, so we get away from that stench.“

Nash nodded. He looked around for anyone expecting them, when two agents came towards in the dreaded creme tunic of the Imperial Security Bureau. With a gloved hand, the taller one of them waved their transport to an empty delivery bay, then stepped up to driver’s window. „Have them unloaded. We take over from here.“

Kix backed the transport as told. Then watched as his fellow commandoes, following the ISB agents’ orders, put sacks over the prisoners’ heads and herded them up a dung smeared plank that evidently served the reception of slaughter cattle. „Weird, no?“

Observing the events in their transport’s side mirrors, Nash shrugged. „Why? You recently had steak?“

cold boxes

The commandos’ E-21sts in the back, still handcuffed and in gyves, Math stumbled up the slippery plank. Behind, the unsteady shuffling of his fellow prisoners. Ahead, the periodic pop of captive bolt pistols amongst the clanging of crane trolleys and frantic squealing. The air increasingly smelt of blood and industrial sanitizer. Suddenly, someone grabbed him by the elbow.

„Your job here is done.“

The order, evidently barked by the agent who held him, caused the commandos in Math’s back to click their heels and galumph back down the plank. While the gloved hand on his arm urged him on along a concrete gangway. Ever closer to frenzied squealing and a sickening stench of burnt meat. Electrical stunning. A method used on swine and smaller in which the current applied should ensure anesthesia throughout the "bleeding" of the animal. The current here though, Math feared, could be manually adjusted. To a slow and convulsive electrocution.

His thoughts raced. This was a busy plant, so there had to be workers. It could not be normal that Imperials walked in here with folks in glaring orange prisoner clothes and a sack over their heads, could it? About now, everybody around had to stand and gape—or look the other way in hopes the same fate would not come onto him. Whatever the case, they would better get shot now than find out what those agents planned with them in this place!

At once, he dug in his heels. „Employees,“ he tried and gave a shout. „Anyone listening—the woman with us is your prime minister. You mustn’t stand back…“

Immediately, something hit him over the head. „Hush!“ A voice hissed right next to his ear. „Stow it and stir yourself, for the Balance’s sake, or we’ll all be busted!“


Stupefied, Math followed the instructions; while the hand on his elbow led on. Past the stench, bolt pistols’ pops and away from the swines’ death cries. Shortly, their hoods were removed. Looking about, they had reached the plant’s back side loading ramps and found themselves in the back of a reefer truck half loaded with styrofoam cold boxes.

Under the cargo area’s auxiliary lighting, the taller of the ISB agents bowed his head to Captison. „Please forgive the rude welcome, Prime Minister,“ he squatted down and lasered through her leg irons, „but we needed to put on a show to get rid of those troopers.“

Elleck was the first to recollect himself, „That’s to say you’re not of the ISB?“

„Balance beware,“ the taller spat. „We’re the Resistance.“

„Sons of Belden,“ the smaller particularized proudly, „in a metaphorical sense. My name’s Orin, that’s Adriav.“

„Pleasure.“ Captison rubbed her wrists, then incredulously looked from one to the other. „But how…?“

„..did we bust you out?“ Lasering through everyone’s hand- and footcuffs, Orin grinned like a nerd. „Thanks to Elleck here bringing in our transmitter, our… slicer gained access to the Penitiary’s system—and forged some orders.“

Adriav meanwhile handed out civilian clothes. Everyone having changed, he put their agents’ tunics along with the salient convicts uniforms into a cold box and covered everything with a layer of shrink-wrapped paunch.

„That’s all very nice,“ Obry muttered. „At the next roadblock though, the Imps are still going to frisk and find us.“

„Improbable.“ Orin pointed at a row of boxes in the deep of the loading area. „We’ll put you bottommost,“ he explained, „and fill up with paunch.“

Elleck raised an eyebrow. „Those boxes aren’t big enough for even a child.“

Orin’s grin broadenend. „That’s what a trooper shall think, too. If you take four of them, however, glued together, with the inner lateral walls removed and their inside lined with heat-insulating foil—they make for a decent adult-sized casket.“
 

A few changes later—their caskets having been forklifted through the stores of a dog food plant and a superette—they found themselves in the parlor of a well-secured upper-class residence. Orin’s first move was switching on a generous flat screen on which he zapped through surveillance vids—in- and outside views—of the whole estate.

„Wow.“ Obry sank into the white leather couch. „Who thought the Resistance had such deep pockets.“

„We hadn’t in the beginning. The news blackout posed a bit of a hitch, too. Now though… our slicers open up quite some resources.“ Orin grinned. „And have a knack for renting property in the name of businessmen that are cahoots with the New Order. Thus, their henchmen usually steer clear of our safe houses.“

Adriav shot him a glare.

„What?“

„You’re not supposed to disclose information to the untested.“

„Lay off, will you? They were all arrested by the Imperials.“

„Still.“ Adriav snapped. „We got rules for a reason. Besides…“ His frown brushed Math before he crossed the parlor, openend a crested wooden door to an adjoining room and bowed his head to Captison. „Prime Minister, there’s someone who wishes to speak to you in private.“


The study was spacious, drenched by violet evening sun except for the one area in the back that was dominated by a large old desk in front of dark wood paneling. From everything Captison saw the room was completely empty. Uneasily, she looked about, then startled at the sound of voice that seemingly came out of the air right in front.

„Gaeriel, I am relieved to see you.“

Captison held her breath as the area next to the desk chair began to shimmer, then solidified to a holographic projection of her old friend, Eppie Belden.

„Eppie! You live!?“

„In a way.“ The holographic projection of Belden gave a small smile. „My physical body didn’t make it through the bombings. I made provisions though for the case that my people might need my experience.“

Puzzled, Captison scrutinized her friend’s image—that indeed looked a bit younger than in her recollection. „What… is that to say? You … loaded your mind up into a droid or something?“

„No.“ Belden’s projection once more displayed that hint of a smile. „I prefered not to be bound in such form. Instead, my matrix is running on many servers; multi-redundant and able to reproduce.“

„That means you’re a ghost in the net?“

„You could say so.“

Captison hesitated, only then dared to ask: „What happened to my husband and Malinza?“

„Sorry,“ Belden regretfully shook her head, „Pter was amongst the victims. Your daughter, however, is safe in the custody of one of my network.“

Captison took a moment to stomach. Her husband, Pter had suffered from Knowt’s disease for long. He had been in the terminal stage. Nevertheless it hurt to lose him—and not having been able to be there for him. For darned Imperials had locked her up in prison. Balance be thanked at least Malinza, her little daughter, was well!

„Can I see her?“

„No. I’d rather you would not leave here anytime soon. The Imperials likely noticed our little ruse as of now and skim the city to find you.“

„I see.“ Captison frowned, then sat. „These past weeks in prison—they kept us completely isolated. I don’t even know what happened since they took me away.“
 
Belden’s projection nodded and leant back in her just as holographic desk chair. „As it turned out, Admiral Dodonna concentrated his bombings on a few populated areas, wisely sparing the seats of industries he considered useful. He then set himself up as Bakura’s Supreme Commander. Riots ensued. There were student protests at Arden High, that an ISB agent by the name of VonToma made an example of quelling in a bloody massacre. What triggered even more rising. Part of our military stays loyal to you and deserted their new commander; new resistance cells formed and retaliated with a series of radical attacks. Nevertheless, Dodonna seems determined to use Bakuran productions to supply his campaign of conquest and his followers are currently about to rope in our captains of industry.“

„Who will naturally turn their coats.“

„Of course. Even faster now that the process is overseen by Elina von Aath—daughter to Moff von Aath and President of the Bakuran branch of Hydrocon. As we're talking, her spin is winning over more and more of our unemployed fellow Bakurans.“

„Once your family goes hungry, you cease care who or what will be paying your wage.“ Captison sighed. „I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that.“

„Yes, there is.“ For a moment, Belden looked triumphant. „I spent several years creating a defensive network. Consisting of selected people… as well as technical components. Such as a number of viruses and backdoors spread throughout the databases of any of Bakura’s leading companies. Especially those dealing in heavy industries.“

„That means you could crash the servers of any company producing Imperial supplies?“

„You could.“ Dust shimmered through the projection of the dead slicer. „And there’s a lot more than that.“

„Still,“ Captison frowned, „I don’t see how this would stop Hydrocon.“

„You should not underestimate the extent to which modern industries depend on their data streams.“ Belden’s eyes turned hard. „Besides, if anything needs to be fixed on a physical level—in Thayer we just extracted…“

„Thayer?“ Captison interrupted, her eyes narrow. „I’m warning you, Eppie! That abject barve double-crossed me!“

„He double-crossed a lot of people—and made it possible for me to free you, too.“ Momentarily, Belden’s projection displayed a vitriolic smile. „If he passes my test, I will set him up to give great grief to our occupiers.“

the test

Matheron sat on the couch of what seemed to be the Bakuran resistance's current HQ studying the both rebels who had saved them from falling into the ISB's clutches.

Orin, the wiry smaller, was absorbed skimming through holonet news. Adriav on the other hand, who strangely kept his shades on even indoors and despite dusk falling, kept observing him inimically. No surprise. After everything Matheron had done to help the New Order occupy the guy's homeworld, he could not hold it against him. What puzzled him more: When these two 'sons of Belden' had risked their lives to bust out their prime minister and fellow Bakurans, they had taken him along… obviously against the wishes of Adriav or even prime minister Captison.

Which meant someone else called the shots. Likely the person who had summoned Captison to the private talks she was still in. For a while now. With a glance at the closed door, Matheron wondered what would eventuate. Before, in view of Elleck and Obry pitching into the offered sandwiches, his thoughts reverted to Cirrian and Seon. Both the camwielder and the boy still wounded, they had stayed behind in their hideout when the rest of them had followed that treacherous Imp into the trap that damn silly prison run had been. Gladly, doc Melnia was up to date and would look after them well. Nonetheless Matheron would have liked to see them. As soon as the Imperials ceased scouring the capital. There was something their hosts had talked about however that possibly was a bar.

„Adriav,“ at last he addressed the insurgent who was on to him anyway. „You mentioned some sort of test?“


Adriav did not need to be asked twice. He briefly moved his lips, seeming to confer with someone, then nodded and led—trough the flat's hall to a small, windowless chamber. All white, barely furnished apart from a locker and a dominating wall bed which, extracted, featured a set of heavy beige belts that gave it the appearance of an operating table. Or a means to keep someone in place while you ask pressing questions. Involuntarily reminded of the times he himself had conducted interrogations in some CSF backroom, Matheron felt a chill. That's the problem when you overstep a mark—you fear others will do alike.
 
Irritated, he tried to whisk off the memory, that kept returning like a blow fly however as Adriav took from the locker a peculiar looking helmet—full-face like that of a fighter pilot—which the rebel instructed him to don and lie down.

Matheron sat down, turning in his hands the headgear along the inside of which glistened a number of contact points. „What precisely is this?”

„This helmet's a miniaturized computer tomograph combined with holo and surround sound system.” Adriav explained not without pride. “It's gonna confront you with some.. impressions.“

„While monitoring my brain's reactions?” Matheron frowned. “Sounds entertaining.“

“You try to cop out?”

“No.” Matheron deliberately lay down. He was determined to make good for what he had done and if these Bakurans demanded a test, so be it. “Just out of curiosity—what if I fail?”

„No worries.“ Lashing up the belts with his gloved hands, Adriav flashed an ill-natured grin. “It won't hurt nearly as much as you deserve.“

Mind sniffer

In view of that last smirk and line of Adriav, Matheron wondered whether it had been prudent to volunteer in doing this test. Anyway, now he was strapped down on the cot. With a practiced hand Adriav slipped over his head the peculiar full-face helmet.

The first images loaded on the helmet's head-up display however seemed harmless: Shots of space. Parts of stellar charts. Satellite recordings of planets in quick succession. A whole lot of images, most of which he did not recognize. Fleetingly, Matheron wondered why Adriav had insisted on lashing down the belts. When bit by bit the selection of planets shown in repetition grew fewer, and kept thinning.. till finally there were only four candidates left in the loop: Corellia, Coruscant, Hoth, Bakura—all worlds he knew intimately and that evoked memories.

Matheron got uneasy. Had those rebels looked up his résumé? Had this choice of planets been programmed? Or had their system actually just made these picks by exploiting his brain's reactions? His mouth went suddenly dry. When the planets' loop was suspended for aerial shots of Coruscant; Jrade District, Petrax quarter, the New Republic Senate; the Western Lake at the shore of which glistened the OPC’s double round towers.

Coincidence? Unlikely! As soon as he recognized an area, the helmet's display zoomed in on different spots, confronted him with a selection of scenes, corridors and buildings—hereby obviously able to discern which images exactly provoked a reaction. Like his latest and regrettably formative workplace: the Office for the Protection of the Constitution. This was eerie! Inexorably the system picked up his dislike and zoomed in—on the lake, the office's smoked glass facades and the New Republic banner flapping in the breeze.  

In view of the star-encircled emblem, the symbol of hope for freedom and equity in a New Republic—better than that before!—Matheron felt an urge to straighten. How many battles they had fought spurred on by this hope! How many had given their lives—for these ideals he too had believed in. Till after their move to Coruscant… his service under the OPC's director, Miroslav Channing, who introduced him to the dirty business of state security, used the fear and desire for revenge he retained from an Imperial terrorist attack to bring him to support his hard line. Down to where he began to accept torture as a necessary evil… and fall out with his family. That's why today the New Republic's blue on black also caused a feeling of desolation, regret and an erosive awareness of failure.

Which was thrust aside forcefully however, replaced by wrath, when the system changed over to Imperial emblems. The death star. The wedge-shaped shadow of an Imperial star destroyer. AT-ATs parading the corridors of Salis D'aar and the standard of the New Order being hoisted in front of Arden High—by an ISB agent standing next to the university's shot dean. Immediately followed by a holo showing Imperial troopers and tanks firing at a host of student protesters.

Alert and tensed up at once, Matheron felt his pulse stir with anger against the ISB agent he was too familiar with. Wu Pei Fu. Or rather: Captain Rinehart VonToma as, Matheron had learned, was the actual name of the man who had been his contact and superior while working for the New Order. The Imperial obeying whose orders he had bribed military personnel to cripple Bakura's air defense, thus made it a lot easier for Admiral Dodonna's fleet to take over the planet. Viewed in this light, the massacre VonToma had made around Arden High was just one more of the consequences of his own deeds.

I have a talent, Matheron thought teeth gnashing, to ingeniously follow all the wrong people. But not any longer. If I get my hands on this spook…  

Fists doubling, at once Matheron felt the restrain on his forearms. Recalled this was a test. A machine snooping his mind. Though what could they actually make of what they recorded? Could they distinguish emotions? Tell love from hate? Did they think this test would enable them to foretell what he would do in the future?

Without warning, the system slid in a holopic of his family. Catharin! Gavin! A shot taken at one of his son's school productions. Whatever thoughts he may have had were swept away by their portraits. Next Catharin as a diplomat. Gavin in a flightsuit. On a group shot; shortest member of Rogue Squadron. Momently Matheron smiled, wildly proud. When the image was superseded by Cathy; evenings, in a backless gown, smiling… at the side of that filthy director Brya who was her superior. Frakker! The punk had been after his wife from the beginning. Anyway, they had no right to pry into this! Not his family. Not his private emotions!

If the machine recorded his burst of anger, it failed to bring it into line; or did not care either way. Instead jumped to images of couples; kissing, fighting, copulating. Including extreme examples and cuttings of graphic holos. Matheron took a deep breath then set his teeth in an attempt to suppress telltale reactions. Unfortunately here too, the system seemed able to read even before the explicit scenes manifested their effect on your body. No way to veil, no way to deny anything. This was cringe-making!

Congrats, he grumbled inwardly, you just found out I dig snappy brunettes.

And the sniffing went on. For felt ages. At the end of this, Matheron was sure, they would know the whole lot: That he preferred beans and greasy bacon over porridge; loved paceball; disliked the upper crust; harbored a deeply rooted mistrust against both Sith and Jedi; felt just a little ill at ease in high places and reacted badly to threats. He did not like this mind search one bit! Worse, slowly but surely began to suspect that, with all the reactions analyzed, this test would in fact deliver them an extensive, rather accurate profile. One that actually allowed to draw inferences. The question was: Would they be to the liking of the 'sons of Belden'.

The touch of a gloved hand jolted him out of the reflection. Was it over? Or what was happening next? There was tampering with the belt that held his right forearm; the restrain gone and something nippy pushed into his palm. The grip felt familiar. A blaster pistol? DL-44? Puzzled he felt out the trigger—when the mode of display changed, featuring a hairline cross and quite accurately the view a trooper would have through his head up display. As soon as he increased the touch on the trigger, just slightly, there was the red dot of a laser aimer sharp set for your target.

This same moment the system cut in a body of Imperial troopers leveling at him. Reactions training? Instantly Matheron acquired target. Fired, even before an according order came over the helmet's speakers. Similar for all following obviously Imperial targets in the uniforms or armor of the Imperial army, navy, COMPNOR or the Imperial Security Bureau. The ISB one quite possibly drawing a shot even a bit faster than had the others.

That's when the system switched gears. Now featuring the very Supreme Commander of the occupying forces, Admiral Dodonna… right amidst a crowd of Bakuran civilians. Lots of them youths, a few miners, mothers with kids. Matheron inwardly cursed. Carefully, positioned the hairline cross exactly on the Imperial warlord. Just as the sharp red dot of his laser aimer dissolved into a puddle; its red halo vividly illustrating there would always be a number of Bakurans jointly affected. Still the machine voice issued firing order.

Matheron paused. “Negative,” he replied on spec. “I get no clear line of fire.”

Instead of a response, the HUD displayed a series of images—mangled bodies strewn across the interior of a Salis D'aar nightclub. The majority of them Imperials, the undeniable rest however, the owner as well as a handful of formerly great looking staff members, indisputably were Bakuran civilians. Victims of  a bomb he himself had built and had Obry plant in the nightspot that, as Matheron had observed, used to be much frequented by members of the Imperial army.

He swallowed. Right, some of 'his' cell's recent actions were questionable. In the absence of better arms or organization, he had advised his fellows to yet charge and spread fear amongst their occupiers wherever possible, by any means. Which, at that time, unfortunately had been nothing better than fertilizer bombs with improvised mechanical time fuze. Weapons that regrettably did not allow for accuracy—which is why a number of Bakurans too had their ass on the line.

Just why did the system confront him with these recordings? Were the 'sons of Belden' questioning his actions, that followers of the New Order naturally decried as terrorist methods? Or were they challenging him to continue? Whatever was the case, he decided, it did not matter. “I don't want hazard the lives of any more innocents, “ he said lowly, to the system as well as himself. “Not when, with the tech at your disposal, I could hit pinpoint.”

As if in reply, the scene displayed changed to a spacious office. Relieved Matheron noticed there were no civilians. No bodyguards, no baulk, plain sight—on prime minister Gaeriel Captison. Again the system issued firing order. Matheron frowned. Were they taking him for a mug? Why in the Maw should he shoot Captison, who evidently was in good graces with the resistance? Or wasn't she? After all, he himself had once thought he might be able to sway her towards embracing the New Order. “Please explain.” He asked into the blue. “Why do you want her shot?”

A somewhat synthetic sounding voice actually replied. “Subject collaborated with the New Order.”

“Tosh!” Matheron shook his head. “You know Captison was taken prisoner by the Imperials like the rest of us.”

“Irrelevant. Further disobedience means you fail this test and face consequences. Fire!”

No! This was enough. He would not follow some freak again. Not this time! Deliberately, Matheron put down the blaster, in doing so removing the hairline cross and ending the shooter simulation. “Kiss my wagyx!”

New Identity

Next thing Matheron felt was a spike in his vein and the push of a cool liquid. Cark! It leapt in his mind. Seems they didn't like my last answer. Frenzied, he tore at the belts trying hard to free himself though he knew it was futile. The injection seemed to cause no immediate effect however. Or at least none he was able to discern. When Adriav lastly removed the helmet and opened the restraints anyhow he was bathed in sweat, shaky and utterly exhausted. Irritated, he looked down at the crook of his arm, then up at the rebel just as the latter put away the cartridge syringe.

“What was that?” He snapped. “What did you inject?”

“Nothing lethal,” Adriav replied drily. He seemed disappointed; with a pinched face gestured towards a towel and stack of fresh clothes. “Get a shower and dress. She wants to see you.”

Dazed, Matheron glanced at the set of Bakuran streetwear. “Who?”

“What do you think, laserbrain? Now look sharp. She dislikes waiting.”


Showered, dressed, yet progressively lacking in concentration Matheron entered the study where, in view of the high quality hologram of Belden, he momently thought his eyes did him an ill run. Belden? Bakura's famed slicer of guerrilla leading fame? Wasn't she dead? Or was he now? He was too tired to wonder. When she addressed him by name and asked him to sit, he did without thinking.

“So there you are, Math.” Belden's hologram gave a brief grin that made clear to the Matheron that after this test she was intimately familiar with him anyway. “I will admit I was curious to learn what character it is who gave us Bakurans such raw deal… yet regrets it genuinely enough to do almost anything trying to fix. Puzzling. Anyhow, we haven't much time.”

“For what?”

“Your test result confirmed you are tailor-made for a project that will allow us to get our hands on a lot of urgently needed creds—and will put you into a position in which you may be of great use to the resistance. It requires you to take on a new identity, however, the time frame for which is rapidly closing.”

“A new identity?” Matheron blinked. Feeling increasingly dazed, he had genuine troubles to follow. “How should that work? Even with a new name and ID-card anyone who's followed the holo-news these past months would still recognize me.”

“Unlikely. For you will literally become an other man. A stinking rich pro-Imperial Bakuran businessman, who ironically suffered grave injuries in the Imperial air raid.” Belden smirked. “The good thing is, the two of you bear an uncanny resemblance…”

Billion creds guy

“Mr. Rey?”

Confused Matheron stared back at her through the bluish liquid, then recalled you usually had a microphone within the breath mask. “How long have I been in here?”

“Fourteen days.” Noting her patient's incredulous expression, the professor hesitated. “You don't remember what happened?”

Matheron knit his brow, blinked, then shook his head. “No, actually.”

Briefly there was concern on her face, that was but immediately replaced by an assertive grin. “Don't worry. Head-injuries, especially as severe as yours, always cause trauma—which often goes along with a little temporary amnesia. But fear not, in a few days most likely you will be your old self again.”


Two hours later, out of the tank, dressed and staring at his reflection in the restroom mirror, Matheron was not so sure. Staring back at him was a licked, smooth-shaven guy in a posh slate suit complete with white button down shirt and a stylish haircut. A guy the scar-free features of who had little in common with his old self. They had erased the CDF tattoo from his upper arm too. Besides that guy had another eye-color. Darker. An indefinable gunmetal that reinforced Matheron's impression he was looking at a stranger.

“Mr. Rey?” The voice of a young orderly jolted him out of his reflection. “I am sent to hand over to you your personal belongings and valuables.” The young man presented him with a drawer containing a PAC20 visual wrist link, two code cylinders, a cred chit and an identity card he had to receipt. Just like an extensive missive stating he discharged himself from the care of Arden Medical, self-responsibly and against medical advice. “Anyhow,” the orderly remarked as he pocketed the receipts, “after such long time in bacta your eyes tend to be photophobic. So…,” he conjured up from the inside of his white coat a pair of sunglasses and held them out to him, “…you urgently need this.”

Joker. Matheron thought and put them in his suit's breast pocket. Right now he had other concerns. For example it would be really helpful in impersonating this Rey to know about him one thing or another. Like how he would walk, talk… what his attitude was towards life and how he would treat people. To say nothing of which people he ought to know, where he lived or… what his chundering first name was. Rodder!

“No, Mr. Rey.” The orderly came towards shaking his head. “There's something you've gotten wrong.” He stepped closer, took the shades out of the suit's breast pocket, flipped them open and put them on Matheron's nose. “That's how you wear them.”


'Finally!'

Matheron gave a start when a computerized voice rang out in the middle of his skull.

'You planned to spend the whole day in your tub? Now pack your stuff and get your ass out of there before they come up with any more check-ups. A cab is waiting outside.'

What the Maw? Was that Orin speaking? Astonished, Matheron looked about himself, then realized it were the shades. Their sides had to be fitted with speakers that worked via bone conduction, allowing incoming audio-messages to resonate within his head without giving off any sound to the outside. Unlike the systems used by intelligence or security personnel however, this one came without throat mike. No way of replying. Very convenient to the one giving orders.

Miffed, he donned the wrist comm, put the code cylinders and chits into his suit's interior pocket and gave a last glance around. When a glowing blue line appeared, seemingly hanging in space, that lead the way out of the room, along a tastefully decorated corridor, down a repulsorlift and out of Arden Medical's spacious lobby.

Good luck billion creds guy. Behind him, the orderly gave a grin. Hope you're worth it.


When Matheron repeated to the taxi driver the destination address Orin prompted, the man paused, gave him a second glance and at once turned two octaves more subservient.

'Well, that's that done!' Orin began as soon as the cab had left the hospital grounds. ' As you know, we didn't have time to brief you. Hence the shades. They're equipped with face recognition and a few more features that should help you survive the next one or two days. After that, at latest, you should have memorized the dossier I just sent to your wrist link.'

40 hours to memorize a life. Matheron snorted. If that's all. Frowning he switched on the wrist comm and glared as the welcome screen demanded a fingerprint scan. Great! Not even Rey's comm believes I'm him. Tentatively, he put his index on the according box anyway when, contrary to expectations, the device gave a joyous chime. “Welcome back, Mr. Rey,” the screen switched to inbox, “you have 47 messages in absence.” The topmost of which was a text by some Starsha inquiring why by the bowl he didn't get back to her.

Puzzled Matheron scrutinized the tip of his trigger finger; only now discovering a fine, next to invisible scar running around an oval of skin the lines of which did not meet with those on the surrounding sections. A replacement. Possibly the original fingertip—of a man who was likely enough dead. Now he thought about it: since he came round, his voice too sounded rummy. And then, there was his new eye color… The Bakurans were skilled in organ replacement—did this mean he was now literally seeing the world with Rey's eyes?


<img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/bakura-impren-ry-mansion-small.jpg" alt="Ry's Mansion" width="300" height="200" style="margin: 0px 8px 5px 0px;" border="1" align="left" /> The cab having passed a last, heavily guarded checkpoint, it entered a neighborhood of stately mansions that by their swishy architecture, size, but even more so vast grounds filled up with gardens and swimming pools, positively cried out the respective owner's wealth and prosperity.

Real upper crust stuff. Gazing at the posh buildings as they went by, Matheron grimaced. He was at loggerheads with the class of population that typically concerned itself with luxury problems and used the mass of creds at their bidding to safeguard their interests. So now he was to play one of them. Again. Like back when his mother, flaunting as a Grande Dame of Coronet, had insisted he act the part—besuited, complete with bow tie, side-parting and flawless, that meant really affected, manners. Well at least, he thought with a grin, that bit he had down pat.

And, from what estate he spotted at the end of the glowing blue line his shades kept projecting before him, he did not have to fear comparison either. It was huge. With grounds large as a paceball diamond, the infield of which was taken up by a sizable modern mansion. All white, angular and punctuated with vast glass facades through which you could peep into several spacious neo furnished rooms –Matheron counted nine of them alone on this side – plus a huge white porch, balconies, two swimming pools…


The second of the both code-cylinders did fit. Tensed, Matheron entered the mansion. This is my home, I'm supposed to be here—he kept telling himself. Yet had to force himself to walk natural while his instincts urged him to take each corner and corridor like a point man. Slowly, suppressing the impulse, he went sight-seeing through a designed bar, home cinema, crème colored study, dining room, living room to a just as oversized kitchen unit. That looked like no one had ever used it. Or at least, Matheron thought running his forefinger across the stove's mirror-like surface, it would look a lot messier if he cooked on there only one breakfast.

'Alright,' Orin reported back, 'seems the area's safe. So let's get to work. We've only 2.5 days.'

Matheron nodded. He was about to turn back to the study, when his wrist link started to vibrate and, at the same time, several more comm sets throughout the house rang out with a silky melody. That racked his nerves. He could impossibly pick up now, could he? Not while he had zero idea yet of Rey's connections. Ill at ease, he folded his arms and glowered at the comm that was integrated in the kitchen unit. Finally the ringing stopped. Matheron sighed with relief … and froze with the address that came via the answering machine.

“No use in hiding, Ryate.” It was a female speaking, half cross, half triumphant. “I know you're home. I can see you…”