Re: Imperial Renaissance

Willem rubbed his eyes as he felt the wind race across his face, the repulsorlift vehicle lifting itself off the ground quickly as it headed towards the meeting point with the Intelligence support man Marsh. Maarco was driving, pointing towards the entrance. "There."

Leaning against a wall and humming some random song under his breath, Marsh Flick clutched a bottle of Corellian whiskey and peered at them with a bit more intensity than what was really necessary.  In the vehicle, Petra muttered, "Oh, no… Marsh!"
 
"Please don't tell me that's your contact, Miss Williams…" Willem sighed, judging only by first looks in this case as Maarco pulled up. Anton barely knew Marsh, but Willem saw that he at least recognized him. "Controller Marsh?"

"Yes, sir!"  Marsh hastily shoved the bottle into his pocket and straightened, looking every inch the tourist from his cover.  His long dark hair fell into his eyes, which he brushed a hand over quickly.  "Marsh Flick at your service."

"Get in." Maarco ordered, motioning to the side seat, which was open. Willem sighed and shook his head, burying his face in his hands as he saw the Intelligence controller stumble and try to stay upright. As soon as Marsh got into the 'lift vehicle Maarco drove off towards Coronet.

In the back, Marsh reached in his back hastily for a shot in his bag that he had planned to give Petra.  Injecting himself with his new "sober-drug" he let out a sigh of relief… then immediately cringed as the hangover kicked in.  Petra simply elbowed him, not at all sympathetic to his plight.

"Mister Flick, what campaigns have you served in?" Willem asked, to better know the man that he was working with. Maarco kept his eyes on the road, making a turn down a street that seemingly headed towards a nearby coast.

"I've been Petra's technician since we both graduated from the… training," Marsh responded, wincing at the sunlight above.  He rattled off a list of the different missions, only giving vague details at the prompting of Petra's foot stomping on his.

"Heh. I never had a controller on my operations." Maarco spoke, his eyes forward but his face turning slightly so his voice would carry back towards the end of the car. Willem smirked as Marsh talked on and on. "Well, it's good to have a tech-head." The smile disappeared. "Do you have a list on the men who are on Dodonna's team?"

For the first time since he stepped in the car, Marsh actually felt at ease.  "Yes, sir.  I was able to hack– er, I was able to find them with a little difficulty."  He pulled out a datapad and handed it to the Moff while adding, "I also found a dossier and a description for each member, thanks to some help from Bastion and Bakura."

"Don't expect much help from Bastion once we get out of the Council's grip…Hmm…This is an interesting list. Traven Dunn, some sort of elite squadron leader. A general who served under Dodonna…A man named Zak Uer, some sort of pilot…" He drove on, but Maarco paid a bit more attention when he mentioned Zak Uer and Jordan Lane.

Marsh nodded while listening to his superior's voice, but glanced over at his friend.  In the rear view mirror the men could see Marsh elbow her gentle and mouth, "You okay?" Petra nodded and squeezed Marsh's arm back in reply, a gesture that told the men volumes about her relationship with Marsh and the simple but rare friendship these two Intel officers had managed to cultivate through the years.

"Here we are." Maarco said, pulling up the rather nice repulsorlift vehicle up to a small grouping of condos along the beach. There was three complexs, with three individual condos next to each other. A light blue hue painted to them, they appeared to be lightly expensive, but expensive nonetheless. "I'm the middle one. Middle complex. Closest to the beach."

"Wow…" Marsh's eyes widened before Petra elbowed him again and spoke quickly.  "It's very lovely, Maarco.  Thank you for letting us stay with you."  Marsh nodded and quickly added, "Yeah, thanks."

Maarco opened the door to his condo with a four-digit code on the padd near the opening. The door opened and revealed a filled up room, data bookcases and a holo-viewer and a couch, all of it leading to a flight of stairs that entered to the upper flat. A painting was on Maarco's wall, a woman standing in front of a sun. "It's not much."

Petra looked around with a surprised but interested look, until her eyes zeroed in on the bookcase.  She visibly fought back something in her eyes before glancing at Marsh, who was trying to carry her bag, and his knapsack, up the stairs.  "Oh, for the love of the gods," she sighed as she took her bag back.  Marsh gave Maarco and her a sheepish grin before wandering in.  "Wow, wizard place you got here, Mr. Maarco!"

"Thank you. Treat it like you would a home. Except for you, Marsh. Treat it like royality." He said cautiously as he entered into another room, a personal room, before he quickly exited. "You two can have the upper two beds. Maarco and I plus the two guards will sleep here." Willy said as he entered the house, not commenting on the room itself.

"Thank you, Maarco."  Petra let her eyes meet his for a moment.  Marsh noticed this and opened his mouth to start to make a comment, but thankfully Petra grabbed him by the arm and dragged him in before he could say anything, shoving him into the room.  Closing the door behind him, Petra leaned against it with a small groan.  "Marsh's a good guy… until you get alcohol in his system.  He's a lightweight."

"If he becomes a liability, I want him removed from this mission. We're too far deep into New Republic territory to be taking unnesscary risks." Willy stated as he sat down on Maarco's couch, his tee shirt fitting loosely on his body

"Sir, he won't be any trouble after this, I promise.  I think the new freedom from Korr- er, from his old job gave him liquid courage."  Petra glanced at the door behind her, then at her boots.  "I'll make sure he behaves, sir."

"Who?" Willy asked, feeling that he needed to know more from someone he was working under than he would if it was merely a trip. He figured, from the start, that this 'Korr' character has to be someone in Intel.

Petra bit her lower lip hard.  "I shouldn't have said that, sir."  She looked down, unconsciously rubbing her shoulder as if remembering blows to the limb from someone with a violent temper.

"Chickenshit officer, sir." Maarco said, bringing in three glasses, shots of Corellian Ale. Willem nodded in recognition of the term, understanding the concept pretty easily.

"Ah, exactly."  Petra had to smile at Maarco's words, still leaning against the door and ignoring the muffled sounds of Marsh on the other side knocking and trying to bargain with her to be let out.  "Besides, I think Marsh probably took care of him for a while."

"Petra, you can let him out. I don't think he'll try anything in front of Maarco." Willem said with a smile as he rubbed his eyes. "Do you know anyone on that team?"
Opening the door so Marsh could reenter the room and sit quietly, Petra shook her head.  

"Only by reputation, sir.  A few of the members were older than me, so I never met them during my… Imperial Center years.  Especially Traven Dunn and Daiman Sirana.  They were legends when I was entering society."

"I've met Wing Commander Lane, and I saved Uer from a crash on Termina." Maarco spoke up. Willem nodded at his direction. "I never understood the whole Imperial Center thing." Willem said, shrugged. "You say legends?"

"They were unattainable bachelors, sir, and each mother tried to throw their daughter in their paths."  Petra fought back an eyeroll while speaking as Marsh tried to sneak a shot of whiskey only to get a glare from her that meant ‘no.’  "Dunn had an amazing dedication to the Empire, and Sirana… his business practices are in question but he gets the job done."

Willem rubbed his eyes as he looked over at Maarco. "Get a list of what Sirana has done. Dunn too. I don't like this, going in feet first into a possible acid pool. Mister Flick, you care to help Maarco get this information?"

"Tell me how soon you want it and I'll give you information their mothers don't even know about them."  Marsh's attitude went from jovial to serious in the blink of an eye.

"Tomorrow, that's your last of the line due date. I'll go to the long range communicator and send a message to Line Captain Zaafrian, make sure he knows we're all right. And Petra? Contact the nearest repulsorlift vehicle rental area and order something…business-y. You need fancy business clothes?"

"Yes, sir, probably."  Unlike most females Petra didn't exactly look thrilled at the idea of spending a day rifling through clothing stores, but she managed to not look sullen.  "I'll find something that will be suitable."

"Nothing too fancy. Just something that looks professional. Now, let's get this done.”

---

The Nightbringer.

Line Captain Zaafrian stood tall on the bridge of the Nightbringer, his hands gently touching a data padd with delicate fingers. They seemingly draped across the screen with such ease that his fingers appeared to flow like water across the surface of the padd. His eyes were locked on it as he reviewed his commanding officer’s message.

“What has Moff Aath to say, sir?”

“He is in Corellia. He reports that they have landed, and his team are preparing for the conference in a few days.” Zaafrian reported, turning his head around to face the Marshal of the fleet, his eyes softly reproaching from the padd.

“It’s good to know, sir.” The TIE commander stated, looking out at the command bridge’s view port at the planet of Muunilinst. The TIE squadrons gently pulled their patrols out across the flagship of Willy’s fleet, the rest of the ships in a loose formation around the command ship.

“At any rate, he’ll be quick and tell us when we need to get to Bakura. No sense leaving now.” Zaafrian spoke as he handed the datapadd to the Marshal. The TIE flight commander nodded and walked off, reviewing the message as Line Captain Zaafrian continued to look out of the view port, towards space.

Towards destiny.

All you need to know

<p><em> Bakura. Datunda, 14th of Helona. Low mountain range north of Salis D’aar. Sun scorching on a copse of conifers halfway up a sparsely forested slope. Nine scruffy figures among fern and indigo boulders…</em></p>

<p> A bird chittered as Bowl trampled away through the waist-high bracken. </p>
<p> Perched on the conglomerate boulder Cirrian frowned: Anissya went; Obry talked Zisah round into searching larvae, while he pulled threads from one left strip of belt; a little way off, the both Kurtzen quarrelled again in the lingo they used among themselves. She still couldn’t glean a word. Ahead, Thayer and Marrjo sat with their backs at her, gazing down at the valley. Annoyed, she flicked off a large blue-shimmering beetle, then removed the rags from her maltreated feet. </p>
<p> Gradually, the copse fell back to the unhurried sounds of nature: flies buzzed; the brooklet burbled; above, some navy and white birds hopped through the branches and varied spots of sun across Thayer’s jacket that, formerly black, was now coated in splodges of ochre and indigo mud. Good camouflage in this area. And what wonder: it came all by itself once you tumbled down one of these eroded slopes. Now you hardly noticed the large fly that sucked at sweat and grazes; till it heaved the short-haul to the soaked back of Marrjo who sat next to him. As always. Always on guard. </p>
<p> Quietly, Cirrian rummaged through her hipbag and fished out the datapad… </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>

<strong>Running with the Traitor</strong>
A quarry’s journal
by Cirrian Karranden


<p><strong> Day One. </strong></p>
<p> Cold, heat; running, keeping still. My feet scream; tonight, we crossed the plains. Zisah and Anissya ahead. Back marker, Marrjo; all the time guarding and driving on a delirious traitor: after the blaster-enhanced KO Thayer received from the ex-father, he limps rather slow; with the torn jacket on bare, bruised skin and that tattered gash across his cheek, he has a bit of last model psycho. </p>
<p>Zisah calls him an old database: flarging slow and likely to go to pot. At the crack of dawn though, as no woods or anything is in sight, Thayer starts muttering about ‘camou, belt and low awnin’. Obry was the only who understood, and set up a rough and ready cover of the grimy strips, sticks and small bushes. That’s how we spend our day: hiding; packed; haunted by flies – quarreling, waiting and starving. </p>
<p> I needed to put forward a call of nature to jot down these few lines—the trio of hools would get stressful if they caught me. The fat giant above all. He gives me the creeps. Who, by The Cosmic Balance, would flaunt himself as ‘Bowl’?! And judging by how low he works, our hooly King of the Underground Dump, the feathered sibling of his has to be quite a big shot. </p>
<p> Must close: no nature calls that long. </p>
<p> No sign of Imps so far. </p>
<p align="center"><img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/char_bakura_rebels_01.gif" alt="Zisah, Bowl and Obry" width="290" height="120" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0"  /> </p>

<p><strong> Day Two.</strong></p>
<p> My feet kill me. The first ten minutes of climb make clear that the plains were child’s play; and already then I’d thought I must drop and cough up every fag I’ve had in my life. Then, right after the ridge, we run into a rainstorm that makes it impossible to make out the incline two meters in front. Two hours we need to sit and wait; while the slope liquefies under our shivering backsides. Conveyor belt helps against rain. </p>
<p> The way down redressed the balance: it proved a chute. Plastered with mud and several more bruises and grazes, the white duvet of mist on the meadow calls up only one thought: sleep! When sun storms up and drives us: off there, through the river, up the adjacent scree and into this copse; where we collapsed. My lungs hurt, every limb shakes. Sun deserted to the Imps! </p>
<p> Waking, the afternoon, we decide to stay for the first. If you can speak of decision where no-one’s in any shape to go on. Thayer still looks like a zombie. And the weeping gash across his cheek apparently isn’t the only injury: there’s a patch round his wrist that looks like scraped off, or gnawed away; a dark bruise marks the entire right of his aging body. Don’t ask: we’ve been through a river and that man doesn’t know shame. Same for that ex-father: decency overridden, he sticks to the traitor At. All. Times. </p>
<p> Also when Thayer starts processing the sordid belt. Cut, punch holes, force rusty pieces of wire through the sides of the folded strips. ‘Gainst the cold’ he mutters, while the air whirrs; while Imp sun sweeps sparsely wooded slopes, casts searchlight into rifts and funnel-like caving-ins and makes ferns and men give off a sickening smell. Zisah calls him a mad ol’ seamstress. Hours later, the mockery sticks even in his throat: chafed and covered in cuts, Thayer’s hands bleed; pulling tight, rusty metal cuts into raw flesh—he keeps on. Till dusk. Till nine of the tube-like pieces lie ready. </p>
<p> ‘Oh, body bags!’ DumpKing beams on his return; Thayer looks up with a desperate little smile. ‘No, Bowl.’ he murmurs. ‘Just provisional; ‘gainst the cold.’ </p>
<p> The evening we sit in a cave; crammed round a small fire over which Obry chars the first meal to be in two days: snake. One wretched blue thing that inhabited this hole before us. Discovering, a Kurtzen shrank back; DumpKing plunged. He crushed its head underfoot; Riaksh and Bran still refused to lift a pale finger. That about sealed it with any hopes you’d pinned on their eternally wrinkled foreheads: these two are no wise guides that would lead us safely through the wild; only two of nine misplaced city kids, yearning QuickSnack, air conditioning and a bug-free condo. </p>
<p> Now, the traitor and his guard stare at the moons. I steal away for a fag. On return, Thayer gives me a glimpse and a whisper. ‘You should share.’ ‘Try teach me morals? <em>You</em>?’ He looks down. ‘Comrades share. … May be your life assurance.’</p>
<p>I pass. It’s obnoxiously cold. I’m wrapped in his shirt, like every night, and look forward to every additional layer—his hands are dressed in rags.</p>
<p> Where’s now the barve? Where the torturer and arrogant conspirator? He looks down when our eyes meet; you don’t hear, but I saw today how he cries. Is it all show? Cosmic Balance, manifesting in one and the same? He’s an odd habit of turning coats just when his side's gaining the upper hand. I don’t know what to think. Under stars’ light, the valley lies quiet. </p>

<p><strong> Day Three.</strong></p>
<p> Till this morning. Finally sun creeps up, as the valley echoes with rumble. Spying down: four hoverbusses push through the ground mist. Dirty old crates; full of workers. Two hours later, the return of the first, mammoth transport. So Obry was right: BakOr C! I still can’t believe—one should think there was a fence, warning signs or <em>something</em>! But no! Bakur Mining obviously doesn’t reckon on sentients to cross the foothills by Shank’s pony! Now here… </p>
<p> – she pulled the gnawed on stylus and resumed – </p>
<p> Now here we sit: starving and stinking, directly above the main corridor between Salis D’aar and the nearest active mining! The entire area one contaminated stretch of former opencast, no more than twenty minutes flight north of our bombed out capital! And all Thayer mutters is: ‘Good.’ ‘Good!?’ ‘Yes. A busy, noxious spot right under their nose; some luck, they may not suspect.’ I explain the long-term effects of heavy metal; he draws the short-range of E-11s and rouses the rabble to go fishing! </p>
<p> ‘Then’s then, now’s now: we won’t live to see, save we risk!’ Return of the paroler! Now I know how he incited half of our army! I tell them of the death of fish there was, of the cases of growth and two-headed issue. Our giant shrugs. ‘I’ve no issue with growth; and I won’t issue.’ ‘How so sure?’ ‘I work at the Dump, lady; that’s where they make sure.’ Well gnardly! I <em>had</em> still planned on children! And now? There’s a cobalt hue in the fern, the needles above; heck, even those cackling birds’ wingfeathers! And there Thayer sits, next to his all time warder, gazing down like a would-be Zanazi! </p>

<p align="center"> | | | </p>

<p> Matheron scanned the valley. Far down, framed by the crowns’ long cobaltey needles, the river carved a sparkling band. The breeze carried up its roar; needles rustled, and there was a low crackling: cones opened under the midday heat. It smelled of resin. Birds cawed. Then the first spots of colour appeared down at the blue grassy bank: Tuskcat’s red, the Kurtzens’ pale; Obry’s orange that started to whip a rod in the fashion of trolling. It reminded Matheron of the days out with his father: refuge from Mom’s socials. Next to him, he heard Marrjo’s breath. </p>
<p> In the course of these last two days, the sound had become familiar. Like his face. The square outline; brown tone; strong eyebrows over a rounded nose, the sides of which extended a bit so that it looked a little pressed flat. Glimpsing, he could tell smashed gnats from other spots of dried dirt on his cheeks that gradually covered in a scrubby beard. And his eyes. Saddened dark eyes. A wounded look in them before they turned hard; when Marrjo gazed at him. </p>
<p> He had had the morning watch, so by now he had to be dead tired. Still his hand rested near the small holdout –BlasTech HSB 200– that communed with Matheron since he had knelt before the former father of a family. <em>What have you done good? What will you be proud of when your body drops?</em> Many questions; answers to which tended to run down his cheeks. <em> Breathe! Drink in of life while you still have it!</em> Marrjo’s eyes and the small blaster. The small blaster and Marrjo’s eyes. Day and night. They taught you everything you needed to know. </p>
<em> Aside from the Imps’ moves…</em>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>

<p> All of a sudden, Matheron turned round. In sight of the Bowl-wide forest lane in the bracken he frowned, briefly; then scrutinized Cirrian who sat higher up the same rock: feet in bloodied rags, shins green with bruises, a sleek little pad in hand. Her flimsy dress did not cover… </p>
<p> “Picked up any news?” </p>
<p> Involuntarily, her glance stuck to the gash midst of his three-day growth: it had formed scab by now and discharged in yellow. </p>
<p> “… you said we should keep them off.” </p>
<p> Matheron shrugged and gazed back at the valley. “Didn’t think you’d keep to.” </p>
<p> “Well…I didn’t.” Cirrian snorted. “Yet there were no broadcasts.” </p>
<p> “<em>None</em>?” He sounded concerned. “What about the comm? You get any connection?” </p>
<p> “Dead air. All of these past days.” She pulled a face, then started to go over a fissure with a piece of twig. “Why you’re asking? You didn’t want us to call, anyway.” </p>
<p> “Right. Only by now we need a picture of what’s happening; and this calm’s stinking of <em>Moiac.</em>” </p>
<p> “<em>Moiac</em>?” She paused. “A kind of news embargo?” </p>
<p> “Monopoly of Information and Communication: you take out your enemies’ transmitters to impede him in coordinating his forces…” </p>
<p> “You think there’s still fights?” The twig snapped and she threw it. “But they need to communicate, also?” </p>
<p> “Yes, and they’ve encrypted satellites for that; and secured radio towers for their own use. By this, you don’t only battle the military.” </p>
<p> “But?” </p>
<p> “Switch off comms and the ‘net; put off <em>any</em> resistance.” </p>
<p> “No comms and no ‘net, <em>at all</em>!?” Cirrian perched thunderstruck. “Impossible! Sentients would go to the barricades!” </p>
<p> “Wrong.” Matheron glimpsed over his shoulder. “They’d grouse, yes; but then, they’re likely too intimidated to do anything. Why, in many worlds sentients are so used to those means that without they’re like cut from their heads.” He spat out into the bracken. “Also, out on the corridors there’ll be patrols that’ll deal very strictly with everyone who offends a curfew.” </p>
<p> “…and they control what goes on air; to disinform and suppress further…” Her voice petered out in the roar of the river. “On the other hand: under such circumstances, sentients would <em>know</em> that all that is broadcasted <em>is</em> Imperial propaganda!” </p>
<p> “True. That’s why you’d rarely keep your Moiac for more than a few days: once all open resistance’s crushed, you’d return the net… as a bait…for everyone who is bold or ignorant enough to communicate something you dislike…” </p>
<p> Birds cawed. Half a meter further, the gleaming blue beetle lay incapacitated on bulging deck wings: it must be millions of tiny ants that ate up its guts; while iridescent legs still quivered. Cirrian swallowed. </p>
<p> “There’s no way ‘round?” </p>
<p> “Kas tulisha abia al port.” Turning, Matheron found both her’s and Marrjo’s eyes upon his. “Chaos opens the door to opportunity. We’ll stay alert and get our boots in.” Looking down, his glance brushed her bare feet… </p>
<p align="center"><em> | | | </em></p>

<p><em>Sun glared down from over the right part of the opposite ridge.</em></p>
<p><em>Another train full of ore had hovered down the valley and all at once there was plenty: from two sessions, the anglers returned with leaves full of palm-sized fish that now, under Obry’s passionate care, sizzled over a small fire and filled the air with an irresistible smell. Cirrian held out the ‘pad, the rest of them hunched over as she showed the broadcast she had picked up minutes earlier…</em></p>
<p> “A press-conference they call it!” Cirrian grumbled anew when the Remnant Warlord shook his fist with the closing address. “All I see is a heap of cant and misinformation!” </p>
<p> “Yeah, right: a new shipyard; full employment—always the same old flarg!” Bowl joined in and drew glances. Next to him, Zisah rolled his eyes. “That’s no <em>promise</em>, man. That Dodonna <em>will</em> build his shipyard.” </p>
<p> “Really! And how’d <em>you</em> know?” </p>
<p> “That I’ll tell: he’s a warlord, right? He’s gotta replenish his fleet.” Zisah pushed back some greasy strands. “And with all ore and engineering, Bakura is like <em>The</em> base to take and expand from; once you squashed the Ssi-Ruuk, of course, and gained control of the people.” </p>
<p> Cirrian and Marrjo shot him a glower; while Matheron still stared at the tiny screen. Tensed, a harsh line in his sweaty and sunburnt brow. To his left, the reporter eyed him suspiciously. “What’s up? Disappointed that you’re not in there?” </p>
<p> “Go back to the close-up of that captain… please.” </p>
<p> “Why?” </p>
<p> “VonToma…” He muttered pensivley. “I recall that name…” </p>
<p> “What wonder.” She did; held out the ‘pad for Matheron who scrutinized the freeze frame’s every detail. Increasingly pale, as if toxic substances took immediate effect. Suddenly, his eyes widened, the dressed right started towards his face, then clenched and sank, clamped by the dressed other. Jaw muscles set, his furious look turned cold. </p>
<p> “Looks like a quite ring in your wetware.” Zisah arched a brow; Cirrian, as well, observed him irritatedly. “What is up <em>now</em>!? What can milking be worse than what already happened!?” </p>
<p> “A man who has many years of experience in directing death squads.” </p>
<p> “Well that’d make two of you, no?” She glared and snatched back her ‘pad. “Or how… would you characterize the relationship between yourself and that… <em>Captain</em> VonToma?” </p>
<p><em> If that’s Wu, I’d say…</em> “He dropped the soap and I bent.” </p>
<p> Bowl and Zisah exchanged a grimace; Matheron stared at the bracken, his mind’s eye browsing the stack of execution orders NRI Lieutenant Navin had handed him after most of her team had been eliminated in yet another move of Thrawn’s nine men’s morris. <em>VonToma, VonToma, Lt Rinehart VonToma…</em> The ever same signature; the names of those liquidated merely needed to be added at the executioner's leisure: carte’ blanches to kill.<em> Now, I’m having your face!</em></p>
<p> “So… he’s been your client?” Under Cirrian’s scrutiny, Matheron took a deep breath… then shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s dangerous, at any rate. And you…,” he glanced at Bowl and Zisah. “…are likely both right: yes, that Dodonna wants build that ‘yard and yes, whatever he promises right now is just sedation—while VonToma sees to a purge. He’ll try to establish structures that shall ‘keep the citizens in line’. Only then, the full extent of the maw will become apparent.” </p>
<p> “But then we must do something! Go back; fight; make them aware!” Cirrian straightened and looked round about. “He needs workers? So if the masses stand, what can he do?” </p>
<p> “I like your thinking. Unfortunately, most Imperials do <em>not</em> mind the use of automata…” </p>
<p> “You mean… he would…?” </p>
<p> “Yes.” It came tired. “Apart from production, robots are cheaper than sentients: they work more efficiently, make no demands and obey without questions. That’s why they’re all so fond of their clone armies.” Looking round, he grimaced. “If revolts get too extensive for Dodonna to control… he might consider a final solution.” </p>
<p> The round fell silent. Only Anissya went on picking seeds off a cone. Wind stroked the crowns, blended resin into roast fish; that had abruptly lost much of its fascination. </p>
<p> “So… you’re kinda sayin’ we’re farkled?” </p>
<p> Matheron sat still. From the valley, hovering thunder announced the return of the third transport. Empty now, still sounding massive. He thoughtfully looked round about. “No.” With a glimpse at Marrjo he stood up slowly. “The fish is ready. Eat. We’ll need all strength.” </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>

<p><em> One full transport later…</em></p>
<p> In a small yet much more composed circle they sat amongst the boulders, where noon’s bustle had flattened the undergrowth to a little clearing. Zisah still savoured the last, tiny end of the halved cigarettes Cirrian had dealt out, Bowl sprawled on a rock, the others leant against trunks or preferred to squat instead: uncomfortable with the trails of big, bluish ants that tirelessly schlepped needles, seeds, bag; some of which still wriggled… </p>
<p> “…and with this, every minute matters.” </p>
<p> Pensively, Matheron stretched the cloth of his dressed hands. “So… we’ll work with a double pak on our blaster. One, Cirrian will contact a collegue and organise that transmitting speeder. Thanks to some exclusive rights they bought the last season…” </p>
<p> “Flarg on those private …” “Sh!” “What!? Shockie’s gotta remain free!” </p>
<p> “You’re right, Bowl. Anyhow, this van… is equipped with rudimentary coding, that our comm specialist, Zisah, will see to enhance. He’ll also set up a private radio comm network that’ll enable us to communicate outside the tapped channels. Anyhow, even this will <em>not</em> be <em>secure</em>.” </p>
<p> “And whatcha want air?” </p>
<p> “All the info <em>we</em> have: what they plan; do; what really goes on.” </p>
<p> “Good morning, Bakura!” Bowl smirked. </p>
<p> “Yeah! Hi, this is Radio Rebel, live from salsa ‘n giblets.” Zisah laughed quietly, then broke off under Marrjo’s gaze. Matheron glimpsed at the sun. </p>
<p> “Yes. But, sorry to say: time’s ticking. So.. even with all precautions we’ll take: brief transmissions, delayed spreading and all, our hub will quickly become a prime target. And that van is, regrettably, neither armored, nor armed. Therefore we must back camou…” </p>
<p> “And how’d that function if they got radar and satellite surveillance?” </p>
<p> <img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/post_tejha_bay_01.jpg" alt="Tejha Bay - Diving with Cath and Gavin" width="300" height="193" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0" align="left" />Eyeing Obry, Matheron flashed a smile. “Like a ray that’d shoot up, flies only just far enough to vanish from sight and blend back into the ocean ground.” Diving at Tejha Bay—three times, Gavin and him had tried to stay close; once it’d banked right around Cathy. That big ray and her! “Motionless and disguised; you could pass directly above…” </p>
<p> “No sight, no kill.” Zisah nodded like an old hand. </p>
<p> “Right. Or at least it becomes… more difficult. So… what we need for this mission is a pilot who is apt, daring and extremely familiar with the surroundings.” He fiddled a corner of cloth back into the dressing and looked round about… </p>
<p> “I got no speeder.” Bowl shrugged and looked at Obry. “I once manufactured a part for the gears.” “I used to pilot every day; but TIEs mostly.” Zisah gave an awkward grin. “Virtually.” </p>
<p> “No low drag yet. Any more bids?” Matheron looked on; Riaksh and Bran shook their heads. </p>
<p> “I’m out recording.” Cirrian frowned, then scrutinized Anissya who squatted unresponsive and kept on pulling pinnate leaves from a stem of fern. “Didn’t <em>you</em> mention something about a ship?” </p>
<p> The small redhead shot her a glare. “Yes. Just I have no death wish; and <em>I</em> got no dues to pay to this planet.” Her glimpse scraped against Matheron; who lowered his gaze. Cones crackled. A legion of ants glittered among parched needles. On his hand’s dressing, one hairy black fly brushed its frontlegs across iridescent compound eyes. </p>
<p> “Yes, I can pilot.” He drank in the resinous heat. “No ray; little idea of the territory. If no-one’s better though—” </p>
<p> To his left, Marrjo took a deep breath and straightened. “Me.” </p>
<p> “You?” Matheron eyed him in surprise. </p>
<p> “I worked for an express courier; also attended to the surroundings. So I know the area pretty well…” He peered at Bowl, Obry. “…and they can beat you up, anytime.” It came solemn; Bowl’s nod as an assurance. When Matheron glanced nback at the former father of a family, their eyes met. Marrjo’s eyes. Saddened, dark.. and demanding. Matheron clung to them for a long breath; then swallowed and nodded also. </p>
<p> “Now… that brings us back to pak two: as said, to really bug them, we must capture more than one; that’s why we need the support of the remaining forces. In fact, exactly those units that are <em>not</em> currently in the Imps’ focus but managed to withdraw and hide—what makes it … a bit tricky to get in touch.” </p>
<p> “Nice euphemism.” Zisah snorted. “If they hold silence and sit in some other forest…” </p>
<p> “Yes.” Matheron pensively scratched a midge bite. “However, they need to see which way the wind’s blowing, so they’ll retrieve incoming, as well.” </p>
<p> “Then all we’d need is a comm number.” </p>
<p> “Of one who stands loyal, lives, happens to have his private comm in pack and check it once in a while; all of which we can’t learn at the directories. So, has any of you got connections?” </p>
<p> Needles rustled. Bowl and Obry looked at each other while Anissya kept picking the stem to pieces; and plucked a new one. “Not all at the same time.” Zisah scanned one by one. Riaksh fidgeted; gave an insecure glimpse at Bran who fixed him in a scowl. One after the other, all glances focussed upon them. </p>
<p> “Now?” Bowl’s bass rolled from the rock. </p>
<p> Riaksh swallowed. “My brother…. He’s in the army.” </p>
<p> “And with the loyal ones?” Matheron scrutinized them both. “Did he mention anything, these past weeks?” </p>
<p> “He says… army in the city…’s like removing slivers with axe.” </p>
<p> “That’s what Senator Quardom said.” Cirrian eyed him searchingly. “Something else? He said anything about Thayer?” </p>
<p> Riaksh chewed his lip; uneasily glanced back and forth between her, Matheron, and Bran whose glare became yet more piercing. Opposite of them, Bowl leant back on his rock and yawned. “Come on, out with it! But what pitiful wimps are ya?” Bran hissed something, then jumped up. “He says: Thaye’s treacherous sentient with no brain!” Ready for battle, the tall Kurtzen glowered about. Birds cawed. The pines crowns rustled. Slowly, Riaksh got up as well. </p>
<p> Out of the brook’s glugging, Zisah started to chortle. Quietly at first, then louder as his glance followed Cirrian’s: mouth turned up, eyes a little amused, Matheron looked hilariously un-composed. “Really.” He snorted with a half grin. “I’ve never been more relieved…” Pausing, he scratched around the gash. “And he’d speak that dialect of yours, too?” </p>
<p> Warily, the young Kurtzen glared round about, then tilted his wrinkles. “Why?” </p>
<p> “Os tulisha.” Matheron gave sidelong glint at Cirrian and Marrjo, and his lips cracked up with a grin. “This, would be our door.” </p>
<p> </p>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Salis D’aar, the next morning–

The convoy of speeder trucks nosed their way through the streets of Bakura’s capital city, winding past wreckage and debris that had yet to be cleared as well as long lines of Bakurans waiting to go through the numerous check points. As the convoy approached each station, troops would forcibly clear a path for the trucks.

Within each truck, under heavy guard, were the persons taken from last night’s security sweep. Riding in an old Sorosuub V-19 speeder at the head of the column, Rinehart craned his neck back to count the trucks in grim amusement once again. The Imperial had told Yvies to come up with a list of suspects; it seemed that the Bakuran had merely taken whole sections of the Salis D’aar communication directory as his “Enemies List”.

Not that the roundup didn’t achieve its intended goals; in fact, it succeeded admirably. And Yvies, despite a sincere belief in his own abilities and reputation, had demonstrated to Rinehart that he still had a few things yet to learn.

For instance, the Bakuran had wanted to smash down the suspects’ doors with a battering ram, but Rinehart had vetoed that tactic. Instead, the ISB officer had merely strode up to the portal and pounded on it fiercely, loudly demanding entrance. Just before the occupants fearfully admitted them, Rinehart showed Yvies the results of his tactics: Infrared images taken with his electrobinoculars of the nearby residences, revealing neighbors surreptitiously but nervously watching from their windows.

“You see, my dear colleague,” Rinehart remarked to Yvies as the family of Senator Peiron was taken into custody, “the populace will grow nervous as twilight falls, be woken from their slumbers in a cold sweat whenever they hear a speeder stop in front of their homes, awaiting with sheer terror that fateful knock on their door. And if they hear their neighbors being taken away, they will ask, ‘Will I be next?’”.

“It would seem an effective technique, Captain VonToma,” Yvies admitted. “You have achieved results using these tactics before?”

Rinehart showed the Bakuran a cold, humorless smile. “We’ll pay this neighborhood a return visit tomorrow night. By daybreak of the following morning, we’ll have a line of informers who just can’t wait to sell out their neighbors, all in the hope that they’ll be the last ones arrested.”

Yvies grimaced. “Still, I wish we had been able to nab Peiron here tonight. I don’t buy his family’s story that he was late on his way to the Senate building before it was assaulted, and they have no idea on his current whereabouts.”

“Interrogate them if you so desire, Yvies. Peiron’s not my target, and his family’s fate is of no concern to me.” Rinehart fastened the Bakuran with a gimlet eye. “Just be sure that when you’re finished, you clean up after yourself.”


Rinehart grinned slightly as he recalled that last exchange with Yvies, then looked over at the Bakuran, riding in the rear seat with him. The man was muttering softly to himself as he consulted a datapad, going over the voluminous prisoner list. Right now, the only thing Rinehart was thinking about was stretching out and catching some–

“Driver, pull over!”

Yvies looked up. “What is it?”

“That,” Rinehart answered, and pointed.

The former head of the BSA looked up. Hanging from a flagstaff were two flags–one, the banner of Bakura and the other, the standard of the New Republic. Both flags were smoke-stained and shot through, and fluttered limply in the slight morning breeze.

“Arden High School,” Yvies sneered. “I should have known. Nothing but a cabal of radicals here, corrupting our youth with dangerous ideas. I’ve wanted to blacklist most of the faculty here since before the arrival of the Ssi-Ruuk.”

Rinehart signaled a troop carrier over, then ordered the rest of the convoy to proceed to the Imperial garrison. “Then perhaps we should pay a visit, Yvies, and make our displeasure known.”


Haiman shepherded his young charges along toward the hastily called assembly, still puzzled over the somewhat frantic tone of the message relayed to him by Principal Alderson. The student aide who had brought word of the assembly looked pale and frightened, but would reveal no further details. In any event, the students in Haiman’s home room class looked upon the distraction as a lark, a welcome break in what had been a dreary experience these past few days.

“Ervyll,” Haiman called out when he spotted the principal hovering near the main entrance to the school. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The elderly principal was visibly worried. “Wiliham, please! We have to get outside! There’s no time for questions!”

Exiting the building, Haiman immediately felt a sense of unease. The professor could see Imperial naval troopers moving about the school’s front lawn, herding the students into sullen groups. And over by the flagpole, a man in a cream colored tunic with black trousers. VonToma!

Two troopers succeeded in cutting off the lock off the flagpole, then untied the halyards. As Haiman watched, a fourth man joined the trio at the flagpole. Morgan Yvies! Another traitor of our people!

Yvies stepped forward. “Fellow citizens! The benevolent hand of Admiral Dodonna has lifted the yoke of an arrogant and exploitive planetary–and galactic government–from our necks.”

As Haiman watched, a naval trooper dragged Riona forward. Yvies smiled and cupped the girl’s chin in his hand. “And we shall also put an end to this Coruscanti-centric designed system of education that conditions and enforces upon you a sense of inferiority.” As Yvies released his hold upon Riona, the girl scuttled back to her classmates, badly shaken and on the verge of tears.

“Principal Alderson,” Rinehart now announced, “would you come forward, please?”

The elderly man shuffled forward, fearfully mumbling an excuse about the disappearance of the school’s porters, but the Imperial seemed to be unconcerned with that. Instead, Rinehart’s eyes took on an evil glint.

“As principal of this school, I give you the honor of hauling down these flags.”

Alderson swallowed nervously, then gazed skyward. A fresh breeze caught the banners, making them snap smartly in the wind. His body beginning to shake with fright, Alderson looked at the Imperial and shook his head in refusal.

Rinehart said nothing, but merely reached for the halyards and offered them to Alderson. The elderly man clasped his hands behind back, his lips trembling.

“Principal Alderson,” Rinehart purred dangerously as he began to form the halyards into a noose, “if you do not haul down those flags, you will hang in their place.”

Alderson shook his head in refusal once more, casting his gaze to the ground, unable to meet the Imperial’s piercing glare. Rinehart suddenly and viciously placed the noose around Alderson’s neck. The man struggled desperately, but several blows from the Imperial forced him to acquiesce.

As Haiman watched, rooted in place by shock and horror, a lithe figure darted out to attack the ISB officer. Seon!  His struggles were in vain, however, as one of the naval troopers savagely whipped the boy with his blaster pistol, sending Seon to the ground in writhing agony.

Finally moved to action, Haiman rushed to Seon’s aid, trying to provide what aid and comfort he could. “You contemptible,” Haiman snarled at the Imperial, but the ISB officer reached down and pulled the professor to his feet. Holding the teacher by the front of his jacket, Rinehart bared his teeth at Haiman before brutally shoving him away.

“For the last time, Principal Alderson,” Rinehart growled.

“Ervyll,” Haiman pleaded in a voice choked with anguish, “haul down the flag.” The brave words of the day before; how they seemed to wilt in front of this manifestation of evil. How costly Liberty seemed, if the price was a dear friend and valued colleague! “I speak to you in the name of every student and teacher here on this campus.”

Alderson, his eyes brimming with tears, shook his head and closed his eyes to await the inevitable. The rope grew taught, the noose tightening around the principal’s neck as the two naval troopers hauled on the halyards vigorously. A great wail erupted from the gathered students and teachers, most burying their faces in their hands. Some were sick to their stomachs, while others fainted. Haiman could only stand where he was, hands balled in a helpless rage. Seon, coming to, looked up to see  Principal Alderson hanging lifelessly from the flagstaff, the flag of Bakura his funeral shroud.

Rinehart whirled round, glaring at the weeping youths. “From this point on, this institution is now under the edicts of the New Order!”


Tessa Manchisco Memorial Auditorium, Arden High School–

Wiliham Haiman’s chin dropped to his chest as Begard, commanding the detachment of troops Rinehart had tasked to garrison the school, began yet another vitriolic tirade, haranguing the assembled students and a number of–personally selected by Morgan Yvies–the school’s professors. Haiman could only shake his head. How could a Bakuran so willingly turn on his own people? So willingly collaborate with a diabolical figure like VonToma?

VonToma. The one-time Imperial governor, Wilek Nereus, had displayed sadistic inclinations, but Haiman doubted if he had ever seen a man with as repellent a personality as that of the ISB captain. The Imperial lacked any trace of conscience or moral principles–

“Professor Wiliham Haiman.”

The Bakuran looked up. Begard–an Eriaduan rat in human form if there ever was one–was motioning for him to approach the lectern and speak. “I’m quite sure,” the Imperial collaborator said, “that your students are eager to hear your denunciation of the criminal Ervyll Alderson.”

His jaw set, Haiman rose from where he was sitting and strode to the lectern. He looked out at the youths, many of whom were still in a state of shock over Principal Alderson’s horrific execution, and spied the students from his sociology class, staring at him hopefully.

“All of you await my words,” Haiman began. “ You know me and are aware that I am unable to remain silent. At times, to be silent is to lie. For silence can be interpreted as acquiescence. And yet–”

Haiman paused, replaying the image once again in his mind: Ervyll Alderson, too terrified to utter a word, yet refusing to comply with VonToma’s orders to haul down two flags–The flag of their home, and the flag that represented the best and greatest hope for all beings in the galaxy. Ervyll Alderson died for that, while Wiliham Haiman all but let it happen. Another chance; if I only had another chance . . .

“And yet silence,” Haiman continued in a choked voice, “may give us a last measure of dignity in the face of those who would strip it from us.” The professor turned to Begard. “I want to comment on the speech, to give it that name, of Lieutenant Begard’s” he said, his voice rising. “Let us waive the personal affront implied in the outburst of vituperation against us Bakurans, human and Kurtzen alike. I was, and most of you were, born on Bakura. The Lieutenant, whether he likes it or not, was born on Bakura as well. But let it be said without any undertone: He is a collaborator. So is Morgan Yvies.”

As Begard sputtered in stunned outrage, Haiman went on: “Unfortunately, there were all too many collaborators beforehand. And soon there will be even more if the Cosmic Balance is not righted. It pains me to think that a specimen such as our Lieutenant Begard would attempt to dictate the pattern of mass psychology. But it would not surprise me if our collaborator would attempt to seek ominous relief from his guilt by causing pain, mutilation, and death around him.

“Admiral Dodonna desires to create Bakura anew, a negative creation in his own image and likeness; you’ve all seen what sort of evil men will create that society, and what vile methods that they stoop to. That is the face of the Empire: Destruction, terror, and death!”

Begard could contain his fury no longer. Nearly inarticulate with rage, the soldier rushed up to the professor and seized him by the collar of his Telaan suit. Shaking an armed blaster pistol in Haiman’s face, Begard managed to shriek, “Traitor! Death to the intelligentsia!” The twelve Bakuran auxiliaries standing guard primed their rifles.

Undeterred, Haiman shook free of Begard’s grasp, and began punctuating his words with his fists. “This is the temple of the intellect, and I am its high priest! It is you who profane its sacred precincts! You will win, because you have more than enough brute force. But you will not convince! For to persuade, you would need what you lack: reason and right in your struggle. I consider it futile to ask you, Begard, to think of Bakura.”

Finished, the professor dropped his arms to his sides, as if to say, “It is done.” Begard, his face a mask of hatred, stepped back and deliberately took aim at Haiman.

“No!”

A solitary figure rushed the stage, clambering up on it so as to place herself in front of Haiman.

“Riona!”

“Lieutenant Begard, don’t shoot Professor Haiman! Please, I beg of you,” the teenager pleaded, while simultaneously pushing him toward one of the side exits.

Begard’s pistol wavered, then the soldier lowered his weapon. “That’s right, Haiman,” he shouted as Riona hustled the professor away. “Run and hide behind children. But we’ll get you! If not tonight, then tomorrow! Your days are numbered, Rebel!”

Whirling back on the rest of the students, Begard announced, “As for the rest of you–”

Seon, Xofer, and Toob slowly stood up, hands clenched into fists.

“You three. I did not give you permission to rise.”

“The liberty of a people,” Seon began, as other students started to rise in solidarity, “depends on how expensive it becomes for an oppressor to break its spirit.”

“All of you, sit down!” Begard shouted as other students and professors began to repeat the mantra. “Guards, seize those ruffians!”

At that instance, the students attacked.


“That was a courageous thing of you to do, Riona,” Haiman was telling his rescuers when a commotion from the auditorium caused the two to look back. “What in blazes?”

The portals burst open, students and professors pouring out, let by Seon. Seon, who was bellowing at the top of his lungs and waving a blaster pistol. The same pistol, Haiman realized, that Begard had been brandishing at him only a short moment ago. Others carried the blaster rifles and pistols that the guards had carried, some still smeared bright red with blood.

“By the original light!” Haiman yelped. “Seon! What have you–”

“I’ve struck the first blow for liberty!” the youth answered proudly as he marched along, eyes ablaze with fervor. “Join us, Professor! Where you lead, we’ll follow!”

“All of you, you realize what’s going to happen?”

“We do. But you said we are free to choose which path we take. And we choose the path of resistance!” Seon paused. “But even if we fail, it will be a far better thing than to let the Imps stand on us with their boots on our necks. Bakurans, and the Galaxy, will remember what we are about to do.”

Haiman stopped in his tracks while the mob of students swept on past him. Riona give the professor an uncertain look, then joined her classmates with a resolute step. Resist or tolerate. In that instant, Wiliham Haiman, Professor of Social Sciences at Arden High School, made his decision.


Sprawled out on the extra wide bed, Rinehart VonToma was just drifting off to sleep when his comlink buzzed insistently. Forcing his bloodshot eyes open, the Imperial fumbled for the device before finally managing to answer it.

“VonToma,” he said through a yawn.

“Operations Center, Sir. There seems to be a situation developing. Playing back recordings now.”

Rinehart sat upright in his bed as he listened to the frantic transmission. “This is Outpost Drax! Emergency! Request immediate reinforcement! Repeat–”

The Imperial flung back his bedclothes as the transmission ended in a scream, then static. Rinehart was hurriedly dressing as the Operation Center fed in another transmission. “. . . Outpost Zeta . . . under attack . . . Urgent–” Again, the transmission ended in static.

“Ops Center! Do we have a location where those outposts are?” Rinehart shouted into his comlink as he buckled on his gunbelt, a sick sensation in his gut as he anticipated what the answer would be. “What’s the primary reference point on the grid?”

“Uhh, our files show it to be Arden High School, Sir.”

Rinehart swore. “Minimal manning at all remaining checkpoints. Have all available troopers and combat vehicles rally at HQ. Stand by"–Rinehart gritted his teeth–"stand by to request additional troops from Admiral Dodonna.”

“As ordered, Sir.”

Rushing from his apartment suite, Rinehart keyed his comlink to another channel. “Yvies! Get your ass down here! Now!”


“Take cover!”

Haiman and the rest of the surviving freedom fighters hit the permacrete as another energy blast sizzled into the makeshift barricade. Blazing fragments spattered against the defenders–there were so few left now!–before Toob risked a quick glance over the parapet.

It had been a valiant effort. The students and professors of Arden High had swarmed out from their campus and fell upon the nearest military checkpoints and outposts with a vengeance, killing or routing the defenders, though at a fearful cost. Still, the students' act of defiance had inspired their fellow citizens: Meat cutters from a butcher shop, after passing out knives to the students, had led assaults brandishing their meat cleavers; public works employees opened the sewers and communication tunnels to the freedom fighters, allowing them to bypass the Imperial lines of resistance; hoverbus drivers who crashed their vehicles into enemy trucks without regard for their own lives.

But the superior firepower of the Imperials eventually began to tell; blaster rifles were of little use against repulsortanks, and the freedom fighters’ supply of captured grenades had quickly been exhausted. The Imperials–Haiman had momentarily spotted VonToma directing one such attack–even used tracked vehicles in their assaults, deliberately crushing defender and wounded alike under their treads.

And now the jaws of the Imperial trap were beginning to shut, to encircle the freedom fighters so that they could be ruthlessly exterminated. If we can hold out a bit longer, Haiman thought grimly, perhaps enough can still escape . . .

“Riona!” the professor shouted, gesturing wildly. The girl was rushing to aid a wounded comrade, in full view of the enemy. “Get down!” Too late; a bright green energy bolt caught Riona between the shoulder blades, and the girl fell lifelessly to the permacite.

A trio of soldiers appeared at the barricade. Toob, blaster pistol depleted, clubbed down the first with an alloy spar before he was cut down in turn. Haiman seized the fallen soldier’s blaster, but too late to save Xofer. The remaining pair of soldiers had vaulted the parapet and drove their bayonets into the male students, then flung the dead youth aside.

Haiman, disregarding some long ago militia training, fired from the hip, avenging Xofer by killing his assailants with a hail of blaster fire. Who was left?

“Professor Haiman!”

“Seon! Elleu!”

Seon looked devastated. “Professor Haiman! I’m sorry! I–I’ve–”

Haiman spared a quick look over the barricade, then faced the two youths. “Seon, there’s still time. Get Elleu to safety. I’ll stay here and hold the Imperials off.”

“No, you can’t! You’ll be–”

“Killed? Somebody has to stay behind. We’ll never make it if we try to escape together.” Haiman looked down. “I’ve had a good run, but you two still have your whole lives ahead of you. Now go!”

Seon, tears streaming down his face, dropped a spare power pack at Haiman’s feet, then grasped Elleu hand and started to pull her away.

Elleu resisted, breaking free and clutching at the educator. “No! Professor, you can’t!”

“Elleu, stop it!” Haiman shouted, but his struggles to free himself of Ellue left him fatefully exposed. An Imperial blaster fired twice, and the professor was struck first in the shoulder, then the hip.

Trying to ignore the smell of roasted flesh, Seon dragged Haiman to cover while Elleu screamed hysterically. Groaning, the professor struggled to sitting position, cradling the blaster rifle in his lap. Abruptly, he pointed it at Seon and Elleu. “I told you,” Haiman hissed, “get out of here! Now!”

His jaw set, Seon raised his pistol over the parapet and fired off a half dozen wild covering shots, then grabbed Elleu by the arm and took off running. The girl, still in tears, didn’t resist.

Using his good leg, Haiman pushed himself up into a firing position on the barricade. The pain from his wounds was almost unbearable, but he had to remain fighting as long as he could. Seon and Elleu had to be given as much time as possible . . .

A repulsortank hove into view, bearing down on the barricade, gray uniformed troopers at a trot behind it. Haiman opened up with his rifle, the tank returning fire with its blaster cannon . . .


Troopers shoved the last of the insurgents they had captured toward the rest of the prisoners, then leveled their blasters at the group. The guards’ commander surveyed the scene with satisfaction, then noted the approach of a landspeeder. That worthy quickly snapped to attention when the vehicle pulled up and Rinehart VonToma and Morgan  Yvies stepped out.

“Is this all there is?” Rinehart asked.

“A few escaped earlier on, Sir. We’re hunting them down as we speak.”

Rinehart nodded. “Line the prisoners up in rows. Yvies?”

The Bakuran moved forward, stalking along the ranks of captured insurgents. “Vann  Prithann,” he snarled, grabbing the maintenance worker by his coveralls and jerking him out of line. “Carnot Folenway,” Yvies said, identifying the president of Arden High’s student government. Calle Loess, a leader in Salis D’aar’s public employee union was singled out as well, the woman joining the growing batch of prisoners that Yvies had identified.

At the rear of the formation were the wounded and dying. Yvies pushed his way through the captives, standing over one who was grievously injured, and tended to by a hoverbus driver. “Please, have mercy,” the woman begged. “He’s badly hurt.”

Ignoring the female, Yvies reached down and hauled the barely conscious figure to his feet. “Wiliham Haiman,” he spat. “Take him away. Take them all away!”


Strapped to a litter, Haiman felt a burning sensation in his arm as an Imperial medic administered a stimulant to him. Opening his eyes, the professor focused on the ISB officer glowering at him, a leering Morgan Yvies to his rear. “Him first,” VonToma ordered.

Carnot Folenway was dragged away, the youth crying out for his mother as he was stood in front of the firing squad. The troopers fired at VonToma’s signal, the Bakuran student crumpling into a heap.

Haiman felt himself being lifted up, and he stared blearily at the sky as two other prisoners detailed for the duty carried him into position. The two captives leaned Haiman up against a wall, then fled out of the line of fire.

“Wiliham Haiman,” Rinehart intoned. “You are guilty of treason against the Empire. You are condemned to death, the sentence to be carried out immediately.” The Imperial officer raised his arm.

Haiman looked upward, focusing on the beautiful sky of his homeworld. Took a last, deep breath of her sweet, fragrant air, then gazed steadily at the firing squad. The professor raised his chin proudly, showing not fear, but defiance.

Rinehart dropped his arm, and the soldier’s blasters fired as one, ending the life of Wiliham Haiman, Professor of Social Sciences, Arden High School.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Zak looked down at the journal with weary eyes.  He was not able to catch a wink of sleep all night and the deprivation was visible with the black rings below his eyes.  Uer did not even remember what he wrote during the night, just that his hand did not stop moving.  It was as if something inside needed to get out one way or another.  Seeing as how there was no one around to talk to, the commander simply wrote the words down.  

   His green eyes now started to realize what had been going through his mind.  He was having thoughts of another life in a sense, a life away from the Empire.  Happy that he had not chosen to speak to anyone, Uer continued to stare at what he had written on the datapad.  Well at least he only talked about deserting the service, nothing about going over to the New Republic.  Thoughts like those scared him, but they ran rampant through his mind.

   I think it is time for me to leave.  This war is tiring me, and I am no longer amid friends.  They are all dead or missing.  Tadc and Carter have defected and Soontir is missing.  Phennir is the only original member of the 181st left.  I’ve been the bad guy for too long, that’s not what I want to be remembered as.  The words burned brightly on the blue hued screen, illuminating the area around the table that Uer occupied.  Maybe it was time to move on, his mind certainly thought so.

   The pilot never heard the figure behind him approach, and as a result made no attempt to hide the device in his hands.  In the next moment though, a small cough interrupted Cipher and he quickly moved, thumb exiting out of the program that had been open on the datapad and then shutting the device down.  There was no doubt in his mind that the person behind him had at least caught a glimpse of the text.  Hopefully it was not Dunn.

   Laakim had been looking at the datapad for several seconds, two cups of cafe in his hands.  The pilot’s sharp eyes picked out several words that Zak had written on the pad.  Instantly a smile formed over his face, though it was anything but friendly.  It seemed as though another pawn had come into play, just another way he could topple Dunn’s power.  So Uer wanted to leave the service.  Laakim did not mind the thought, but would still use it in his quest to take over the Paladins.  How perfect is this?  Dunn can’t control a single pilot, so what makes them think he can control an entire squadron?”

   Cipher twisted his torso to look behind him, arm resting on the back of his chair.  He noticed Laakim standing there with two cups of cafe in his hands and smiled.  “Hey Lak, what’s up?”  The other pilot’s full name felt odd coming from Zak’s mouth, so the young pilot decided that it would be best just to shorten it.  

   After putting on a rather friendly smile, Bal’ak held up one of the cups before speaking.  “Noticed you didn’t sleep all night and so I thought you could use a cup of cafe.”  Zak grasped the warm object in his hands, feeling the heat react with his skin.  It was hot, but in the cold confines of space, it felt nice.

   After smelling the liquid, Uer’s weary eyes turned up to look at the other pilot.  “Is it strong?”  He needed something that would burn the mouth of a Rancor.  The sleep was getting to him and the ship was due to arrive in the Corellian system in less than two hours.

   Laakim took a seat on the couch opposite of the lieutenant commander and grinned at the question.  “Let me put it this way.  If we dumped enough of this stuff on Hoth, we could turn it into a second Tatooine.”

   “From barren wasteland to barren wasteland.”  Zak smirked before bringing the rim of the cup to his lips; his head tilting back slightly as he downed a good portion of the brown liquid.  It was indeed powerful, and almost instantly, the pilot felt it kick.  As he pulled the cup away from his mouth though, Uer starting to ponder why Laakim was in the lounge.  There had to be another reason, he could see that clearly on the other pilot’s face as he seemed to glance at Cipher every few seconds.  Finally, the constant stares got to Uer, and so he started to speak a few seconds later.  “So what’s on your mind?”

   Bal’ak’s grin took on more of a sly aspect this time, eyebrow rising in question at what Zak had to say.  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”  This was going to be a fun little game, and Laakim wanted to make sure that this so-called servant of the Empire suffered throughout their entire talk.

   Nervousness set in as Zak’s mind went back to when Laakim coughed.  He had to have seen the words on the datapad.  After all, he was standing a mere foot away from the young pilot.  That meant that he was probably toying with Cipher now.  Still, the lieutenant commander could not be certain that was the truth and so made sure not to mention anything relating to the journal. “My mind?  That’s a scary place.”  He chuckled slightly before continuing.  “I was just thinking about Corellia and the mission.”

   This was going to be an enjoyable conversation.  Not only was Uer choosing his words carefully, but also nervousness was visible in every one of his actions.  To hide another smirk, Bal’ak brought his own cup to his lips.  A long swig of the cafe wiped the response from his face, though it also forced him to stay quiet for a while longer.  Frell, the liquid was potent.  “You were doing that for the whole night?”  He was going to have a tough time explaining that fact.  However, something in his mind told Laakim that Zak would find a way out of the predicament.

   A small shake in his arm forced Zak to take a deep breath before he put the cup of cafe down and tapped his temple with one finger.  “Deep thinker.”  Now he was sure that Bal’ak had seen the screen.  It seemed as though the other pilot was simply trying to trap him.  Cipher did not plan to go down that easy though.  The pilot needed to keep suspicion away from himself until after the mission.

   He was not going to trap his companion and Laakim knew it.  The only way he could do something was to come out completely with what he knew.  No matter what, he trapped Zak.  He could not do anything, for Bal’ak had the power to go to Dunn or even Dodonna depending on what he felt was necessary.  “After all these losses I’m surprised that your young mind hasn’t thought about getting away from it all.”  No smirk that followed the comment, but instead the pilot’s gaze just grew icy.

   Rage coursed through the young pilot’s veins and his fist clenched under the table.  He tried to smile at the comrade, but his lips shook slightly as Zak tried to keep the anger out of his voice.  Did Bal’ak just address him as “young?”  He had seen battle with the 181st since Brentaal IV, and watched a good number of his comrades fall under the cannons of hostile fighters.  Zak had been up against the Rogues and came out alive, something not many imperial pilots can say.  The pilot had survived all of those tours and yet Bal’ak still called him young.  While his body may have been young, the lieutenant commander had been through so much.  His mind was anything but innocent.  “I try not to think about them.”  The pilot stood up and spun on his heel, leaving his cup on the table.  Zak started for the cockpit but stopped at the hatchway that led out from the lounge.  Without even looking back, he spoke.  “Thanks for the cafe.”  

   He wandered down the narrow hall that led to an area he was familiar with, the command center of a starship.  Zak was always able to lose himself in the cockpit, a place where nothing mattered really.  When his father screwed up and when Soontir vanished, Uer took a few extra practice flights just to get his mind off the subject.  It seemed like a good answer to what was currently happening.  

   It was colder in the small compartment, ice forming at the edge of the canopy.  A quiet thrum sounded through the ship, which was a result of the hyperdrive engines slowing for the coming arrival in the Corellian system.  Brightly lit instrument panels lined the walls and illuminated the cockpit with a blue hue.  Information scrolled across their surfaces, providing a pilot with up to the minute details of the expensive freighter.  

   The lieutenant commander was surprised to find no one within the cockpit, but took the left seat without thinking.  It was almost a second nature by now.  Whenever he was on a ship, Uer just had to fly.  He propped his feet up above the instrument panels and leaned back in the cushioned seat with his hands behind his head.  

   He did not know when he drifted off, but Zak woke to bright warning lights and an alarm.  “I got it.”  His groggy response was out of instinct, though Zak’s hands closed around the joystick just as the starship emerged from hyperspace.  The blue and emerald orb below them was a welcome sight, ships descending and ascending into the atmosphere on various routes.  

   “Take it down on the approach pattern I uploaded to the HUD.”  Uer turned his head to the right, noticing Daiman strapping into the right hand seat.  “It leads right into Coronet.  We’ll be dropping into a smaller part of the city.”  It was already sounding like a covert mission.  There was no need to attract attention to the shiny and highly modified starship.  

   Uer nodded in response to the words, hands pushing forward on the control yoke and as a result sending the ship into a dive.  They entered the atmosphere without a hitch, Zak making sure to stay out of the heavy-shipping lanes.  The radio crackled to life, and a ground controller started to guide their starship in, selecting a hangar for their use.  Uer confirmed the location before extending the landing gear and kicking in the repulsors.  Their ship leveled quickly, as if dropping on a cushion of air.  Slowly, Cipher dropped the yacht into their bay, walls growing taller as their altitude decreased.  Five foot clearance on the back side.  Damn this is a tight fit.”  The ship was longer than Zak thought, and he was sure that even an experienced pilot would have trouble landing the craft.

   Still, he was able to keep the ship stable as it descended to the ground, and started the shutdown process soon after.  Daiman vanished into the cabin as Uer switched off various systems.  It took several minutes to go over the post flight checklist, but it was over soon enough.  After that, Zak was back to reality, watching as the ramp descended to the ground.  The four older members of the team vanished down the slope, leaving Uer and Bal’ak at its apex.  There were no words spoken, but Cipher was not taking his eye off the other pilot.  He did not start moving until Laakim was out in front.  There was not a doubt in the man’s mind that the other pilot would stab him in the back at the earliest chance.  As the group finally laid foot on the firm ground, Cipher glanced over at Laakim.  Maybe he was dreaming, but Zak could have sworn that the other man was smiling.  For what reason, Uer did not know and something told him that he wanted to keep it that way.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Corellia was a world rich in natural resources: those of material value, such as timber and ore, but also those of the spirit– or so the locals claimed. Laakim Bal'ak had to admit it was a beautiful world, relatively unspoiled by the last major civil war between his former Empire and the Rebellion.

During their descent to the planet he couldn't help but admire it. The forests were vast and spectacular, the mountains high and jagged, Much of the northern continent was urbanized with spralling cities. The southern continent was covered with flat plains drained by wide, meandering rivers and seas, its rich soil dotted with farms that fed the world. Like all worlds in the galaxy, it carried some scars from past wars, but it was perhaps as idyllic and unspoiled a world as Laakim had ever seen.

He was enjoying it not a bit. He was out of his element, but at least he was among his peers. And with his brief interaction with Zak Uer, he was hoping things eventually will start to develop for him in due time. Still, he had his suspicions with General Kabal, who seemed to be expressionless the whole time as they all stood at the foot of the ramp. Was someone going to meet them? Laakim adjusted the collar to his suit and peered around.

"Mr. Daiman Sirana?" A man with thinning hair approached the group. Laakim subtly watched him. He extended his hand to the entrepreneur. "I was told by Tyrell Dunn to be expecting you. Please come with me. I have made transport arrangements to the trade conference."

Sirana nodded and extended his hand to the others, introducing each one by their secondary names in order to keep the subterfuge intact, and ending it with Traven Dunn.

The man took Dunn's hand and shook it firmly. "Excellent to know the son of Tyrell Dunn!" The man ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "It is good to know all of you. Now if you please…" His hand gestured to the large airspeeder on the landing platform.

As they boarded and finally left the platform, Laakim crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat as the view of Coronet City soared beneath them. His captain and the XO were busy chatting quietly together, while Zak made small talk with the others in his group. Kabal was just being… Kabal. Quiet. Vigilant.

The TIE pilot began to ponder. What had the Admiral been thinking? This wasn't a negotiation, it was political flypaper. Bakura could be taken back by the resistance before they worked their way through this mess. Whatever the case, Laakim found himself determined to succeed. He would show the Admiral what stuff he was made of– that he could be resourceful and cunning on his own. Perhaps he could make contacts behind Traven's back? He only wondered.

Their contact sitting with them conversed with Sirana, quickly shuffled through flimsi's, then picked up a datapad to examine its viewscreen. He flipped the pages to a large schedule display. "There's a party tonight at Tyrell Dunn's estate. All the power players will be there after the conference. Of course, all of you are invited."

"Including me?" Dunn joked.

He smiled. "Why, naturally. I'll introduce you to some of the key people your father knows. Some of them you've already met when you were young, I believe."

"I'm looking forward to it," Traven replied.

"As do I," Laakim interjected.

"Good, then. I assume you have appropriate attire?"

"Of course they do." Sirana answered for them. "If not, me or Tyrell will provide for our guests."

The contact nodded. "There is one other matter: Shall I arrange escorts for your entourage?"

"Escorts?" Traven blinked.

"Yes– a social companion for the evening." He saw the look on Traven's face. "Oh, <I>really</I>, Mr. Dunn! It's simply a matter of appearances. It's easier to make a grand entrance with a lovely woman on your arm. I have a list of women with social ambitions– actresses and models, all women of some sophistication– who would be happy to accompany a young man such as yourself to an event such as this. It would simply be a matter of convenience for both of you."

Traven frowned. "It wouldn't be convenient for me," he said coldly.

It was then Laakim interrupted. "I would like an escort, myself." A sly grin formed on his lips. "I don't mind a pretty woman at my side."

"That's the spirit!" He shuffled his fingers on his datapad. "I already have someone in mind for you. In any case, I will let you know later tonight."

The pilot of the airspeeder could see the tower where the trade conference was going to be held on the far side. The speeder broke off from air traffic and began to make it's descent down to the entrance.

A pleasantly professional smile appeared again on the contact's face. "We're here! Everyone get ready to debark."

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The only sounds filling the apartment at the moment were the steady click-click of the keys for Marsh's computer as he worked quietly, finding and recording the data Moff van Aath had requested him to find.  Personally, Marsh found himself more intimidated by this man in one day than in the years he knew Korran, but that intimidation was intermingled with a respect.  Petra seemed to trust him, so Marsh would also.  And so he kept typing and scanning every holo channel, network, and audio or video byte he could find that gave a hint of information for their situation.

Willem merely sat close to Marsh, his face over his shoulder as he looked as well at the stream of the data pouring in. He was used to reading it, but the code was something a bit more updated then what he was originally used to seeing. He leaned back and stood up straight, a hand on Marsh's shoulders. "Are you finding anything useful?"

"So far I've found a full and detailed blueprint of the hotel they're holding the convention at, a detailed dossier on each registered member, and I've hacked into their CorSec Security channel so we have any warning of problems, sir," Marsh responded with a respectful tone.  "I haven't had enough time to really make any progress, though, yet."

"Keep trying. I know you're good, Marsh, just give me what I need and I'll work with it." He said as he scratched the side of his head. "When you've made head-way into the system tell me. I need to get a secured channel to a fixed location."

"Yes, sir."  Marsh's fingers doubled their speed and the writing on the screen almost became a blur as the technician increased his progress with the same concentrated expression.  There was no hint of the quirky wit von Aath saw earlier, but simple professionalism that reminded him of Petra's own mask.

He took a seat next to Marsh and looked over datapads that held the information on the attendees from Dodonna's sides, not to mention the list of personal escorts that he had Marsh tamper with in order to make sure Petra wound up with one of Dodonna's men. No way would he risk a potential CorSec detective ruining the entire operation.

Suddenly Marsh let out a triumphant shout and pumped his fist in the air.  "Got it!  I own their security system now, and they have no frakking clue!"  His joyful attitude suddenly disappeared as he gave his new boss a sheepish look.  "Uh… sorry, sir.  I won't do that again."


He smiled at that. "Son, let's get one thing straight. I don't really care if you're happy. Yell all you want. Just don't let it get ahead of your work." He smiled. But then that disappeared. "Make sure that their team at least tries to get in smoothly."

"I know Maarco and Petra can slip in easily enough."

"Yessir," Marsh nodded and started tapping again while speaking into the 'com headset he had already on his head.  "Activate audio com."  Willem could hear a deep feminine voice answer, "Audio comlink engaged."  "Call Maarco."  "Calling Maarco."

"Maarco, give me a sitrep." He asked. Maarco's voice filled in the room from the repulsorlift vehicle, saying that everything was normal and alright on his end, and was about to enter the conference. Willem nodded, and made the slash throat sign with his neck at Marsh's direction

"Audio com end," Marsh instructed clearly, and the robotic voice answered to the positive before the comlink ended the transmission.  "I'll keep this channel on priority, sir, so you can connect to it whenever you want.  I'll just add your vocal recognition into the database."

"Thank you." He said, geniunely, impressed by his skills. "Good job, Mister Flick."

"Thanks, sir.  Now, do you want to use a pseudonym for your voice, so it's even harder to spot?"  Marsh looked like a little kid at a candy store, and maybe he was.  This obviously was his passion in life.

"Nah it's fine. I don't even think CorSec's going to find out about this until we're long gone." He said,  patting his shoulder, before he left him to his devices and went downstairs to get a drink. A hard one at that.


The sun was shining, birds were singing, the Golden Sea was glowing, and the day, in a word, was perfect as the speeder flew down the road towards the Jewel of Corellia, the famous city of Coronet.  And inside the speeder, Anton Maarco was sitting next to a furious Nabooan woman, whom he knew to be fully armed in all situations.*

The intelligence ground operative did not say a word, knowing enough about Petra to know she was furious, but he at present did not know why. He gulped, silently, keeping his eyes on the road as the road winded down across the beaches. “Uhhh, so…”

She suddenly exploded in a volcano of words. “Who the hell does he think he is?!  He can't keep his damn word for one frakking mission, now can he?  I'm not some damn concubine that he can simply order around for the frakking Empire!”  Her wrath continued for another ten miles as she kept using vague terms that gave no indication of what she was talking about still.*

He winced as she yelled, continuing onward as he drove on still, the sun beating down on them with the hood down. His face had a worried look, regretting even opening his mouth as they continued.

Finally Petra ran out of steam and simply rubbed her face, looking tired and simply depressed, hugging herself. “Did Aath tell you what my next assignment is?” She asked him quietly.

“Nope.” He said, turning the wheel as the road winded into a forested path. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I don't know much about this mission, except that we're meeting a group of people that are associated with Dodonna, and that we are to help them.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't think he tells us much for a reason”

Sighing, Petra unconsciously pouted and crossed her arms over her chest. “He wants me to be a companion to one of Dodonna's men, on the outside so he won't be lonely during the conference.  And if he blabs about our mission I can kill him later.”  She still sounded bitter

“A companion? What do you mean?” He asked, turning his head for a second before he turned it back, staring straight ahead at the road and refusing to make eye contact with Petra. He still was afraid to get her back on her bad side.

“I dress up, I flirt, and if he wants anything after the party I shut up and spread my legs. “ It was cruder than she had ever talked in front of him, even in the bedroom.  It was a sign that this task hurt her even more than she was letting him know about.

With a sigh, he stopped the repulsorlift vehicle, and he looked over to Petra. “Look, Petra, I know for a fact the good Moff would never send you to have sex with anybody, especially on a mission like this. You gotta stop looking at the act and look at what's beyond it, seriously. You honestly think he wants you to do this? Really?”

She shrugged, looking exhausted. “After everything I've gone through, Anton, I don't know anymore.  I just wish he would communicate with me better.  I don't want to go back to that lifestyle ever again."

“Then why do you think he brought you on this mission?  He said, starting the repulsorlift vehicle back up and driving forward again, along the road.” I know that for a fact that he didn't just bring you along for eye candy. Think about it. What did you do best besides intelligence gathering?

"Well, I also kill people well."  She gave a small shrug, but still looked worried. "I'm concerned about prevention, Maarco.  I feel like I'm stuck under Korran's thumb again."

He smiled. “Put it this way. Would you rather be under Aath's command, or Korren's?” It was rtheortical, as he continued on with his little speech. “I don't think you're going to be under Aath's command for long much anyways.”

Despite her attempt to be unimpressed, his comment piqued her interest.  "Do you know something?" She asked, looking over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I don't.” He said, making a turn and pulling straight forward, towards the city of Coronet that loomed high. “It's more or less a guess because of your line of work, but I really doubt it once we get to Bakura.”

Looking straight at their destination, she sighed softly.  "Maarco, did you mean what you said to me, before?"  She hesitated.  "When we landed on Corellia?"

"Words are merely a convence of feelings, Petra. And unlike some in our line of work I choose to make my words my own feelings." He said, almost cryptically, but pushed his thought out of his mouth with a bit of a smile. "If that answers your question."

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she reached up and pulled her hair out of the neat but drab bun she had put it in, letting it flow around her face with the wind.  "Well, if I'm going to be a companion I guess I'd better look like an appealing one."

"Be ready. Remember your role for the conference." He said as he continued to drive on, the sun now behind a looming building. "I…I…I…gotta get in character meself."

"I'm ready for anything."  She shook her hair loose and looked over at him, her eyes glowing their amber color.  "How do I look, appealing enough?"

He nodded. "Better than what I look like." He said, placing fake opticals on his head for the appearance of looking lowly and unimportant, his hair messy and unruly, truly looking like an assistant.

Smiling a little, she reached over and fluffed his hair a little with her fingers.  "There, now you look perfect for an assistant.  Even Marsh would be green with envy at your look."

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<B>Aboard the Star Destroyer <I>Ravisher</I> above orbit around Bakura…</b>

Time had now passed since the press conference at the Salis D'aar Capitol Building. Bakura's new leader was again aboard his flagship, looking over the report of the recent aftermath filed by Captain VonToma. After his review, he summoned his Captain to a private conference.

The files Dodonna had been given contained several likenesses of a reporter named Tarah Cambel, all of them recent holopics from open sources. She was a petite, platinum-haired woman who, at least in her official appearances, bore only a slight resemblance to the precocious auburn-haired moppet whose likeness had won the hearts of so many back during the Gaeriel Captison campaign.

She was, undeniably, young for the position that she held. One of the holoclips had been particularly disturbing. One of the Admiral's ensigns searched for the file amongst the others in her dossier, found it, and sent it to be shown upon the main holoprojector. The air above the unit filled for a moment with blue static, then resolved into the image of a crowded street. A reporter armed with a microphone– and followed, Dodonna guessed, by a holovideographer– eeled his way through the press and up onto the wide durocrete steps of a looming piece of governmental architecture. Either by accident or by deliberate timing, the reporter reached the top of the steps just as Morgan Yvies emerged from within the building, accompanied by a pair of stormtroopers.

Tarah Cambel stepped forward and extended the microphone, while at the same time deftly blocking Yvies's further progress down the steps.

"Morgan Yvies," she said, "What's your reaction to the incident at Arden High School? Surely, there must be some reasoning behind the massacre that involved innocent students?"

The reporter's holovideographer brought the focus zooming in tightly on Morgan Yvies. In the close up, Admiral Dodonna could see how much the question angered him: The color rose in his fair-skinned face, his eyes darkened, and his full lips thinned.

"What you call a massacre was nothing of the sort!" he snapped at the reporter. "The school was a haven of hiding insurgents and the Imperial army simply was called to stifle any terrorist activity in the building. That is all. No more comments." A stormtrooper's hand suddenly cupped the lens and the feed ended.

Watching the holographed encounter yet again, Admiral Dodonna wished that he knew for certain whether the former head of the BSA's sharp retort had been made in the heat of the moment, or if it had been an intentional provocation thrown out at the first opportunity. He nodded to the ensign and the young officer closed down the projector, then raised the lights with a gesture in the direction of the conference room's sensors.

"This reporter is a danger to us," the Admiral announced, "she could cause more division among the people and this is something we are trying to avoid at all costs. Bad enough this Arden incident is beginning to rumor spread among the Bakurans with hearing VonToma publicly executing a citizen in the open. Did he know how many witnesses could have been recording his actions? And who knows how many are attempting to transmit the feed to the New Republic?"

Captain Ramius Uer of the <I>Ravisher</I> drummed his fingers on the table. "That… wouldn't be good," he said. "It is a good thing our fleet have been continually jamming all comm hubs leading to and from here. But of course, that does not guarantee the fact that someone may sneak past our nets and leak this out."

"Not good sums up my reaction as well," he told Captain Uer after a moment. "This will give more fuel to the insurgent's fire and if anyone even broadcasted it on the Bakuran holovids, it would cause more problems for us."

Dodonna continued. "I have to tell you, Captain, that VonToma is an excellent officer but I think his actions may prove to be more troublesome in the long run. Publicly executing a citizen may prove a point to the Bakurans, but it merely sparks more to join the resistance. No, this world is in grave danger. And I believe that we must take steps to protect it."

"What do you suggest? We can't condemn VonToma for his actions. He is doing his duty." Captain Uer protested.

"There's a lot of things that we can't do until we know for certain who the enemy will be," he said. "Other things, though… we can up the strengths of the battalions. I've already authorized a heavy recruitment drive; I can do that much on my own, by virtue of my position as Admiral. That would keep citizens off the streets and into our ranks. The insurgency then cannot fill their ranks." Dodonna saw that the Captain was nodding as he spoke. He was on his side in this, definitely.

"What about VonToma?" Uer asked. "He may continue his campaign of public executions if left unchecked, although they are effective."

"True," he said. He called up another file. "I am going to have a special unit of storm commandos lead by Lt. Commander Kix Davin to be assigned to accompany VonToma in his duties. They will work alongside him and provide me with reports on his activities. They will be my eyes and ears in this case."

"Do you suppose VonToma will protest to this action?" Uer pondered.

"He has no choice," Dodonna pointed out. "I am in command here. Not Bastion. If he wishes to file a protest to Bastion, he may. But be assured it will not be sent until we have complete control of all comm hubs." He scratched at his beard and smirked.

Captain Uer gave a slow nod. "I see. If that is the case, I will contact Lt. Commander Davin and have him pulled from his duty overseeing Nekessla and our Imperial guest. I have a couple of people I could probably put on that job."

"Good. And get somebody else to start talking with the Bakuran news firms and have this reporter silenced. Find out if Yvies can get someone to… intimidate her."

"I can easily have one of Davin's men to–"

"That would just cause more suspicions to uprise among our citizens," he said. "For now, just contact Davin's unit and have them briefed and sent down as soon as possible before VonToma hangs another…"

Re: Imperial Renaissance

ABY 16, Datunda, 14th of Helona, Day 4: Two Orchards Bunker 11:35

"I need a moment, Captain."

Beaten and ragged, Salto nodded, saluted crisply despite his unkempt livery, turned on a heel and left Kontrak alone.

The old man waited, stern-faced and back straight until the bunker's office door slid shut with a hiss and a dull, metallic clang. Then he stumbled back into the durasteel wall, gasping for breath, grasping for a different reality, a better reality. But reality didn't miraculously shift. General Kontrak didn't miraculously awaken from a feverish dream in which he'd failed and kept failing his people. His guts seized in upon him and liquid anguish began to well in his eyes. Every nerve, every instinct commanded him to scream, to run from the building and find an Imperial leader. VonToma. Captain Rinehart VonToma. He'd remember that name, the face of the butcher on propa-holo-ganda. He'd do perfectly. Or Thayer. Thayer the rouser. Kontrak would prefer getting his hands on either of those two, even above the warlord in orbit. In a pinch, (this was a pinch) he'd even settle for the frakking turncoat soldiers who'd captured him, prevented him from fighting at Captison's side. To kill and to kill until he was, inevitably, thankfully, cut down. The effort in resisting these urges left him sweating, breath coming sharp and short.

Vomit surged up, but he held it back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Anyone with basic human compassion, able to see his pallid, strained face would be concerned. So young, he thought. Innocent. Typical thoughts that had risen and been suppressed or circumvented a hundred, hundred times in the course of his career. Never focused though on his own flesh and blood. Riona.  The doctors had said he and his wife only had about a three-percent chance of conceiving again. She came along anyway, evidently not caring for odds. A muffled groan escaped his throat at the very instant super-heated tears broke free and streaked his weathered face. All dead. All gone. Add to the list. His family was dust and blood, sinking into the streets. He needed a moment.

Kontrak's legs buckled and he sank to the cold floor. Outside, distantly, he heard thunder. Rain coming again. Or maybe more bombing.

No, it's not right for a parent to outlive his children. Oh, Riona. The most gentle of them all. Grey head cradled in yet strong hands, the garral shuddered and convulsed soundlessly. There's no time for this. Stuff the luxury. Work to do.

Captain Salto brought bad news along with a few, trodden refugees. It was about the only kind of news anyone was getting…


12:00

The General was perusing a preliminary report about the latest batch of refugees and movements of his rescue teams. Knuckle rap on the door, he looked up. "Yes?"

It opened, young Corporal Danner entered, head swathed badly in a bacta wrap. "Sir. Captain Salto sent me with someone he thinks you should meet right away."

Kontrak straightened in his chair. "Well, kid. Let em in."

Danner turned, gestured and stepped further in, behind him entered a woman with greying, flaxen hair. Bright blue eyes greeted the garral.

Kontrak stood at once, circled the heavy desk. "Elana," he breathed.

Tears brimmed the woman's eyes and she rushed him, wrapped her arms about him. "Gaiman. I'm so sorry." Choked sobs. Corporal Danner stood to the side awkwardly.

Kontrak glanced at the young man. "My sister," he explained. And gently pushed the woman to arm's length, thumbed away tears on her cheek. "I heard your clinic was demolished."

She nodded. "It was, early in the bombing. But some of us got out. And not without a good portion of our supplies. I can set up a better triage center than what you have."

The General nodded. "I'll put who I can at your beck."

"Good. There are few of us and we can use any extra hands. Even to help keep sanitary is a big thing." She turned to the Corporal. "Lets start with you, lad. That field wrap is a horror."



13:51

"Why don't you quit your bellyaching? Think you're the only one who's been hurt, or lost someone? Typical I'd find you sitting here on your ass while others are helping restore some order!"

The young soldier, a PFC fresh out of basic, continued to sob quietly. His helmet was pushed back, black smudges streaked his face. He hardly seemed to notice the officer standing over him, sneering pitilessly.

Lighting was minimal, powered by low-yield, portable generators. The tunnels were poorly ventilated in this section and the huddling hurt and homeless were beginning to stink. Many were soldiers, but a fair chunk were civilians. All ages, all occupations. They still came trickling in from Salis D'aar and outlying areas, rounded up by Kontrak's scout parties and brought here to shelter. These were the dispossessed.

Those without medical or military training found themselves with little to do early on. This wasn't a good thing, for without something constructive to occupy, the fear and shock wore. There would be bickering, squabbles. And when provocation came, there would be panic. Not a good thing. But it was being tended as efficiently as possible. Colonel Oshad was seeing to organizing the people.

Now, General Kontrak and Captain Salto prowled the corridors, searching out the leader of one of the rescue teams. Comm use was kept strictly tight. They were kicking the dust off more archaic means of communication; laser signals, mirrors, coded messages left in inconspicuous settings. Most of all, legwork.

"Are you listening, pissant? On yer feet or so help me I'll thrash the…"

"That'll do, Lieutenant." Kontrak's voice was a soft growl that carried.

Unaware of the General's approach, the Lieutenant stiffened, spun about shocked and snapped a salute. "Sir!"

Kontrak and Salto passed without further words. The garral made a note to himself to take steps to ensure BAF personnel behaved more professionally in the vicinity of civilians. We all share bunks now.

"The more people we bring here, the higher chance someone will turn us in." Salto's voice was quiet, unassuming as he stated the obvious. "We're taking a big risk with lives already saved."

"We won't fall into the habit of turning our backs." Rescue teams took many precautions, not the least of which was 'hooding' the guided refugees. Salto was right, of course. But any who could be helped, would be helped. There was another fact too, one Kontrak didn't relish but had to accept. Despite the logistical nightmare of supporting the people, added numbers were sorely needed for them to make a dent in the newly established regime. "Keep looking for other pockets. If we get to them before the Imps, that's our goal. We'll develop more fallback measures."

"Keep things decentralized?"

"If one of us falls, we must ensure it doesn't cause a cascade failure for all."

"Keep the fight going." Salto agreed. "There is talk that we put forward in an all-or-nothing offensive. 'Specially amongst the faithful."

"Not yet. That's suicide, Captain. And I intend to win."

"Yes, sir."

"Who's your best intel-gatherer?"

"I'll have to see who's available. Some more soldiers turned back after the schoolyard massacre." Pausing as the General winced, he went on, "I'll have to recheck our roster."

"Pick someone. Their priority will be to learn the fate of our orbital defense fleet. Are they destroyed, did they escape?"

"You think they made it out? Should we contact the Republic?"

Kontrak was grim. "Two dogs ever snapping over us. Yes. We need to ask their help, even beg. Problem is getting word to them if our fleet hasn't already. Sending a distress call is out. We're cut off. We'll probably have to send a ship."

"Tricky. It'll take a ballsy pilot and a hell-pile of luck."

"Keep peeled for such a one."

The duo rounded a corner.  At the end of the corridor a large room was open, cots spread in rows. A small group of soldiers was at the far side, visible through the crowd. Kontrak recognized the team leader he sought among them, still decked in gear and camo. A small congregation of youths huddled outside the chamber, talking in low voices. One mentioned a sociology teacher named Haiman. They were from Arden High. They fell silent at the General's approach, expecting him to pass. But he stopped before them, eyes narrowed to slits. "What were you saying about Haiman?"

The one who'd been talking shuffled back against the wall, blinked nervously. A girl about Riona's age spoke up, "He told us…'The Liberty of a people depends on how expensive it becomes for an oppressor to break its spirit.' Uh…sir."

Thoughts warred. Emotions warred. Face grim, the garral nodded, carried on toward his objective. "We'll make it spendy."



14:30

Kontrak slipped into the bustling triage center to see how things were shaping. Elana had things well organized, making use of all help; floating through the ranks of civilians and soldiers alike, gently giving orders and direction. Seeing her brother, she stopped, came to meet him. "You got the medics we sent?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Can't spare more right now. They're helping the rescue effort."

She nodded. "Certainly." Kontrak appeared to've aged a good decade in the last days and his sister noticed it. "Have you been eating?"

"Just had a bowl of broth."

Elana gave a bitter face. "That stuff barely constitutes a hot meal."

"It's what we have. Rations are short." He looked around, face impassive and nodded. "I'll leave you to your work."

She lifted her voice as he walked away, "They're calling you insurgents, you know."

The garral stopped, back still to her. He didn't laugh. "I don't recognize Imperial government as legitimate. They intrude, we stand for our own. We stand for Bakura."



18:00

Nearly white lips pressed together in exertion as the kurtzen soldier muscled an ammunition crate into line on the storage self. Spatulate fingers splayed out to catch it as it lost balance and teetered. One more shove and it was in place. Sem wiped his brow with a forearm, looked down the row with a barely concealed scowl. Manual labor didn't offend him, quite the opposite. The Corporal was all for everyone pulling their weight; especially in such a time of crisis. No, what irked him was that his particular skills were going to waste. He knew in his heart that the survival of these loyalists would be better served if he were used properly.

A gifted scout and marksman, Sem had made good use of his talents in the BAF, eventually being chosen for sniper school and graduating as a first class shooter. In the chaos of the past few days, however, the Corporal's spotter was killed or otherwise went missing. And due to a seeming endless string of oversights and emergency circumstances, Sem was relegated to ordnance and weapons inventory. Much more predisposed to be out in the action somehow, he had explained his situation to his temporary direct superior–to no avail. Sergeant Evloc wasn't an altogether bad or ignorant sort, but he wasn't about to lose any competent working hands he had under him. He'd sloughed off Sem's requests three times already with hardly an 'I'll look into your duty assignment when I've got a minute.' Since then, Sem had borne the barbs of Evloc's criticism for recon snipers more than once and silently ignored what he took for very subtle racial slurs a time or two. Yet, whether Evloc was a bigot or not, Sem wasn't about to try an end-run around the Sergeant to get out of the predicament. Besides, they were getting things done in the bunker's primary armory. So the kurtzen Corporal decided to grit his teeth and bear it. Things would straighten out.

Sergeant Evloc rounded the corner, peered down the rows of crates of sorted ammo and power packs. "That it for the Merr-Sonn stock?"

Sem nodded, "Yes, sir. I set an older crate aside." He pointed. "I think some of the cartridges have lost their seal."

"I'll have it scanned. Chow's ready. At the bunks."


Chow was a bowl of runny stew and hunk of bread being handed out by volunteers. But it was hot with chunks of meat and gladly accepted. Sem stirred it with a spoon, plopped down on his cot, careful not to spill, and stretched his legs. Something in his pack (which now held the lofty position of pillow) poked him in the kidney. Grumbling, Sem nudged the pack with his elbow, trying to situate it more comfortably. Stew slipped over the edge of the bowl, burning his hand. He hissed, bitched under his breath and took a bite. Spoon still dangling from his mouth, the Corporal got up again, opened the pack one handed and sifted around for the culprit: his personal comlink.

Normally he'd keep it on his person, but with the current protocols governing their open usage and all the rushing about, he'd simply just stowed it with his gear. Now a little light on the mobile blinked at him. Indicating he had an unchecked message. Text message? Eyes, glanced about quickly before he thumbed the activator for the tiny screen, called up the message. Riaksh?

Sem's eyes slowly widened as he read on. A moment later, the Corporal's cot lay abandoned save for an open pack and a half-eaten bowl of stew.


General Kontrak stood alongside Colonel Oshad, Captain Salto and two technicians. Before the group was a junction box for an intercom system. One of the techs was fiddling with it as the other spoke to the officers. "We should have it up and running before morning, sir. Most priority areas are already linked. The Colonel and her family's work here provided us with the layout and conduit in place. Other than some install work, and security measures, most of the time consuming stuff is done."

Kontrak nodded, face passive. "Good then, thank you. I'll let you return to it." To Oshad he said, "Having us all easily in touch within the base is good, but lets keep our runners in practice all the same."

The hint of a grin graced her lips as they turned to go back down the corridor. "What? Don't trust the generators?"

Salto harumphed, but the General made no direct reply.

"Sir! General, sir!" Running footsteps echoed along the hall. The trio of officers turned in unison to see the Corporal belting toward them, comlink in hand. "General, sir…" He panted, "Think you should look at this."

The old garral regarded Sem a moment, head almost imperceptibly inclined. Then he reached out, accepted the mobile, eyes flicking down to the screen. Gibberish. He didn't understand a word of the text, though he knew what it was and therefore enough not to actually call it 'gibberish'. Steely eyes came back to find Sem's. "What's this?"

"Oh!" Sem might have facepalmed himself from the expression. "Apologies, General. It's a dialect from the nom-"

"Ahem," Colonel Oshad's soft interjection stopped him. Her eyes were roaming the corridors, or more precisely, the people moving through them. "General, it might be better to review this in your office?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but Kontrak nodded. "Corporal, with us then."


"It's a dialect used by the northern tribes, General. The message is from my brother, Riaksh." Sem took a breath, recounted the entire message in Basic: "Sem? This is Riaksh. Bran and me we're… well… I shall transmit a message to your current leader… from… the traitor.

"The traitor wants to meet with your leader. He seeks your support for a plan. He will not risk detail via comm. He offers to give his location upon request and is willing to follow you as a POW."

The Corporal fell quiet. Silence all around. The General's face was granite, but there was an exceedingly deadly glint in his faded eyes. Colonel Oshad was first to break the frowning tension, "Traitor? Who does he mean? Major General Reklar?" She eyeballed Sem, "Is your brother military, Corporal?"

"Oh, no ma'am. City-liver, catch prey by hand. Fast food. Just a kid. Bran's lookin' out for him."

The Colonel frowned. "Well if it's Reklar, he's in no better shape than-"

"It's not Reklar." Kontrak's voice was grating stone. Eyes hadn't left Sem. "You're brother's fallen in with Thayer, hasn't he?"

Sem responded with a somewhat apologetic look.

"Are you going to call him back, sir?" Oshad asked.

There was a pregnant pause before the General shook his head. "No, too risky."

Captain Salto spoke up, "General, if we were to capture him…"

"I don't have a compulsion to compromise this place so soon for the likes of Thayer, Captain."

The comlink still in Kontrak's hand chirped, light indicating a live channel. Everyone stared. The General scowled, considered the mobile. It chirped again. He opened the channel.

"Onah-a dobadoka, Sem?"

"Who the hell is this?" The General growled.

Shocked, dead silence followed by, "You not Sem."

Voices in the background, questioning, huddled voices. The speaker on the other side, "Not my brother. Some geezer." More voices, "Let me have that thing a moment.

"Hello, Sem, not Sem?"

"Not Sem," Kontrak confirmed. "His CO, now who the hell are you?"

"A man who wants pay his dues."

Captain Salto opened his mouth to speak, but the General waved him to silence. There was evil in his countenance now. Hatred. "Seems you've got a lot of billers. Why are you pestering my men?"

"Bring me in, I'll stay stationary. As the text said; details should remain between we two."

"I don't believe you." Simple, controlled. Trap or not, this guy's staying out of reach for the time being.

"I'm aware I can't pay." Resolution in the voice. "Still have a part."

"You go frak yourself now." The General's thumb was on the stud to disconnect.

"With your help, we had a chance… We'll proceed anyway."

Kontrak closed the channel, tossed the comlink back to Sem. "Accept no more calls."

Colonel Oshad regarded him as he circled his desk, dropped into his chair and considered. "General. This guy, he did work for the Republic…maybe, I dunno, maybe his wires got a little crossed and…"

Kontrak looked up through slits. "If anyone ever deserved the title 'Traitor' it's him. How many times over."

Salto fidgeted, "Then you think he's really not for the Imps now?"

Kontrak shrugged a little. "Who knows… Maybe he talks so much his own crap confuses him. Either way, Matheron Thayer is a detonator with a twitchy thumb trigger. I don't want him here."

"We could have him taken somewhere else. Hold him until we get more intel," Oshad offered.

"We've no place set. Enough. Thayer's either still got his Empire or he's on his own." He looked at Sem, still standing, obviously wanting to add his say. "Dismissed, Corporal."

Sem saluted, turned and left without a word. Outside the office, he clipped the mobile to his belt and headed off through the warren tunnels to his bunk.

Colonel Oshad followed him out a few moments later to carry on with her own work. But Salto stayed in the office a time, fidgeting, unsure how to address what he had on his mind.

"Captain?" That faded gaze looked from desk-work, drilled into Salto.

"Sir. I'm not saying we should trust this guy…it's just…"

"What, Captain?"

"Well, I'm reminded of what you said a few hours ago… about the habit of turning our backs…"



19:30

Half a kilometer into the east orchard, Sem pulled the quietly idling speeder bike he'd been pushing to a halt, swung his leg up and climbed on. He'd been brooding since leaving the General's office. There were things going on he still wasn't entirely sure of. But he recognized some things. One was that the General's decision was clouded by some personal issue. Even his advisors saw that. The traitor was dangerous, sure, but there was more to it. More importantly, Bran and Sem's little brother were out there in the wilderness, stuck with this human who might be their only lifeline. They might talk big, but Riaksh and Bran were still city kurtzen. Moreover, Thayer was getting them into something, some kind of trouble and no doubt it'd be very perilous. Sem believed this, believed the human's voice and his brother's urgency. So the Corporal made the decision to slip away from the bunker, find his brother and friend and determine on his own the veracity of Thayer's statements.

With him, he brought some supplies, ammo, night vision and detection gear, a brace of grenades, ready-to-eat rations and three rifles–including his own Nightwhistler sniper rifle. Getting away unnoticed wasn't terribly difficult for him, due to his rank, position and training. He only had to answer a few questions, then simply, carefully, sneak. Liberating the speeder was somewhat more difficult, but with any luck, the resting soldier it was assigned to wouldn't notice it gone until morning.

Sem made sure the weapons and gear were all secured in the harness behind his seat, checked his side-arm for charge and throttled the speeder. He knew from a friend where sensors were placed for a net, he'd memorized stationary guard posts and roving patrol paths. This was still a big risk, but being from the inside paid off. Moments later he was at the orchard's edge, looking down on the distant East River.

The Corporal, took up his comlink, opened a channel to his little brother's. After all, the General said no incoming calls, nothing about calling his brother back. This seemed a good moment to conveniently forget standing protocols. "Onah-a? Riaksh?"

"Sem? Hodakoo ria lon?"

Voices. "No, not geezer. My brother this time."

"Obala tuak ria. Estlo Truff, poda… toi hodakoo. Erada toi emu?"

A happy yelp from Riaksh. Muffled voices. "Want's to know where to find us! Sem? Got food?"

Sem grinned despite himself. "Odrash, hona etch, walki nobeena. Grath toi awn rikatok." Probably nothing you used to find edible, little brother. But better, I've got guns.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Bakura: Arden High School, Day Four…





"Bayner!" Terra called out, making her way through the waves of assembling students to her boyfriend of four months. "Bayner…", she repeated in a whimper as her body collided with his, clinging tightly with her head pressed against the fabric of his varsity shockball jacket. "…what's going on? I heard from Ami that there are soldiers outside with blasters and..", she began, almost rambling.

"I don't know, I don't know.." He said in a calming tone, wrapping an arm around her to keep them both walking. The hallways were flooded with students and he even spotted a few of his teachers and other faculty members trudging along. This was everybody.

"Hope this doesn't get out of hand…" Was all he could think to himself. This was his first assignment out of Intel's Junior Agency after all, even if he was two years into it. Bakura was supposed to be routine, a dry run of his training to ensure he could properly insert himself into a society and assimilate seamlessly. Everything changed after the invasion though. After he stopped receiving orders during the comm blackout, he had to assume that survival was now his main objective until he could get a scandoc off to the agency.

Moving at a snail's pace through the heavy student traffic, the two finally eventually emerged out into the rear courtyard, gathering with the rest around the flagpole where a man in a cream tunic and black trousers held Haiman, their sociology teacher by the front of his jacket while Principal Ervyll Alderson stood in front of the flagpole with a makeshift noose around his neck.

A very bad feeling washed over him, enough to give him goosebumps. He knew who that was. Rinehart VonToma of the ISB.

“For the last time Principal Alderson…” Rinehart growled.

"Ervyll…” Haiman pleaded in a voice choked with anguish. “…haul down the flag. I speak to you in the name of every student and teacher here on this campus."

Sniffling and whimpering began to rise among the assembled students. Everybody knew what was about to happen, especially Principal Alderson, who clenched his eyes shut tighter as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Don't do it…" The young Stranger mouthed silently, displaying the same shocked expression as the rest of his fellow students. During his two years at Arden High, he had grown to respect Alderson. He didn't deserve this, but it was more than that. He knew the students wouldn't stand for this… the people of Bakura wouldn't stand for this, and he also knew that Dodonna and his forces were more than willing to cut them all down.

After a brief few seconds of hesitation, Ervyll gave his final answer with a trembling shake of the head.

Guards behind him yanked furiously at the halyards. The rope snapped tight. Alderson's face flushed red. His legs kicked wildly, but only for about half the trip to the top of the flagpole.

A thunder of screaming youth.

The young Stranger's eyes sealed themselves shut. He could feel a small section of his arm growing warmer as Terra flooded his sleeve with tears. He could hear the sickening strain of the rope as Alderson's body swung like a pendulum from the top of the flagpole.

Rinehart whirled round, glaring at the weeping youths. “From this point on, this institution is now under the edicts of the New Order!”



—
Tessa Manchisco Memorial Auditorium, Arden High School…




"All of you, sit down!!" Begard barked, his next words muffled by the mantra of the students that was growing louder and louder. They were all standing at this point, heading down the walkway towards the stage and climbing over seats.

He and Terra found themselves doing the same, advancing slowly towards the stage with fists pumping, their mouths repeating the same chant along with the rest of the student body, focusing their furious determination on the man at center stage. Haiman's words had always been powerful, even outside of the classroom. They couldn't just let his words fall on deaf ears, especially after the gruesome spectacle at the flagpole. He had to do something. They all did.

A look of fear washed over Begard as he realized what was about to happen. "..N… No!… Back!", he shouted, pointing the pistol desperately at the crowd, waving it back and fourth from student to student.

A freshman dove at him from the side, trying to sieze the man's pistol to no avail. The frantic Begard turned and fired, sending a blaster bolt through the kid's shoulder spinning him 360 degrees before he hit the ground. One down, twelve hundred ninety seven to go.

Another student tried to capitalize, rushing from the opposite side only to catch the butt of Begard's pistol against his teeth, sending a spray of blood and enamel chips against the auditorium walls. By this time however, the stage was rushed, and Begard and his guards were literally swarmed, sinking with screams of terror into the advancing wave of youth.


—




It all went downhill so fast. Once the Imps rolled out the heavy artillery and armored vehicles, the few blasters and makeshift melee weapons that the students had scrounged up were laughable.

The young couple managed to escape before the rest of the students were encircled, heading through an abandoned industrial section of Salis D'aar to get away from the city. To get away from the violence.

"Now!" He said, gripping on tighter to her hand before dashing out from behind a building, running as fast as he could for a collapsed overpass just ahead where they could take cover. Terra gave an exhausted whine as she was yanked along for the ride, wincing along with each step. She was barefoot now, having discovered that running for your life in heels just wasn't going to cut it.

The piercing screech of incoming energy shells quickly flooded the area. Tears began to stream down her face. This one sounded like it would hit them for sure, but then again, they all sounded that way.

The first shell streaked down into their previous location just as they reached the overpass, tossing up a thick spray of debris to rain down over the area. The two scampered behind a pile of duracrete just as more shells began to impact, pelting the area around them with a barrage of sizzling fragments.

He tossed the shredded remains of his varsity jacket over the two of them, huddling her into a small nook under one of the larger debris slabs. Each blast caused Terra's fingertips to dig deeper into his back and he could feel her short paniced breaths against the nape of his neck. As the shelling subsided, her frantic breathing became the only remaining sound.

His fingers were warm, and wet, and he noticed they were pressing down on a nasty gash across her shoulder. He winced a bit, tugging as gently as he could with his fingers to unstick them from the mess of shredded flesh and blood.

Terra didn't even notice.

"…Are you ok?..", he whispered after a moment or two of silence.

Her paniced breathing continued uninterrupted.

"..Terra?!" He said a bit louder, giving her a subtle shake.

Her breathing ended with a sharp gasp, as if she had just awoken suddenly. "…No….", she finally whimpered, allowing her head to sink forward and bury itself in her hands. "…I can't…", she sniffled, on the verge of crying. "..Bayner.. I can't…", she repeated almost inaudiably between sobs.

This was all too much for her. Terra was no soldier. It was evident in everything about her, from the pleated skirt of her Arden High uniform, to her cutesy auburn ponytails that still managed to shine even with all they had been through that day, to the way she held a blaster as if it were a diseased rodent.

"Ok.. ok.. shhhhhh…" He whispered, rocking her gently while stroking her hair.

She was done for the day, probably for her lifetime but unfortunately that wasn't an option. "…It's ok…", he repeated softly, unable to think of anything else comforting to say.

He felt helpless. There wasn't much he could do on his own at the moment. The little bit of combat and survival training he had back in the J.A. wouldn't help them now, mostly unarmed takedowns and disarming maneuvers, nothing that was going to do much against armored repulsortanks.

All he could do was try and get a scandoc off to the agency and hope they would deem it important enough to warrant a response…

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Corellia, Coronet in particular, had not changed much since the last conference Daiman had attended two years previous.  At least from what he could see from glances out of the speeder’s viewports between discussing details on the agenda with his uncle’s point man.  The Vondar Memorial Hospital across the wide, lushly landscaped plaza from the Beruss Exhibition and Conference Center where they were about to land had expanded by three additional stories.  There was what appeared to be a newer hotel nearby situated to offer guests in each room a spectacular view of the Gold Sea and Beaches as they ran for kilometers toward Tyrena.

The beauty of the world, even here in the congestion of the planet’s most populous urban area, was undeniable and for some reason it brought to mind that the last time he had taken an actual holiday from damn near everything had been following another such event far too long ago.  There would be no time for such a thing following this year’s conference, but at least he would have the opportunity
to visit with family members that he had not had enough contact with in far too long during this “mission”.

The thought made him almost smile.  He’d not used that word since he left active duty.  But that was precisely what this was.  A mission for the greater good of the Empire’s restoration to glory once again.  And the woman and the men with him here now were no less of a team than the squads he had lead in the Imperial Army in his younger years.

Although he never had such an…interesting combination of members in any of those units.  General Kabal, the reserved, yet ever watchful cyborg soldier was perfectly suited to the cover role of bodyguard.  As was the lovely and well-spoken Commander Lane to hers of his executive assistant.  The two subordinate pilots from his cousin’s squadron, Uer and Bal’ak had the appearance and bearing to pass as departmental heads of his corporation.  The young Uer had amused and impressed him with how carefully he had handled landing the Irrinna, as enthusiastically a born pilot as Traven had always seemed to be.  

Laakim was affable enough as well, but there was something about the dark-haired younger man that just didn’t sit completely right with him.  He reminded Daiman of a former employee whose ambitions had grown…unacceptable.  Of course that could just be his own sense of healthy paranoia that had only grown more heightened over the years especially since…

“This escort idea, I still do not like it.” His thoughts interrupted by the low familiar voice of his cousin, Daiman turned toward Traven with a smirk.  

“Same old Trave.” He grinned, but it slipped at the look of real discomfort on the younger man’s face.

“Perhaps you could accompany my ‘assistant’ instead, Cousin?” he offered, dropping his voice to a level he hoped only Traven would hear. “Or I could have her enter at my side and I’ll have Tyrell arrange for her to be seated between us.  I’ll even let you cut in on us, should I be able to convince her to dance with me.” He finished with a teasing wink.  “Besides, it will keep me from having to be paired up with some shallow, vapid twit of a Corellian golddigger for the evening myself. “

Traven gave him a rueful look in reply, “But you’ve no problem sticking your own cousin with one such creature? Why am I reminded me of the Imperial City Mayor’s Ball? That last one I attended my second year of the Academy?”

Daiman laughed aloud this time at the memory, “Honestly, I’d no idea Cirlanna had the personality of a Sullustan on glitteryl. And come on you can’t argue that she had other…qualities that made up for it. You’re just never going to forgive me for that are you?”

Traven smiled and shook his head.  “I didn’t think she would ever stop sending me holomessages after that night, Daiman. Took her months to get the message that we just were not meant for each other.  Ever.”

“Well at least she finally did and I’m sure she’s somewhere in the galaxy making some other poor Imperial officer miserable.” Traven replied as they walked toward the open doors of the conference center.  

“Better you than them.” Sirana grinned. “We’ll work it out before tonight.  Now let’s go see your father.”

They entered the cavernous main hall of the exhibition center.  Nearly every bit of floor space taken up by displays and employees of the multitude of corporations, large and small, from the Core Worlds and further out whose business was connected with the shipbuilding industry and its many subspecialties in any way.  

From the capital ship building conglomerates such as KDY and Mon Calamari, to the mid-class such as the host planet’s own CEC, to smaller more specialized concerns like that of his uncle’s.  Along with countless suppliers of things from drives to seating to fittings and even the tools needed to work on any ship’s system interspersed between.  And everywhere the displays with their flatscreens extolling the qualities of a particular company’s product over another’s, tables laden with samples, flimsies and holodiscs of specs competed for floor space with the attendees in every sentient species known as they toured the massive space.  

Daiman walked alongside Gareth Bennis, the man Tyrell had sent to meet them at the spaceport as the group made its way through the exhibition hall.  On his other side was Jordan doing a fine job in appearing as his attentive assistant, while the trio of pilots turned businessmen followed a few feet behind.  An impressive looking group, one would think on their own. But the presence of Kabal drew more eyes to him then anyone else around as he walked in front of them, vision constantly scanning the room for threats and clearing the way through the crowded space without a word needing said.

Along the way toward Dunn Industries’ exhibit space, Daiman made sure to stop at various other companies’ presentations, expressing interest in the products on display and talking shop amongst the display representatives and his own team.  Jordan studiously taking “notes” on the discussions on the datapad she carried and nodding at the appropriate times, as did the pilots whenever Daiman made a comment about one product or another that he seemed interested in.

When it seemed they had put on enough of a show to look as if they were there all actually there on business as usual, they headed toward the area near the west wall of the hall where an animated holoscreen bearing the sleek logo of Dunn Industries was prominently displayed. Situated beneath it, a transparisteel table with small models of the company’s best ships hovering in mid air above its surface was situated, and seated behind it a woman and two men, the older of them standing and coming around the table as the group approached.  

The distinguished gentleman shook Daiman’s hand first, but his eyes sought out another person in the group first, unable to disguise the pride and warmth in his eyes as seeing his son even as he tried to hide it well from anyone unaware of the familial connection, before turning attention back to his nephew.

“Tyrell, it has been far, far too long.” Sirana greeted his uncle with a grin and a firm handshake.

“Yes, yes it has.” Tyrell Dunn replied, his eyes flicking again to Traven’s as he said it. “I’m glad to see you are looking well.” He returned Daiman’s greeting as warmly before his nephew introduced him to his ‘associates’, giving a small, pleased yet surprised smile as he recognized Daiman’s assistant.

“I understand you are looking to diversify and expand some of your investments and interests.” He addressed the group after the introductions.

Daiman nodded, serious expression returning to his face, “SiranAxum is always open to working with the other examples of excellence no matter the industry.”

“You sound just like your father.” Tyrell turned toward the table and picked up a datapad, passing it to Daiman who appeared to study the data scrolling down the screen, a pleased look on his face.

“This sounds like a prospectus we shall definitely be interested in discussing with you, Tyrell.” Daiman handed the datapad to Jordan who passed on to the rest of their party.  Each of them looking at the information displayed there.

“This evening perhaps will be the better time, Sir.” Lakaam spoke up on cue, eyes looking about the area near the table where more interested conference goers were approaching.

Daiman and the elder Dunn affirmed Bal’ak’s idea before Sirana handed the datapad back to his uncle.  “I look forward to continuing our discussions at that time.  If you will excuse us then, Tyrell we have much more to see while we are here.”

Excusing themselves after another round of handshakes, the group departed from the Dunn Industries table to carry on the appearance of doing nothing more unusual than making business contacts and developing resources.

The real work of which would actually begin tonight at the Dunn’s beachfront estate after the conference was over.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Nekessla felt a hand on her shoulder and jerked awake. She'd fallen asleep in her cell, had let her guard down, and now they'd come for her. She was turning before her eyes were open, rolling over with claws out, and managed to stop herself just before she clawed out Garrick's right eye.

He smirked softly down at her, her claw marks only partially healed on his cheeks from earlier. "Good day to you, too."

She sat up quickly to make sure her cell door was closed before pulling Garrick into a hug. "I'm sorry. I thought you were Kix."

"Oh, Huntress. I come here to rescue you, and you insult me." He grinned, sitting down beside her. He leaned in to kiss her, and Kess slid fingers through his short hair and pulled him against her, letting him fall on top of her.

"Mmmmph," he protested, breaking the kiss and chuckling. "We don't have time, Huntress."

"I missed you."

He kissed her deeply, then sat upright again and rightened her. "I missed you, too, love." He leaned down and quickly kissed her stomach. "And how's the little one?"

"All right." Kess grinned. "I feel like she wants out of here as much as I do."

"Well, good, because I've got news. Guess who I called?"

Her crimson eyes lit up. "Iris?"

"Spot on."

"Oh, Garrick! What's she doing? Is she helping you?"

"She and her male harem are coming to Bakura."

Dread suddenly washed through her. She gripped the edge of her bunk. "You're not serious… Garr, it's a deathtrap here! Fake IDs might –"

"Not fake. Real. Believe it or not, Iris' plan is… Well, it's actually pretty foolproof, so long as her ability to persuade doesn't lack."

"What's going on?"

"Iris Kieral will be arriving on a legit cargo transport with legit coworkers with legit IDs to perform an actual delivery that was scheduled weeks ago. The only thing is that when we leave, we're gonna be tucked on board with them."

"But they can't come to the Ravisher, Garr. They'll have to go planetside."

"And so will we." Garrick grinned. "It's time to suit up and head down."

"They're here? Now? You did all this so quickly? I don't believe you!"

He laughed softly. "They're not here yet. But I found a way to buy ourselves some time. Dodonna was looking for someone to check up on a guy on the surface named Rinehart Von Toma. Word got around, and JD volunteered. Of course, he's bringing us with him. We have to make a report on Von Toma's actions… and then we can deliver it to Dodonna."

"Personally?"

He nodded, his black eyes full of malicious intent. "Personally."

Nekessla's heart leapt. She knew what he was thinking. "Assassin, that's it. That's when we'll have to strike at him."

"I know. We'll do whatever we can on the surface to buy time. Iris should be on her way very soon. As soon as they're here, we can move. Dodonna is on the Ravisher. It'll be tricky getting out of here and back down to the surface, so what we're going to have to do is be quiet about attacking him. Nobody can know until we make it planetside."

"Of course not." She grinned. "Garrick, I love you."

He seemed surprised by the sudden declaration. "Where did that come from?"

"You risked everything to be here, to get me out of here. I love you."

"I would never leave you here. I would never leave my child here." He lay a hand on his stomach. "We lost a son to the Dark Side. We're not losing a daughter to the Empire. And I love you, too."

Nekessla grinned at him, and then she laughed – really laughed. "Garrick, we can do this. If Dodonna wants that report, he'll have to let me get close. We'll have to move quickly, but I'm sure I can put him out for a while without any long-term damage."

"You're not going to kill him?"

She smiled. "No. Not now. Dodonna doesn't deserve a quick death, and we won't have time to torture him to the grave. I'll Hunt him after Naomi's born and make it worthwhile."

"And Davin?"

"Same for him… Though I want to carve my mark in him. I want to scar him so he'll never forget that the Huntress Nekessla got the best of him in the end."

Garrick grinned. "That's my girl. That's my Huntress. God, I love you." He kissed her aggressively, flattening her against the wall, before letting her go and extending a hand to her. "JD is waiting for us. Let's Hunt."


In the armory, Nekessla zipped up her combat suit and slid her blaster pistols into their holsters. Braiding her hair without needing to look, she slid into her boots and grinned. "I am so ready to go…"

Beside her, Garrick was slicking his short hair back, scowling. "It'll take forever for this to grow out again…"

Already suited up, JD watched them with a faint smile. He couldn't deny that those two had fought beside one another for a long time.

When she was all ready, Kess turned and saw JD watching. The look in his eyes, despite his age and appearance, made him look so childlike. Not immature, but childlike. She was suddenly worried for him. "JD?"

He blinked. "Yes, Huntress?"

"Things are going to get dangerous on Bakura, and I'm not talking about any Bakuran uprisings down there." She smiled softly. "I'm going to hurt Dodonna."

He nodded. "I fully understand what you're going to do."

"Then you know how risky it will be."

"Yes."

"JD, if they knew the part you're playing, they would arrest you for treason." She sighed. "If you feel, deep down, that you can go no further with me, than don't. You do not have to go any farther than you want. You don't have to risk your life for me."

He smiled softly. "I will go every step of the way with you, if you'll let me."

She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Be certain."

"I am. Huntress, everybody knows your legend, but… I'm really glad I got to know the real woman. I know you, and what I know commands my loyalty. Dodonna isn't half the man you are… figuratively speaking. After knowing you, I can't serve him anymore."

"My legend?" She stared at him, then looked at Garrick. "What have you been telling him about me?"

Garrick grinned. "I might've mentioned your killing of Roganda Lodus and what you did to a couple Imperials in the pleasure house. And how you killed a Hutt when you were a teenager. And how you killed a couple darksiders here and there."

She chuckled then and smirked at JD. "Lies, I'm sure. Listen, forget what you heard about me. The odds are that coming with me will certainly be bad for your career, if not your health."

He grinned back. "You're lecturing me about health before taking on a whole planet full of Imperials and their Admiral? Give me a break." He shouldered his rifle. "Let's go. Von Toma may know we're coming, and though he may not know we shouldn't be there, we shouldn't keep him waiting."


As the shuttle left the Ravager, Nekessla sighed, content, and reclined back in her seat. She was smiling. She was still wearing the slave collar, but for only one reason – JD had disabled it. The only thing that stood between her and freedom was Dodonna, and he was an old man who had spent a very long time underestimating her and what she was capable of.

Garrick sat beside her while JD piloted, his hand on her stomach. "How do you know it's a girl?" he asked suddenly.

Kess shrugged as the shuttle descended. "I've… dreamt it. Strongly."

He chuckled. "So did your dad." He sat back, then glanced up front.

JD was watching them from time to time, keeping an eye on Kess and her health. When he caught Garrick's eye, he said softly, "I hope you don't mind that I volunteered you guys for this job, but after hearing Lady Kieral's plan, I thought you'd have to get close to the Admiral, and quickly. You two can deliver the report he wants to get yourselves close."

Kess smiled. "You're a quick-witted man."

He shrugged. "I learned it from you."

Garrick sighed then. "Huntress, I wish I commanded half the loyalty you get."

She laughed, and it felt delicious to laugh again. "You could, Garr, if you didn't intimidate the hell out of everybody you meet."

"I don't mean to. It just kind of happens."

Kess laughed the whole way down to the surface, partially because she was laughing at Garrick and partially because it just felt good. As their landing location drew near, JD said, "We're landing close. You both ready?"

"Very," Garrick said, his fingers brushing his cybernetic arm where his lightsaber rested, hidden inside.

"Very," Nekessla echoed, and when she smiled, her fangs winked in the light.

"Yeah. Me, too," he said with some finality as he pushed forward on the controls and the shuttle rocketed towards the landing zone and the start of the rough journey to get back home.

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun...

<p><em>The plains lay bathed in the violet glow of sunset. A breeze changed fields into rolling straits, enclosed and curbed by turquoise moles of namana. From closer, they showed stripes: dotted lines where first buds burst into splendid azure and yellow…</em></p>
<p>Inside it was sombre. A stink of bone meal and chemicals and the warm stuffy dust of threshed grain. Along the sides of the rough duracrete aisle, spelt and fluff formed miniature dunes; interspersed with aged cobwebs and scraps of nibbled at flimsiplast that told a tale of rodents’ resistance. Hesitantly, gleaming boots passed pallet upon pallet; stack by stack of seeds, pesticides, and artificial manure; finally stopped: another sack hit the oxidized trolley.</p>
<p>Behind the cash desk, a red-faced farmer looked up…</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>Outside. The silhouette of a BRC Tinok Cloud Van that idled in the quad. Sunset wreathed it in bright violet. On the driver’s seat, a small woman with cropped black hair chewed on her fag as she looked over the farmyard: a dog barked; wearily dragged its chain in the shade of the rundown depot that made up its core. On its bleached front, over the corrugated door, the claret capitals peeled off: AGROCO MARSHFIEL. Nervy, she gazed back at the search tuning. Now slowing. Creeping. Finally, there was a channel: </p>
<blockquote>
  <p>47.2 *** WELCOME TO *** SECTOR 242 NEEWSFEED ***</p>
  <p><em>…with immediate effect Admiral Dodonna revokes the so called ‘Anti-Graveyard Act’ that prohibited shifts between 10pm and 6am in the mining, shipbuilding and metal processing. Passed in 15ABY in reaction to a number of accidents that had happened in said industries during the night or so called ‘graveyard’ shifts, the act was widely perceived as an inappropriate measure.</em></p>
  <p><em>Representatives of the heavy industries react pleased: ‘This cuts us free from all too tight apron strings,’ comments Bakur Mining’s CEO Ombrac, and announces BM will reinstate the third shift by Atunda. BRC CEO Andich agrees: ‘Our company will use the regained liberty to help lift the gross planetary product back to golden levels,’ so the representative in his own words. ‘I think I may speak for all of Bakura’s heavy industries when I say that this lays the foundations for an Imperial Renaissance.’</em></p>
  <p><em>Unrest. Arden High School. After this morning’s armed attack on reorganizing officers of the New Order, investigations run at full steam. Stirred up by radical leaders, near two thousand insurgents assaulted the small group as on signal, account survivors of the uprising that caused a bloodbath among Bakurans and old-established members of the protection force alike.</em></p>
  <p><em>Among the ringleaders, eyewitnesses identified a relative of insurgent ex-general Kontrak, as well as a certain Seon Oreh, a youth from the working-class area of Caratras, who was the first to obstruct an officer in the performance of his duties. ‘Described by classmates as not the kind you notice particularly, Oreh demonstrates the explosive nature of the matter,’ comments BSA head Yvies with regard to the young offender who is still at large.</em></p>
  <p><em>‘The perpetrators recruit themselves from our midst. Even people you know for years could be amongst those who lie in wait to wreak havoc with your life and families,’ so the lead of the Baar Security Agency, who concedes, however, that individuals of dubious convictions had gotten the school noticed as a hotbed of seditious thought in the years prior. ‘Only now, under a rule that does not shy back from uncomfortable necessities, we are given the means to put things in order.’</em></p>
<p><em>‘The leader of our ground protection forces, captain VonToma, is saddened: ‘Many loyal Bakuran troopers were badly wounded in keeping up citizens’ safety.’ He explains in passing, ‘At present, these men deserve my foremost attention.’ </em></p>
</blockquote>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>…remote-control on brown corduroy dungarees, the red-faced turned down the tri-d and looked over his late shopper: new boots, clean beige baggies, spotless tee that hung loosely on the frail figur that, squeak by squeak, pushed up the trolley – loaded with nitre, sulphur, cans of fuel oil and four sacks of high-nitrogen fertilizer. Warily, he got up and turned to the poison locker… </p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>‘Flarg!’ She switched off; brought down the cab’s tinted window and observed the door: there was a clatter. Curses. Shots. Suddenly a cart jolted out, bolts flashed; the dog barked wildly, almost strangled itself on the chain that did not quite reach to the speeder. Quick-witted, she opened; panting, Seon heaved the sacks, jumped in and slammed the door. ‘Go!’ Her eyes widened as the farmer emerged with an E-11. ‘Go! Go! Go, flargit!’ Engines revved; repulsors flung back dog and cart as the van spun. Sun flashed; a burst streaked mauve dust; bolts sieved the navy and white of Bakura’s main public service broadcaster.</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>Inside the cab was fuggy. Engines roared. In their back, a volley of shafts danced over sleeping bags, boots and pallets of canned goods. Seon coughed. </p>
<p>‘You’re alright?’</p>
<p>He shrugged. ‘I’m on the ‘feeds…’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I’ve heard.’</p>
<p>Seon drew up his stunned leg, stared over live turquoise. Leaves whooshed past. Bright dots grew into streaks. As she banked, the van’s stump wing ripped up buds; flew from its trail of azure and yellow.</p>
<p>‘Where we’ll go now?’</p>
<p>‘Meet friends.’</p>
<p>‘What d’you plan?’ He had asked before. He had asked himself since they ran from the tanks and this woman had picked up Elleu and him; still with the rusty small speeder that was her own. Now Elleu was home; safe, hopefully. And his own mom would receive his message…<br>
  Seon rubbed his face, then gave a narky glance at the black-haired. ‘Hey, I’m <em>wanted</em>. Now you really can tell me.’</p>
<p>‘No. I don’t know, myself.’ She kept her eyes at the mountains. ‘I’m just the driver.’ </p>
<p align="center">/ | \</p>

<p> </p>
<p><em>19:55. Low mountain range north of Salis D’aar. Evening sun on a copse of conifers; nine scruffy idling in expectation. On the most exposed of the indigo boulders, Riaksh shielded his eyes as he squinted against the violet rays. Suddenly there was a hum: a beige bike; now banking; now slowing and lowering towards the youth who wildly waved his pale arms. The pilot a weathered Kurtzen in the Bakuran Armed Forces’ beige and light navy…</em></p>
<p>Cheering, Riaksh jumped into Sem’s arms; beaming, inundated him in a stream of bubbly hotchpotch, whilst Bran stood there with a strained smile. Around, the scruffy bunch grinned: Bowl and Zisah acquired the rifles before you could say Palpatine; only upon one the uniformed put a firm hand, easily picked it up and kept it propped up on his hip while talking: all black, this one was fitted with a telescopic sight.</p>
<p><em>A sniper's duties require a wide variety of skills. The sniper must be able to calmly and deliberately kill targets that may not pose an immediate threat to him. It is much easier to kill in self-defense or in the defense of others—the sniper must not be susceptible to emotions such as anxiety or remorse. Candidates whose motivation rest mainly in the desire for prestige may not be capable of the cold rationality that the sniper's job requires…Project 4T, Recruiting</em></p>
<p>Matheron took a deep breath. A little way off, Marrjo looked anxious: the same look he had first shown the evening prior when talk turned to calling the troops; second, with a newsfeed about today’s riots—in that ‘feed they had mentioned Kontrak, also… Suddenly tones turned serious. Suddenly, Bran stood very close to the bike’s pillion; leant in, and the sniper’s eyes became wide. The youth gestured at Matheron; bewildered, corporal Sem Roo'akh looked up soiled trousers, dressed hands, on to the festering gash on his cheek…</p>
<p>‘You plan <em>what</em>?’</p>
<p>Down in the valley, the river roared. Across, the opposite mountain range stood out like a tauntaun’s back against a glow of violet fire. </p>
<p>‘We’ll take BakOr.’</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>‘With nine?!’ Sem stared. ‘You know what BakOr is!? Is the mine! <em>Maze</em> of tunnels. Clicks deep. Thousands of pitmen; must be half Caratras!’ Slowly, he shook his head; looked round about the scruffy bunch that, visibly, hadn’t had a meal in days; or by how they devoured the combrats Bran had dealt out. ‘Why you want target mine, anyway? It is <em>Bakurans</em>!?’</p>
<p>‘This whole planet is yours. Yet the Remnant sets up base; and while we talk, your ore is made into what’ll be used against you.’ </p>
<p>‘For the bludflies at BM’s management just don’t care from <em>what</em> they’re reaping a profit!’ The camwielder’s eyes glittered. ‘Just like their buddies at BRC: all proud and planetarist they talked when Captison commissioned our fleet—now they work for some jumped-up warlord!’</p>
<p>‘Without ore, however… they can not make Star Destroyers. Nor walkers, r‘tanks. Or <em>droids</em>—thus we’ll strip them of both, option and means, to indiscriminately kill off sentients.’ </p>
<p>The corporal raised an eye-bulge. ‘I see. Yet how you think you can stop?’</p>
<p>‘Each behemoth has its neural knot.’</p>
<p>Alarmed, Sem paused. ‘What you mean?’</p>
<p>‘Deep down, kilometres from air… and light, machines are powered by a tokamak fusion reactor…’ </p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p>‘…so all we take are valid clocking-in cards.’ </p>
<p>‘Which we’ll have.’ Zisah smirked, wiping soiled hands at his soiled t-shirt.</p>
<p>‘This evening, Marrjo and Zisah will fly up as a BM technicians. They’ll put forward troubles with the time-clock, see how the mine lies, then put on an external card-reader. Thus, we’ll collect the required sets—while the regular transmission to BM’s central remains unaffected.’ He glanced at the telecommunications specialist. ‘After the change, he’ll download the pack and pick suited figures to key our own.’</p>
<p>The corporal raised his wrinkles. ‘So you go tonight?’</p>
<p>‘No. We presume the system will block the gathered sets for the following 8 hours—or that’s what they told me last year when I investigated on health and safety regulations.’ Cirrian explained between two bites of the figda ration bar. ‘So as we collect from the current shift, 14-22, the earliest we can go is tomorrow 6am.’</p>
<p>She looked at the corporal. Evening swifts cheeped. Lounged against a rock, the rifle slung on his paunch, Bowl wrung the last bits off a packet of runyip stew; all the while the uniformed glanced at his little brother.</p>
<p>‘Chancy.’ Eventually he uttered. ‘I no want you take Ri or Bran to the buried sun.’</p>
<p>‘I didn’t plan.’ Matheron looked over the valley: the shadow of the opposite mountain had meantime reached the river; cones crackled, still exuded their resinous tang; swifts circled high above indigo crowns. As his glance brushed the Kurtzen youths, he gave a small smile. ‘They speak the lingo of liberty—their talents will save lives in communication; and many more operations…’ </p>
<p>He glimpsed back at the corporal. ‘And yours would help us tonight.’</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p><em>Minutes later, the glade was darkened by a roaring shadow. Branches screeched, bracken fluttered, repulsors flung up a squall of dry needles. Bowl stood. Merely took one lazy step back and shielded his eyes as the bulky van manoeuvred onto a small patch between rocks and trunks…</em></p>
<p>‘Rhina! Good you made it!’ </p>
<p>‘My thought.’ Miners’ boots hit dry needles. Beige baggies, tight tee; the small black-haired glanced over the filth and stubble. fiddled out a fag even while her passenger, a frail youth, still climbed from the van’s cab. </p>
<p>Cirrian knit her brow. ‘I thought you’d bring Elleck?’</p>
<p>‘No, his mom’s wounded. He made the van ready though and got half of your wish-list.’</p>
<p>‘And who’s this?’</p>
<p>‘Seon. Picked him up near the riots.’</p>
<p>‘Seon?’ She paused. ‘Seon Oreh?’</p>
<p>All at once, they all gathered around him. ‘Yes, we picked up the ‘feed…’ ‘So that’s the dangerous criminal.’ ‘I thought he was taller.’ ‘Heh.’ ‘Gob, man. I knew his father.’ </p>
<p>‘What happened really?’</p>
<p>Warily, Seon glanced round about, eyed the flimsy-dressed, the big-boned, then the festering face that had asked the last question. Suddenly, his eyes widened. Following his glance, Rhina forgot to pull.</p>
<p>‘Keep calm! We made him see reason.’</p>
<p>‘You said you'd…’</p>
<p>‘I <em>know</em> what I said.’ The camwielder grimaced. ‘I’ll explain later. Now out with it: what <em>happened</em>?’</p>
<p>Her driver took a deep pull. ‘VonToma turned up with a herd of bladderweasels and tried to spread the New Order. To begin, he hanged their prince—as there was resistance, he had the area cordonned off and the students shot up with tanks.’ She puffed. ‘Caratras 21 is plastered with bodies. As it looks, there’s scarcely any survivors.’</p>
<p>Marrjo turned ashen. Eyes wide, he stared at the youth whose tears ran without sound.</p>
<p>‘And they distort everything…’</p>
<p>‘Yes, we’ve heard: the hangman’s saddened for how many turncoats you put out of action.’ Zisah featured a crooked grin. ‘He’s gonna pay them a visit.’</p>
<p>Swifts cried; cones crackled in rustling crowns. Suddenly, Seon buried his face in his hands and slumped. Around, in stubbly and soiled faces, eyes narrowed. Stunned, Matheron stared at trembling small shoulders…
</p>
<p>‘Hush.. hush and take courage.’ Bowl whispered huskily. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll <em>equalize</em>.’</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p><em>Shortly, the copse smelled of corned nerf, beans and wet paint: the van shone in dark grey; spoons’ tinkling and noisy eating paused when Obry put away the aerosol can and removed the cardboard stencil…</em></p>
<p>‘Perfect!’ Cirrian nodded in view of the bold yellow BM that was centered accurately on the cab’s door. Bowl mumbled approvingly. Zisah surveyed it from all sides. ‘Well done, forger. Even the duct tape over the bolt hole’s visible only from close.’ He smirked; then his eye fell on the equip Matheron laid out ready on one of the boulders: grey overalls, workers’ boots, new underwear; as well as washing things and mean big scissors…</p>
<p>He glimpsed at his watch; nervy, picked up his stuff and went for the stream. Bran and Marrjo followed. </p>
<p>The others continued to unload: sacks of fertilizer, sulphur, fuel oil, a gastro-pack of rose icing sugar, boxes of clothes, shoe polish, a crate of special holsters and blasters, and pallets upon pallets of food: canned goods of all sorts; in between packs of breadsticks, cheese, instacaf, nutrient paste, choclime twist, Westriver and cartons of blue cigarras. Quickly, the hold cleared.</p>
<p>Inside, Cirrian meantime introduced Riaksh and Bran to the van’s radio set. Shortly, Bran established a first contact. ‘Onah-a? Sem?’ He hotchpotched momentarily, then turned to his grey overalled colleagues who returned both with a crisp new haircut, and a narky look on clean shaven faces. </p>
<p>‘Sem say: no Imps in sights, peace at gate 1-8, all quiet at BakOr grounds.’</p>
<p>‘Good.’ With a nod, Matheron finished the inspection, fastened the nameplate on Zisah’s and Marrjo’s breast pockets, then passed the toolkit complete with card readers, lead seals and super glue. As Marrjo was about to take the driver’s seat, he held him back. ‘Wait.’ ‘What?’ ‘Gimme your comm.’ ‘Hrmph?’ He took the small device and entered the number of his own, new mobile. ‘You recall what we agreed on. If things get dicey… do call.’</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p><em>BakOr, gate 5. 21:05. The gate-man looked over the two humans in grey overalls: one stocky dark-haired, the other blond, gawky and obviously eager to get his job done with. Again, the studied the nameplates that dangled from their breast pockets: Marker and Z. Whiztler…</em></p>
<p>Zisah was hot. What a huge complex! Why, of course, he had seen plans—he had been the one who obtained them, out of the reborn ol’ net; always vigilant not to leave telltale traces. Only this… was only one of eight entrances. </p>
<p>Uncomfortably he stroked his spiky new cut and eyed the grating that blocked off the corridor before them: only gateways six many-armed turnstiles; each high as a man, they neatly filled out their gap in the solid durasteel grille. The time-clocks were put up on posts: three outside; three others within. He cursed quietly as he put down the toolbox beside him. </p>
<p>‘Strange. Your colleagues were here before hours and checked everything: all systems in best working order.’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know about that.’ Angrily, Marrjo planted himself before the cubicle. ‘All I know: I was just called from the ‘fresher; I was ordered to check and seal every time clock and comparable device and I speeded all the way to get here before COS—I had bother at a checkpoint before I got here and now…’ </p>
<p>‘Well, I’m sorry about that, Mr. Marker. But there’s no maintenance team announced.’ The gate-man frowned. ‘Who called you?’</p>
<p>‘Niler. Works security service.’ He glimpsed at his chrono, then produced his comm and started keying. ‘What’s your name, please?’</p>
<p>‘Uh.. Uder. Why?’</p>
<p>‘Why, Mister Uder, I’m not up to spend my evening squabbling with you and get booted. I’ll call Niler and let <em>you</em> explain why you don’t let me get done with my <em>job</em>.’</p>
<p>The gate-man fidgeted. Next to Marrjo, Zisah cleared his throat. ‘You really think that’s necessary? You’ve…’</p>
<p>‘Marker here. Mister Niler?—Yes, unfortunately, Mister Niler: there’s a gate-man, one certain Mister Uder, who says some colleagues had checked before and he’s not willing to let us work.—Yes.—Yes, I know it’s 5 to COS…’ He grimaced, held the comm away for an instant. ‘Yes… yes…Mister Niler, I know… one.. just one moment, please.’ </p>
<p>He shoved the comm in by the cubicle’s pass-through, from where the gate-man picked it up uneasily. </p>
<p>‘Yes?’ Uder’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, but… —No. No, naturally not, Mister Niler. Just I’ve got regulations…—’ He turned steadily paler. ‘Yes. Yes, I understood. Yes, of course, Mister Niler.’ He swallowed, slowly let the comm sink, then returned it to Marrjo who surveyed him impatiently. ‘Now?’</p>
<p>Distraught, Uder called over a guard. </p>
<p>‘Show them round.’</p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>

<p><em>Copse. 22:35. Night had fallen. A velvet cover to twelve who lounged against rocks and trunks next to the cooling down van. Most were washed, combed, clothed in new pants and tees as they gathered round the tiny camp fire: some quiet as they listened to Zisah’s account, some laughing boisterously between swigs of ‘river ale and bites of dark, roasted shoo bread. On a nearby rock the four packs: wrapped like something to eat at break – much to eat; next to four black overalls, holsters, blaster pistols, and blue helmets…</em></p>
<p><em>All prepared. Only one thing left to decide on… </em></p>
<p>‘Yeah, I’d no idea what to say, but Marrjo gave him hell that I’d let him right in myself. I’d never thought—’</p>
<p>‘That I could?’ Marrjo grimaced. ‘I worked as a courier. I got my share of experience with unruly door-people.’</p>
<p>‘Heh.’ Grinning Zisah put the can of Westriver aside and straightened out the datapad on his lap. ‘And then…gosh, when he picked up that comm he turned pale like lather! What’d you tell him?’ </p>
<p>Matheron took a swig. ‘Dunno. Bowl just passed… I guess I said something about vacancies in the ‘dump.’ </p>
<p>Laughter. Cirrian arched a brow. ‘As far as I heard you said: you would not possibly be a sympathizer of those insurgents that would try undermine our rise…’ </p>
<p>Matheron cleared his throat. ‘Yes, and I possibly threatened I’d advise a house search and run him down to VonToma, too.’ He grimaced; scratched round the disinfected gash that felt as though it’d vibrate and glow under the ointment. ‘Anyhow, we got to our tickets—now the question is…’ He swallowed, gazed at Marrjo, ‘…who’ll go down with us?’</p>
<p>The river roared and mixed with the crackling of the small fire. Above the tauntaun, a pale evening star kept the watch. <em>No-one?</em> He looked over the flickering faces: Cirrian and Rhina had other tasks; the three Kurtzen, too; Anissya wasn’t here by heart… </p>
<p><em>Resinous wood’s like incense.</em> He took another gulp of the tepid ale: equally harsh and sweet it left a warm track all the way down to his fidgety stomach. <em>…a man your age should be watching what he eats. Yes, no raw tauntaun tonight; no Vrortik cocktail—sorry to learn my method stays learning but by regretting…But that was a good day: ‘It sounds great!’ ‘You be careful, now!’ ‘I promise!’ </em></p>
<p>‘I’ll go.’</p>
<p>Seon. Huddled up between Obry and Bowl, the slender youth’s look cut: it was blended of sadness, guilt, fear… and vicious determination. </p>
<p>‘No!’ Matheron burst out all of a sudden. ‘No, you’re…’ </p>
<p>‘Too young?’ Seon flashed at him. ‘They were all my age; many younger.’</p>
<p>‘That’s true; and I’ll go!’ Bowl downed his ale and scrunched up the can. ‘For Caratras!’</p>
<p>‘For the spirit!’</p>
<p><em>Fho pveric'ell.</em> His hands felt like porridge. Slowly, Matheron set the can of Westriver aside, dealt out three overalls and three of the blaster pistols; the last he held up by the fire’s light. ‘This is the Merr-Sonn Munitions DD6. By this little switch you set it to stun mode—sole mode we’ll use… unless we run into Imperials.’ </p>
<p> </p>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

It was not the first time Jordan was thankful for her strict masculine upbringing.  By an event near a miracle she had been able to steel her features, maintain a relaxed air, and give off the sense of an experienced assistant to a fairly high-profile individual.  The Imperial commander had even managed to take appropriate, relevant notes which she fully planned on handing in to Mr. Sirana at the conclusion of their mission.  Despite the covert nature of their operation, the man deserved to have some legitimate results spawn from the conference visit.

However, Jordan's energy reserves were not infinite.  She was grateful when Mr. Sirana guided their group toward Dunn Industries' exhibit.  However, she had not expected the internal reaction that occurred at the appearance of Tyrell Dunn, a man she had not seen since the failed attempt to attach herself to his son fourteen years ago.  The contents of their conversation eluded the pilot's attention as she observed the elder Dunn's reaction to the presence of the younger.

A scant moment later the older man's eyes had found her own.  His warm response startled her.  What reason would he have to be so kind?  An impossible question to pose to him, but Jordan wished for an answer despite that.  Her mind dwelled on the past for a short while–

"This sounds like a prospectus we shall definitely be interested in discussing with you, Tyrell," Mr. Sirana stated, catching Jordan's attention in time for her to accept the passed datapad.  After a brief moment's evaluation of its contents, she handed it to the others for their own perusal.

In case the data was of some importance, Jordan made a short note of it on her own device while Bal'ak steered their conversation to a meeting taking place later.  

Shortly afterward, they returned to their charade performance of perusing the various booths assembled for the conference's exhibits.  Strange, but the female pilot found the task much easier after their encounter with Traven's father.  It was as if it came as a relief.  She feared her internal emotions come the tasks of the later evening, and devoted her willpower to bringing those tempestuous feelings under control.

Some time passed, during which their largest, most conspicuous companion departed their company.

Then an attractive woman appeared at the side of the small group, a man hovering behind her, an odd expression on his face.  Jordan frowned.  He seemed vaguely.. familiar to her.  However, before she could think on it too long, the sound of blasterfire echoed through the building.  Shouts rang out, and despite their earlier preparation for the event, Jordan's surprise was genuine.  Blasterfire?  Could the General not have chosen a better.. distraction route?

"What a lively ensemble we have here," the woman said after most attention had been diverted to the General's activities. Her gaze traveled those assembled, resting longest on Laakim Bal'ak.  "Would you kind gentlemen mind taking a moment to speak to a representative of HK-Revolutionary?" she asked demurely, expression respectful but eyes filled with mischief.

To the commander's eyes, it appeared that Mr. Sirana would have been the proper responder, but Bal'ak took that moment to take care of the responsibility himself.  "That depends on the discussion matter at hand."  Jordan did not believe it possible from a man, yet by some honed skill the male pilot's own facial features mirrored the woman's, who she could only assume was their contact.

"It could be a delicate one indeed," Petra Williams replied with a smile.

Mr. Sirana took that moment to intervene.  "If you would give your information to my assistant here, Miss..?"

"Elina von Aath."

"..Miss von Aath, we would be most happy to look over your offers and respond as quickly as possible."

Miss Williams's eyes met Jordan's, and they each passed a respectful nod.  "It would be my pleasure," the agent replied.

Bal'ak grinned.  "Perhaps this evening would be soon enough?  We are attending a business-related party courtesy of Dunn Industries.  I would be most honored to have a lovely escort such as yourself."

The beautiful woman smiled, eyes briefly traveling to the tag at Bal'ak's chest.  "My company has been invited as well, so I look forward to seeing you there as a fellow guest, Mr. Arlos."

"Until then," Mr. Sirana cut them off, beautifully expressing the irritation that would come with an employee flirting on the job.  Jordan wondered if the vexation was entirely feigned.

A member of the security force walked up and cleared his throat to catch their attention.  Heads turned toward him.  "Excuse the interruption, but I wished to assure you that everything is under control and the conference may continue as scheduled."

"Thank you for your excellent work," Mr. Sirana replied.  They occupied a few more standard hours with more conference activities before a transport owned by Mr. Sirana arrived to escort them to the Dunn residence.

As luck would have it, the seating arrangement placed her between Mr. Sirana and Captain Dunn.  It was preposterous to entertain the thought that her pseudo-boss would have done that on purpose.  Jordan did not know how long they should continue their charade of members of SiranAxum, so she did her best to engage in the current small talk during the journey, a very difficult task due to Traven's proximity.  She did not want to look bad in front of him, a feeling that she avoided dwelling upon.

After an eternity, they arrived.  "Welcome to our home," Lanah Dunn greeted them warmly as they entered the lavish estate.  Her eyes rested on Jordan far longer than the observed one believed necessary.  She hoped the older woman had no such designs on her relationship with her captain as she had intimated those years ago.  Though if the situation were different, would Jordan be able to object?

She paid little attention to the continuing small talk as they were guided to rooms in which they could change for the party.  Their luggage had already arrived, a small comfort to Jordan once she realized she had no attire appropriate for the evening's event.  

A knock sounded on the door.  Jordan had no idea who it would be. "Come in?"

It slid open to reveal Petra Williams standing there.  Once it closed again, she held out her hand.  "Commander Jordan Lane, is it?" she queried with a smile.

Jordan could not refrain from returning a dimmer version.  The woman's countenance was contagious.  "Yes.  You are Agent Petra Williams, correct?"

"Yes, but please call me Petra."  She smiled again.  "Well, in here, at least."

Jordan merely nodded in reply.  The other woman put her luggage down and began sifting through it for her own attire.  She pulled out a beautiful, shimmering gown of the deepest blue, a piece at which Jordan could not help but stare.

"Don't you have to get dressed, too?"

"Oh!  Yes."

Petra frowned.  "Do you not have a dress?"

Jordan cursed her uncontrolled features.  "I do not."

"Would you like to try this one?  I have more dresses I can choose from.  Besides, I think it would look great on you."

"You would allow me to wear such an exquisite piece?"

"Of course!  There is no sense in not dressing up for a party.  Don't you need to look the part of an assistant, not a pilot?"

"Yes…"

"Here.  Try it on.  I'm sure it'll fit."

Jordan accepted it and held it gingerly, looking it over for an avenue toward dressing into the thing.  "I… have never worn anything like this."

Petra chuckled and helped the awkward pilot clothe herself.  A short while later, they had changed, adorned themselves with a light amount of jewelry (Jordan only borrowed, again), and Petra had fixed her own hair.  Alas, the pilot's hair was a loss due to its short length.  Then the agent glanced at a chrono.  "Time to go.  Shall we?"

Jordan could only nod, wondering where in the galaxy she would find the strength to step through that door while wearing such an outfit.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“Welcome home, Master Traven.” The words of Donal, Butler of the Dunn household since many decades, sounded strange in Traven’s ears. <i>Home…</i> this house wasn’t his home. Not only because it had been just a few weeks, he had spent here at all since his parents had moved to Corellia. Even their former estate on Imperial Center hadn’t been his home anymore after his graduation from the Academy. His quarters on the <i>Ravisher</i> were his home now. Nevertheless his parents’ house was a safe harbour, a place where he could relax. And a place where people lived who cared for him. This was the reason why he answered with a true smile: “Thanks, Donal. It’s good to be here finally again.”

His rooms were arranged in the same elegant luxury as the rest of the house, displaying his mother’s taste in art. Donal served a tray with a cup of Traven’s favourite tea, then let him alone, giving him time to explore his suite. In other stratums a whole family had to share the same amount of space that was his own private retreat here. Or even less. Not that Traven cared if other beings in the galaxy had a less privileged lifestyle than the Dunns. His family deserved their wealth. Over generations they had gathered it with honest work and business sense. Stepping out on the balcony Traven enjoyed the seaside panorama. He hadn’t lied to Jordan about the planet. As he hadn’t lied to her about his feelings.

They hadn’t had time to talk alone since that night. Like before they were wearing their masks of professionalism when the other had been around. Daiman of course, using his <i>insider information</i>, had nothing better to do than to place Jordan next to him in the transport that brought them here. Traven asked himself if his cousin had any idea how much composure had been needed while that part of the journey.

The tea cup in his hands Traven sat down on one of the comfortable deckchairs. Slowly he sipped the hot beverage, relaxing as the fine flavour filled his mouth. But he had only a small moment to enjoy as a knock at the door disturbed his quietude. “Come in.” Traven shouted. Getting up from his chair he expected Donal again or maybe Daiman. But it neither the one nor the other.  His parents stepped into his room, Lanah embracing him immediately. Surprised by this gesture of his normally more reserved mother Traven returned the hug slightly awkward. But it was obvious that Daiman had spoken the truth back then on Bakura. His parents really missed him. “Traven, it’s so good to see you.” Tyrell patted his son’s shoulder after his wife finally released him. “Yes, I’m sorry, that it has been so much time since my last visit. But as you know the fleet has been a little… busy.” Traven smirked as he looked from one to the other. “ But we’ll have some days to catch up all topics and spent some time together.”

Lanah rose an eye-brow. “Like the topic why you are in company of Miss Lane? I couldn’t believe it as your Father told me.” Traven answered a little too quickly, slightly blushing. “Mother, please, I’m not in her company. <i>Commander</i> Lane is my XO, an Imperial officer like I am.” An almost smug smile played around Lanah’s lips. “But you never brought home any other of your XOs.”

“Mother, please…” Traven sighed. Tyrell chuckled. “Lanah, let him breathe. He just arrived. You’ll have enough time to discuss his private life.” That was exactly what Traven was afraid of.

~~~

It was shortly before the party, a few guests had arrived already, as Traven, now wearing an expensive designer suit, met his cousin downstairs again. This time he joined him in his choice of alcoholic drink. Daiman’s green eyes sparkled as he watched the younger man. “Your mother interrogated me about Jordan.”  Traven took a big sip of his Whyren’s Reserve. “I hope you didn’t encourage her. Or I’ll think you are plotting against me.” Daiman looked playfully shocked. “Me? Plotting? You are like a brother to me!” Then he became earnest, lowering his voice. “No, seriously, Trave. I know that it will mean trouble for you if anybody finds out. So I decided to keep it private.”

A movement on the stairs distracted Traven and he saw her. The elaborate dark-blue silken dress covered her right shoulder while showing off the skin of her left. The long flowing fabric was shimmering as Jordan walked downstairs. Traven noticed that he watched her with his jaw dropped. To him she looked amazing, like a painting of  an ancient goddess.

Daiman turned around to follow his cousin’s stare. His eyes widened too. “Damn, Trave, she gorgeous…” He whispered. “You should make that her official uniform. But for now you better stop drooling, before somebody else notices it.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Kabal’s consciousness woke and immediately he began to get messages in his mind’s eye.

Unauthorized shutdown occurred at 1407 hours Eastern Corellian Time
Running diagnostics
……………………Diagnostics complete.
WARNING: Unauthorized object detected. A screen came up with an outline of Kabal’s body and a blinking red dot on his left chest plate.
Unauthorized object identified: Restraining bolt, Model Number RBT6704
Lethal systems disabled
Max Speed reduced to 1 mph
Propulsion system disabled
Core systems slaved to RBT6704 Restraining bolt
WARNING: Do not attempt removal without proper authorization codes; this could result in memory core corruption or erasure

Unauthorized removal of left arm detected…activating trace…Left arm located 60 yards from current position.
Unauthorized removal of Right arm detected…activating trace…Right arm located 60 yards from current position.
Right leg storage compartment compromised…Lightsaber not present…activating trace…Lightsaber located 60 yards from current position.
Left leg storage compartment compromised… Lightsaber not present…activating trace…Lightsaber located 60 yards from current position.
Unauthorized scan of neural net occurred at unknown time

Activating Galactic Positioning system………………
Planet Identified: Corellia
Time Zone: Eastern Corellian Time
Local Time: 1730
1730: City Identified: Coronet
1731:Restoring Motor functions
1731: Motor Functions Restored

Once all the alerts and messages had finished Kabal opened his eye, blinking it a few times to focus it.  His artifical eye was already scanning the ceiling above him, which was composed of a duracrete mix and durasteel.  He instinctively went to raise his arm to prop himself up, but only heard the whirring of unattached servo motors.  Remembering that he had temporarily been disarmed so to speak, he used his legs and abdominal muscles to sit up.  The lightsaber storage compartments had been forcefully pulled apart so that the sides of Kabal’s legs look like open hangar doors.  He closed them with a thought, silently thankful that they did not require repair.  Scanning the small room he was in, he came to realize that he was in a jail cell.  

“What happened?” he asked himself.  Accessing his memory banks he found the journal entry right before the fight with Halcyon, and then his next memory was dated today at 1404.  Had he lost the fight?  

“Computer, state current objectives” Kabal said to himself.

Current Objective:
Serve as Bodyguard for Daiman Sirana during his trip to Coronet. (a picture of Daiman appeared on the screen)
Protocol 1:All orders from Daiman Sirana must be followed without question
Status: Incomplete

Who was this man who he was supposed to protect?  Perhaps his last memory, however short, would reveal a clue.  He closed his eyes, and activated full playback mode.  Usually his would just watch the memory in his artificial eye, but in this instance he chose for the full experience.

The image was of a posh Corellian conference hall.  Many people gathered talking about fuel efficiency ratios, and others about the latest fighter model from Incom.  Kabal realized he was at a shipbuilder’s conference of some sort.  The dark haired man directly in front of him turned towards him, and Kabal saw Daiman Sirana come close to him and say “Scan the room, and report back to me any threats you perceive.”

“Yes Sir” Kabal heard himself say stiffly.  Walking away, Kabal began to scan the room with his artificial eye.  On the screen it identified guests, and brought up the profiles that he had worked up earlier.  Three minutes of this activity past when Kabal received the message:

Foreign signal detected
Weapons systems override successful
Activating targeting systems

Kabal watched as his onscreen counterpart saw his hand form into the concealed blaster, dissolving the hologram surrounding his body, and making the conference attendees nearest to him jump back in fright at his normal appearance.  Saw his left arm, come up and grab his right, and as shots began to fire, yank the firing arm upwards and away from the crowd.  The shots landed on the opposite walls, turning the once glossy marble into a sea of scorched holes.  The memory ended as electrical sparks flew across the screen, probably after effects of an ion beam weapon of some sort.

“Unauthorized shutdown explained” Kabal thought to himself.  He had apparently been hijacked by a Rogue signal, and his weapon systems activated.  No wonder he was in a Corellian jail.  The memory scan would be them seeing if it was premeditated.  Seeing as how he just saw himself hacked, he did not know how they could come to any other possible conclusion.  His arms and lightsabers would be in an evidence locker, which was apparently 60 yards from his current position.  Kabal hopped off the bench, and walked over to the cell door.  He kicked it several times before someone came to the barred window in the door.  

“Ah, your awake, stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.” The female officer said as she walked away.

Kabal stood rock still in his cell as he awaited her return, which came within a few minutes as she scanned her cornea and unlocked the cell door.  Kabal stepped back to allow the door to open.  

Immediately his eye scanned her, and this readout came up:
Species: Human
Sex: Female
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Brown
Height: 5’5”
Measurements 34-30-35
Occupation: CorSec Officer: Sergeant  
The female CorSec officer was standing there holding the control device for the restraining bolt.  “Come with me, and don’t try anything, or that will be the last move you make for a long time.” she said with authority.

Kabal cleared his throat, and said “Of course, officer…?”

“Diteri” the young women answered the implied question.

“Officer Diteri, yes I would assure you that such a device is not necessary and that I fully intend to comply with you and your superiors, but I sense that it may fall on deaf ears, am I right?” Kabal asked as he walked out, and started off in the direction she indicated.

“Just move” the CorSec officer responded curtly.  

“As you wish” was Kabal’s polite response.  As he walked from the solitary confinement corridor into the main cell block, Kabal glanced at the incarcerated souls.  His scanners focused on one young man.  His eyes were wide, and red from not blinking.  He was mumbling incoherently, and shaking from head to toe.  He must have been a Sticker.  A Death stick user, stuck in euphoria till the effects wore off.  Evil things, Death sticks, life long addiction fueled with the lessening of life with each dose.  One would have to be suicidal to use them.  The young man was inside a tank filled with the rest of the chemically dependent.  They all stared at Kabal as he walked by, probably convinced that the armless half-man:half-machine was the product of something they ingested just now kicking in.  Kabal was led out of the cell block, and into the main part of the CorSec precinct.  The Corellian Security force of the 55th Coronet district was bustling with activity.  Officers were coming back, and some just freshly leaving to start their patrols.  Kabal was led past the activity to a solitary room in the corner of the station.

Upon entering the room, Kabal saw a single table in the center, behind which sat a portly CorSec detective.  Behind the detective the wall was actually a hologram which hid a two way mirror for viewing.  Normally, the prisoner would think it was an empty room, but holograms worked on the visible spectrum only.  So while Kabal’s organic eye saw a wall, his artificial eye, which was set on infrared, saw right through the illusion, and even detected the faint heat signatures of those behind the wall.  Officer Diteri closed the door behind him, and waited outside.

Kabal’s scanned the man:
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Height: 5’9”
Measurements: 18 inch neck, 44 inch waist, 30 length pants
Occupation: CorSec Officer: Detective

“Hello, I am Detective Pit Tadarro of the Corellian Security force, please have a seat Mr. Balek, or would you prefer your surname…Kabal.” The portly gentlemen said, gesturing for Kabal to sit down.

“Kabal will be fine” the cyborg replied, sitting down.  “Forgive my rudeness in not shaking your hand, but apparently CorSec’s policy on disarming a suspect has increased in severity.” Kabal quipped as the detective sat back down in his chair.

The detective smiled and let out a small chuckle.  “Yes, well, you can see where this would be a special case.  We wouldn’t want a repeat incident of what happened at the conference now would we.” Tadarro commented as he shuffled papers around the table.

“No I suppose not, and can I assume by that comment that you have viewed my memory scan?” Kabal asked.

“I have” replied Tadarro

“And I hope you have legal justification for scanning my memory without authorization.”

“We do.” answered the detective sliding the warrant across the table for the cyborg to scan.

Scanning the document into memory Kabal commented “Impressive, you’ve done a lot in three hours”

“The justice system can work quite fast when shots are fired near the governor’s wife.” The detective explained.  

“If you’ve scanned my memory, you know that I was not at fault.  A foreign signal caused the malfunction of my weapons systems” Kabal said in his defense.

“Yes, that was our assessment as well; you have been cleared of those charges.  We were just hoping that you could clear up some discrepancies we found while investigating this incident.”

“Such as” Kabal inquired?    

“Your memory seems to be incomplete, any thoughts on that?” the detective began.

“Is that a pun detective?” Kabal asked back.

“No, merely a bad choice of words” Tadarro answered.

“Obviously, I literally have no idea what happened to my memory banks.  You can be assured that I will be looking into it at my earliest convenience.  Should I find anything relevant I’ll be sure to contact you.” Kabal answered.

“I have no doubt” replied Tadarro clearing his throat.  He shuffled some papers around on the desk.  “Now, the next matter is of a personal nature…” Tadarro trailed off.  Kabal raised his one eyebrow in curiosity.
“Yes, well according to our records, you died right here on Corellia three months ago in what we thought was an accident, but evidence gleamed from your memory records indicates something far more sinister.”  The Detective gave the statement time to be absorbed.  “Would you care to explain what occurred at the Halcyon mansion earlier this year?” Tadarro asked eagerly.

“Not at all” Kabal said calmly.  “I had just captured a bounty on Nar Shadaa, and after discovering the target’s relationship to an old enemy of mine, I decided to lure him into a trap using them as bait.  He himself had an outstanding bounty.  I lured him to the Halcyon mansion which had significance for both of us.  There we dueled, and I can only suffice that it did not go very well.” Kabal answered calmly.

“I see, yes” the detective wrote some notes down and then returned his gaze to the cyborg.  “Actually I was referring to the fact that you admit that you killed the man’s wife and daughter in one of your journal entries, would you care to explain that sir.” The detective inquired.

Kabal just shook his head.  “Detective, tsk tsk, you were doing so well.” The cyborg commented as if to himself.

“I—I beg your pardon” Tadarro stammered by, his face suddenly much redder then it was before.

“As you well know, your warrant only allows you to scan my neural net for evidence related to the shooting at the conference.  Since those charges have been dismissed, any other evidence to unrelated crimes cannot be used with that warrant.  However, I am not under any impression that you could not obtain said warrant; therefore I will explain what you seem to have overlooked.  First: The comment in question refers to Nar Shadaa citizens captured for a bounty posted by a resident of Nal Hutta.  Nar Shadaa law states that if a bounty is wanted Dead or Alive, which they both were, the bounty hunter will have the final say on the condition of the bounty until such time that delivery is met.  My ship did not contain food for them, and so I killed them as an act of mercy, so that they would not starve to death.  Second, the killings did not happen on Corellia, and therefore you have no jurisdiction over them, but feel free to extradite me to Nar Shadaa, unless of course Nar Shadaa still frees people who get extradited to them.  I could foresee that being a problem for your case” Kabal paused to gauge the detective’s reaction to this information.  He saw Tadarro getting more frustrated, but not saying anything to contradict him.  He continued “Third: The Halcyon Mansion I had purchased many years before, and I had it scheduled for demolition for some time.  The permits are in the hall of records, I could print you a copy if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary” Tadarro said through gritted teeth.  “And what about the cybernetic remains we found in the wreckage.  Remains that I might add were stolen from a CorSec evidence facility less then a week after the incident.”

“I have no idea.  Obviously I am alive and well, so I foresee two possibilities: Either Halcyon brought his own cyborg to battle me, and those are its remains.  The other that I did indeed perish and someone retrieved my body and rebuilt me.  Since I have no active memory since that date, it’s very hard to tell what happened.” Kabal stated flatly.  “Either way, I am a Corellian citizen, due to my property holdings, who demolished his dilapidated mansion after clearing it with the proper authorities.  My personal occupation may cross some people’s ethical lines, but I have always worked within the letter of the law.  Even during my position for the Empire, any and all life terminations had a government sanction.   Nothing that happened that day was illegal detective.”  

Tadarro merely cleared his throat, and shuffled his papers.

“Of course…” Kabal continued “… that also leaves the possibility that I am a cloned individual protected by the secondary organism rights act: whereby if a person or persons is an exact genetic copy of someone who had perpetrated a crime, he/she/it cannot be prosecuted for the original organism’s crimes.  Either way detective, I am free of guilt, so either charge me with something or release me, for I am growing impatient.”

Tadarro’s lip curled in a sneer, and he shuffled the papers back into the folder, he had known that there was no case, but was hoping for the cyborg to incriminate himself.  He had also not counted on the bounty hunter having such a well-versed legal mind.  Sighing heavily he looked the cyborg in the eye, and said as confidently as he could “I think that clears this all up, Sergeant Diteri” he called to the officer standing outside.  The female officer who had escorted Kabal from his cell entered and saluted.  “Yes Sir?”

“Please escort the prisoner to retrieve his personal belongings, and remove the restraining bolt at the gate.” Tadarro said as he walked to the door.

“Yes Sir.” Diteri replied, then turned to Kabal and said “Follow me”

“Of course” Kabal said standing, and then turned to Tadarro, “Oh detective, I do have one question for you before you go?”

“Yes?”

“What happened to my ship?”

Tadarro opened his folder quickly, and then said “It was housed in a CorSec evidence house, and given to Dunn industries upon the closing of the investigation and personal request by Tyrell Dunn.  That was the last we heard of it.”

“Thank you Detective” Kabal smiled, it had been a while since he had been able to flex his legal muscle, and he had quite enjoyed it.  Before his career as an assassin for the government, Kalil Balek had been a young lawyer, with a promising career ahead of him.  With Kabal’s enhanced metal abilities, the cyborg was now a registered legal council on many core worlds, with a perfect record.  Of course these were all defending himself from various charges related to his bounty hunting.  Detective Tadarro had been unaware of this fact, probably because Kabal was not registered on Corellia.



Outside the CorSec station, officer Diteri finally removed the restraining bolt from Kabal’s chest plate.


1827:RBT6704 Restraining bolt removed
1827ystem control restored
1827:Lethal systems enabled
1827:Max Speed returned to default settings
1827ropulsion system enabled

Scrolled in Kabal’s vision letting Kabal know that his systems had been successfully restored.  He bid farewell to Officer Diteri, and walked down the steps.  Reaching the street level, Kabal was about to hail a cab when a black limo pulled over and opened the door.  

“Kabal, Mr. Sirana wishes to see you” Gentlemen in a black suit said from inside.

“Does he now?” Kabal asked stepping in the car.

“Yes he does, and he also requests that I give you this” the man handed a metal cylinder to the cyborg.  Kabal scanned him, but did not pay attention to the messages.  He was more interested in what had been handed to him, it was a portable storage device, much similar in design to Kabal’s own.   “…as well as this message” and he handed Kabal a datapad.  Kabal looked at the man quizzically, but turned the datapad on.  The screen flashed to life with the face of Daiman Sirana, and it said “Install the hard drive, and activate Restore.exe”.  The datapad then wiped its memory core, erasing all evidence that the message existed.  Kabal’s mission protocol took over immediately ejecting the back-up device he had installed in his chest letting it drop on the floor, and sliding in the one that had been handed to him.

1830:Mass storage device detected
1830:Installing new hardware
1830:Your new hardware device has been installed and is now ready to use.

Scrolled across Kabal’s field of vision as he opened the devices directory and started Restore.exe.  The program began to reinstall all the memories that he had been missing.  Kabal sat there and felt the information pouring into the missing parts of his mind.  For 15 minutes there was silence as all the data was restored.  Then the final act of the program was to playback the last memory the device had installed.

Daiman Sirana stood before him facing him, they were at the conference.

“Mr. Sirana, here is the signal device.” Kabal said to the handsome business man before him slipping him a pen like device. “You understand what to do?”

“The car will be waiting along with the drive and message.”

“Excellent.” said Kabal as he reprogrammed his mission parameters, and then dumped his memory to his portable device.  The process took 10 minutes, but no one noticed the Kabal standing quietly behind a pillar while Daiman socialized nearby.  It looked like any other bodyguard anyone had used before, standing near their charge, stoic and quiet.  When the dump was finished, recording was re-enabled automatically.  Kabal looked around confused, and Daiman quickly turned and gave his order, which Kabal followed as the mission parameters were still in effect from before the dump.  What Kabal and CorSec didn’t see was Daiman retrieving the hard drive that Kabal had ejected from his chest.  Now through fresh eyes, he saw that he had given Daiman the signal to make his weapon systems malfunction, and he had erased all knowledge of the Empire, and the plan from his mind, cause he knew that CorSec would scan it.  Now that his memories had been restored, he changed his mission parameters back to the current mission, and activated his holo-emitters to make it appear that he was wearing a tux.  

“The Dunn residence if you please, I believe I’m late for a party”

“We will be arriving in five minutes”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Laakim swirled his glass of Menkooro whiskey and downed it in one gesture. The bartender who was hired to cater the Dunn's party had suggested the drink to the TIE pilot as he brooded by the counter, observing Traven and Sirana together. According to the bartender, Menkooro whiskey was considered the perfect accompainment to bruallki. According to an old saying quoted by him, "If you had some bruallki, you could have bruallki and Menkooro… if you had some Menkooro."

Whatever the case, it didn't help to relieve his feelings of being a fish out of water. Not that he didn't mind a party. Laakim liked to party as much as the next person, but he preferred the raucous celebrations of TIE pilots. Stuffy gatherings like these were poison– in the bland and "consensual" enviroment of the Dunns, it felt even worse.

"So having a good time?" the bartender asked the pilot.

"The best, thank you," he lied.

"Good, because it seems to get even better now," he grinned, nodding to a figure approaching.

Laakim heard the sound of high heels clicking on the hard floor, heard their rhythm shift from a fast walk to a run. Something about the urgency in those footsteps gave him pause. He was already about to turn when a voice called his alias.

"Mr. Arlos?"

He turned and looked down into perhaps the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. The woman standing there was about  his height, graceful, and athletic, yet softly round in the right places. Her long dress was slit high up one side to display a tantalizing flash of leg, and her wraparound top was simple and elegant, fastened with a large gemstoned pin.

She was tanned, a few strands of her hair displayed unashamedly over her face; her nose was small, her lips full, glossy, and the color of pink flower petals. Her hair was long and chestnut-colored, held back with a blue headband. When she smiled, as she was doing now, her eyes sparkled, and as she came close to him, he smelled malla flowers.

In spite of his natural suspicion, he found himself smiling at her, and admiring the way the interior lights glinted off her hair. "Excuse me, have we met?"

"Not really, Mr. Arlos, though I've seen you before. At the Dunn exhibit a few hours ago." She teased, putting out her hand, as he took it. Her fingers were long and soft against his battle-rough skin. "I hope you remembered my name."

"Of course, who couldn't forget Elina von Aath?" he countered, softly kissing the top of her hand.

She pulled it back and smiled. "It looked like from where you were standing, you seemed a little gloomy."

"That could describe the mood being here in this stuffy dinner party. But now that you're here, it just made my disposition a little brighter."

She beamed, and he found himself enjoying it. A lot.

"You flatter me, Mr. Arlos. Though I did find myself wondering why such a handsome man wasted himself on unhappiness, and what I could do to change that."

She was laying it on pretty thick, and Laakim was buying none of it. A man in his position attracted a certain type of female seeking some advantage. He usually sent them packing immediately– and even when he didn't, he'd quickly catch them making eyes at another to sink their claws into.

He sensed this woman was <I>not</I> one of those, despite her obvious attempts at manipulation. Well, whatever she was, he found her exceedingly pleasant, and a game of <I>reekcats and sea-mices</I> could be just the sort of distraction he needed to keep this assignment from driving him mad.

<I>Besides</I>, he thought with a smile, <I>in a game of reekcats and sea-mices, sometimes you get the cheese…</I>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

He saw a reflection.
   
A man with wrinkles on his face, adorned with little white bristles of hair that signified that he was of somewhat advanced age. A hand, wrinkled, gently stroked the tip of his chin to the top of his cheek, to feel for these hairs and to debate on whenever he should shave or not. A smile slowly came on his face before his eyes darted to the tooth cleaning synthesizer that he had brought along with him.
   
With a click, he pressed down on the ‘Operate’ button labeled on the device. He brought the mouthguard-like object into his mouth, and bit down hard. Humming soon followed, loud, but after three seconds a loud ‘Bing!’ escaped the man’s mouth. His wrinkled hand gently reached in and took out the cleaning synthesizer and placed it on the counter in front of him, smiling, his teeth now a pristine white.
   
Willem von Aath then titled his head upwards, to see his nose, to make sure that there was no stray nose-hair that was clipping outwards on his person. Satisfied, he turned his head to the left to see the mark of hair next to his ear, making sure it was not past the regulations on Imperial uniform wear. Then he turned his head to the right and repeated the steps.
   
He had to look good, his thoughts spoke to him. He lowered his eyes on the reflection of himself, the mirror holding still, to gaze at his choice of clothes. A collared shirt with metal clips hidden underneath the fabric of the shirt held it together at the collar and down the waist. The white shirt was tucked in neatly with suspenders held by his socks, keeping it tight along the creases. His black dress pants were creased as well, which made him become satisfied with his clothing choice.
   
He grabbed his black dress jacket with a gentle touch, and slowly pushed one arm through a sleeve, then the other, before he took his hands down to his waist and button up the jacket. He shook his head, blinked twice, before he smiled and ran a hand through his hair. He looked the part of a party guest, that much was certain, but he had no doubt he had to impress his contact and his father, for he was representing Dodonna in this matter.
   
He walked out of the bathroom with a little step, before he stopped at a hallway and turned into a bedroom. There, sitting on a bed, was Lieutenant Commander Maarco, with a scrubber in one hand and a clothe in the other, stained black. A pair of shoes were at his feet, empty with no foot in either of them, waiting for their master to slip them on. Willem took them gently with his fingers and examined them carefully, before nodding.
   
“Good shine, Maarco.”
   
He only grunted in return, desperately trying to shine his shoes to some sort of perfection, the shoes already having a deep and overall shine but his hands nevertheless continued to scrub harder and harder at the foot of his shoe. Willem was not that much concerned with the shininess of his shoes as much as Maarco was, so he merely left the room and headed downstairs.
   
“Operator Flick?” Willem called out from the living room, gently pushing in his string lace into their holes. Marsh came out walking from his room, his eyes a bit red from staring at a computer screen in a lit room for over twenty four hours.
   
“Yes sir?”
   
“I’m going to a dinner with Maarco, but I don’t think we’ll be back anytime soon. There’s a blaster pistol in that room, and make sure you turn off the lights at twenty two hundred.” He spoke softly, but yet with a force, as he gently slipped on his shoes. Marsh nodded before he took off back into the room, closing the door behind him.
   
Anton walked down a small flight of stairs with his dress clothes on, his hair combed backwards and slicked back with a gel that made it look like it was patted down with water than gel itself. He wore a dress shirt that was white and clean, somewhat expensive by the look of the fabric, and the pants that were black as his shined shoes matched well with the uniformed smartness of his fashion. A dress coat was over his left arm, draped like a coat of arms over a fireplace.
   
“Let’s go.” He said to Maarco, more of an order than a request, to which is how Maarco more or less prefers it to be. The young commando, at least when placed next to Willem, led the way outside while he walked, his dress shoes clicking on the ground while he slipped in his dress jacket. The cool air hit them hard, a match of red with clouds and the sun slowly setting far out in the ocean was their background as Willem entered the vehicle’s backdoors.
   
As soon as he stepped in, he relaxed.
   
“It’ll be about ten, twenty minutes to the Dunn Residence here on Corellia. I’ll make sure we’ll get there a bit later than preferred.”
   
“Why?”
   
“Because military men are always late.” Maarco said with a smirk, looking in his rearview mirror port before he brought his attention to the road. Willem smiled back, but kept it reserved, looking away as he tried to think about what he would talk about with Traven pertaining to him, and he was more or less a bit worried. Not at the Group Captain or his position, but what he would say to Dodonna and if he would take Willem at all.
   
His hands moved together, his thumbs rubbing together, closing his eyes. He tried to calm his mind, to remove all inhibitations on his psyche, but it was hard. Not only was his possibility of failure looming nigh but also memories of long time past of failed missions coming up to him. The raid on Keldor, the attack on Eres IV, and the Defense of Coruscant…
   
“Maarco, what do you think about the mission?”
   
“What I think is irrelevant to the mission. What I currently think is how I need to stay low and way under the speed limit for anyone to catch us.”
   
And there it was, Maarco gave the advice Willem was searching for in his heart: think only about the now.
   
Then, and only then, did Willem breathe a sigh of relief.

Minutes

<p><em> Atunda, 15 th of Helona </em></p>
<p> 5:53</p>
<p> The air was crisp and clear. Far away you could see snow-covered summits; meters down, an elongated place of beige and indigo blended with the colours of the incline. Hood pulled deep down over pale skin, electro binoculars in gloved hands, Sem surveyed the beige complex that squatted halfway up the opposite slope: landing platform, main building, two sheds; beyond, one stubby round tower with a milky white cupola that glistened under first light.</a></p>
<p><em> Arden Shaft.</em> Since Captain Deredith Arden led his company to colonize their home, the man had dubbed many things; many more were named for him. <em>Yet under this one, they buried a sun.</em> At snail's pace, the Kurtzen shifted his weight, picked out a flint and panned southeast: down the widening valley, dawn changed ground mist into a sea of violet gold. Ploughing through, hoverbusses piled up shimmering bow waves. Slowly, a grey van closed up…</p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 5:54 </p>
<p>From today BakOr C operates 24/5: three shifts per day, during each of which up to 3000 sentients work below ground. Today's miner is, on average, 62 years old with 30 to 35 years of experience in mining. He works 8½ hours per day, takes any meals and breaks inside…</p>
<p> In the van’s hold, the newscaster’s voice fused with the hum of repulsors. Leant against the side, Seon ripped open and closed the Velcro clasp of his holster. The straps of artificial leather pretty much kept his black coverall in place – at least after Obry had trimmed and hemmed its extremities. Opposite him, Marrjo gazed into space: helmet on, hands on his bag, he looked like one of the Memorial for the Buried Miners. While Bowl, on the passenger, sat unnaturally rigid on his part—cans of nerf loaf and beans didn’t help: his gear threatened to burst at all seams.</p>
<p> Not especially subtle. But well… Matheron pawed the big plaster that Cirrian had put on his own, much too known mug and gazed back at his boots. Most chums would arrive in civvies; change in ‘fresher houses on site where they kept their dusty beige gear in lockers. Being ready dressed would gain them some start; but not over the ones they needed to replace: the squad of the works security service likely made the trip just as geared up. The more important they marched right through.</p>
<p> 1800 meters down, 300 west—past a few hundred miners; the security measures we can’t gauge; on to the nuclear fusion reactor we know not operate… </p>
<p> Matheron swallowed. Between his ankles he felt the bag stuffed with home-made smoke bombs; opposite him, a mere boy readied for an operation the Maximum Credible Failure of which meant radiation damages to thousands. Imagining, his stomach rehearsed sickness: if they killed but one, if they caused as much as permanent injuries to only one miner, Bakurans condemned them just as they dreaded the forces of that Imperial leftover; quickly, VonToma found informers at every corner. <em>A stab in the back of Resistance; or a big turn… </em></p>
<p> Opposite, Seon had turned very pale; Matheron sought his eyes. ‘You’re alright?’</p>
<p> The youth shrugged, then grimaced. ‘Yes. Just sick.’</p>
<p> ‘That makes two of us…’</p>
<p> ‘Three.’ Bowl, from in front.</p>
<p> ‘No worries: that’ll pass.’</p>
<p> ‘When I die?’ Seon glanced up. </p>
<p> ‘When we die, yes.’ Matheron returned his look, then gave a crooked grin. ‘Either then… or when we’ll pass it over to the Imperials.’ </p>
<p> In front, the first bus branched off and climbed up the northern slope. Abruptly, their own engines revved, the floor tilted, droned, as, gradually, Rhina brought them obliquely behind the slow giant.</p>

<p> 5:56 </p>
<p> Sem rose the binoculars to keep both in sight – off the haze, across crag, scree – up to the ‘crete platform, that quickly filled as the first load of chums got off the ‘buss and streamed towards the gate. As the company van touched down, four mingled with hundreds. Still they stuck out: one too big, one too small; one limping; and the security services’ black and blue made them noticeable over a long distance. Well at least this would be mutual. He scanned the crowd: pale, drowsy, many looked downcast – no further blacks. Slowly, he panned back and zoomed in on the four that purposefully strode through.</p>

<p> 5:58</p>
<p> Bowl rolled ahead. Matheron pulled his blue helmet far down over his face and limped close behind; just as Seon hid his wanted mug in the back of Marrjo. Ahead, in front of the grille and turnstiles that secured the entrance, chums stood in line for the time clocks. Three lanes, separated by ‘steel railings. Leading on, Bowl queued up right, Marrjo in the middle; close behind, Matheron and Seon looked down.</p>
<p> Shuffling feet. Sweating, Bowl peered at the clocks: there were two small diodes atop, one of which flashed green with every scan: beep, a tick in the turnstile, followed by a clatter as a chum pushed through. Beep. Tick, tick; click, click. Two passed. Another two. Every single of them could have logged in with the original of the sets that Zisah had copied. Every man in front narrowed their chance. </p>
<p> Facing the clocks, Bowl and Marrjo exchanged a glimpse; inserted…beep, tick; beep, tick. As in synch, they pushed through the turnstiles; Bowl grinned and turned his head…Beeeeeeeep.</p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> Seon’s eyes widened. The blank in hand, he returned Matheron’s glimpse, then reached for his breast pocket and pulled the hankie in which he’d wrapped his emergency copy. His hands shook. Awkwardly he disguised the exchange with a half-hearted rub over the substitute; then lowered the card; inserted: beeeeep. Hastily, he pulled it through again. Beeeeeeep. Beeeep, beeeeep…</p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> Workers craned their necks. Persons behind rolled eyes and started to grumble. On the other side of the grille, Bowl and Marrjo stopped in their tracks. His own card hovering over the clock’s slit, Matheron turned to face the pale youth. Perhaps it’s a sign. Perhaps you shan’t go today—But then, the boy stood alone… </p>
<p> He pulled back; gave a glower at one jostling and kept blocking the lane as he turned to face his partner. ‘What’s up? You’re tryin’ to skive?’</p>
<p> Seon stood white as a trooper. ‘N-no! No, really! It won’ work!’</p>
<p> ‘Bah! Gimme that!’ Matheron snatched the card, thrust into his trouser pocket and polished it on his part. ‘Trick’s to clean with an unused.’ He turned up his mouth. ‘Now it must work.’ </p>
<p> Briefly, their eyes met. Fingers touched as their last reserve passed the steel railing. When cards sank, Matheron felt his pulse. Green! Tick. Tick, click. ‘At last!’ Behind someone grunted. As they pushed through, each could see the other one sweat. </p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 06:02 </p>
<p> At the wide corridor’s next intersection most of the chums turned off: men right, women left; towards where echoing chatter suggested the locker rooms. Beyond, the passage lay all but empty. Only now and then a small group came towards: faces beige as their grease smeared coveralls, they peeked from under dusty white helmets… eyed them…one pair became fixed… then the owner nodded as well and trotted along. Through their echoing footsteps, Matheron felt his pulse. Hectic. Few more meters to the big sliding door…</p>
<p> With a hiss, the convex ‘steel slid back, spewed another two and revealed a large round tower. Arden Shaft. Somewhere here gotta be the ‘lift. Matheron looked round; and faltered noticing the entire floor ahead was one hovering ‘steel platform. Ten metres in diameter, set in waist-high railing, it filled the tower not quite: through a hand’s width you spied ring upon bluish-pale ring that seemed to grow smaller and move closer to each other, the deeper you looked into the abyss. Above, mauve sky seeped through a dome of frost-plas. Like an Ice Crypt.</p>
<p> Trembling, he followed as Bowl led on. Behind, the gate hissed shut. As repulsors’ hum dropped off, tons of ‘steel obeyed the law of falling bodies. Light waned. Around, the ice-blue rings blurred. <em>‘Dad, you think it’s true they buried themselves alive?’ ‘No. What sense would that make? No matter how strong the foe, I’d never hole up and wait…’</em></p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 06:04</p>
<p> Drone stepped up to whine. Gradually the platform slowed, turned through 180° then hovered to a halt with the railing’s gap towards a wide, neon-lit tunnel. Unlike the usual galleries, that were stabilized by shotcrete and supporting columns, this vault was built of cast ‘crete. Three meters in, beyond threshold and tracks of a cubit-thick gate, a travelator stretched further in to the mountain. Another 300. A low drone undulated through the passage. The grooved rubber sucked up their footsteps. Along the ceiling, neon strips formed a dotted line. In case of an MCA, the gate behind would go down…</p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> The river roared. Round the fireplace, tins and breadsticks in hand, Obry, Zisah and the both Kurtzen had turned silent. Anissya poured herself another tin of caf, Cirrian inhaled her cigarra and gazed through the crowns. </p><blockquote><p> ‘I <em>knew</em> that in Coruscant’s lower sentients did die from asphyxia.’ </p>
  <p> She could hear his voice like the other night. Seven hours ago; he sat next to her and gazed into the embers. ‘I <em>knew</em> they were restricted to live under worst conditions: many starved; many were ill with allergies and respiratory diseases.’</p>
  <p> ‘And didn’t put up a fight?’</p>
  <p> ‘Time and again, a group tried to take one of the atmosphere generators; OPC thwarted.’ He looked down. ‘I helped suppress. In exchange for power, pay rises and privileges—with which I tried to make up to my family for what I was no longer able to be…’</p>
  <p> ‘What do you mean?’</p>
  <p> ‘Well…’ He gestured helplessly. ‘…I was scared I could lose them. I was scared of those who crippled me…’ </p>
  <p> ‘Imperial terrorists?’</p>
  <p> ‘We called them terrorists; they called themselves Resistance.’ He snorted, put some wood and poked the small fire. ‘I hated them. I thought I wanted revenge… but most, I yearned security… power… to protect myself and everyone I love.’</p>
  <p> ‘So my smear was a bulls eye.’</p>
  <p>  ‘Not what your wrote about Catharin or Gavin.’ A split second he looked hard. ‘But yes… I was a scared man.’</p>
  <p> She observed his profile. ‘And now?’</p>
  <p> His gashed cheek glistened in the glow of the fire. A long time, he gazed at clouds and stars.</p>
  <p> ‘Now… I gotta write my confession.’</p></blockquote><p> A pine’s seed whisked down and was blown. Nervously, Cirrian stubbed out the fag, changed to her favourite place up on one of the boulders and fished out ‘pad and pen. Closing her hip bag, he glance fell upon the chip-case, the two rolled ‘sheets.</p>
<blockquote><p>Stupid Flarg! I should be happy I am not out with them; but I’m not! Now, I can do nothing! Nothing but sit and wait. Powerless! Condemned to sit idly while, kilometres from here, their success or failure will determine all course… </p>
  <p> Three left a farewell: Seon's went to Obry. Marrjo gave a chip to the Kurtzen corporal, asked he relay to General Kontrak. Thayer ironically entrusted <em>me. </em>Two ‘sheets. Beautiful sweeping script of the kind I’ve rarely ever seen; all in that aged language he also cursed me in. Old Corellian; after some research I’d found out: he swore he would eat my ashes.</p>
  <p> Now I hold his. Or that’s how it feels: two fragile ‘sheets: one to his wife and son. One to his parents. Next to, one chip as burdened with guilt it could sink a star. </p>
  <p> That one is in Basic. It is not put into code or encrypted in any way: a plain, terrible admission. Treason against the once free and independent people of Bakura is only the last of many, too many paragraphs that deal with the violation of sentients’ rights, spying, torturing, murder. A long column underneath details the names of victims: full name, age, and origins. Drawn up and signed: Matheron Edvaard Thayer.</p>
  <p>Still, I don’t wish his death—I wish… he never was born.</p></blockquote><p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 06:06</p>
<p> Abruptly, the travelator stopped. Sweating, Matheron gazed up several square metres of ‘steel; the one man-sized door showed the features of a Locris Syndicates MLC-50 magna lock. <em>Frak!</em> The device shaped micro-magnetic fields to almost molecularly bond. Without sequencer, you could just as well blast the wall. <em>Forget it!</em> And the interface to their right was equipped with a retina scanner. <em>Bith-tech! Cark! The SD at the end of the tunnel…</em></p>
<p> Bowl looked round, Marrjo nodded his head towards the entrycomm. Reluctantly, the giant stepped up and pushed the buzzer. Wavy drone. Eventually the speaker crackled. ‘Morning… thought we’d see Leiad or Rekab—what’s the matter?’</p>
<p> ‘No idea.’ Bowl grumbled. ‘Yester night I didn’t think I’d go here, myself.’</p>
<p> ‘Hmm. And where’s your greycoats?’</p>
<p> Bowl glanced at Marrjo who looked just as clueless. Frowning, the dark haired leant in to the ‘comm. ‘Look: we were just called. Per express courier, so to speak. So.. I actually don’t <em>know</em>, but…’ He lowered his voice. ‘…after <em>yesterday</em>…’</p>
<p> Whispers. Seon shuffled his feet. Matheron gave a glimpse round, then stared at the small diode beneath the Locris Syndicates’ logo. <em>Energy! Come on!</em> Eventually, there was light.</p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 06:07 </p>
<p> The control room could have been the bridge of a buried starship: displays, indicator boards and instruments across two walls. Before a control desk, two grey coveralls carried out a terminal inspection. To their right, a wide screen displayed the feeds of several cams. Beyond, through a curved panorama window, you looked at a mess of pipes leading up to a huge metal cylinder. In a semicircle around the entrance, four guards blocked off their path. </p>
<p> ‘Now… we still gotta see your IDs.’</p>
<p> Seon nodded. Gawkily, he pulled out a datapad and held it out to the speaker; who glanced through, swallowed, then passed it without a word. So did his neighbour. And hers. Apprehensive, number four studied. Eyes wide, his glance jerked round about, then back to the squad leader. ‘We can’t. They’d fetch our families.’</p>
<p> ‘We’ll give them a lot else to worry.’ </p>
<p> One of the techs cleared his throat. From the corner of his eye, Matheron noticed the move on the wall-mounted screen: six walked upon the travelator – four black, two grey. Marrjo’s hand inched closer to the blaster; the guards pulled. ‘Sorry. But we can’t…’</p>
<p> Pale and shivering, Seon stepped between the muzzles.</p>
<p> ‘When the Imperials fetched the non-human, I kept silent: I was a human.
When they locked up the Republicans, I kept silent: why, I was none.
When they fetched the labour unionists, I kept still; sure I missed my father—
When they came to fetch me… I stood alone.’</p>
<p> His whisper fading, the youth stepped through their cordon… </p>
<p align="center"> | | |</p>
<p> 06:25</p>
<p> Astonished, miners paused as they heard the signal. Shift end!? Only just arrived in their respective tunnels, they stopped, glanced at their chronos. But, indeed, it signalled the end of shift. The big drill at tunnel’s end ceased it’s yell. The conveyors came to a standstill. Now a youth’s voice rang out over the PA system.</p><blockquote><p><em> Workers! </em></p>
  <p><em> Yesterday morning, the Imperial Remnant butchered the children and grandchildren of 12,000. The students and staff of Arden High stood up against the ‘hand of friendship’ that bombed our capital. The Imperial Remnant slaughtered them with arms of Bakuran ‘steel. Still your bosses cooperate, and profit as you work for oppressors, executioners, our all hangmen and the murderers of our families. Refuse blood creds! Refuse to collaborate! </em></p>
  <p><em> You have the choice, the responsibility and power! </em></p>
  <p><em> Show solidarity! </em></p>
  <p><em> In honour of the fallen, the bereaved, and our all liberty— </em></p>
  <p><em> Caratras 21 calls you out on strike! </em></p></blockquote><p> They looked up incredulous; anxious, aroused; then cautiously around and at each other. The call reiterated. Again. And again. Whispers woke and grew to voices. </p>
<p>The first turned…</p>
<p> </p>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“No further comments,” Rinehart stated as held up his hand. “I must see to the needs of the injured troopers under my command.”

To further underline the fact that he would be unavailable for comments, the ISB officer spun on his heel and headed for medcenter’s entrance, one of many that was receiving the wounded from the brutal street battle. Once inside, Rinehart was confronted with hellish scenes that always followed the aftermath of combat:  Blood spattered doctors, nurses, and orderlies rushed about, moving from casualty to medisensor, medisensor to casualty. The smell of scorched flesh, blood, bacta, bota, and disinfectant assailed Rinehart’s nose. Injured troopers, Imperial and Bakuran auxiliary alike, shrieked in agony from their wounds while only a low, awful moan could be heard coming from some repulsorgurneys and stretchers. Other troopers dully stared straight ahead, oblivious to their injuries while off to one corner, rows of troopers went unattended. Frequently, one of those soldiers would gurgle, their breath coming in one last rattle before they were forever still.

Rinehart moved among the troopers, saying little, giving an encouraging squeeze to a shoulder, a reassuring grasp of a hand. For the most part, the soldiers regarded him silently, though the Imperial officer could feel their eyes boring into him.

Morgan Yvies eventually discovered Rinehart in one of the medical bays, observing several troopers undergoing bacta immersion. “Always so tragic,” the Bakuran commented, “the aftermath of a battle.”

“Very,” Rinehart replied, not taking his eyes off the bacta tanks. “I’ve been in the meat grinder myself. One of the CompForce regiments I served in suffered something like 90% casualties. And once the exhilaration of surviving has worn off, you look around, see all the empty bunks and benches in the mess hall, and you feel guilty that you lived when so many of your friends and comrades died.”

At that moment, a Bakuran lieutenant marched up, waiting a respectful distance away until Yvies signal him to come forward. “Lieutenant Botela,” the Bakuran said by way introduction to Rinehart. “He will be your new adjutant.”

“What was the diagnosis for Begard?”
“Severe head trauma, but expected to survive. Favorable odds for a full recovery. Physicians estimate a 60% chance.”

“Ensure that Begard’s family and the families of the other wounded Bakuran troopers get extra rations and privileges. It’s the least I can do for them.”

“As ordered, Sir,” Lt. Botela answered. “I also have the latest roll calls from all companies, Sir.”

Rinehart accepted the datapad from Botela, then frowned as he and Yvies reviewed the data. The counterinsurgency force had suffered a considerable number of killed, wounded, and missing, but the number of dead insurgents that had been recovered showed that the Imperial forces had inflicted a favorable kill ratio. What was more disquieting was the fact that nearly two platoons of Bakuran troopers had been classified as “deserted”.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Rinehart said as he handed back the datapad. “You are dismissed.”

“Troopers deserting in the midst of battle,” Yvies murmured. “I detest the thought.”

“I suppose the troopers who abandoned their posts disliked the idea of shooting down students–even if they were a bunch of brainwashed, wild-eyed radicals–even less. Which is why we need to get these troopers of ours out into the countryside, on security sweeps where they can hunt down the deserters and presumably fight any of their fellows who are still holding out.”

“All well and good, Captain, but who is to provide security within Salis D’aar and other areas under our control?”

Rinehart grimaced. “I’ll have to request reinforcements from Admiral Dodonna in the meantime. At least until we can raise another force–a paramilitary force–for the urban areas under our control.”

Yvies narrowed his eyes. “Paramilitary? Some sort of constabulary, then?”

The ISB officer stroked his chin. “I think I prefer the term ‘militia’. Has a more martial air to it. Something along the lines of ‘The Bakuran People’s Militia’.”

“And who would fill the ranks of this militia? It is my understanding that Admiral Dodonna also wishes to recruit for the regular forces. It may displease him in that you ask him for his regular forces, while attempting to steal possible soldiers for another force under your command.”

“Which is why we may target our recruiting drive to certain demographic segments. Imperial loyalists, for example, particular teenagers a year or two too young to enlist in the regular forces, but still eager to do their duty. Older men as well,  who still believe that they can take the field. Anyone with a chip on their shoulder, an axe to grind with their neighbor. And any other elements of Bakuran society who just might find it beneficial by joining our ranks. I’m sure you have a dossier on all potential candidates. And don’t forget, one of our prime selling points will be that they can serve locally, and live at home.”

Yvies looked intrigued by the idea. “I’ll have some clerks begin work on it right away. By your leave, Captain?” the Bakuran asked, sketching a salute.

Rinehart nodded to Yvies, signaling his assent. The Imperial remained in the medical bay, observing as the wounded soldiers were lifted from the bacta tanks and sent to another wing for additional rehabilitation.


Rinehart spent several more hours in the medical bay, watching his soldiers get treated before finally deciding to return to his quarters. Walking down one of the corridors, lost in thought, the ISB officer paid little notice to two men lounging about in some easy chairs, leafing through some outdated newszines. Only when both rose and one of them spoke out did Rinehart come to an abrupt halt.

“Lookee there, Kix. Just the SOB we’ve been looking for.”

Rinehart turned, coming face to face with a blond Imperial officer, shaven headed crony in tow. Two years had passed, but Kix Davin’s smug expression hadn’t changed much. Just a bit older, and a lot harder now. Nash Cadman still wore the same leer that he always displayed on Nar Shaddaa; Rinehart wondered where in the galaxy Val’kia Navin was. A swift kick from the redhead was all that was needed to wipe that look from Cadman’s face.

“Well, well, Captain,” Kix sneered, a half-laughing, half-murderous look in his eyes. “Guess all your toy soldiers got busted up, eh? Maybe if you had some real troopers under your command, this wouldn’t happen, no?” The storm commando's malicious grin faded. “Captain VonToma, you are hereby ordered to follow these directives from Admiral Dodonna.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Petra’s face felt stretched from the false cheerful look she had to keep on for this assignment.  Despite her target looking good on the holo she had no guarantee of remotely enjoying her evening.

And then Laakim Bal’ak (AKA Mr. Arlos) and she clapped eyes on each other.

For some reason his face caused her heart to pound beneath her chest and her neck to warm, although she managed to keep her cheeks from flushing.

Now she stood in the bar next to Bal’ak acting ladylike and casual, sipping a cocktail to maybe stop her strange symptoms and get her job done and over with quicker.

“How have you found the convention so far, Mr. Arlos?” Petra asked with a sparkling smile.  “I hope you’re not too bored with it.”  

“I must admit it doesn’t fully hold my interests.”  Then his dark eyes met her lighter ones with a look so intense her fingers trembled to the point of her drink shaking slightly.  “I’m finding it more enjoyable now, though, Elina.  Or whatever your real name is,” he added in an undertone.  His smile held curiosity, and something very promising to her.

In her mind she suddenly fought back a graphic and very pleasing mental image.  “You flatter me,” she only replied before taking a sip to cover.  “Mmm, these are divine.”

His hand touched her elbow, and her heart skipped a beat at this unexpected touch.  “What is your name?”

“Today it’s Elina.  Perhaps tomorrow it’ll be Leia.”  She winked.

Despite his apparent frustration at her coy words, he still smiled at her.  “Are you always this stubborn?”

“Sometimes I’m even worse.”

In the other room music played for background ambience, an old waltz she remembered her father playing in his office when she was barely knee-high.  She would stand on his feet while he danced around the room and taught her at the same time.

“You like that tune.”  Bal’ak had caught her.

“It reminds me of happier times,” she replied while absently putting down her drink on the nearby bar.  “During the glory days of the Empire, on Imperial Center.”

Bal’ak nodded, his dark eyes on her face.  It made her so uncomfortable she finally gave him a pointed stare.

“I apologize, I just,” suddenly his hand brushed against her cheek as his thumb stroked her skin.  “Your eyes are almost like gold in this light.  Has anyone ever told you that?”  The slightly rough touch made her breath catch.

Nobody ever wanted to really get this close before, to look at what she really was like.  Jeg only wanted her body; Marsh had his gadgets; and the other men saw her on a job.

When she didn’t respond, Bal’ak frowned.  “I apologize, Miss van Aath.  I’ve overstepped myself.”  He started to move—

- And her arm shot out to stop him.  “Wait.”

Pausing he fixed his gaze on her again.

She took a deep breath before giving him a genuine half-smile, her eyes twinkling.  ‘We should at least dance, Mr. Arlos.”

“Only if you grant me your name.”

Instead she moved herself close to him with his chest pressed against hers and her face merely centimeters from his, and she could hear his breath quicken into shallow pants.  Her nose brushing against his,  she murmured, “Perhaps later, if you’re a very good boy.”

“I can be an angel,” he managed to reply.