Re: Imperial Renaissance

Janus…


I still remember when the Intergalactic Communications Center(ICC) on Praesitlyn was a state run entity, a key hub in the coordinated, 24/7 holonet propaganda campaign that became such a lasting symbol of the Imperial Era… for those of us who still look back to it.

Pundits were tossed in front of a holocam every other hour, spouting the "truths" of the galaxy's situation from a pulpit of unquestionable authority. These sermons were usually separated by dry, hollow programming that tended to focus on the luxuries brought about during Imperial rule and matters of Human High Culture. They were still heavily regulated of course. So much so that on the rare occasions when the camera would pan out too far, you might catch the glimpse of a stormtrooper's E-11 blaster rifle, trained to fire on anyone who dared to entertain the notion of spouting something "inappropriate" over the Holonet. Typically, the censors would just cut the feed before any shots were fired and an official would appear a few moments later to issue a retraction/clarification.

Restrictions eventually became so tight that it created a sort of disconnect across the galaxy. Most people on Corellia couldn't get information about what was happening on Mon Calamari, news on Naboo never reached the ears of the masses on Onderon, and some worlds didn't even learn of Palpatine's death until about two years after the Battle of Endor. Planets were usually confined to local information, anything beyond their world was explained very briefly by Imperial officials and only if they were really pressured on the subject.

Things certainly are different these days…

By the time the New Republic took over, the people had lost all faith in state run programming. Nothing said on HV was considered true, the programming was far from entertaining and nobody was really watching anymore. Some in the newly reformed senate argued that the NR should still retain control of the communication hubs, but they received very little support. The people had seen enough propaganda in their day and a majority of the new senators tended to agree with them, cautious of upcoming elections. A few test programs were actually set up early on to gauge the public's mood but they only served as proof that the idea was a waste of time and eventually, the NR ended up selling off the various broadcasting hubs along with a few other state run industries.

In some ways, it was a new beginning for the galactic community. Private ownership flooded the holowaves with an infinite variety of programming. Sporting events from almost every populated planet, non-human dramas, inter-species comedies, offworld independent news, and critical government satires eventually got people to plop down in front of their HVs again and watch. With information flowing from planet to planet free of heavy restrictions, the galaxy began to feel like more of a community.

Though the galaxy's reconnection was an interesting side effect, the real winners of the selloff were ultimately the private holding companies that now owned these broadcasting hubs. After Holonet ratings exploded, they raked in a ridiculous number of credits selling advertising space to companies that were eager to expand into new markets.

Most of these holding companies remain financially untouchable save for one, the Truss Financial Group, current owners of the ICC(Intergalactic Communications Center).


                                                                 ~~~


"Are you paying attention!?" Jasra inquired with a sharp whisper, ending the question with a resounding stomp of her heel against the marble flooring that utterly dissolved my inner monologue.

"Hmm?" I replied, trying to appear even less attentive than I actually was. I was fairly certain she'd been talking since we stepped off the shuttle, but it was hard to believe she had come up with anything new to say since that extended briefing she forced down my throat just before we touched down on Praesitlyn. Besides, the extended trip from Muunilinst gave me ample time to wade through that Mynock's nest where she keeps her brain in and pluck out most of the relevant information concerning the deal. Most everything up until Bakura seemed like prep-work anyways and mining her thoughts all day wasn't particularly enjoyable.

"My apologies.." I offered, nodding off towards the stunning forest backdrop that extended far off into Praesitlyn's misty orange horizon. Peering up above the violet treetops was the ICC's Main Dish, its surface glazed with golden condensation from the oddly humid weather. Sudden windstorms gave sections of the forest a sort of rhythmic sway that brought the marvelous backdrop to life. "..the view here can be rather captivating."

Her response consisted of a disappointed shake of the head followed by the usual agitated sigh. "I understand this is out of character for you, but would you please make the effort to present yourself as a professional when we meet with the Truss Financial Board? Daydreaming tends to be frowned upon in the business world."

"Worried I'll botch the handshake?" I asked with an emerging smirk, still devoting most of my attention to the scenery. "If I remember correctly, I don't have much of a speaking role for this meeting." I continued, finally turning in her direction to inspect her expression.

"True" She remarked with an emerging smirk of her own, evidently amused at the notion of excluding me from the negotiations."..though I would prefer to avoid any unnecessary variables during this transaction."

I laughed that one off, returning my attention to the landscape. "You worry too much." I finally replied. "Truss Financial is already at least 700 billion credits in the hole and it hasn't even been that long since the IGBC revoked their operating license. Not a very strong bargaining position."

She was livid at my lack of concern. She usually was.

Before she could reload that relentless mouth of hers, she was cut off by the cutesy female voice of A2Z, her personal administration droid. "Excuse me, Ms. Kaar?" The small floating sphere bubbled, actually producing a small droid arm from it's chassis and waving it in the air so it could acquire Jasra's permission to continue speaking.

Jasra squinted harshly at me before answering. "..Yes Twosie?" She asked, keeping that malicious gaze trained in my direction.

"I've just been notified that the Truss Financial Board is prepared to meet with you!" The droid responded with synthetic cheer.

"Well then.." I began with a sigh. "I suppose we should get this over with?.."

---

Bayner…


When I woke up the next morning, Terra was gone. After freaking out a little, someone told me she was taken back to the med room after the stitches on her arm burst open overnight. Right about that time, I noticed my left pant leg was all stained with crusty dried blood. Same with the guy I was talking to, along with a couple others who were sitting next to us overnight.

I panicked.

After rushing over to the med room, I found her unconscious in one of the beds. That didn't make me feel too much better though because I saw how things worked here last night. Beds were usually saved for serious problems.

I couldn't hold my sigh of relief as the 'doctor' told me she lost a lot of blood but was gonna be fine and that she just needed to rest for now. They had given her a sedative just in case but it probably wasn't necessary. She had been in and out, mostly out, since we were huddled under that collapsed bridge on the edge of Salis Daar and I knew the whole experience was too much for her..

My poor baby..

I sat at her bedside for about an hour just staring at her until someone with a rifle burst in. He looked around the room quickly until he noticed me, pointing me out with his finger. "Hey kid! Can you stand?" He demanded.

It all happened so fast that I wasn't really sure what he was asking. "Can I.. wh?…"

"Stand up!!" He barked.

My body shot up automatically.

The guy rushed over to grab my wrist, dragging me away. "Hurry up kid we need you. 'The hell are you doing in here anyways?"

My confusion kept me quiet as he lead me to a room with about 20 other guys lined up in four rows of five. Two resistance fighters walked up and down the ranks, looking over the motley crew.

"You said you can shoot a precision rifle?" The older and larger of the two fighters asked of some kid who looked about my age.

"Yup." The kid said confidently with a rural Bakuran accent. "..can pick a Kurtzen off the horizon at 6 kilometers." He went on, puffing his chest out with pride.

A Kurtzen. Man, hearing that brought me back to history class. All I really remember is the Kurtzen Isolation Act where most of them were rounded up and sent off to a reservation on some remote part of Bakura. Probably why I don't remember ever seeing a Kurtzen since I've been here…

I could be wrong though.. Pretty sure I failed that test..

"Hey!" The older fighter grumbled. "You keep that kinda talk to yourself." He said with angry eyebrows. "The Kurtzen are in this mess with us kid… They ain't our problem this time.." He said, not sounding all that convinced by his own words.

"…Y..Yessir!" The kid said after a second of eyeing the soldier to see if he was serious.

"Alright, so with this group we've got what? About eighty guys?" The grizzled fighter said as he put his hands on his hips, examining the group.

The other resistance fighter finally spoke up. "..probably should look for a few more just in case. Imps'll be out in force."

I wasn't around to hear what exactly they were talking about, but it didn't matter. They were gonna do something instead of sitting here huddled into the side of a mountain like animals. Someone needed to do something for those who died at Arden and during the invasion and at least they were trying.

"What about this guy Makk?" Asked the guy that brought me here, shoving me into the room suddenly towards the older soldier.

"You any good with a blaster kid?.." Makk asked.

His question made me think about something I hadn't thought about for a while. I may only be a Junior Agent in training, but I was still a spy. I sent something off to the same people who are killing these folks and nothing I could do or say from here on out would change that. There wasn't really much of a chance that they would find any of this out, but it still caused me to think twice about my next words.

"..Not really.." I eventually said, hoping the strain on my face would come off as nervousness.

"Well what can ya' do?" He followed up, folding his arms across his chest..

After a few seconds of glancing about cluelessly, I caught a glimpse of the AHS logo on my tattered varsity jacket. "Uhhh… I can run?"

The two resistance fighters gave each other a weird look before turning back to me. "…Alright, you're in." Makk said, nodding for me to fall in with the rest.

My head started hurting as I began to think about what could happen next. I thought about what would happen if Intel actually came here to find me. What if they asked me to betray these people? What if they used Terra to make me do what they want? What if they decide that I'm an 'unnecessary variable' and 'remove me from the equation'?

..Maybe I'm just being paranoid… I probably didn't even send the stupid scandoc right anyways…

---

Jasra…




I do wish he would just get it over with…

In the moments following the extremely brief acquisition of Truss Financial, it had become painfully obvious that Janus was in the process of rewording the phrase 'I told you so', for the purpose of serving it to me with that revolting little self indulgent smirk he seems to adore. The initial stages of said smirk were already starting to emerge across that scheming portrait of his as we made our way back towards the shuttle but for the moment, it was confined to the corners of his lips, tugging them up towards the far corners of his eyes. First the left, then the right, always in that order.

What irritated me the most was not the smirk itself, revolting as it may be, but the fact that he obviously believed that he had achieved some sort of victory over me that was significant enough to warrant such smug behavior. It was true the meeting with Truss Financial unfolded in a fashion similar to what he had predicted earlier, but that was certainly not justification to act as if he had somehow influenced the situation's outcome to conform with the terms of that prediction. Oh no, in fact it is quite the opposite. By conveniently and purposely redacting portions of his own memory, he refuses to recall that it was my legislative actions during my brief stint as the Chief Executive of the IGBC that led to the company's poor financial standing. It was my backroom negotiations in that position that ultimately undercut the other bidders in the Truss selloff, and it was my calculated efforts that covered the legislative tracks, ensuring that those on the Board would be unaware of our involvement. All those inconsistencies aside, the primary point is that regardless of the situation, it is always beneficial to prepare for anything To claim any sort of credit for this acquisition is utterly ridiculous Janus Alexian Talon which is why I believe you're actually doing this simply to get on my nerves….

"Would I be correct in that assumption?" I asked out loud as the shuttle's boarding ramp closed behind us with a hissing baritone thump.

The smirk across his lips entered it's second stage, infecting the cheekbones to make them more pronounced while squinting the eyes ever so slightly. "I don't know what you're talking ab.." He said unconvincingly, hence why I quickly interrupted the nonsense.

"Don't play games with me." I demanded. "I know when you're 'listening'…" Additional emphasis was placed on the last word since I knew he would ignore the topic if I failed to make clear what type of 'listening' I was referring to.

"Do you now?" He uttered as the smirk quickly vanished from his face. It wasn't the answer I was expecting and it led me to several conflicting interpretations of the gesture. The fading of the smirk seemed genuine, suggesting that either I was correct and he had not anticipated it, or that I was incorrect but he still found it advantageous to suggest that I was correct. The verbage of his phrase was odd as well. One of those peculiar word formations that often amounted to less than the sum of its parts.

"Yes." I replied plainly, removing all the flares to pause the verbal game for now. There simply wasn't time for me to indulge his twisted fetish for psychosocial games at the moment. The reduced travel time from here to Bakura left even less time for briefings on what was argueably a far more important assignment. True the Praesitlyn aquisition was a vital tool for keeping the Bakura situation away from core world auditors, but the Bakura situation itself contained far more unknown variables, including the junior agent who was already on location. "But that is not up for discussion at the moment. I feel I should inform you about a certain situation regarding the companies we've approved for operating licenses on Bakura, specifically the private security firms."

"Don't keep me in suspense." He said, the smirk returning to his face in it's final stage. I started to continue but he quickly confirmed my suspicions that it was no longer necessary.

"..For mostly financial reasons, I've chosen to employ security firms that offer primarily droid based services. However, certain portions of the population hold a deep resentment towards them due to a droid uprising that took place on Bakura over a century ago." I stopped myself there since I knew what was coming next. His mental parlor tricks really did become tiresome after a while.

"Actually I thought about that the first time you brought it up…" He smirked, referring to the first time I brought it up mentally, which could've been back on Muunilinst for all I know since that was when I first learned of the operation. "..I have a few solutions in mind, but it's hard to pick one until we get there and check out the game board."

"…"  I replied primarily with a harsh gaze before storming off to my quarters.

I had always assumed that I could tell when he was invading my thoughts but now it seemed as if he was always there, quietly mining away for information behind the veil of a manufactured smirk. At first I considered that he may have simply improved his skills in that invasive art he was cursed with, but now I simply cannot shake the feeling that things had always been this way, even back when we were together on Coruscant. That everything he says… has ever said to me has only been a calculated response based on what I thought I wanted to hear.

…

Ughh!!! Calm down Jasra… try to focus on something else…

…

I believe Mr. Corra would be refreshing change of tone. He needs to be updated on the Bakuran situation anyhow.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The GHQ of Salis Daar was even more impressive than it been seen in the images of the Bakuran holonet. It towered above the surviving government structures as the flag of the Galactic Empire waved proudly in the air below gray skies. Preparations for the meeting between Admiral Dodonna and Willem von Aath had been prepared as meticulously as the battle plan to take Bakura.

The Lambda shuttle faced the damaged but still intact capitol dome. Flanking it were Willem's men, dressed in black armor that differed from the typical stormtrooper ranks. They lined up on both sides of the settled craft at the bottom of the landing ramp. As martial music flared, the doors parted.

Backed by his aides and advisors, Willem von Aath proceeded down the ramp. Admiral Dodonna stood a distance away from the shuttle, staring out at the presentation the Moff conducted. He was able to make out the features of the famed former Moff. At his appearance, the heads of his black armored guards began to dip in perfect unison in salute. The scene could not fail to impress any who saw it.

Eminently satisfied and ready to present himself, Admiral Dodonna started down the wide trail of red carpet. "It is time. Let's go replenish our ranks," he whispered to his captain, Ramius Uer.

Captains Uer, Pollum, and Pegent, the commanders of his fleet in orbit above Bakura, trailed him as he exited the GHQ and strode toward the waiting entourage.

"Never fails to inspire, does it?" Uer commented as they marched side by side. "Each time a planet falls back into the Empire's fold, we gain more and more allies. It is only a matter of time when we can claim Imperial Center once again."

Leaning toward him, Dodonna whispered tightly, "Yes, but if only our allies will coorperate fully with us. Otherwise, we will forever be remnants and no threat to the Rebels."

"Indeed, sir." Uer slowly stopped a distance as he allowed the admiral to meet his new guest.

Unperturbed, Admiral Dodonna proffered his hand in welcome and nodded in the direction of the newcomer. "Grand Admiral Willem von Aath. It is a pleasure to meet your presence, finally. You have arrived in our moment of victory. Bakura is ours to begin the taking back of our galaxy."

Raising his hand and shaking the Admiral's, he replied with conviction. "Indeed, a pleasure, Admiral Dodonna. From what I have seen of your forces in orbit and on the surface, it seems your task is complete."

"Almost, Von Aath, but there is still work to be done. Much work, in fact." Dodonna stated. He gestured toward the central entrance of the capitol dome. "If you please, let us make our way inside so we can begin." The entire entourage, including the Grand Admiral's guards, marched into the GHQ's main rotunda.

In the central meeting chamber, several Imperial officers and corperate Bakuran leaders waited uneasily. Politicians, bureaucrats, ministers, and clerics of Bakura, all sympathetic to the Empire's cause, waited and whispered while surrounded by an elite corps of stormtroopers, led by one of Kix Davin's lieutenants. Commander Davin had left with Captain VonToma to deal with the rumoured insurgency brewing outside of Salis D'aar, and thus, were not present.

Some of the alien representatives had come willingly, hoping to negotiate the best possible terms for their people. Others had arrived with hopes of working with the Empire, especially those whom Daiman Sirana had recommended to give shipbuilding contracts to. Still more had been rounded up and chivvied along against their will, unable to escape or turned in by the first of the inevitable Imperial collaborators.

Silence fell as both Willem von Aath and Admiral Dodonna started down the central dais without fear or hesitation. No one had to part the milling Bakurans for them. That they advanced alone, without flanking security, was not lost on the onlookers. Backing away, the stormtroopers gave them plenty of space, as if the radius of respect that surrounded both figures was a palpable thing and not just an impression.

Mounting the dais, Dodonna took time to study his surroundings as the Grand Admiral joined him. The interior of the capitol dome was impressive– in the usual transitory, meaningless way of the ignorant and misguided. Like everything else, that would soon be corrected. As he began to speak, his words were heard clearly all the way back of the circular auditorium. The voice of the future of the Galactic Empire had not need of amplification.

"Citizens of Bakura and honored guests! I bring you grand news to share with all of you." He began. "Today, the Galactic Empire now expands with the alliance of one of our latest assets. Today, the forces of Grand Admiral Willem von Aath, once a former Moff, now orbit our home of Bakura to join us in our cause of expansion. Because of this, I am compelled to bring forward this grand news."

It was certainly not the speech the assembled had expected to hear: no talk of thundering denunciations or threats of reprisal against the stiff resistance that had been put up by the planet's defenders. Some of those who had gathered in fear now began to relax ever so slightly. Others maintained their guard, as wary of what they did not expect as they were of that which they did not understand.

Admiral Dodonna continued, his voice rising, cajoling, persuading. "Now with this alliance sealed, we can now have the corperations interested in joining the Empire to freely begin to issue contracts and employment to all of Bakura's citizens, with no threat of insurgency, thanks to the reinforcements of our new ally. Already, SiranAxum Industries, Mal'fey Trading, and several other large corperates have agreed to aide Bakura in shipbuilding and re-building this planet into a new era and society. A society where life is welcomed. Cherished. Appreciated for what it represents. All one needs to reach this goal is to walk the road with us. Soon enough, Imperial Center will be ours again."

"Ours again!" the assembled victorious troops intoned rapturously. "Imperial Center will be ours again!" It was difficult to tell which was more unsettling to the assembled crowd of Bakurans: the volume with which their menacing guards thundered the statement, or the massed unison with which they declaimed it.

"And so we conclude," the Imperial leader declared for the benefit of the crowd. "Tonight, I have invited our guest to a dinner to welcome him to Bakura." Von Aath stood a little straighter beside him on the dais. "You have been privileged to see history being written as we discuss our grand future for this planet."

Nodding, Dodonna finally concluded. "In time, you will realize and accept that what we will do is for the good of Bakura." Finishing, he stepped down, his stormtroopers flanking him and Von Aath together, while in the background, rumbles of discontent and cheers began to rise from the assembled.

"Most impressive speech." Von Aath chimed as they walked together.

"It will keep them in line for now," Dodonna replied. "For now, my aides will show you to your quarters. We have much to talk about at the dinner, tonight. Much work to do as well. I already have plans in the making."

The former Moff's lips twitched very subtly, as if he was stifling a scowl. "I look forward to them." he nodded.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<i><b>You are cordially invited to join Admiral M. Dodonna for a dinner party this evening to celebrate the recent acquisition of Bakura along with the greeting of new members of the ISD Ravisher.  Dress is formal.</b>

~ I look forward to seeing you there, Agent. Dodonna.</i>

“So basically you’re going or out an airlock.”  Marsh lifted the card up towards the lights above him, squinting at the wording.  “Has anyone ever told Dodonna he’s got the handwriting of a Gungan?”

“Probably not to his face,” Petra replied from within the refresher.  “I doubt they’d live to tell the tale.”

“True.”  Marsh rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of Petra’s new quarters.  “How come you got the closet?  My room is practically the size of your closet!”

“I’m prettier than you.”  The door to the refresher opened to reveal Petra in one of the dresses she managed to pack while she tried to fix her earring.  “Either that or they think any female needs a closet for her gabs of clothing.  Hand me my shoes, will you?”

Marsh reached under the bed and handed her the heels.  “That girl pilot didn’t seem like a high society daughter.”

“And I strike you as one?” Petra retorted, sliding her feet into the shoes.  “I hate these events.  Why can’t we just meet in a conference room with caf and a few local pastries?”

“Inflation?”  Marsh got a hairbrush thrown at him for his trouble.

<center>—————————————————————</center>

The doors to Dodonna’s quarters slid open with a whispered purr and Petra stepped into old Imperial Center territory.  She blinked slightly and looked around.  Apparently Dodonna held the old traditions from before the Rebellion, including the old parties that her parents had made her attend as a child.  But she forced a smile onto her face and stepped towards the white-haired man in Admiral dress uniform.

“Pardon me,” she purred in soft Nabooan accent, “I’m looking for Admiral Dodonna.  I wanted to meet my host for the evening.”

“You’ve found him.”  Dodonna bowed his head slightly while accepted her proffered hand.  “Miss Williams, I trust?”

“Indeed, Admiral.”  She gave him a smile as he bent over her hand.  “I’ve heard so much about your career.  I look forward to further contributions together.”  At least that wasn’t a lie, until she found out what exactly Dodonna wanted her to do.  

Dodonna nodded and examined her for a moment.  “You look so much like your mother, Agent.”  Petra’s spine stiffened at the unintended insult from the Admiral but he smoothly added, “But I can see your father’s influence in your face.  He was a great man, a friend of my wife’s.”

“Thank you, sir.”  She gave him a beatific smile before sliding her hand free.  “I’m sure my father was honored.”

Apparently done with the introduction, Dodonna turned back to the man he had been conversing with when Petra entered.  She surreptitiously examined his companion: a harsh scowl with hawk eyebrows, a beard, and a Captain’s badge on his chest.  <i>Captain Uer, I’ll bet.</i>  The man looked like he lived on a steady diet of lemons and garlic, if his pinched lips were accurate.

In the small crowd Petra recognized her travel companions from earlier, including Captain Dunn speaking with Mr. Sirana in a corner, Zak Uer adjusting his collar with a grimace, General Kabal standing next to the wall watching the people like a stoic, even Moff van Aath sipping a glass of water next to Maarco while the two men appeared absorbed in their conversation.  She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing droid and raised it in a silent salute to the man who had managed to get her here and away from Bastion.  The Moff nodded but continued his talk with Marcos.

And then she saw Laakim.  He was watching her with those dark eyes, a heat in them that made her feel strangely exposed and vulnerable, from his position on the other side of the room.

Quickly Petra gulped down her champagne and looked up only to find that Laakim was gone.

Considering their strange encounter earlier she decided against following him.  His accusations still rang in her ears about her leading him on, and despite her actions otherwise he had actually stung her hard, and she had a feeling that despite her best efforts to hide it he could see through her like turboglass.  She handed her empty glass to the serving droid but waved away another one when she saw Dodonna’s approach towards the dinner table, and she walked towards him only to find a hand touching her elbow.

“If you don’t mind, Miss van Aath,” she looked up into Captain Dunn’s face, “There is an empty spot next to me at the table.”  A glance at the dining spaces explained his motive: she would either be sitting next to Bal’ak if she said no, or across and next to Traven if she said yes.

“I would be delighted, Captain,” she replied while letting him lead her.  Ever the gentleman, Traven pulled out her chair for her and waited until she was seated before moving into his seat.

“I overheard you talking with the Admiral about him knowing your parents,” he said quietly.  “It’s been a long time, Petra.”

Petra raised an eyebrow.  “It’s been a while, Traven,” she agreed.  Why did everyone assume that just because they grew up on Imperial Center they all had to be friends and comrades from the tragedy of the Rebels taking over their homes?   <i>Because we need that or we’ll lose hope,</i> she reminded herself while the serving droids hovered to serve the meal.  <I>Despite what we think we want, we need each other if we’re going to win.</i>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

The hangar was buzzing again with the activity of worker droids, maintenance techs, and to the far side of the bay, a small group of storm commandos were gathered around a <I>Gamma</i>-class assault shuttle. There were forty holding compartments for trooper armor, enough for an entire platoon. They would need every space for this mission.

Commander Kix Davin had returned from Bakura several hours ago after taking his orders from Captain VonToma. When he relayed these orders to Admiral Dodonna, it took time convincing the overseer of Bakura to go with the plan of issuing the commander an assault shuttle to use for VonToma's objective. But now the requisition had gone through, and Davin was looking forward to finally return to the action he had been missing.

"When do you think this insurgency will be over?" Nash asked his commander wearily. He was leaning against the bulkhead of the shuttle and scratching the top of his shaven head.

"It'll stop when we're dead or they are," Kix bluntly answered. He checked the power pack in his E-11 blaster rifle. Full power– and he would need a few more replacements for the cargo pockets of his storm commando armor. "Frell– where's the crate of power packs that we've supposed to have loaded by now?"

Nash merely snickered. Kix ignored him. "Let's move, then," he said. He slung his pack onto his shoulders, picked up his rifle, and headed off to the boarding ramp to conduct his briefing, with Nash and another commando beside him.

His unit was assembled and ready. The line of black-clad armored soldiers listened quietly as Kix began. "Listen up, people," he said. "I want everyone with anti-armor weapons and ammo up in front." He gestured to his left. "If you have anti-air weapons, I want you in the middle. Move there now." He paused again. "Everyone with unused demolition charges or special heavy weapons– heavy blasters, concussion grenade launchers, E-Webs, move to the rear of the shuttle. Fill in forward from there. Move now."

Kix's voice came over again. "Everyone else, pick a place on one of the remaining rows. Go there. The shuttle is pulling out in five minutes." Lastly, he chimed, "We're advancing in glorious victory against a foe that is routing forward in utter disorder. BakOr had better watch out."

The assault shuttle soon filled up with the storm commando unit, some will full kit, others carrying nothing more than a blaster rifle and a satchel of spare charges. In fewer than the promised five minutes the humming note of the shuttle's repulsorlifts roared and they lurched forward.

Commander Davin sat near the cockpit, listening to the communications chatter among the pilots, then pulled out a datapad. He made some adjustments to it and called up a rough, diagrammatic map. He passed the datapad over to Nash, saying, "I know a good place to make our strike on the BakOr complex. Look– I've got it marked."

Nash took the datapad and glanced over the contents of the display. "What's the ground like?"

"Low rolling hills, mostly," Kix said. "We can draw up our unit along this north-south ridgeline, with our E-webs just over the crest. There's a stream along the bottom of the ridge that might slow down some of their armored vehicles."

"Speaking of slowing them down… has there been any new word from VonToma?"

He shook his head. "You were there for the last one."

"Then we have to assume we're on our own for this one and we'll get no cover fire?"

"Whether or not, we can't depend on him. For all we know, he may have already fallen by the insurgents." He then nodded across the way. "Cadman, pass the datapad to the others…"

The <I>Gamma</I>-class shuttle entered atmosphere.

***

The assault shuttle skimmed across the lower trees as its pilots scanned the horizon toward the BakOr complex. The stronghold was around here somewhere, and Kix hoped Imperial intelligence were accurate in their findings or else this would be the shortest assault in his career. The shuttle's cockpit display showed the location and status of all friendly units, including those not directly visible, with markers indicating presumed enemy locations as the intelligence came in.

<I>The insurgents have a thin line,</I> Kix thought, <I>and a brittle one. Crack it at any place and it will shatter, leaving the road to the complex open…</i>

"Looks like we found it," the pilot finally informed. "Ready your men, Commander."

Davin nodded and turned to his seated commandos. "Well, grunts," Kix began, "this is where the Empire makes its victory. You have your orders, you have the coordinates, and I hoped you studied that datapad. Try to hold on and hold out, as long as you can. Your job is enemy infantry, and their skins aren't any thicker than yours. Keep them off our demolitions crew. If one of our guys gets in trouble, support him. If one of our guys runs into any armored vehicles, use your can openers." He pointed to one of his concussion grenades.

A long lancing arc of fire sprang suddenly, from away in the west. It passed below the shuttle low and fast, heading east, and an explosion bloomed behind it.

"Frak! They're here right now. Places, everyone. Remember, stay loose, and no heroes." Kix readied his blaster rifle and waited for the signal.

The shuttle descended and beared its weapons.

"On my command," the pilot said. "Gunner. Find targets. Lock on. Fire." And again, "Gunner. Fire." And a third time, "Gunner. Fire."

Then, "On my command. Proton torpedoes. Fire."

An overarching curtain of fire spread out over the opposing terrain. The torpedoes were already detonating, the light of their explosions reflecting in the distance.

Kix listened as the shuttle's engines began to whine down, preparing for a quick landing. "Form up, people! Get ready to disembark!"

The <I>Gamma</i> shuttle landed and opened its doors. They hit the ground running, Kix and Nash sprinted toward a patch of forest and took cover. Seconds later, the shuttle was gone.

He pressed his chinlink to contact his troops. "Alright grunts, we see something ahead past the forest. We have not made the ID yet, but it could be one of the shafts to the BakOr complex. All units rendezvous with me at coordinates twelve-thirty-five-one."

"On our way," one of his commandos replied.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Bakura bathed Randyl’s study with an eerie bluish hue as the Void Moon continued to orbit the planet. Several hours had passed since he had retired to his favorite room of the ship, and he was certain he had missed Admiral Dodonna’s dinner. It was okay, he told himself, you had nothing to do with the liberation of Bakura. That blood happened to be on the hands of Dodonna and von Aath. Why should he be allowed to celebrate something he wasn’t a part of? He was here to help pick up the pieces and build this planet into something the Empire could be proud of. His celebration could wait until then.

Randyl was getting too far ahead of himself. He hadn’t inked a single deal, or even landed on the planet, yet he was already looking forward to the future. Granted, it was a good way to keep up morale, but focusing on events that have not yet occurred can be disillusioning and dangerous. Good thing Jasra Kaar felt the same way.

The previously allusioned-to hours that had passed had been spent listening to her ramble on about the IGBC and Janus being a screw-up and something about Randyl not failing her either and etcetera. He tried to pay attention, but the best he could do was float in and out, most notably the several times she raised her voice when she noticed he wasn’t focused entirely on the conversation. Normally, he was taking notes and asking follow up questions like the excellent diplomat he is, but this time he had too much already on his mind and was completely uninterested. To be entirely truthful, the only thing he wanted to hear was that they were landing on Bakura so their meeting with Sirana could begin. Instead, she went over her IGBC notes for the tenth time, just in case Randyl missed something. He nodded when she finished a sentence and occasionally responded with an “Uh-huh,” or a “Yes, yes,” when she paused.

Staring at this condescending businesswoman for nearly two hours had its benefits, however. Randyl had always found Jasra strangely attractive, ever since they met on Coruscant after his demise from the Senate. This whole time he couldn’t help himself but wonder what she looked like naked.

There was something about the strict, serious, domineering type of woman she was that had constantly sparked his interest. He was uncertain of how she would respond to his advances, but considering their relationship from a business standpoint, it had always convinced Randyl to bite his tongue every time the temptation to flirt came along. If their business relationship fell apart because he let his ego run wild, then he would be back to square one, with no allies, no friends, and worst of all, no money. One thing he was certain of, however, was that he could help ease all the tension she must be bottling up inside. He just needed that one opportunity. That one…

“Mr. Corra!” Jasra’s hologram screamed, laced with the static of interference. Randyl sat up straight and flattened the wrinkles of his suit. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

“Yes, yes,”

“Then why is it I fail to believe you?”

Even through a hologram, he could feel the anger in her stare. Randyl paused, carefully choosing his response. “Because I’m lying,” he said. That may or may not have been a mistake.

“Is that a fact?” she coolly said.

“Well, I find it better to be honest, no matter how disrespectful it may be,”

“Honest? Ha! Says the man who hid his allegiance to the Empire from the Galactic Senate,” her hologram smirked, “You politicians are all the same. Hypocrites,” she said as an afterthought.

Randyl smiled. He could have given his “it was necessary to keep it a secret” speech again, but decided against it.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I’ve had a lot on my mind recently,”

“Then I expect your mind to be clear of any unneeded clutter when Janus and I arrive on Bakura. We can’t afford our negotiations to be hampered by your wandering mind,”

Another explicit image of Jasra flashed in Randyl’s head, “And when will you be arriving?”

“A timeframe has not yet been decided,”

“But it would be helpful…”

“If I gave you a timeframe, do you know what would happen?” Jasra asked. Randyl gave a frustrated shrug. “It would put unnecessary pressure on you to clear whatever it is you have on your mind, possibly leading to loose ends remaining loose in your haste and your focus not being entirely on the upcoming negotiations. It’s best you take your time to straighten out whatever needs to be. Are we clear?”

Randyl nodded, “Crystal,”

“Good. See you on Bakura,”

“I couldn’t be looking forward to it more,”

The transmission abruptly ended.

— — —

Randyl stared at the datapad in his hand, trying to sort out which point he should take care of first. There was the meeting with Sirana, but that wasn’t happening until much later, after Janus had arrived on the planet. There was the dinner, but that must be reaching its conclusion, he assumed. The negotiations with both the business being moved in and the Insurgence surrender, which he would be overseeing when the time finally came. Then there was Thayer…

His old friend Matheron Thayer…was working with the Insurgence? There had to be some sort of misunderstanding. Perhaps lines of code got crossed and he was listed incorrectly. It had been only a few months since they had last seen each other, but how much could happen in that amount of time? Plenty can happen, apparently. Still, it was in his best interest to look into the matter above all others. Maybe a face to face talk could bring Thayer to his senses…

Randyl leaned forward, using a stylus to navigate the unfamiliar menus as best he could. He had been sent an information dossier about the Insurgence from one of the Imperials on the ground, whose name he failed to recall…Botela or Boletta. It contained crucial information about what was going on on the planet’s surface, as well as some not so important information: The number of Imperial troopers and officers on the ground (Randyl noted VonToma’s name), the amount of rations and ammunition each trooper carried, general morale, an overlay of the Salis D’aar, highlights of districts under Imperial control, transcripts of Admiral Dodonna’s speeches and even a photo gallery of the troopers in the city. He assumed it was to help keep the trooper’s morale high by letting them take photos of each other while they run amuck during downtime. One that he found particularly humorous was a picture of two troopers, one blonde and one bald, posing with thumbs up and goofy grins in front of the smoldering remains of a building.

There was much more he didn’t have time to go over yet, because he finally found what he was looking for: The list of prisoners of war, made up of both Insurgence and Imperial troops. Perhaps Matheron would be on the list. He could have been captured by some green trooper who didn’t know who he was and believed one of his old aliases. Randyl was kidding himself, but stranger things have happened.

He grimaced at a note on the datapad, which stated that the POW directory included some local Bakuran prisoners that were on the planet before the invasion. Randyl thought for a moment, trying to figure out why such a list would be included. Conceivably, it may be to stop any confusion between the POWs and the prisoners who were serving out their sentences before the bombs started dropping. Randyl supposed it didn’t matter why the list was there, but he appreciated the Empire’s attention to detail, even in the most high pressure situations. Like a planetary invasion.

The stylus sifted through the list of POWs, with Thayer’s name no where in sight; he noted it may have been withheld by one of the officers. He selected the local prisoner list and skimmed through that as well. His chest tightened when he thought he saw a name he recognized. He scrolled back up through the listing and settled on the name “LARCAST, Credge - #22A5148”. Wheels began turning in his head and the name filtered through his brain, and he realized why it was so familiar to him.

Credge Larcast was a smuggler, and a good one at that. He had worked with the Corra family years ago, when the Empire’s power was at its peak, smuggling weapons, supplies, black market goods, and even slaves all over the Galaxy, as well as heading a spice smuggling ring Randyl was involved with during his college years on Coruscant. Although they hadn’t seen each other for several years, Randyl knew Credge was a good man, and he didn’t deserve to be locked up in some random prison on Bakura. The listing didn’t state what charges he had been imprisoned for, but he hoped it wasn’t because of the Corras.

The truth was, Randyl had never stepped into a warzone before. He had no idea what to expect, and sans Janus, he was all alone in this sector of the Galaxy. Perhaps another ally at his side would insure his safety, as well as bring an experienced smuggler into the fold of the IGBC and the Empire. Randyl’s creative juices began to flow, and his attitude of frustrated confusion changed to that of suppressed excitement. He put the datapad in his inside jacket pocket and stood, beckoning for TY to enter the study. A few seconds later, he did.

“Yes Master Randyl?”

“Our itinerary has changed, we’re descending to the surface now,”

“Now sir?”

“Yes, now. Please prepare my transport,”

“But sir, the meeting with Mr. Sirana doesn’t start…”

“I know what time that meeting starts, I’m not concerned with it right now. Some additional business has come up, it needs to be taken care of immediately,”

“…As you wish, sir,”

The former senator walked past TY into the gleaming corridors of the Void Moon and took a deep breath of cold air. The silver protocol droid turned around.

“Excuse me, sir, but…where are we going?”

Randyl hid a smile, “We’re going to prison, TY,” he said over his shoulder as he continued down the corridor. The protocol droid’s head cocked to the left.

“…Prison, sir?”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“What do you mean you have to return to Imperial Center?” Traven frowned up at the older man as they stood to one side of the room where Admiral Dodonna was hosting the dinner party.  He had noticed his cousin’s oddly distracted demeanor becoming more pronounced in the hours since the group of fellow travelers had gone their separate ways upon return to Bakuran space.

Daiman retreating to the surface of the planet to as he put it, take care of some important business.  The same cryptic answer he was given in reply to his query of a moment ago.

“What business is more important than what we are doing here?” Dunn gestured around the room, before lowering his voice as it took on a note of concern.  “Come on Daiman, stop being so mysterious. Remember who you are speaking with here.”

“I found her.” Daiman’s answer was brief and no less cryptic at first, until Traven noticed the intense angry and pained expression in the man’s eyes he’d only seen them take on when discussing one person. “That is, I think it’s her.  Has to be.”

“Irrinna…or whatever that name Cadman said she was using?” Traven asked, wondering why the hells he hadn’t said anything to him about it sooner.

“Irrinna. Val’kia. The name doesn’t matter. I’ll find out the truth one from her myself soon enough.”  His face took on another expression that caused Traven’s concern to grow. One he’d only seen on Daiman’s face a few times over the years since childhood.  Ruthless determination to obtain something he wanted to possess. Or destroy.

“Cousin, please tell me you aren’t thinking of doing anything stupid.”  He said it lowly, but forcefully as Daiman took another large draught from the glass in his hand, avoiding Traven’s pointed look and evading his question as he thought back on the conversation with Mal’fey from the day before.



It had been just a typical call, although done over encryption-enabled holocomms. Necessary precautions for the dealings they were discussing.  Fund and materiel transfers, updates on operational progress, status of various business interests the two of them shared.  Routine.

Until Daiman noticed how aggravated and short the Bothan’s was compared the usual businesslike, but still friendly air they’d had between them for years and inquired if all was okay on his end.

Tarsk gave a growl of irritation, tawny fur rippling lightly. “I apologize.  I am just dealing with some unwanted attention directed my way from the New Republic government at the moment.” An obvious snarl at the name of entity that had usurped the Empire, telling him of the investigation into his business and the entanglement of the New Republic Navy’s finest squadron that necessitated it.

Daiman had nodded in far too familiar understanding, expressing his sympathy at having to deal with an intrusion into his life and mentioning his own ongoing “dance” with them over the years since they had brought about this new order of theirs.  Only thing that made the current galactic government tolerable was their willingness to still do business with him. What choice did they have, never having been able to pin much on him.  Though not for lack of trying.

“Damn NRI worst of all.” Mal’fey continued.  “That agent…this Navin woman just won’t give up.  Like a damn bludfly. She…”

“Navin?” He’d cut the Bothan off abruptly.  Surely it couldn’t be.  Not that easy.  Had to be another person working for that blasted agency with the same last name. “Val’kia Navin?” He asked it, prepared for a reply to the negative.

Instead, Tarsk’s answer was, “Ah, so you are acquainted then with this ooman woman who is making my life so much more difficult than need be.”

“Tall? Red hair? Corellian accent? Beau…” He stopped, seeing Mal’fey’s nod of recognition as he described the woman he had known as Irrinna Chace.  Who’d shared his bed and his life before breaking his heart with her betrayal.

“Yes.” The Black Sun vigo replied, “That sounds like her alright.” He scanned his desktop briefly before picking up something and holding it up so Damain could see.  “Here is the flimsie copy of the Coruscant Times. See for yourself.”

Rogue Squadron.  Are Some Members Living Up To That Name? Read the headline across the top of the page, below it in smaller print Or Is Mal’fey Shipping Covering Up Misdeeds Of Their Own?  But that wasn’t what held Daiman’s attention.  It was the one holostat image that stood out among those of the Bothan head of the company mentioned as well as those of the accused party in the headline.  It was the once captioned, New Republic’s Lead Investigator, a woman trying to avoid the holocams and failing.

Daiman nodded slowly, unable to speak coherently if he tried at the sight of her.  All these years of fruitless searching…and now she has stumbled right across his path.

“Sirana?” After a few moments the silence is broken by Mal’fey. “You alright?”

The Anaxi nodded again, mind working over a plan as it cleared the fog of shock away. “Mr. Mal’fey.” He gave the Bothan a cold smile that would have put fear into any lesser beings who saw it.  “Your bank account is about to gain a few more credits.  And I have an idea that will take care of that irritating little problem of yours as well as being…personally beneficial to me.”  

They continued on for a few minutes more and by the time the conversation ended, the Bothan’s mood seemed to have improved immensely.  But it was nothing compared to what Daiman was feeling.


“Cousin…” He barely heard Traven at first.  “Daiman!” Dunn spoke louder and more harshly. “They are calling everyone to the table.”

Sirana came out of whatever thoughts of his own he seemed wrapped up in, looking in the direction of Admiral Dodonna  standing at the head of the nearby table, before turning his attention back to Traven.  That same intensity on his face.

“We will discuss this later, Daiman.”  Traven added, composing himself as they approached Petra. Giving the older man a grave look of warning out of her view as he escorted the woman to the table and Daiman took a seat across it between Zak Uer and Laakim Bal’ak.   

All through the dinner he managed to focus on and contribute to the conversations going on at the table, even as distracted as he was by his own thoughts, and ignored the worried looks his cousin was giving him from time to time.

Traven did not understand. Dodonna would not either. No one could.  This obsessive search he had been on for far too long was drawing to an end.  And there was no way in the nine hells he was going to let her get away again.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

I feel something’s going on.
   
My fists were already tightening from Wing Commander Brenner’s talk, and my thoughts were slipping towards taking a knife and shoving it down his throat. I swear, each time I come into this office of his, with all of his trophies and holo-picture, I want to take one of these and shove it up his heavily kissed ass. I was glad to get out of the damned office, or else I would have definitely thrown a few punches to his face.
   
Who am I kidding? I would never do that, I value my career far more than that. I always have put the Empire before my needs, each time that was required of me. I gave up a lot of things for it, but it never stopped me. And it won’t, for the moment. All I know right now is that I despise Wing Commander Brenner so much I could fight him.
   
“Hey, Echo.” A voice catches my attention. Squadron Leader Vktor Halsey, commanding officer of Eta Squadron, stood outside his dormitory on the Nightbringer (never quite understood why it was called that), staring at me like I was a weapon. A loaded one, in the hands of the enemy. All of the pilots here give me that, and I am grateful it’s only them. All deep strike missions are deemed classified, at least in the Nightbringer’s P-double-oh. Half of the time they’ll address me as ‘Terror’ or ‘Loose’. I hate those.
   
“Yes, sir?” I casually reply, trying to make myself seem more human, but I know the commander. And he definitely knows me. We both know it’s just a mere formality (He could easily order me into the room), but we treat etiquette like it is written law.
   
I still enjoy the rush I get when his yolk avoid me outside the hanger.
   
“You’re transferred.” The aged squadron commander speaks, his voice booming with a rough drawl that catches attention easily. His sloppily kept black hair was oily, as if he didn’t bother to clean it anymore, or his uniform for that matter. The rest of the squadron, save myself and my current wingmate, seems to follow his example that closely to mirror his look. He gives Eta the personality of a Rebel in a Imperial uniform. But his words were cutting.
   
Those words struck me odd. None of the ships here had slots open in their Defender squadrons, I definitely knew that from the various attempts to get out of this squadron.
   
“What?”
   
“Didn’t hear me the first time, idiot? I said you were being transferred.”
   
Here we go again.
   
“To where? There is no open slot in Moff…Grand Admiral Aath’s fleet.”
   
“We’re not in Aath’s territory, Aganox. Wake up!” His accent tore through my eardrums, a grating mix of Outer Rim trashy pitches with Coruscant snotty vowels. I hate him, if not for his superiority complex.
   
But he made a good point: a good point indeed. I’m probably getting posted to a squadron that’s below the TIE Defender’s operating requirements. Probably onboard the Justice’s Hand, or the Defender. But, still, this was very odd. I never heard of any pilot, bad or good, getting transferred to a different unit because of issues within the squadron, during the middle of a campaign.
   
“You’re not the only one, though. Hero, Boomer, and Zealot are going too. Brenner decided it was best for our units here, in all of our Star Destroyers, to inter-segregate. I’m getting four Dodonna pilots, while one of their squadrons’ is getting the other three. I think you’re being sent to a trash brigade.”
   
He never stops with the insults.
   
“Either way, never thought I’d say this to a pilot in my squadron, but I’m glad to get rid of you. You leave tomorrow. Get some sleep.” The cretin then entered his quarters, attempting to get the last word like he always does. I just shrug, it’s definitely not worth to get into an unwinable battle unless the stakes are high, and they’re not.
   
I don’t like this squadron anyways.

   
I’m on a sailboat, an old wooden ship with a giant sail attached to the hail. The sun’s perched high in the sky, not a single cloud raining down the sun’s rays as they shine on me. The heat’s calm, the wind giving a breeze. I’m without shirt, only a pair of shorts, and I’m smiling. The mood is great, and my spirit is rising. I can see the endless, calm waves stretch on for eternity, with no white caps to bother the view.
   
I laugh, and grab hold of the rigging, pulling the sail onto into an unknown direction, gallantly taking a move towards somewhere…

   
I woke up with a shake of the head. That dream, for the past couple of days, has been haunting my sleep. I hate water, I really do, and the idea of me smiling in a dream like that scares me. It’s an omen of things to come, I know it. I roll off to my side with a glance to my bunk mate, still asleep in the early hours of the ship’s evening shift. I slip off my bed against the bulkhead, standing tall for a brief moment. Flight Lieutenant Pasternak is still sleeping soundly, like he always has, and I certainly don’t want to wake him up.
   
I walk out of my bunking quarters with a bit of a preamble to my step. I’m happy, very happy, because today I’m getting out of this squadron for good. I wished for a squadron that would accept me based solely on my merits of a pilot. I’m so excited; I slept in my work uniform, ready to go to the Main Squadron Requisition Center and get my new assignment papers.
   
I feel liberated.
   
I make it to the MSRC, and no one else is around save the Administration Officer in charge of the MSRC onboard the Nightbringer, and he seemed to be tired enough not to warrant anything other than business.
   
But I know the man.
   
“Hey, Aganox.” He said, with a smile and a wave. I politely nodded back at him, and reciprocated the wave.
   
“Morning, Lieutenant.”
   
“I got some orders for you.” The Administration Officer said, ducking behind his desk in the wall, coming back up with a holopad in his hands. I’m beaming right now, I get to get away from this post.
   
I read it.
   
My smile disappears.
   
“All it gives is the ship of origin.”
   
“That’s all they gave me. You report to the Ravisher today, in an hour. But you report to your commander the following day. I trust you can fly your own craft to the ship?”
   
I stared at him.
   
“It’s a joke, Aganox. Your orders tell you to report to the Ravisher, and it gives you the squadron commander too. Your residence over there is already prepared, but you do not report to duty until tomorrow’s assigned shift. Says so right there, besides nothing else. Anything else?”
   
I shrugged, and sighed.
   
“Cheer up, Belli. At least you can get away from these frakkers onboard.”
   
A smile beamed on my face.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“Will all units report to their station,” Paron spoke into the wireless set on her head, tapping the headphone when she received static in reply.  “Wilson, do you copy, over?”

<i>”I copy, Controller.  More static out here than usual, over.</i>”

“Good to hear from you, Wilson.  Admiral and company occupied at dinner.  Need all units on standby, over.”

“<i>Right, I’m working on it.  Over and out.</i>”

Sighing Paron took off her headset and put it on the desk space in front of her next to her computer.  Bakura signal proved less difficult than in outer space but it still had some  chunks of dead air surrounding the planet that made her job that much more annoying and set off tempers from her coworkers and pilots.  She finally tapped into her computer, logging in the conversation between her and Captain Wilson from one of the lower levels.

“Psst, Paron.”  Paron paused and glanced up to find her brother laying on the floor of the bridge with his head dangling over the edge to make eye contact.  

“Alron!”  Paron lowered her voice but hissed out, “You’re going to get into trouble!  Get out of here!”

“Listen, there’s nobody in the sims right now.  Dunn and his crew are at the dinner, and the rest of the pilots are just fooling around in the Brig.  We can work on your mission simulations with a team.”

“I do fine on mission sims,”  She continued studying her computer while typing away.  “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“You deserve this change, Paron.”  Alron slid his body over and fell down into the lower level of the bridge to sit next to her.  “C’mon, sis.  Don’t sell yourself short because these bantha-ass heads think they’re better than a woman.  You’re twice the pilot they’ll ever be.”

“And yet I’m working as a Controller.”

“Only because you need the right opportunity.”  Alron finally pulled out his last argument: “Unless you’re afraid.”

Paron’s hands froze over the keys and Alron knew already he had won.

“Fine, you’re on.  But no crying to your teammates when I kick your scrawny ass up and down the console,” she replied while turning off her computer.  “Controller Lt. Emyn on leave for two hours,” she recorded for the log before shoving away from her chair and stalking after Alron to the direction of the simulations.

Nobody bothered them in the hallways or gave her grief for her gender; they all were enjoying the lack of senior officers for a bit before Dodonna’s party ended.  Paron managed to sneak into the simulation room without being caught.

However, she missed the red light that turned on at the side and the soft whirring of a droid recording the two intruders.

“Last one to shoot down a mynock buys dinner,” Alron said before they both climbed in.

“You’re on.”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Behind a long table at the other end of the hall, and at smaller tables placed at intervals along both sides, caterers in formal dress stood ready to serve the guests with food and drink. The long table had a towering ice sculpture of the Imperial emblem for a centerpiece.

Laakim Bal'ak himself sat with his wingmate, Zak Uer, and the rest of the Paladins at the table, far enough from the music that his conversation with those who were introduced to him would not be overpowered. Years of attending regimental and diplomatic functions all over Carida and the Imperial Flight Academy in the past, had made Bal'ak an expert in the art of juggling cup, napkin, and plate of small edible objects without risk to his dress uniform. He made a point to watch Petra and her escort, his Captain, take their seats across from them. Sirana took his seat between them.

Bal'ak had seen numerous holopic images and holovid clips of Daiman Sirana, but this reception marked the first time he'd had an opportunity to observe the man in person. During the mission on Corellia, he barely made the time to know him better. Like most of those who successfully made their living in business, he had an undeniable presence. His dark brown hair and reserved demeanor made him an effective foil to Petra's ebullience, and to Bal'ak's trained eye he carried himself as a man schooled to fight in numerous disciplines.

Petra sat in vibrant contrast to the more somber Captain. She'd chosen to wear something elegant tonight, a long, full-skirted gown of rich black and a spinsilk sash pinned at her shoulder with an amber brooch, and she'd done something to her hair– Laakim couldn't tell what– that emphasized the elegant lines of her neck. Dressed so, she looked very much like a Countess or some princess, and very little like the Imperial agent he discovered back on Corellia.

Laakim reminded himself that appearances could be deceiving, and that the petite agent could take on anyone if threatened. Her gown's long sleeves and full skirts would be hiding not soft flesh but firm muscle, and her grace of movement was a fighter's grace.

He had watched Traven and Petra long enough, he decided. It was time to make his official greetings and pay his respects. He raised his empty glass to one of the servers and was poured wine. Laakim then signalled for Daiman's, Traven's and Petra's glasses to be filled as well.

When Petra saw him, she gave him a smile of genuine recognition and not mere practiced politeness, then turned, still smiling, to Daiman Sirana.

The two men exchanged salutes. "Mr. Sirana," Bal'ak said. His voice was low-pitched, and free of any planetary accent that Sirana could identify. "It's an honor to meet you again tonight. Forgive me that I did not spend much time getting to know you during our travels from Corellia. I am sure your contributions will bring the Empire much profit."

"I'm equally honored, Commander," said Daiman. "Under the present circumstances, it takes a brave and committed man to risk travel to another planet for the sake of nothing but the chance of honor and hard work."

"I go where the Empire sees fit to send me," Bal'ak replied. "Which, for now, is serving under Captain Dunn."

Petra gave Laakim another smile. "And we're all grateful," she said. "Once these formalities are over, we can get down to work on the real issues." She looked around the vast reception hall and added, "Under somewhat less crowded circumstances, of course."

"You and I, of course," Laakim said. "The Admiral. Captain Dunn. Von Aath. Daiman Sirana, will you be there as well?"

"As soon as I take care of some <I>personal</I>… business." He emphasized. "It has come to my attention that some unfinished business affairs have not come to it's final conclusion. And so, I must address it immediately."

"I see then," Petra nodded. "Perhaps later?"

"It will be my pleasure," said the man of affairs.

A chime rang throughout the room. Dinner was now being served. Admiral Dodonna rose at the head of the table and toasted the room with a glass of fine, vintage Bakuran wine.

"To my guests, an honor! It is good to see all of you and for you to be present in a new era of the Galactic Empire." He toasted. "To the Empire and her new age of Imperial renaissance!"

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Bruises. Broken ribs. Basic, no-comforts-style quarters of custody while his case had undergone further investigations. There had been medical aid, his right thereto solicited through his appointed defense; though that hadn't so much eased the pain as it had spread salt in the wounds. His independence was shattered to the point of helplessness. Period. Self-sufficiency was impossible from the inside of a holding cell and things had hardly improved; not with the existence of blatant evidence to secure his imprisonment.

There had been nothing to do but to cope with the hand he was dealt. Shut up and accept that for the time being he had to go with the flow and keep his eyes open. There had to be something he could do. There had to be..

Another day. The containment fields were deactivated; the prisoners lined up as a harsh command demanded their obedience. The presumable "or else," remained unspoken. As if anyone needed coercion to leave their miniscule quarters. Quietly he fell into line; only trading the occasional word with the fella next-doors as they marched off toward the mess or the courtyard. Much like banthas; herded off to a proverbial slaughterhouse.. .

.. another way? There wasn't. Ultimately the trial itself had been redundant; court proceedings a bureaucratic necessity that had been upheld only for the sake of formality. Slow, tedious hours that had dragged on forever until they skidded to a halt. So-and-so many years. Too long and unforgiving a time to be tolerable on one planet; let alone behind bars. Next: transfer to Salis'daar penitentiary. It was but a stopover, his ultimate fate a form of slavery at a mining installation. He had sworn to take it from there. From here. There was a way, there had to be. There was..

Another day. The containment fields were deactivated; the prisoners lined up as a harsh command demanded their obedience. The presumable "or else," remained unspoken, as always. As if anyone needed coercion to leave their miniscule quarters. Quietly he fell into line; only trading the occasional word with the fella next-doors as they marched off toward the mess or the courtyard. Much like banthas; herded off to a proverbial slaughterhouse.. .

..no way out. The solid walls of his quarters infringed on his sanity as much as they limited his movements. Bye-bye freedom. Hello painstaking future in purgatory to right your wrongs and pay for your sins. Hardly what prison resulted with, that, as the aspects of life therein seemed to frak one up more so than inspire improvement. Guilt was irrelevant. His only instance thereof related to his crew and their respective fates; as if purgatory wasn't hell enough without that drip-drop of figurative acid to eat away at his emotions. Feelings he hadn't known he had.

It passed with time. Somehow.

Another day. The containment fields were deactivated; the prisoners lined up as a harsh command demanded their obedience. The presumable "or else," remained unspoken, as always. As if anyone needed coercion to leave their miniscule quarters. Quietly he fell into line; only trading the occasional word with the fella next-doors as they marched off toward the mess or the courtyard. Much like banthas; herded off to a proverbial slaughterhouse.. .

Days turned to nights. Nights to days. It was a dreary, monotonous cycle that followed a set of routines he quickly learnt by heart. Guard procedures. Inmate politics. Whatever it took to fly under the radar and attract a minimum of attention. Even that was more attention than he wanted, at times, though things could be worse. THINGS COULD BE WORSE, FOR FRAK'S SAKE; no point in contemplating an end to what seemed to him like an impossible situation. No point in suicide thoughts.

He'd been through worse, damnit..

Or had he really? He wasn't so sure.

Another day. The containment fields were deactivated; the prisoners lined up as a harsh command demanded their obedience. The presumable "or else," remained unspoken, as always. As if anyone needed coercion to leave their miniscule quarters. Quietly he fell into line; only trading the occasional word with the fella next-doors as they marched off toward the mess or the courtyard. Much like banthas; herded off to a proverbial slaughterhouse.. .

Time flew by; his sanity somewhat eroded by sheer lack of stimulation. After weeks of oscillating between hope and madness he was close to burned out. It was time to accept it; embrace the inevitable truth and come to terms with what was his life to come. The worst part wasn't so much doing his time as dealing with the terms thereof. Getting to grips with the emptiness. Accepting that his life was restricted to menial duties and tidbits of tittle-tattle on Bakuran affairs.

It could burn beneath its civil strife for all that he cared. Had there been justice in the world the situation outside would have had a more direct impact on the penitentiary admininstration. But in the end it was just another reason to want out. Suffice it to say that generally speaking proverbial warzones were not good places to be.

Yet it couldn't be helped.

"Open on 35,"

Another day. The containment fields were deactivated; the prisoners lined –

Wait. Something was different.

It wasn't the time. They had just had their fill of despicable grub and routine dictated there wouldn't be another excursion for a couple of hours. The break from the norm caused stir of excitement that practically derailed his compulsive train of thought.

Something was afoot.

He forced himself out of his reveries and focused on the present. It took him a moment to realize what was happening, nonetheless, though that done he pushed himself up from his bunk and got to his feet. Imminent unease. Good ol' paranoia, that, courtesy of vague awareness of how things could work prison-wise. Strings could be pulled, should an inmate be after his skin; or the more sadistic specimens of the guards could have singled him for a punch-bag on which to take out their frustrations. Constant vigilance. Basic cell-block smarts, that.

"Prisoner 5, 487. Larcast, C. Step out,"

It was not a question. The grunts of the Salis'daar penitentiary didn't do questions; it was orders and restrictions even when their actions deviated from standard procedures. His first conclusion signaled trouble ahead. However, that notion was quickly dispelled as he noted that he wasn't alone in leaving his cell. Comprehension dawned on him as he picked up on off-handed remarks about family or loved ones between the more gregarious residents of the block – or for all that matters the casual snicker of his cell-mate behind him. He had been building up a reputation as a tense and jittery bugger and he supposed he had just confirmed it as fact.

No matter. He was too busy getting to grips with what was going on to give a frak. It was visiting hour, and his unfamiliarity thereof related to lack of attachments about the Bakuran surface. Apart from his ex-crew, that was, though the latter bunch was presumably in similar storage somewhere about the planet. It didn't make sense, but it sure served to pique his curiosity.

He fell into line quietly; mind wrestling with possibilities that had neither rhyme nor reason as they were led to unfamiliar territory. Much like banthas; herded off to a proverbial slaughterhouse..


The surprise that awaited him in the plain and semi-crowded visitors chamber was stunning in itself. Of all the people he had expected to find himself face to face with..

The blast of the past before him had been far down on the list of possible entities. Indeed, Mr Corra had not even figured on it as a potential candidate. More likely he had presumed it to be Lairon, come to gloat at what must have been his doing from the start; or even his bumbling, not-good-for-anything choice of the Bakuran authorities to represent him in court. Clearly anything was possible.

"Wh..," He started, his state of discombobulation evident on his features. Blinking stupidly, he realized he was still standing up and took the liberty to slip into the seat opposite the other. "Corra?,"

The man's name came out as a hybrid between a question and a statement.

"Mr Larcast. What a coincidence," The voice of his former employer hadn't changed much. Many years had passed since he flew for the latter but he had nothing if not a keen memory. Corra had been a decent boss to serve, too; as opposed to many a bigshots he'd dealt with prior to starting up his own operations. "Ho-,"

"What are you doing here?," It was the first a series of questions that would no doubt spill out on their own if given a chance. Social competence had never been his forte, unfortunately, and the natural order of prison life hadn't done him any favors in that respect. Furthermore he felt a peculiar desperation about it; as if he had to get as much out of the man as possible before he vanished or left. Indeed, a part of him wondered if he had finally gone mad to the point of hallucinations..

The soar of voices about - everything from teary family reunions to low-key mumbles of conversation - helped dispel that notion. Nonetheless the man's presence was a curious mystery and he was eager to question it – that was, if Corra had allowed it.

"All in due time. How do you like your cell?,"

Puzzlement faded in favor of a sneer; a visual cue to just how unamused he was with the question. If all he'd get out of Corra's coincidental presence was snarky banter it was a pointless waste of time. He had never been much for small-talk of any sort, really.

"As I expected. I'm here on business, Mr Larcast, of which the nature is irrelevant. To go straight to the point I could use your services,"

"My.. services?," He lowered his voice; features regaining the poker-face qualities they normally possessed. Business. Of course. He should have anticipated as much the moment he recognized the man. It was always business, after all, as no other strings would be strong enough to bring old associates together in his line of work. All over sudden he was glad that the guards about monitored their subjects from a distance that allowed them some privacy. "From in here? What sort of services are we talking? And what's in it for me?,"

"Nothing beyond your capabilities, I'm sure. In exchange you'd have your freedom. I'll arrange for your release. I have my contacts, as you know, and you'd be of far more use to me on the outside. Unless, of course, you'd rather serve the rest of your sentence..,"

Credge halted, on the verge of speaking, and fell silent. It was a treacherous bargain, it seemed, the unspoken conditionals thereof an especially sore point. If Corra was willing to go through the trouble of releasing him in the first place the manner of work he had in mind had to be far beyond dubious. Possibly beyond familiar territory, too. Moreover he was sharp enough to pick up on what he thought to be a catch. If Corra was powerful enough to get him out of jail - and he didn't doubt that, knowing a thing or three about the man's background - he wouldn't have any problem getting him back behind bars again. It was freedom for servitude..

Presumably. Nothing was for certain. Besides, it was a better deal than good ol' justice would serve him. There was no way out, after all, and this unexpected doorway to freedom might fade for good if he didn't go through it.

He couldn't risk that.

"I'm all yours," He uttered, eyes flicking nervously toward the closest guard on duty. Fortunately the man was too busy monitoring the crowd to tune in on details of single conversations. "Just get me out of here,"

Freedom for servitude it was. A different set of shackles in exchange for physical freedom..

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“To the Empire.” Traven repeated together with the other guests. The Admiral was right. The Empire was of capital importance at the moment. It would be good to concentrate on their goal again. But looking at the others, sitting close to him, he knew that they had other priorities.

Daiman’s plan of searching this Val’kia Navin, his <i>Irrinna</i>, on Coruscant was like walking into the literal vornskr’s den. Traven wasn’t sure what his cousin aimed to achieve with this action. Killing or kidnapping her? Daiman had been an impassioned man always, who was hard to predict. Traven just hoped that he wouldn’t have to free his cousin out of a rebel prison in the near future. A long talk with Daiman was on Traven’s <i>schedule</i> as soon as the party ended. Hopefully his cousin would listen to him.   

Then there were Bal’ak and Miss Williams. Traven felt sick just by watching them. While he hid his personal feelings, his new executive officer showed all his feelings openly. Bal’ak’s eyes almost undressed the woman, sitting opposite to him. It was a disgrace to see an Imperial officer acting like that. Appreciate maybe for a cantina, but not for an Admiral’s dinner. Traven would have to rebuke him for that behaviour as soon as he spoke to him in confidence. After all as XO of the Black Paladins Mr. Bal’ak would have to be a role model. If he couldn’t handle that, Traven would be more than glad to send him to another squadron. Having Bal’ak as second-in-command of the Paladins had been Admiral Dodonna’s order. Of course Traven obeyed, but he was not happy about it. There was something elusive around Mr. Bal’ak. He seemed ambitious, which was good for a high-ranking officer. But it was more than that. Something that caused a bad feeling in Traven. The feeling that the younger man was trying to topple him, just to get the higher rank Traven occupied himself.

Having an ISB agent as lover made Laakim Bal’ak even more suspicious. Was he using her to get information or was it vice versa? Petra Williams had noticed too much for his taste on Corellia. Enough to classify her as a potential danger. Even when the situation  had defused with the transfer of Jordan. Petra had changed very much since he had seen her the last time almost 15 years ago on Imperial Center. It had been the Imperial Ball. Five years his junior Petra, the daughter of his parents’ friends, never had caught his interest before. And even now he danced with her only because his mother told him to do that. Maybe Petra had been on his mother’s <i>potential fiancée’s list</i> even. Traven did not remember that. He just remembered Petra’s Nabooan accent, that had been charming. And her parents: Landon Williams seemed friendly, but nevertheless intimidating. Jadis Williams on the other hand had the look of a predator. Very similar to the one Bal’ak was giving her daughter today, Jadis had checked out the young Lieutenant in front of her, who had been glad as his cousin gave him a chance to <i>escape</i> the situation.

It had been the same year that he had met Jordan… <i>Damnit, is there anything that will be not making me think of her?</i> Traven thought, sighing deeply.  “Are you bored, Captain?” Petra, next to him asked as she heard him breath like that. A little embarrassed that she had caught him Traven cleared his throat. “Of course not, Miss Williams. I was just… thinking about… that Mr. Bal’ak and I cannot enjoy more of the excellent wine, because we have to sit in our cockpits early in the morning.” He lied, a smile playing around his lips. A smile that did not reach his eyes. “You should switch to mineral water, Mr. Bal’ak.” Laakim’s look darkened. “Yes, Sir.” Meeting Daiman’s eyes Traven knew that his cousin was the only one seeing through his facade.

The sound of his comlink rescued Traven. He excused himself to the attending guests, walking to a more quiet corner of the dining room. “Group Captain Dunn here.”  He answered the call. A male voice answered. “This is Lieutenant Cahn from Information Security, Sir. We got an alert as somebody tried to access a programme, that you had protected by password, Sir. They failed to enter and…” Traven managed to sound calm as he interrupted the officer. The last thing he wanted was that the ISB or the Moff learnt about a security breach on the <i>Ravisher</i>. “Which programme, Officer?” The Lieutenant answered quickly. “One of the simulator programmes, P 246, Sir. We sent guards to the simulator deck, but the culprits had left already. They didn’t access the programme, but we thought it was important enough to inform you immediately, Sir.” Traven agreed. “You did right, Lieutenant. I want the recordings of all security cams in that area. Send them to my office.”

“Any problems, Cousin?” Daiman asked as Traven returned to their table. “Just the usual Group Captain business.” Traven replied. “But sadly it means that I have to leave the party. Duty is calling. I hope to have a chance to talk to you in the morning, Daiman. About… family matters.” He turned to the Admiral. “Sir, if you excuse me for the evening…” Dodonna nodded jovially. “Always duteous, Traven. Of course you are excused. I will see you at the senior officer’s meeting tomorrow.”  

As Traven sat down at his desk just a little while later, he was wondering who would try to slice into a simulator programme. The only reason he had protected it by password was to avoid that the rookies would train with it before it was official part of their selection process. A fair and equal chance for all pilots. But somebody had tried to get an advantage obviously. And Traven would find out who it had been.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Of course the dining party was perfect; Petra had an inkling Dodonna wouldn’t have tolerated anything less than spectacular from his staff for the evening that the Imperial forces regrouped and started the next stage of their plan.  Accepting a glass of blossom wine from a passing droid she walked to one of the windows displaying Bakura below and sipped her drink, keeping her thoughts to herself.

For the first time in days she could reflect on the… device… she found on Muunilinst, in the underwater cave.  The lightsaber currently hid in her suitcase in a hidden compartment; she remembered the stories of the Jedi hunts after the old Republic changed over to the New Order, and being on receiving end of a torture session did not match her plans of what to do with her future.

<i>Plans</i>… She almost laughed at herself.  What plans?  What was the next stage of Dodonna’s quest for her?

 The exchange between the Ravisher and Bastion was closed now, and she was here permanently on Dodonna’s staff, but she had only spoken to Dodonna at the beginning of the evening.  She caught a few glances from some of the gentlemen during the evening but tonight wasn’t about seduction attempts.

Tonight she planned to figure out what was required of her here.

“Agent Williams?”  Petra glanced over to where Dodonna stood at the front of the room.  He nodded and gestured with a hand for her to join him.  When she followed his instructions, he touched her elbow to get her attention while whispering, “I would like to speak to you after this.  Perhaps in my office?”

“A stolen moment with an ISB agent?  How daring of you, sir.”  She managed to keep her voice from quivering with nerves.  Hopefully Dodonna only saw her as Landon William’s daughter, and not Jadis’ protégée.  She’d hate to have to kill the old man for trying to seduce her in his rooms.  But she also managed a sweet smile, and from Dodonna’s nod she guessed he understood her to be playing casual against listening ears.

“This is a safe place, Agent.  I expect to see you in an hour.”

Before she could respond, she heard heavy footsteps then the deep rumble of a voice behind her: “I need to speak to you now, Admiral.”

“By all means, General Kabol.”  Dodonna nodded and let go of Petra’s arm.  “Later, Agent Williams.”

“Yes, sir.”  Petra walked away, feeling more conflicted than before.  Taking a deep breath she exited the room, heading back to her quarters to gather her thoughts and possibly contact Marsh—
 
“Petra!”  

She grimaced but turned to face the intruder.  “What do you want, Bal’ak?”

Day four - Up to Disaster

Atunda, 15th of Helona. Two thousand meters under the mountain, the galleries of Bakura’s largest active mine had fallen to an eerie silence. In musty dark, behemoths of rock drills remained lifeless; the ribbed conveyor belt stood still, still loaded with mounds of moist chunks since, hours ago, the energy supply to these parts had surprisingly been cut off. Now all there was to be heard were irregular drops of water, the scattered impact of crumbs of conglomerate slipping down—and a distant, scarcely perceptible drone . . .

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Rinehart stirred, then opened his bloodshot eyes. The interior of the Firehawk tank was incredibly cramped, and it was damn near impossible to find a comfortable position to rest. The Imperial stretched out his muscles as best he could, then rose so he could take a look outside.

Sticking his head out of one tank’s hatches, Rinehart received a blast of damp air. Looking over, an observer–goggled and swathed against the humidity–nodded at him, acknowledging his presence. The Imperial officer noted the gray skies that kept the sun’s rays from shining through, the verdant hillsides that were cloaked in mists and low hanging clouds. Looking to the rear, Rinehart could see the rest of the convoy, strung out as they made their way through the pass, defensive blasters pointed outward to guard against ambush.

Feeling refreshed, Rinehart dropped back down into the tank and reviewed the files on the BakOr mining complex on a datapad: A large and extensive operation, producing critical raw material that Admiral Dodonna needed to build new warships. It was vital that such a facility remain in Imperial hands.

Checking his battlegear, Rinehart examined one of the Bakuran produced grenades. The Imperial noted that the casting process had left ridges on the grenade that were similar to the stitching on a paceball. Rinehart gripped the bomb, wondering if he could throw an ace with it.

He had been a fairly decent player in his younger days, a right-handed hurler. Rinehart had eagerly signed up for the SAGRecreation team of his kommando back on Drall, though the team received scant attention from the local SAGroup HQ. With Wegsphere the officially sanctioned and favored sport, the paceball teams Rinehart played on toiled in obscurity, rarely drawing notice or praise from COMPNOR officials. Later, after he had volunteered for CompForce, Rinehart pitched for the teams that each Assault regiment sponsored. And then there was that one exhibition game against the Corellia Dreadnaughts, when he aced out a rising star named Geero Loui.

Rinehart grinned, the memory still as fresh as if it happened just yesterday: A sparse, hostile crowd in Coronet’s rickety and run down paceball stadium had lustily booed the CompForce players, much to the chagrin of the Imperial officials present. The Dreadnaughts’ players proved to be the superior athletes as well; the ‘Naughts’ strikers shelled the CompForce hurlers, ripping trip after trip. The crowd took particular delight whenever a non-human player busted a nut, the jeers directed toward the Imperial players growing more profane with each hit. In an attempt to stop the humiliation, the Imperial coaches sent Rinehart in as a relief hurler. The Corellian found himself facing Loui, the ‘Naughts player standing easily in the striker’s box, confidently taking practice cuts with his bat, a contemptuous smirk on his face.

Rinehart’s first pitch was a breaking ball, low and outside, just curving away from Loui’s swing. The ‘Naughts’ 1st bagman, bat resting on shoulder, glared at the Imperial, his gaze now one of deadly seriousness. Loui stepped into the striker’s box, and waited for VonToma’s next offering.

The pitch was inside, Rinehart working the edge of the zone for a called ace. The Imperial heard Loui exchange words with the umpire, the ‘Naughts’ striker derisively asking if the ump had been eating his space carrots.

The roar from the crowd grew louder, with fans rising to their feet, urging Loui to get a hit. Rinehart heard one yell–inflamed by passion and very likely a generous amount Oly’s Nhar’qu’ale–that stood out from the others: “Loui! Don’t let this shik ace you out! Rip a tripper!”

Once more Loui stepped into the striker’s box, digging in his spikes and crouching into his hitting stance. Rinehart stared the striker down, rolling the paceball in his hand before his fingernails instinctively found the seams of the nut and dug in. Fans watching the beamcast at home or in a cantina might have noted the sense of anticipation in the game announcer’s voice: “VonToma’s set; here’s the windup, and the pitch–”

His father had taught him—though DeSales VonToma had never been able to master the pitch himself—and Rinehart’s coaches had always discouraged him from throwing it, but the knuckler remained his trump card. Herodotus, the Drall who was Rinehart’s most dear childhood friend, observed one day as the two were playing catch,“. . . Not only can’t hurlers control it, strikers can’t hit it, home guards can’t catch it, coaches can’t coach it, and most hurlers can’t learn it. The perfect pitch.”

Loui’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief as the paceball came fluttering in at him, the 'Naughts’ striker trying to will his muscles into checking his swing. With his timing completely thrown off, Loui could only flail clumsily at the paceball . . .
“Ace three! Oh my, Loui goes down swinging! Minions of Xendor, what a pitch from VonToma!”

“VonToma!”

Rinehart shook his head, the sharp tone of voice jerking him out of his reverie.

“Captain VonToma! We’re coming up on BakOr Complex.”

The convoy was exiting the mountain which they were traveling through, and entering a broad river valley. Once again, Rinehart poked his head out one of the tank’s hatches. The mining complex was nestled to one side of the valley. Switching on the command frequency, Rinehart addressed the convoy: “All vehicles; approach BakOr between complex and the foothills. We will then carry the mine by assault, and any survivors will be driven into the river or be buried in the bowels of the planet.”

Under his direction, Rinehart’s tank raced forward, taking a position just beyond the treeline of the surrounding hills. “First section: Echelon right! Second section: Echelon left!” the Imperial captain ordered. The tank crews responded, vehicles turning to form an arrowhead, Rinehart’s tank at the apex.

Leaping from the vehicle, Rinehart ran back to meet the artillery commander. “Place your guns in a position so that they can be seen as well as heard. I want those insurgents to see what’s going to kill them.”

As the lumbering artillery units went into battery on the roadbed of BakOr’s ore hauling train, the repulsortrucks carrying the infantry contingent began to disgorge men and equipment. Rinehart wended his way through scurrying troopers, finally locating the infantry commander. “Leave one company and the hoverscout to provide security and act as a reserve,” the Imperial ordered the Bakuran officer. “The other three companies will support the armored contingent.”

A roar from the skies above caused the officers and soldiers to look up: A Z-10 Seeker, making a mid-altitude pass over the BakOr complex before it settled into slow clockwise sweep over the facility.

Whipping out his comlink, Rinehart raised the Z-10. “Novotny! Status report!”

“A nest of chirru, Sir. Sensors are picking up a lot of activity at the complex, and intercepts of their comlink traffic indicates some discord among the insurgents; arguments between those who want to fight, and those who advocate flight.”

Borrowing a pair of macrobinoculars, Rinehart scanned the complex. Here and there could be seen the solitary miner, or occasionally, a group of three or so, fleeing the complex and headed for the bush. Excellent; let them straggle back to civilization, spreading rumors of the action that occurred at the BakOr mine. Fear served as a powerful deterrent to those whose support of the insurgency was sketchy at best.

“Novoty, what does a scan of the wider area show?”

“Lifeforms,” the pilot replied, “scattered about individually or in small groups, including one on the hills overlooking the complex–”

Refugees. Or scouts and snipers. They would have to be ignored for the time being; there weren’t enough troopers to comb the hillsides at present.

“And a detachment of Storm Commandos,” Novotny finished. “Had to focus in on them, but sensors were able to detect their reflec armor. They are presently deployed near what appears to be a secondary mineshaft entrance.”

Rinehart frowned as he lowered the binoculars. Kix Davin and his detestable lieutenant, Nash Cadman. Briefly, Rinehart entertained the notion of having the artillery drop a few rounds in the vicinity of Davin and his men. Their deaths could easily be chalked up to “collateral damage”. But if Davin survived . . . Rinehart involuntarily shivered as he imagined the storm commando unleashing the none too stable Cadman to seek revenge.

“Captain VonToma.”

Rinehart turned as Morgan Yvies, clearly uncomfortable in the humid air, joined him. The man must have made the journey from Salis D’aar to the mine with his speeder’s environmental controls on “polar”. “Yvies,” Rinehart said, greeting his Bakuran advisor. “The assault is to begin shortly.”

Yvies’ eyes narrowed slyly. “Will you offer the insurgents an ultimatum?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m about to offer it right now.” Rinehart spoke into his comlink. “Battery commander: Fire when ready!”

Breechblocks on the Golan M102s slid open and automated loaders rammed high explosive projectiles home. Servos whines as the barrels–responding to the data fed them by the targeting ‘puters–were raised to firing position.

The miners who had chosen to make a stand at the BakOr complex would have first seen a flash of light and a puff of smoke from the Imperials’ position, followed by an ear splitting crack as the artillery commenced their bombardment of the mining facility. And unlike the whine of energy weapons, the artillery shells made an eerie screeching noise as they tunneled through the air; so eerie, in fact, that many miners–suddenly unnerved by the sensation that the shells were about to fall on the very spot they were on–abandoned the the dubious protection of their too flimsy or shallow fighting positions and began to dash about witlessly.

Rinehart, having returned to his command tank, watched with grim satisfaction as the BakOr complex was enveloped in smoke and dust. The M102s, after their initial furious barrage, now blazed away in sustained fire mode, a steady drumming that raised geysers of dirt, stone, and lethal metal fragments all around the mine. The shrapnel could raise havoc among beings not protected by armor, dismembering and disemboweling, but the Imperial knew that an even more deadly effect from the barrage was that which could not be seen: the pressure wave that each explosion generated. The compressive effect of the blast was most damaging to the gas filled organs: blood filled cavities would be created in the lungs, releasing fatal air embolisms into the arterial system; in other instances, internal organs such as the liver, spleen, or bowels would rupture, causing a painful and horrific death.

Calling the orbiting Z-10 once more, Rinehart asked for an observation report. “Nothing, Sir,” the pilot replied. “Communication traffic has ceased, little to no movement detected at the mining complex.”

“Good,” the ISB officer grunted as he contacted the artillery commander. “Artillery, cease bombardment. I say again, cease bombardment. Prepare to fire smoke shells on BakOr complex on my signal.”

The M102s went mute, then at Rinehart's command, a salvo of six shots rang out in quick succession. Smoke shells exploded around the mining complex, the facility wreathed in thick blue-black smoke. With the artillery silent, a deathly stillness reigned over the battlefield.

Rinehart flashed a grin at Morgan Yvies. “Keep HQ appraised of the situation, and send Admiral Dodonna my compliments.” Gesturing to the Bakuran troopers, Rinehart gave the command: “Assault force; move out!”

Led by the Firehawks, the native troopers swept forward, squads in the first wave clustering behind the repulsortanks for protection, while the infantry following further back moved forward in platoon strength.  Rinehart ducked back down into the tank, intently studying the infrared sensors. Scattered movement could be detected at the complex; some slow and agonized, others quick and furtive. It was apparent that some of the insurgents had the misfortune of surviving the bombardment.

The smoke enveloping the mining facility began to dissipate as the troopers approached and defensive fire began to lance out, striking against the front glacis armor of the Firehawks and deflecting harmlessly off. The tanks’ laser cannon returned the fire, vomiting death and destruction among the insurgents. The Bakuran foot soldiers, firing from the hip, peppered the enemy positions with small arms blasterfire.

A trio of insurgents burst out of the rapidly thinning smoke, the first two throwing hastily constructed and crudely made detonite grenades, the third hurling ordinary rocks. The three miners paid for their foolhardy courage; all were quickly and ruthlessly shot down.

With Rinehart’s tank in the forefront, the Firehawks entered the grounds of BakOr complex, smashing through the ruined outbuildings that the insurgent riflemen were using as barricades. Bakuran infantry, swarming behind, fanned out to exterminate all remaining resistance. The rebelling miners would not go down without a fight, however; they battled the pro-Imperial forces with whatever weapons or tools they could lay their hands on.

Rinehart spotted a number of miners retreating toward the mine shaft’s main entrance. The Imperial officer ordered on tank section and their infantry support to block off the entrance. If the miners wouldn’t surrender, then enough firepower would be poured down the shaft to turn every living being down in it into ash.

Continuing the assault through the complex, Rinehart noted that the infantry support for his tank was lagging behind. He called for the tank’s crewmembers to pass his riot gun up to him, receiving it just as–out of the corner of his eye–he spied an insurgent sprinting toward the vehicle. Rinehart noted that the miner’s shirt and jerkin bulged unnaturally even as he brought the riot gun up to his shoulder and fired. Struck by the energy bolts, the insurgent exploded in a fireball.

The force of the blast slammed the Imperial about the main turret hatch, and Rinehart–deafened and dazed by the explosion–failed to spot a second insurgent dart out from his place of concealment and throw himself beneath the Firehawk. The suicide bomber triggered the explosives strapped to his body, and the detonation lifted the front of the tank high into the air.

With its front repulsorcoil banks destroyed, the Firehawk slammed violently down into the ground. The tank’s thrusters continued to drive it forward, however, plowing up a mound of dirt and rock before the primary engine could be shut off. Resting on its side like some beached cetacean, the tank lay helpless; the insurgents moved in to feed on the carrion.

“Bail out!” Rinehart shouted as miners stuck detonite and incendiary charges to the bottom of the tank’s hull. The crew needed little prodding; they made good their escape out the rear hatch while a battered Rinehart struggled to extricate himself from the main turret. The Firehawk went up in flames as the Imperial crawled clear and threw himself into a nearby shell crater.

The pit was ghastly, containing chunks of human bone and body parts, reeking of the gases from high explosives and the stink of feces from shredded intestines. The stench and gore didn’t keep Rinehart from hugging the ground though, as a group of miners opened fire on him, trying to pick off the Imperial as he scrambled for cover.

Within the crater, Rinehart took stock of his situation: He had lost the riot gun, and his comlink as well. The only weapons the Corellian possessed were a vibroblade, and a pair of grenades. Inching his way up the lip of the depression, Rinehart saw that the miners had sheltered in the rubble of a destroyed building and, detecting movement in the crater, sent a fusillade of blasterfire his way.

Sliding back down into the crater, he considered his options: A charge, while foolishly brandishing the knife, was suicide, and Rinehart had a lot more living planned for the future. He could remain in the crater, waiting for rescue, all the while hoping that one of the insurgents wasn’t  already crawling forward to fry him with a blaster bolt. Or he could take the battle to the enemy, blowing them back to the Original Light.

Grenades it would be then. Loosening the explosives from their carrying pouch, Rinehart pictured in his mind’s eye the location of the insurgents, the rubble they were taking cover in, calculating the distance to the target. Even more important, he pictured the throw; it was going to have to be quick, to minimize exposure, and with little room for error.

Rinehart opened his eyes, and glanced down at this throwing hand. His fingertips gripped the grenade the same way he would a paceball if he was throwing the knuckler. He didn’t remember doing that; it was as if his arm knew instinctively what to do. Why wouldn’t it? It was, after all, ‘the perfect pitch’.

The ISB agent suddenly stood upright, hurling the grenade toward the insurgents, the follow through of his throw carrying him back to the ground. The miners raised themselves up to kneeling positions, blazing away at the Imperial as he revealed himself. Rinehart felt several blasts pass near him, singeing cloth and flesh; others struck the ground in front of him, shards of stones lacerating his face as he flung himself down. The grenade wobbled erratically in its flight, suddenly sinking down to drop among the miners and exploding with a roar.

Re: Imperial Renaissance

<i>Lt. Controller Emyn: Report to office of Group Captain Dunn at 2100.</i>

Paron looked back down at her datapad where the message now blinked at her, giving no indication as to why Captain Dunn wished to speak to her.  She checked her wrist chrono again and then looked at the door in front of her.  <i>2057</i>.  Was she too early?

Before she could raise her hand to knock the door slid open with a soft “whish” to reveal Captain Dunn at his desk, his head bent down over a datapad.  “Enter.”

She hesitated then hurried in before the doors decided to close.

Captain Dunn looked as formal as she remembered from the first time she had caught sight of him, when she first came to the Ravisher, but he looked a bit down at the mouth with a subtle tension to his features.  Rumors had spread through the ship that the captain had suffered a disappointment of the heart recently, although Paron ignored the rumors and tried to keep doing her job; but he looked like a man who had been spread over the sands of Tatooine.

“You sent for me, sir?” she said when he failed to look up and acknowledge her presence.

“A moment, Lt. Emyn.”  He held up a hand but continued reading his document, and Paron pressed her lips together in a thin line.  Great, just what she needed: a chauvinistic frakwit.  She fought the disappointment.

While Captain Dunn finished whatever he was doing she glanced around his office, noticing the sparse and gray atmosphere.  If Dunn hadn’t been there, she would guess it was an abandoned room that lacked a regular occupant.  He spared none of his time (or expenses) on making his work place comfortable or even personal.  Other men she knew or heard of in the fleet covered their walls and desk with reminders of what they fought for: holo-images of children and wives, tokens from the planets they had visited, and other trinkets that harkened back to the old days of the Empire, before the Rebels.

<i>This is as cozy as a graveyard,</i> Paron thought.  <i>But a graveyard would at least have flowers.</i>

“I take it you disapprove of my décor, Lieutenant?”

“Sir?” Paron’s attention snapped back to Dunn, who now watched her with his eyes sharp on her every moment, his hands folded in front of him on his desk.  “No, sir.”

“Really now?”  Dunn’s lips curved slightly in what could be called a smirk, but she felt wary.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes.”  Dunn punched a few keys into his datapad before clicking a button and showing a holographic of the simulator room.  “It would seem somebody has sliced into my system without my express permission as of late, Lieutenant.  The program that was infiltrated contained valuable assets for the Paladins and should not be touched.”

“Yes, sir.”  Paron felt confused.  Why was he– <i>Oh damn.</i>  She felt her lips whiten at the memory of leaving the simulators without deleting her account.  “Perhaps you should speak to security, sir.”

“I would, but I wanted to confront the perpetrator in person.”  His eyes flashed as the image revealed her leaving.

“Sir, I—wait, you think <i>I</i> did this?” Paron stopped mid-sentence.  

“You were the only person found using the simulators without permission.  You work in the Bridge…”

“But I don’t have any technical savvy to break into any computer system!” Paron burst out before she could catch herself.  “If I even tried to, I’d get caught before I even exited the program!  I only use the simulations that the other squadrons use!”

That caused Dunn to pause.  “So you’re saying you only used the free-access simulators.”

“Yes, sir.”  Paron looked at him with entreating eyes, knowing she was being unprofessional but not caring.  <i>Lords above, I’ve worked too hard to get here!  Don’t make this be the end of my career!</i>  “I have only used the simulations when the other pilots are otherwise occupied, sir, and during my free time.”

“If you didn’t do this…” Dunn leaned back in his chair and watched her.  “And you didn’t cheat on your scores, did you?”

“No, sir.”  Paron swallowed hard.  “I want to improve my flying, sir.  Not cheat.”

Dunn pushed away from his desk and stood, watching her.  His fingers tapped on his desk in an absent manner.  “Your flight scores are excellent.  Almost as good as some of my men.  Why are you on the Bridge rather than in a TIE, Lieutenant?”

Paron fought the sarcasm in her voice.  “Because I had the lack of common sense to be born female, sir.”

To her surprise, something resembling a small smile touched Dunn’s mouth for a moment… and then it was gone.  “Have you tried to apply for the other squadrons?”

“Yes, sir.  Every time there’s an opening.”

“Strange that I haven’t seen your name…” Dunn crossed his arms over his chest and met her eyes.  “How would you like to try for a new position now?”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Bak0r Central Line Station, Salis Daar
2 ABY…

An exhausted yawn escaped Makk's lips as he shuffled his way down the stairs from the street level to Bak0r Central Line Station so he could report in at his security post. A full night of doing shots and skirtchasing with some of the stormies from squad six had taken it's toll on him, but thankfully his post never saw much action.

"Hehey! Makk-Attack! I'm surprised you made it in today after last night." A voice called out from a group of buckethands standing at the base of the stairs. He wouldn't even have been able to tell which one said it, if the speaker hadn't raised a black and pearl plated palm up for a high five as Makk drew closer.

"Eeeeeyyy…" Makk said groggily as he lazily returned the high five, stopping short after the first word since he still wasn't too sure who it was he was talking to.. It was always kinda awkward coming in to work after a night of drinking with the stormies because he could never tell who was who the next day when they all had their buckets on. "….Yea well, I gotta be here to watch your backs.. Never know what these crazy folk'll try." Makk said with an emerging smirk, passing a nod to the sea of Bakuran citizens going about their business in a very calm and orderly fashion.

The bucketheads joined in on a session of chummy laughter, slapping each other's chest plates with the backs of their palms and tossing an arm around Makk's shoulders. "I know right?!.." One of them jeered, poking around at the others to get their attention. "Can't take your eyes off these folk for a second."

---

Some of the things he said and did here almost 15 years ago were some of the reasons Makk now hated the man he used to be. He was still in the Bakuran military in those days, but they largely supported the Imperial occupation the first time around, as did a majority of the population. Nobody really considered Bakuran independence to be a serious option back then. No no, quite the opposite.

Though history may tell the tale of a 'Bakuran Revolution' that rose up and overthrew their Imperial oppressors, that premise is… misleading at best. It ignores the rather important fact that this supposed 'revolution' took place shortly after the Battle of Endor while the majority of Imperial forces galaxy-wide were in state of disarray as they received numerous conflicting orders from a variety of Imperial officials claiming to represent the new leader of the Empire. Ultimately, the majority of the occupation force withdrew primarily because of the various recall orders that were coming in through the comm system following the Emperor's death.

Also, though two Star Destroyers were initially used to take Bakura, the Imperials quickly discovered that far less was needed to actually hold the planet. Thanks to an extremely pacifistic religion, the majority of the Bakuran population was largely accepting of regime change, viewing it as part of the natural flow of their Cosmic Balance. Sure there were those that fought passionately for independence, but they were very much on the fringes of Bakuran society at the time. A more representative view of the Bakuran mindset, could be taken from speech given on the senate floor shortly before the first invasion:

"…Cosmic Balance preaches patience above all… Sure, it's easy to get caught up in emotions and throw ourselves at the Empire with a blind rage like so many other worlds before us… But if we fight as they did… if we let ourselves get lost in the romantic notion of freedom at any cost…  it would only cause more death…. more suffering.. more pain, more sorrow, and for what?! To push their iron fist down harder upon our heads?! …To earn a place in history next to Alderaan?!!… No… We've already seen that this is not the way… This is not the way to protect the Bakuran people and this is not the way to follow the lessons of our great religion…"

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   -Trell Odo, Junior Senator District 5, 1 ABY

Senator Odo still holds his seat in the senate and is even praised as a savior of sorts by many fundamentalist Bakurans, who still represent a majority of the population. Despite evidence that states otherwise, many Bakurans still assert that it was Cosmic Balance, not the Rebellion nor the Revolution that had in fact freed Bakura, and that only because they accepted the initial invasion were they able to eventually outlast the Imperial menace.

Yet here we are again…

Bucketheads once more patrol the streets of Salis Daar, the screech of Twin Ion Engines has once again replaced the chirping of birds, and those behemoth metal triangles once again litter the Bakuran skies. Just as before, stadiums and parking complexes were closed down to store tanks and artillery, police stations and firehouses were crawling with stormies, and hotel penthouses and private mansions were occupied by Imperial elites, using Bakuran property to throw parties or cheat on their wives.

In this case however,  it was encouraging to see that the Imps were still working from the same playbook since so much of this upcoming operation was based on that assumption. Just like before, general security seemed pretty lax. There were a fair amount of bucketheads scattered around the station, but they didn't appear to be doing much aside from keeping an eye on things. Every now and then, a few of them would walk up and down the crowds looking for something suspicious, but the majority of them just hung back around the stairway to the street level, bullshitting among themselves.

Even so, nobody was stupid enough to think this was going to be easy. Their ragtag bombing teams were to meet here at the train station then, head off simultaneously to different targets around the city and plant explosives on preselected targets.

Sounds simple on paper.

The problem? Take your pick. First, the targets were selected primarily based on Makk and some of the other soldier's recollections of the security setup the Imperials used during the first occupation which obviously may obsolete. Second, the bombs were made from salvaged mining equipment, so there was no real guarantee that they would go off as planned, or at all for that matter. Third, the refugees that put these bombs together were mostly escaped repulsorlift engineers, technical students and chemistry professors who admittedly had little to no explosives training. And finally, between the 18 members of the six bombing teams, there was only maybe 45 years of combat experience, and a good chunk of that went to Makk.

He couldn't help but be optimistic though. It was his lack thereof that had led to his and much of the Bakuran people's passive response to the first occupation. If everything went according to plan however, this should give the Bakuran people the wake up call they need..

---

Salis Daar.. 16 ABY, Bak0r Central Line Station..
7:42 PM, 18 minutes until detonation…


Makk's right brow quirked as the commlink in his overcoat pocket began to buzz. Bringing the mic up to his mouth, he clicked it on. "Yea?", he asked while glancing about the bustling backdrop of the Bak0r Central Line Station, making eye contact with the five other leaders of the three-man bombing teams to get their attention.

"Ghrrahhstak?", Asked a gruff, garbled Kurtzen voice on the other end.

"…Wrong number." Makk said while passing a subtle nod to the other team leaders. He then ended the transmission abruptly and re-pocketed the commlink before shrugging the collar of his overcoat a bit higher up on his shoulders and making his way into the sea of passengers towards the Line 5 train.

As soon as he saw Makk start to make his way towards the train, Bayner gave a nudge to the man sitting next to him. “Zizz.. Ey Zizz!.”, he said, standing up from the bench and hoisting a backpack carrying the bomb around his shoulders.

“Mmhuh..?” Zisah mumbled a response as his eyes struggled to flutter open. "Wha?" He asked a bit clearer this time, emerging from a state of half sleep.

"Train's here, time to go." Bayner said while passing a nod in Makk's direction.

"Alright sheez…" Zisah began as his hand found the way to the back of his head to give a few scratches to that mangy hairpile that sat atop his lanky frame. "… let's get this over with…" He said as he planted his hands next to himself on the bench and shoved his body up to a wobbly standing position.

Bayner couldn't understand how Zisah was relaxed enough to nod off. All of them were tired, that was for sure. After all, it was hard to get a good night's sleep lying in a mining shaft and breathing in the thick dusty air. Even so, sleep was the last thing on Bayner's mind at the moment. There was a serious possibility that he could be killed during this operation and that wasn't necessarily the worst case scenario. Every muscle in his body was tense and it was very apparent that he just wanted this to be over as he anxiously waited for Zisah to shuffle his way into the train.

"…What're you on something? Calm down man." Zisah said with a scrunched brow as he packed himself into the train next to Bayner and Makk, quickly nodding towards a handful of idle stormtroopers that were stationed in the passenger car.

Bayner took a deep breath and slumped himself back into the seat, trying to force his body to relax.

The stormies made their rounds up and down the center aisle of each passenger car checking tickets, the station's income being their chief concern after all. Once that was out of the way, a pleasant “Bing Bong” chimed in over the station’s comm system to signal that the trains were about to depart.

---

Hyperspace…
7:45 PM


Janus was piloting the shuttle now. This was partially because the original pilot had been left at Praesitlyn since he lacked the clearance to operate on Bakura, but mostly because Jasra never bothered to learn how to fly a ship, viewing it as servant's work. She did of course, already have a servant that was perfectly capable of piloting a ship in A2Z, her personal administrative droid, but evidently she preferred this scenario.

Jasra herself was sitting in the co-pilot's chair with one leg resting atop the other, doing little more than tending to her polished nails with a glossing rod. With her painted lips sealed, she softly hummed her odd rendition of an old Coruscanti opera as the smear of stars began to slow to a halt and the planet Bakura emerged from a sea of darkness.

The Imperial fleet could be seen looming around the planet's orbit in the distance and the nearest Star Destroyer had already launched a pair of TIEs their way. As they drew closer, two Munificent frigates bearing the Banking Clan corporate logo could be seen dropping out of hyperspace through the starboard view-port.

"Unidentified vessels: State your business in this system." A voice sounded over the shuttle's comm system as the TIEs acquired a weapons lock on the shuttle.

Janus reached over to answer the hail, but the back of his palm was given a prompt slap by Jasra, causing him to retract his hand as if he had just grabbed a hot power coupling.

"You're flying, eyes forward." She lectured as if she were an authority on the subject.

After calmly deactivating the glossing rod, she flipped it upside down and used the tip to press the comm switch. "…Banking Clan delegation, here to bid on security contracts." She stated calmly before releasing the switch and returning to the business of humming.

After a moment or so of idling, they received clearance and the fighters broke off. The two Banking Clan frigates remained parked in the orbit, but the shuttle kicked on its sub-light drives and burnt a cool blue trail down towards Bakura's surface.

"Well, it appears our product has arrived right on schedule…" Jasra commented as she watched the two Munificent frigates vanish into the Bakuran sky through the rear viewport as their shuttle entered the atmosphere. "… now all you have to do is sell it."

'It', in this case, referred to some 100,000 various Holowan security droids onboard the two frigates which were to be marketed to the Bakurans. The ships typically carried 3 times that amount fully loaded, but most of the cargo holds on the frigates were removed to install a robotics lab so they could tweak their products onsite.

"I think I can ma…" Janus began before mouth was literally halted by Jasra’s shushing index finger pressed against his lips.

"Do you mind?" She said with a raised index finger, cutting him off with a tone that suggested he was being rude. "I'm making a call." She said, pointing to the pocket comm in her hand to prove it.

"Ms. Kaar?" Randyl Corra's image said as it fizzled into clarity on the commscreen. "You certainly look lovely this evening."

A feint smile broke through her professional exterior as she gave a roll of the eyes that seemed to say 'I know…'

"Mr. Corra, would you be a dear and bring a transport to meet us at the landing platform atop The Imperial?" She said, quickly regaining her composure after that brief lapse.

"Why of course. Expect us within the next fifteen minutes." He responded with a charming smirk and a gracious bow of the head before ending the communication.

---

Countdown…
The Imperial, ground level,
7:51… Nine minutes until detonation…


Though the 300 story hotel had been officially shut down along with much of the Bakuran tourism industry after the Imperials blockaded the planet from orbit, the building certainly wasn't as lifeless as one might expect.

Speeders and transports were lined up along the ground level entrance, unloading a variety of Imperial officers onto the red carpet that led into the building. Most of them were still dressed in formal wear, having just returned from some plush gala that was being held on Dodonna’s orbiting flagship, the Ravisher. Much of the hotel staff was still on the clock as well, tending to the needs of their oppressors with zeal in hopes that Imperials remained the high tippers they were during the last occupation. As each officer exited his vehicle, a swarm of bellboys rushed forward in a mad attempt to get the officer's bag, for he who carries the bag, gets the tip. All the bags were taken into the lobby and placed near a large pneumatic tube where a group of bellboys were attaching room tags and loading them in to be distributed to their corresponding suites within the hotel automatically.

Security was a bit tighter than they had anticipated as Makk, Zisah and Bayner approached the hotel due to the simultaneous arrival of so many officers. Luckily they had a backup plan. Bayner was sent to the entrance carrying the backpack with the bomb. He also had a spare Embassy Suites bellboy uniform in his bag that they got from one of the refugees back at base that used to work here. As he approached, he was stopped by a group of four stormies.

"What're you doin' here kid?" One of them asked as the rest primed their blasters.

"You gotta let me through!.." Bayner said, panting heavily as if he had just ran twelve city blocks to get here. "..I'm already late, the boss'll fire me if he finds out." He said, unzipping the top of his backpack slightly to flash the stormies a glimpse of the bellboy uniform inside that concealed the bomb beneath.

"Alright, hurry up kid." The buckethead replied, waving him through without even giving the bag a glance.

Bayner ran on, rushing in through the double doors and making his way into the lobby restroom where he entered an unoccupied stall and locked the door. Zisah had given him a tag to one of the upper floors from his last stay at The Imperial when he had accidentally taken it home after forgetting to remove it from his bag. It was probably expired by now, but Zisah said he sliced it, so the delivery tubes should still read it as valid and send it off to the designated room on the tag. As Bayner changed into the Novaplex uniform, he carefully fixed the room tag onto the backpack carrying the bomb and upon exiting the bathroom, he made his way over to the luggage pile being loaded into the room service tubes and placed the backpack down inconspicuously among the rest of the luggage.

Once that was done, he glanced around quickly to see if anybody noticed him, and after confirming that nobody had, he quickly ducked back out the front entrance and broke into a run down the street, wanting to clear the blast radius in case the bomb went off in the lobby before it was loaded into the delivery tubes.

"Hey you!!" A stormie's voice called out from behind him.

He turned around slowly to face the buckethead, sensing that he may have been caught red handed.

"What happened? I thought you were late for work." He said with a hint of suspicion.

"I was…" Bayner began, pausing for a moment to figure out how to end that sentence. ".. and…they fired me."

"Tough break kid." The stormtrooper replied. "Keep your head up though, you can always get a job in the Imperial Army!"

"Yea…" Bayner replied with an odd expression on his face. He then turned around awkwardly and continued running back down the street to meet up with Makk and Zisah down the block.

---

The Imperial, roof level landing platform,
7:55… Five minutes until detonation.


Randyl stood in front of a hard-topped luxury speeder on the edge of the landing pad with his hands buried in his pockets, glancing up towards the stormy skies as the landing lights of a Lambda shuttle could be seen emerging through the darkened clouds. As the vehicle's sinking silhouette became visible through the fog, the wings folded up to an almost parallel position with the dorsal wing and the shuttle readjusted itself to line up vertically with the massive H on the hoverpad.

He casually approached the shuttle as the boarding plank lowered itself to the ground and Janus and Jasra emerged to greet him. Janus walked forward first to grasp Randyl's palm in a politician's handshake. "Nice to see ya again, it's been a while." Janus said with a warm smirk.

Randyl received the handshake with equal firmness, pointing the index finger of his free hand at Janus with squinted eyes, as if trying to recall something. "I think it was that charity dinner on Muunilinst a few years back right?"

"Ohhh yea…" Janus replied, waving a finger back and fourth between Jasra and Randyll as if he had just brought up an interesting point. "You two were working together back then right?"

"We've actually had a somewhat extensive professional relationship." Jasra replied as she made her way down the ramp, subtly shoving Janus to the side and making her way into the conversation. She was referring of course to the work they did together in the past to help block the Banking Clan's acceptance of the New Republic standard credit over the Imperial credit, Randyl playing a pivotal role in that process by helping to jam certain pieces of legislation when he was still in the senate.

Mr. Corra replied simply by grasping her slender fingertips in both hands and planting a kiss on the back of her palm. "It's lovely to see you as always Ms. Kaar."

The odd glances bouncing back and fourth between Randyll and Jasra were almost enough to make Janus want to take one more dive into Jasra's thoughts. He didn't recall hearing anything about Randyll the last time he was there, but then again, he wasn't really looking.

That notion quickly vanished however, as the building suddenly jolted violently from a loud explosion several floors down. The shaking was enough to throw Jasra from her feet, causing her to fall into Janus' arms. Randyl simply braced himself with the handrail of the shuttle, bending at the knees to retain his balance.

"What was that?!" Jasra demanded shortly after the shaking had subsided.

"I'm not sure…" Randyl responded with a thoughtful brow, glancing around the area.

Orange auras burned on a handful of other buildings off in the distance, piercing the looming fog that hung over the city like giant candles. A rolling series of muffled sonic booms reached the trio's ears a few seconds later.

Janus left Jasra's side once she regained her balance and made his way over to the building's ledge, glancing over the safety rail. Fires raged about fifteen floors down, engulfing three floors of the northeastern corner of the building. It was hard to see much else due to the smoke emanating from the flames, but it was clear from the shape of the blast damage that something had blown the walls out from the inside.

"Looks like a bomb went off…" Janus said with his attention still fixed on the damage. "We should probably investigate… This'll probably effect our security pitch."

"That actually sounds a bit more like your job than mine.." Jasra responded in a rather shaky tone, still somewhat startled by the blast. It was the first time in a while that she had been this close to danger in a while and perhaps thoughts of her own mortality were now entering her mind . "..I'll expect your assessment within the hour."

Re: Imperial Renaissance

“Yes, what can I help you with General?” the Admiral asked as Petra walked away.  

“May we speak alone sir?” the General replied.

The Admiral gave a quick raised eyebrow, and said “Of course, right this way” gesturing towards a room off of the dining hall.  Kabal let the Admiral enter first, and locked the door behind them.  

“So what is this all about General?  Have you heard news from the field?” Dodonna asked while sitting down.

“No sir, but as usual, all reports to me from the field are recorded and sent to the datapad I gave you as soon as they come in.  So you would know when I do.” Kabal responded monotonely.

“A pillar of efficiency as always General.  Dodonna smiled, and raised his glass.  “Now, what was it you needed of me?”  

While they had been talking Kabal had scanned the Admiral.
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Gray
Height: 6’2”
Occupation: Admiral of imperial Fleet
Beverage: Naris Bud Tea
Threat assessment:  Processing… (Dodonna’s body was shaded a hint of red, and a scan was completed per body region, identifying any metal items or genetic traits known to be weapons.  Highlighting one object which were then magnified in Kabal’s vision field and identified)
Biometric transmitter detected in patient’s heart, would you like to jam this signal….No
Remote transmitter discovered…frequency found…would you like to jam this signal…Yes…successfully jammed.
No weapons found, threat….minimal.

Kabal’s vision faded back to its normal shade, and he replied “Permission to speak frankly sir?”

Dodonna stiffened slightly, and took a sip of his drink.  This was an odd move for the cyborg.  Speaking frankly generally means something that you cannot say under the normal rules of protocol.  Since protocol was paramount among the General’s programming, Dodonna was quite curious as to what he needed to discuss.

“Granted General” Dodonna said with the nod of his head.  

Raising himself to his full upright position, the 6’3” cyborg stared down at the Admiral and asked “Why did you limit my functionality by implanting obedience protocols, and neutering my emotional responses?”

If Dodonna was affected by the question, he didn’t show it.  Years of Imperial life had given him the ability to control his reactions almost by second nature.  So while on the surface he continued to stare at the cyborg, he covertly pressed the transmitter through his pants.

In Kabal’s field of vision scrolled the words:

Transmitter activated
Jamming attempt successful

Transmitter activated
Jamming attempt successful

Transmitter activated
Jamming attempt successful

“Admiral, could you please stop trying to call for help, all you are doing is clogging my field of vision with annoying messages.  Oh, and just to save tedious attempts, for the next few minutes the computer is performing a maintenance cycle, and the door has been remotely locked.”  Kabal stated monotonely.

“A pillar of efficiency…” The Admiral muttered to himself.  “Well if you intend to kill me, get it over with, but just know that no matter your technical know how, you will not leave this ship alive.” Dodonna said as he set his drink and straightened his jacket.

Kabal sat down across from the Admiral.  “Yes, I’m aware of the biometric transmitter in your heart, and that any disruption of that signal will lock down the entire ship, but rest assured Admiral, I do not wish to harm you.  If I did, despite the consequences, you would already be dead.”

“I see” Dodonna said calming down slightly. “Then what is it you want?”

“An explanation, for starters” Kabal began.  “Why did you feel it necessary to ensure my loyalty?”

Dodonna cleared his throat, despite the General’s assurances; Dodonna reminded himself that he was sitting across the table from an engineered killing machine that was by all evidence off its leash.  “While your record to the empire was exemplary, concerns were raised, and I felt it foolish to proceed in your resurrection without…insurance.”

Raising his one eyebrow, the cyborg responded “Insurance…”

Dodonna finished his drink with a grimace, and set the glass down.  “General; are you aware of how much it cost my war effort to build its own leader?”  

“I know what it gained you.”

The Admiral pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and nodded “Yes, it has provided an officer who is a brilliant tactical strategist; a weapons and chemical warfare expert, but the trade off is that your construction was worth 2 whole TIE squadrons."

"A worthy sacrifice for such a talented and loyal servant to the empire one would think."  Kabal replied not really caring about the financial woes his construction caused.

"Agreed; however…I wanted to ensure that loyalty."

Kabal sighed loudly, "Admiral, this is getting tiresome.  Either tell me the answer or refuse, but do not try to justify your actions with enigmatic double talk.”

“Fine, your desertion after the emperor's death was a major factor in my decision." The Admiral spat back.  “If you were going to be my General, I needed to know that you would continue to function is your duties, even if something happened to me.  Therefore I limited your emotional response to tame any motive to leave, and as added insurance I implanted the imperial obedience protocols to ensure loyalty.”

“Desertion” Kabal repeated…”Is that how the empire remembers my years of service?  Does that justify erasing most of my memories!?”

“Only the ones we didn’t need, and yes it did.  I feel no regret for what I did to you.  You are merely a tool I chose to use in my grand plan, how I use you is not for you to question.  In regards to your desertion, I’m afraid there is no other conclusion, the emperor died…and if I remember correctly, it was less then a month before you were employed by Dunn Industries as a bounty hunter.” The Admiral crossed his legs again.

Kabal stood and turned his back on the General.  “Did that not seem odd to you Admiral?  Years of service to the empire, recruited when I was merely a boy, trained to ruthless efficiency, and then when all hope seemed lost…the empire rebuilt me into more then I ever could have been before.”  He turned back towards Dodonna, “Didn’t that seem a bit out of character for someone who’s known nothing but the imperial way of life to suddenly turn his back on it.”

Dodonna straightened his jacket, and answered “Yes it did, but you wouldn’t be the first.”  Kabal’s stare didn’t waver.  “So you claim that you did not dessert the empire in its hour of need, why then does all evidence seem to support the contrary?”

“Because I was following the Emperor’s orders” Kabal answered and sat back down.  

Dodonna almost saw sadness in the cyborg.  Having gotten use to his stoic nature, this seemed very much out of character for him.  “Following long lost orders from the emperor, intriguing” the Admiral thought.  “You have peaked my interest General, please…continue” he said gesturing with his hand.

Kabal sat back down, and steepled his hands, “You’ve heard of the emperor’s hands correct?” Dodonna nodded in response.  “They were used for subterfuge and stealth.  I was used for brute force.  The other hands would call me the Emperor’s fist, I was used when something more direct was needed.”  Kabal swallowed then continued “Like Mara Jade, when the Emperor was killed, I was tasked with killing his killer.  My programming was quite clear on that point.  However when I faced Skywalker a few weeks later…he told me that Darth Vader had killed the Emperor.  I have many different ways to tell if a man is lying Admiral, and he wasn’t.  This as you know was later corroborated.  Skywalker escaped from me, and I saw no reason to continue his hunt.”

Dodonna cleared his throat, “But that does not explain why you did not return to the empire after your assignment was completed.  

Kabal sighed again “My programming was to go into hiding until the Emperor reappeared.  When he did, I hastened to his side, but I was too late.  I had not returned to duty, because I felt that no one was a true successor.  Isard, Zsinj, these people were opportunists, and Bastion is a coward’s hideaway where the last breath of the old Empire waits in silence to die.”

“Surely, you saw Thrawn as an Heir to the Empire.” Dodonna observed.

“Yes, and I would have served him loyally, if I hadn’t been deactivated at the time.”  Dodonna raised his eyebrows quizzically.  “Long story…” Kabal said obviously trying to close the issue.  Letting it drop, Dodonna continued.

“If you believe that no successor had emerged, why did you seek me out?” the Admiral asked.

“To be honest, I didn’t.  I didn’t know who the probe would find when I sent it, but I had heard rumors of your exploits for months.  You tried to keep Tatooine a secret, and you did a very good job, but rumors fly, and I had deduced that some Imperial was on the rise again.  The probe droids I sent out was to seek out this person by tracking movement from Tatooine space.  If it was Imperial, they were to be identified.  You were among my list of candidates, and you receive the offer of a return to dutiful service for the Imperial cause.

"List if candidates?"

"A list of Admirals, Grand Admirals, and Emperor's Hands I calculated would have the drive, know how, equipment, and ability to potentially resurrect the empire given the opportunity." Kabal looked at the Admiral who seemed perturbed by this.  "It was a short list" Kabal explained.

"I would think so…well General, you've explained your version of events, but tell me why I should believe anything you say, or continue to trust you for that matter?" Dodonna asked in all seriousness.

Kabal’s glowing red eye narrowed.  "Frankly Admiral, I don't care what you believe.  You've provided me with your reasoning and it is logical.  While I don’t agree with what was done to me, there seems to be no lasting damage from your actions, and if I’m to be honest, I may have done the same in your position.  I have my answer, and this matter is closed as far as I'm concerned."

Dodonna sighed "And yet I sense another matter in the air.”

Kabal shifted to a more relaxed position.  "Perceptive as usual Admiral." he paused and then focused his eyes on the Admiral.  "I want to command from the ground."

Dodonna was starting to get a headache "General, we've been over this, you are too important to the morale of the troops, and too valuable a weapon to me to be trouncing around the countryside playing soldier."  Dodonna was getting visibly flustered and was about to end the conversation right then, when the General said "What if I made it no risk to you?"

Dodonna anger waned, and he said "How?"

"First, I'll reimburse your expenses for rebuilding me, and provide funds to rebuild me if anything should happen again.  With the understanding that if you do rebuild me, that my program not be altered."

Dodonna considered the offer, and asked "And how will you obtain these funds?"

"Many things changed on Corellia Admiral, including the restoration of my identity and the ability to access my bank accounts."

"I see…and in return…" The Admiral left the statement hanging.

"I will be able to continue my service, and command this army the way I want to.  I was built for battle Admiral, not to sit idly by and watch them.  To ensure the glory of the Empire is what I was built for, let me fulfill my function.” Kabal said with passion in his mechanized voice.

As Dodonna considered this: Information Scrolled along Kabal’s screen:
Kabal’s messages from the ground was Maximized and in bold red letters scrolled:

WARNING: Massive explosion detected at Salis Dar
Cause: Unknown-highest percentile possibility…Insurgent bomb

Kabal’s irises suddenly went wide, and Dodonna’s datapad started to beep.

“What is it?” Dodonna asked.

“Salis Dar has just been bombed”

“Where are our troops?”

“Some were at Salis Dar, Kix Davin and VonToma’s groups are still attacking the mines.  Communications are down, someone needs to go down there.” Kabal stated.

“Well, you wanted your shot at field command, I believe you have it General.”  Kabal looked at him quizzically then nodded.  “Do not fail me General, and please be aware of the droid phobic public.”

Kabal’s holographic emitter cloaked Kabal’s cybernetic parts, and morphed his clothing to that of a combat fatigues outfit.  “Aye Sir” Kabal responded.

Exiting the Admiral’s office Kabal marched through the crowd towards the flight deck.  While he was remotely running through his pre-flight checklist he heard Dodonna behind him starting to say “Everyone, your attention please.  Thank you.  It has come to my attention that an incident has occurred on Bakura and our night will have to be cut short…

Arriving 5 minutes later on the flight deck, having already notified the Comm Officer of his departure, Kabal marched into his Corellian Corvette and interfaced with his ship.

Scanning user….Kalil Balek; Kabal identified
Welcome Home Kabal
Syncing with ship
Sync complete
Pre-Flight checklist complete…Ready for Launch

“Launch” Kabal replied.  The Coreliian ship rocketed out of the Imperial Star Destroyer and headed directly for Bakuran space.

Adjusting time and date to Bakuran standard

“Contact Lieutanant Commander Kix Davin”

Communicating with Imperial Central Communications Server
Routing…
Buffering…
Connected!     

“Lieutenant Davin, this is General Kabal, Report!”

Re: Imperial Renaissance

Throughout the dinner Daiman found the conversation with his tablemates stimulating enough to distract him from his own thoughts.  Almost.

The pilots, Uer and Bal’ak regaling their companions with their exploits in battle.  The father of the former, sitting at the opposite end of the table from Dodonna, looking at his son with a mixture of pride and another expression that was more unreadable and less complimentary.   

Admiral Dodonna spoke of the recent battles fought by the men and women who served under his command.  Much more pride evident in his expression than in Captain Uer’s.  He also reminisced on Imperial glories of past days and shared memories of both Traven’s father and Daiman’s own during those times.   General Kabal contributing his own anecdotes showing more humor than he would have expected from the cyborg. And Sirana found himself nodding knowingly and adding his own stories of his time in the service with the Emperor’s Finest.

Miss Williams proved to be the most charming of dinner companions.  Her sharp mind and keen wit belying the initial impression most would have of her as a merely decorative bauble.  He had learned over the years and by personal experience that you never judged a beautiful woman at face value.  Especially one who worked for Intelligence, no matter the side they were on.

From the way Laakim Bal’ak kept glancing in her direction, the younger man could use some advice on how unwise it was to develop feelings for someone in Petra’s position .  He could warn him such woman were skilled at falsifying any emotions they showed toward you.  From the barely concealed smitten expression, Daiman had doubts his Cousin’s subordinate would listen.  Still, he had to agree that she was a very pleasant distraction. When she wasn’t reminding him of someone else.


Frak, there was the mental image of the red-haired witch again making him frown at the thought of her.  Patience, he had to tell himself yet again.  Soon enough she would be his.  Traven almost seemed to know exactly what he was thinking about judging by the worried look that flashed across his face for the umpteenth time since they had sat down to dinner as the Paladins’ leader excused himself from the table to answer his comm page.  

Daiman looked away first this time to see Laakim Bal’ak incline his head toward Petra, muttering something about leadership, a slight smirk on his face.  Sirana didn’t know what it was about the pilot, but he just did not trust the man.  And hoped his cousin wouldn’t have any problems when it came to him.  

The servers brought out the final course, iced sweetmellon and barabel fruit, which he declined in favor of another glass of excellent Tarul wine.  He managed to keep up his end of several conversations.  With Dodonna he discussed projected materiel needs in the time to come, making a mental note to check with R&D on the advanced combat heavy blaster rifle designs and their readiness for mass production.    

He talked with Zak Uer about a starfighter targeting computer module that was several times improved over current models which one of SiranAxum’s subsidiaries had developed. Siena, Incom, and many smaller entities were scrabbling to test the technology upgrades which his company was keeping highly secret and proprietary at the moment.  

It wasn’t all business though.  While the most reserved of all guests present in the room,  Moff Van Aath’s mind for philosophy made for excellent debate and discussion.  Daiman thought him a man of deep, interesting character in despite his somewhat aloof demeanor. Reminding him a quite a bit of his late father. His knowledge of opera and its history was an interesting surprise as well.

As was Petra Williams when it came to the subject of sporting events and he enjoyed a good debate with her on the merits of various prospects for the upcoming Galactic Professional Shockball League draft.  

Yes, the dinner, like the opening battle for Bakura was a success.  But unlike the projected drawn out events happening on the surface, this evening’s celebration was coming to an end. And once the guests had been dismissed by Dodonna, Daiman found himself traversing the hallways of the Ravisher in the direction of Traven’s office.  

A few meters from his destination he passed a slender, black-haired young female officer, her expression intense yet unreadable. And distracted enough to nearly run right into him at first, mumbling an “Excuse me” after giving him a quick once over and noting his lack of uniform, before carrying herself down the corridor at a brisk clip as Daiman watched her with amusement.   

“Being a bit hard on your pilots, Trave?” Daiman asked, as he walked into the Paladin Captain’s office. Making a quick detour to the table to one side of the room, he poured a generous amount of brandy into a pair of tumblers and set one on Traven’s desk as he sat down in the chair recently vacated by Lieutenant Emyn.

Traven leaned back, glass in hand. “She’s not one of my pilots.  Yet.”  He took a larger than normal swallow of his drink and closed his eyes.

Daiman looked around the room, stopping at one of the few items that was not purely functional and utilitarian in the place.  A framed static holo of the Black Paladin Squadron.  An older version judging by the absence of Uer, Balaak, and some of the other faces he’d come to recognize over the past days.  One familiar face among them though, Jordan Lane, stood out right away and not just because she was the only woman in the lineup.  

“I’m sorry again about Jordan, Trave.” Almost wishing he hadn’t brought it up at the look that passed over Traven’s face.  

Clenching his jaw and opening his eyes, Dunn looked across the desk at him.  “Thank you, Daiman but I’d rather not talk about this right now if you don’t mind.” He almost glared before taking another drink. “I would however like to talk about this insane notion you have in your head to go flying off to Imperial Center in pursuit of this woman. What in the nine hells are you thinking?”

Daiman’s eyebrows went up at the edge of bitterness and anger in the other man’s voice. “Trave. It’s just something I have to do.  You may be able to control your emotions and keep them in a little box when it comes to the woman you want, but I can not. I…” He paused for a moment.

“Look I am sorry, that was inappropriate of me.” Daiman took a large swallow of the strong liquor, letting the burn diffuse before continuing.  “You just have no idea what it’s been like for me these past few years.  There is not a damn day that goes by when I haven’t thought about her at least once.  I cannot get her face out of my head and I need this…closure.”

Traven frowned, “What do you mean closure, Daiman? Surely you’re not thinking of…”

“Yes.  No.  No! Oh hells,  I don’t even know myself what I mean anymore. What I want” He looked away for a moment.

“I’ve been carrying around so much over that woman for so long.  This need for vengeance, this…obsession. And the many women I have been with since that day, none of them have been able to distract me from the thoughts of her. Good or bad.” He sighed.  “When I learned earlier today exactly where she is, it took every bit of will I had not to just leave right then and there. I’ve replayed over and over in my head over the years just what I would do when I saw her.”

“And that is?” Traven asked, the look on his face troubled as if not wanting to really hear the answer he was expecting.

He gripped the glass in his hand tightly before knocking back another swallow.  “My first thought was always ‘finish the job I started nearly eight years ago’.  While another part of me…” He ran one hand over his face, suddenly looking wearier than Traven could ever recall.

“So does this mean you’re considering giving up this ridiculous plan of yours now?” He asked.

“Sorry, but no.” Daiman replied, “It just means that I’m going to see what happens when I actually come face to face with Irr…Val’kia Navin again.” Her real name felt odd to say and not just aloud, but less so than it had since he first learned of it.

“Admiral Dodonna will not be pleased when he learns of this” Traven sighed, knowing that once his cousin had his mind set on something there was little that could really be done to dissuade  him.

“The Old Man will be fine as long as the credits and materiel are kept in good supply and I’ve no intention of letting things be otherwise.  I’m leaving Roth here in charge of things until I return.” He assured him.

“If you return.” Traven frowned.

“Don’t worry there, Cousin. I’ve no plans on getting entangled with NRI, CPD, or any other entity that I can’t buy or influence my way out of such a complication with.”  Daiman said with a crooked grin as he stood and set his now empty glass on the table. “And no I don’t plan on committing any grievous acts against Ms. Navin’s person. “ His smile took on a different tone as an old memory ran through his head again.  “Unless she begs me to.”

Traven gave him a look he was all too familiar with since they were young, yet first old enough to notice and talk about the fairer sex. “You worry me, Daiman.” He shook his head.

“Don’t let that worrying keep you up too late, Cousin.” He grinned, heading toward the door.  “I’m turning in, myself. Busy day tomorrow.”

He walked out of the office, Traven shaking his head as he watched him leave before trying to turn his attention back to the paperwork he’d started before the interruption.

“Oh and by the way.” He heard the familiar voice right before Daiman’s face reappeared in his hatchway, now a bit more sobered. “Whenever you decide you want to talk about Jordan…and you will, let me know.  I’ll take you out, get us both Rancor-stinking drunk and let you spill your guts like I know you want to before we go and find you some hot little Zeltron babe and… ”

“Go to bed, Cousin.” Was all Traven said in return before reaching out and pushing a button on his desk to slide the door closed in his face mid-sentence.

Underminers

51:6:15 Two thousand meters under the mountain…

<img src="http://img502.imageshack.us/img502/2342/bakuraminefq2.jpg" border="0" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5" title="Bakor - tunnel"> Dim yellow light illuminated the gallery. Gnawed-at bottom rock glittered moist, fragments crunched under their boots as they trotted down grubby travelators that Bowl powered up section by section along their way.

Tensed, Matheron spied ahead. He could hear himself pant, ever again thought he noticed something –a silhouette; move; telltale flash of a blaster’s barrel– where the gloom joined far shadows. Up to now though, they’d been in luck: up to now, what caused peaks in his pulse and injections of adrenaline into his bloodstream had turned out to be pipes; an old rock-drill; heaps of slate glittering on the idle conveyor, or the gurgling of the pumps that, having been out of juice for the past hours, were now hastening to slurp up the muddy water that had collected in the galleries’ ditches. So, fortunately, that wasn’t the squelching of troopers’ boots.

Yet for how much longer? How long could their switched off ‘lifts really keep Imperials from bridging the 2 kilometres difference in altitude? Or had they long taken this hitch, and were merely waiting till the other units had closed the cordon round the mine and blocked off every damned exit? In their place, I would, he thought, adversely recalling house-to-house searches he’d conducted as a ‘protector of the constitution’. The sight of Seon jogging next to him did not make the memory any more pleasant: the youth’s eyes wide with alert, his expression haunted, and sweat running down from under his helmet, he looked a lot like the 15-year-old he’d stooped to waterboard—only the first of too many violations he had to accept the responsibility for; while the way Seon had volunteered, stuck out his chin and kept up kilometre by kilometre even if visibly fighting his limits, reminded so much of his own son.

Droyk! Matheron inwardly cursed for the umpteenth time since they’d left the reactor control room. Why’d he allowed him to come along? Should they encounter Imps, even a single peeing boy in white, he’d have next to no chance to protect him! But then, if he’d left him back in the core and neither he or the other two scout-teams managed to find a gap in the enemy lines, the youth would be just as well and truly sunk; just like Bowl, Marrjo, that mistrustful engineer and the other chums who still worked on rigging out the reactor. Cark and blast! Once more cursing years of slacking –that now also made themselves felt in form of a piercing stitch– he forced himself to step up the pace again. ‘Come on,’ he puffed, just as much to himself as the youth who went along doggedly. ‘Can’t be really long now to the damned shaft.’

At last –about when his calves hurt like pulled wood, and several more instants of shock had set free enough adrenaline to cause a jittery kind of nausea– the gloom ahead released the familiar view of a wide repulsorlift platform. Venien shaft. About six kilometres southeast of the reactor and the shaft they’d entered in through by this morning—though his legs claimed they’d ran twenty. Panting, he commed Bowl; the latter powering up the lift, the seemingly endless line of bluish-pale neon rings inside the shaft flashed up to bath Seon and him in its cool, pretty noticeable gleam of light. ‘Oh flarg!’ the youth hissed startled, then gave him an anxious glance. Matheron wiped his brow. ‘Makes no difference,’ he tried to reassure, ‘They’ve got vision aid, and would notice an approaching lift platform, anyway.’

Seon eyed at him for a long moment, ‘We ain’t got much of a chance, have we?’

‘No,’ he owned up, habitually re-checking the boy’s, then his own blaster—in fact, if troopers had encircled the lift’s summit station –fully armoured, visors down, E-11s at the ready– the platform carrying them both would come up like crabmeat on a salver. ‘Yet whether or no this turns out to be a passable way out, the news will help our comrades,’ he gave a crooked smile. ‘And we’ve already come a long way.’

The youth looked sceptical, ‘What do you mean?’

‘At this point we should have provided enough of a distraction . . . caused enough troops to be withdrawn from the city, so that Cirrian and others could carry out their missions.’

‘Bomb attacks,’ Seon said glumly.

‘Attacks on police stations, Imperial outposts, the BRC’s main works,’ Matheron whispered. ‘Blows against the very structure of Imperial control.’

‘That might yet hit innocents.’

Under the pale gleam, Matheron returned the youth’s DD6. ‘Everyone staying at those places at this time is a collaborator.’

‘And what of captives?’

Matheron paused. Everything he could have replied was wrong: corrupted by what he’d learnt, internalized it seemed, about the reasoning of terrorists, or freedom fighters, both of which had their patterns of warranting every, no matter how brutal or merciless, attack. ‘I . . . may not answer this question for you, Seon.’ He held the youth’s gaze for a brief moment, then stepped onto the platform, ‘I can only tell you as much: should you and I fall to Imperial captivity, we might both yearn such relatively quicker death.’


The repulsorlift raced upwards too quickly. His back pressed against the railing, DD6 aimed along the lift’s tube, Seon felt the engines’ vibrations run down his spine. For a moment, his mind felt strangely blank: unable to think, or focus on a particular thought besides the visual memento of Toob; Riona; Professor Haiman—him running away with Elleu—Xofer and him watching action flicks, laughing as they placed bets on the order of casualties. ‘Duck!’ Thayer’s harsh whisper severing his thoughts, Seon crouched and, the platform reaching surface level, copied the elder who spied round with his blaster in firing position.

Two heartbeats, three, their DD6s’ markers drew cherry lines across the inside of the rough duracrete tower, then stopped on the dirty yellow gate to their left. ‘Grife,’ Thayer breathed out relieved, still scanning every corner when Bowl’s bass crackled from the intercomm at his belt. ‘You’re out?’ ‘Moment,’ Thayer replied, leading out of the ‘lift shaft with his Merr-Sonn trained down the corridor that reminded much of the one they’d enter in through by this morning. ‘Looks good so far,’ he commed, ‘lock here anyway, while we’re taking a glimpse outside.’ ‘Yub,’ Bowl confirmed. Seconds after, the lift’s gate hissed shut; engines’ roar decreased, quickly vanishing downwards, and the controls’ white dash light went off.

‘Good.’ Thayer was about to re-clip, then rose his radio anew, ‘Oh and, Guardian: avoid comming us for now—we will comm you.’


‘Understood.’ Bowl muttered, briefly glancing over the wide monitor, then back at Marrjo and the three chums –the moustached Piero, haggard Albin and a tubby, earthy-faced woman– who were meantime linking up the explosive charges’ remote ignition with the door controls. Activated at their leave, the moustached demolition expert had explained, the next man entering would set off the blasts—the reactor’s cooling wrecked, the intruders would have only sixty seconds . . .

Sorry to say, the same applied to them: if anything went wrong—or if, for some reason, they were still down here when the Imps came. And that’s the crux: of three scout teams that had gone check for an escape route, the first reported the booming of the guns outside Mekin shaft sent tremors down to their very position. The third, headed for Doren, for some reason didn’t reply; while Thayer, who’d just now announced Venien looked good and they were taking a glimpse outside, was yet to report.

Again, Bowl wiped his brow. The low undulating drone of the cooling circuit went on his nerves. The very air seemed increasingly stifling since Piero crawled about under the desks, unscrewing facings and messing about with harnesses of multicoloured wires. Observing him, the blaster’s own chums looked tense; whilst behind, on the roller-chair he’d zip-tied him on, the white-haired engineer alternately swore and grimaced. Only Marrjo, who’d apparently finished with everything since his wife and kid had died in that corridor, knelt beside, passing over small odds and ends as if nothing could faze him.


Outside Venien shaft’s concrete tower, you gazed across dusty fenced grounds. To the North, beyond the surrounding, 2 meter tall wire netting, stretched a rolling crest; some hundred meters ahead, to the West, was a gatehouse and paled gate outside which a short drive led out onto a small road. On its far side, a low summit stuck its bumpy silhouette into the afternoon sky. Crouched in the shade of the building’s entrance, Seon shielded his eyes looking over the Western slope that was overgrown with blue grass, waist-high tufts of blue broom, and withered spots of bracken. ‘Looks good, no?’ He glanced at Thayer who, in turn, took an audible breath, ‘So far.’ He nodded towards the low, long shed that obstructed their view of the South. ‘Let’s just recon what’s behind there, too.’  

With another quick glance around he returned to the ducked stance that apparently gave him backaches and trotted to the edge of the building. Cautiously closing up with the elder as the latter spied around the corner, Seon froze: further down the slightly declining crest, left of the small road, you spotted a tower very similar to the one behind them—it had to be Doren shaft, where the third scout-team was headed. Next to there, barely discernible from the surrounding ground, sat a camouflaged big shuttle.

‘Cark,’ Thayer hissed, waving him back into cover.

‘What is it?’ Seon asked, surprised at the reaction. ‘They must be like . . . a kilometre away.’

‘That’s nothing.’ Thayer whispered, unclipping his intercomm. ‘That’s a camouflaged assault shuttle; typical of their commandos.’

Crouching in the shade, Seon’s eyes widened, ‘You mean like . . . Minetroopers?’

Not long ago, Professor Haiman had mentioned them: a specialized brigade that had been stationed around here under Imperial governor Wilek Nereus. Whenever the Empire wasn’t receiving its tax on mined products, Mr. Haiman had  told, they’d be sent to enforce the brutal laws—and calm union leaders by rifles.

‘Underminers?’ he asked again, yet more apprehensive.

‘Can’t tell.’ Thayer hissed between attempts at contacting their fellow scout-team, ‘Not just troopers at any rate. Chundering Storm Commandos!’

Seon gnawed on his lip, closely surveying the area round Doren while he listened to the elder’s insufferably calm voice. ‘Miner Three?’ Thayer commed the two that should all too soon reach the base of the occupied shaft. Or had they already? ‘Come in, Miner Three! Urgent!’

No response. Only the wind wheezing around the shed, far-off booming of guns, and tatters of warbling drifting in from a lone rdava bird that soared high above. The late afternoon sun beating down on his own black uniformed back, Seon could smell the man’s sweat. ‘Come in, Guardian!’ Thayer addressed Bowl now. For a split second, Seon could hear the frequency crackle to life, before it was overlapped and blotted out by a shrill pulsing that blared from the duplex’s speaker.

‘Skrag!’ Thayer cursed, immediately switching off. Seon briefly wondered whether the noise had come from a jammer, when he noticed a change in the wind’s whistle.

Ahead, Thayer hit the dust. ‘Cover! Down! Down!’ He yelled; the same moment something hit the building complex they’d come from, spurting up blocks, parts of girders and pulverized ferrocrete in a mighty explosion that sent a tremor across the grounds. Air pressure thundered in Seon’s ears, the shockwave pushed him against the shed, covered him in a barrage of scraps and dust. The next heartbeat, another missile knocked through the complex’s frontage. Several square meters of ferrocrete lifted up, as if in slow motion the second storey collapsed, caving into the first: where, just now, had been the gateway to the ‘lift platform, rose a billowing cloud of concrete flour and black smoke.

‘Balance!’ Coated in dust, light red blood pouring from scratches in his cheeks and brow, Seon’s face was a grimace of fear as he struggled to get up. Thayer but clenched his arm. ‘Stay down!’ he shouted, barely piercing the sharp ringing in his ears. ‘If you run by now, you’re dog food!’ Wrong! Seon’s guts yelled. That’ll happen if you just lie here! Eyes widening with the next screech, he started to fight: punch, kick, scream at the elder who just would not let go of him. Futile. Thayer was stronger. Heavier. Keeping on at him about staying down and keeping chundering quiet, the traitor suddenly put him in a headlock and pinned him to the dust.


It hailed scraps. Smashed flagstones. Shreds of corrugated iron, followed by gravel that came like drizzle after a downpour. Ears ringing from the explosion, Matheron stared at the rubble of what might have been their chums’ terminal escape route, then hoicked up the struggling youth and dragged him along into the next crater. ‘Duck!’ He shouted, barely able to discern his own words. ‘Duck, and bloody maw stay down!’ The youth stared into space. Only at the next screech he rolled himself up and, in panic-stricken fear, tried to crawl underneath him. The battered helmet sliding off in the attempt, Matheron grasped it and put it on the boy’s exposed rear.

There the grounds burst right in front. Face pressed into the dirt, he felt a tug as his sleeve was ripped by a fragment; pressure thundered in his ears; then something clouted his skull that his mind turned wobbly. Don’t swoon! A thought wandered the mental slush. Just a fragment that’s struck your helmet. Must have come from far that it didn’t knock through. But the fear did. The next shell whistling, he embraced the quivering youth. You’ll live through this, you hear? He whispered, unheard in the deafening roar; anticipating fragments, bent in yet closer to shield as much as possible of the curled up, frail figure. Please! His mind fleeing to memories of sitting up at the sickbed of Gavin, he cradled him like a small child.


Flarg! Standing next to the reactor’s control desks, Bowl stared at alternately the monitor, the chums around, and the old intercomm that suddenly spewed out nothing but the shrill, nerve-racking pulse.

‘I told you,’ said the old fusion engineer who still sat zip-tied to his chair in the middle of the room.

‘What?’ Bowl growled, slowly turning round to him.

‘That you can’t trust Thayer!’ The zip-tied spat. ‘That he’s a traitor! He cleared off, of course—what did you expect? Likely went back to his pals and commed just to make sure you’re still here, so they know where to grab and kill all of you dumb fools!’

For a moment, there was but the pumps’ low drone. One by one, haggard Albin, the woman, even Marrjo turned to look at him; next the door control’s open facing, Piero pulled a long flick knife and started scraping off the insulation of two small wires.

‘Farkled!’ With a violent bang Albin kicked the wall. ‘So we’re trapped, yes? Thanks to that unbalanced son of a blase tree goat!?’

‘No,’ the woman uttered eventually, ‘There’s yet another way out.’

‘Which?’ Albin turned to face her, ‘What you talk of, Hourig?’

‘The train,’ Piero replied in her stead, conjuring the image of the several hundred meters long juggernaut in its loading dock. ‘It is enormous,’ he mumbled. ‘Two fusion powered prime movers; gondolas of forged doonium, loaded up with ore by the tons,’ bending over the open slot of the door controls, he twisted together the wires the short-circuit of which should trigger off the ignition. ‘Once it gains thrust,’ he looked up with a dangerous glitter in his dark piggy eyes, ‘it’ll crush whatever they brought up.’


Same time, outside Venien grounds

<img src="http://img403.imageshack.us/img403/3949/stormtroopers03ira9.jpg" border="0" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5" title="Stormtroopers"> Their camouflaged armour battered and dusty, four Storm Commandos trotted up the drive to the fenced grounds and ducked in the shade of the gatehouse. Crouching low, three let their E-11s pan the site that, by now, presented a view of destruction: the surface pockmarked with craters, to the South-East the shelling had torn the corrugated roof off a long shed; ahead, in the East, the remains of Venien shaft’s complex and tower rested as a smoking heap of rubble. Squatting down last, their temporary commander, lieutenant Cadman, unshouldered the portable missile launcher –a Merr-Sonn PLX2, so called PLEX– and joined their observation.

‘Think that wasn’t a bit generous?’ Saboteur Njord teased, gesturing at the expanse of ruins.

‘Davin said block it off.’ Puffing under the heavy gear, Cadman put down the PLEX, likewise scanning the debris. ‘Not my fault they held us up. Besides, half of it were VonToma’s twits on the hill!’ Turning to look over his shoulder, he gave a glare up the Western slope, behind which had to be the batteries that had mistakenly shelled them in the first place—injuring Pontus and forcing them to take cover half way between here and Doren till the giant Assault Commando could be taken back to the shuttle. ‘Better take care of your rear,’ he groused on, ‘might as well not been entirely accidental.’

‘Huh?’ Squatting in the shade,  Taskill grunted, panning his E-11 across the remains of the shed, burst up ‘crete slabs and down to the ruins of the building complex. ‘What you mean? Not the very first time we’ve seen friendly fire, is it?’ ‘Right. But with all the abos that spook recruited,’ Cadman just couldn’t get over the fact that they’d shot down his buddy. ‘You can’t put an operation into the hands of a bloody REMF! Whoever did should be whipped. . .’ Standing a little too straight in their backs, Tech Noboyuki cleared his throat.

‘”Careful”, that’s gotta say,’ Taskill interpreted, ‘”You’re talking about big D”—or our metal-necked general,’ he added as an afterthought. Cadman paused, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘So where’s those ‘rats?’ He then asked all of a sudden, handed the PLEX to the unprepared for Noboyuki, got up, blasted the gate’s lock and motioned Taskill to cover while he took some steps towards the next crater. ‘I’ve had two of them on my display, and pretty sure saw none run.’

‘What wonder,’ Saboteur Njord muttered while, E-11 at the ready, Taskill scanned the Southeastern parts of the grounds. ‘No signs of life here,’ he shook his bucket. ‘I mean, what to say? In this flacked mess you could hide anywhere, and durned infrared won’t work, either.’ ‘Clever Dick—in scorched and smouldering rubble,’ even via commlink, Njord managed to sound haughty. ‘Anyhow, their gut’s likely spilt all over this trash heap.’

‘”Likely”s a bad report,’ Cadman shot back, indecisively stuck his rifle into the next crater, wandered on, then stopped again, looking over many more holes, overturned rusty building machinery, remains of the shed and caved in main building. ‘Flack, loot!’ Taskill came in, ‘I’m really not up to clear away all the rubble here while the rest’s having fun in the action!’ He paused, expectantly looking at his temporary CO, ‘You’ve heard their radio traffic earlier on: they’re many! Loads to grease! Our mates’ needing our back-up!’ ‘You’re right,’ Cadman agreed, apparently contented as he unclipped the fist-sized tube of a thermal detonator.

<a href="http://img502.imageshack.us/my.php?image=bakorbattlehornsbz2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img502.imageshack.us/img502/6606/bakorbattlehornsbz2.th.jpg" border="0" vspace="5" hspace="5" align="right" title="BakOr - map"/></a>

Re: Imperial Renaissance

With his three Imperial Star Destroyers safely orbiting around the emerald planet of Bakura, Admiral Dodonna retired to his private ready room to review his next agendas. After his encounter and dealings with General Kabal, he felt it was necessary to oversee the campaign and review the incident at Salis Daar before he decided to turn in.

Dodonna sat stiffly in a slick formchair, refusing to let himself relax into the warm contours. Too much comfort made him distinctly uncomfortable. The small holographic image of Sirannon Dodonna appeared on top of his desk in the dim room, unchanged after all these years. The beautiful, lithe figure was sending him greetings from Coruscant. Dodonna had watched it dozens of times before.

In the privacy of his chambers, he allowed himself to miss the one person that mattered in his life. The one person who had supported him while he was away for weeks during the height of the Jedi purge many years back. During that campaign while in command of his first ship, the <I>Eradicator</i>, Dodonna had often replayed Sira's messages, but nowadays he studied them intently, always observing her face and her expressions.

"Max, Lanah and Tyrell have invited me to an exhibition in Alderaanian art tonight. Tyrell has told me what is happening on Terrick. Please be careful," her image said with great concern. "I just wish Lord Vader would have sent you home with Tyrell, but I understand you have a duty to finish. Just remember, that I'll be here waiting for you." She paused. "I miss you, Max. Love you, always."

Dodonna rewound the hologram to listen to her words again, wanting once more to savor that last moment. But the door chime interrupted him. He switched off the holoprojector. "Lights."

He tapped a button and the double doors slid open. The mysterious woman, Petra Williams, stood stiffly at his door, her uniform wrinkle free, her hands clasped behind her back. Her features were finely chiseled and she wore her shoulder-length brown hair clasped upward.

Dodonna stood up, and extended a gesture to enter. "Miss Williams, please come in. May I get you anything?"

"No thank you, Admiral," she responded in a sharp voice while approaching his desk. "You summoned me?" After the introductions back on Corellia and recently during their dinner, Petra seemed to become more open and ready to participate in broader events.

"Yes, I believe now is the time I reveal what your purpose is here," Dodonna began. He took a bottle of Dornean brandy and poured a drink for her and one for himself. She looked at it, pointedly ignored it, and continued to listen to the admiral.

"And what purpose is that?" she spoke up.

"You are to become my personal Hand, Miss Williams. Just as in the days of our beloved Emperor, he employed special servants to remove any threat to him or to the Empire. They were known as the Emperor's Hands." He took a sip from his glass. "I've read your file and was most impressed by your service record. Your methods of assassination against Lai Nookta, intelligence gathering, and slicing will serve me well and I will be using you to do those duties, plus more. You can pass this news to the appropriate people on Bastion if you wish."

Petra raised her eyebrows and let her lips form a smile. "I'm very honored to serve under you, Admiral Dodonna. I accept this assignment. When do I begin?"

He was trying to mask a smug grin of satisfaction. "Immediately, Miss Williams. I have certain officers who I believe are slacking in their duties, since we have been away."

"Are you addressing the garrison you left behind on Tatooine?" she questioned. "Do you need an officer removed?"

He was impressed with the knowledge she knew already of his recent activities. "I may, but I need you to see what he is up to." Dodonna took another sip of his drink. "The officer in question is the garrison commander, Kesa. I believe he is using his Imperial influence to gain wealth of his own. To add, it is rumored he failed to stop several Rebel spies from transmitting their findings to the Rebellion." His jaw stiffened.

"If your findings are true about him, I want him eliminated," Dodonna said to Petra, straightening the smooth olive-gray of his uniform. "I will then have him replaced with Von Aath, who I will request to head to Tatooine to safeguard the planet in case the New Republic do dispatch a fleet to liberate it. We will need an experienced admiral to conduct it's defense."

He stood behind his desk and took one last sip, then placed the glass down. "Use what means and resources, Miss Williams. I will let you conduct this assignment without interference." He punctuated the next phrase with an index finger jabbing the air. "And I expect results. I want an update every few days until you reached a conclusion. If Kesa indeed is corrupt, I want no mistakes. A flawless execution."

"Yes, Admiral. You will have it." A smug grin tried to pry her lips.

A chime suddenly sounded in the room. Dodonna tapped a button and the doors opened again. This time, it was his protege, Captain Traven Dunn, standing at the doorway. Dunn quickly glanced to Petra, then to his superior.

"Sir? Am I interrupting anything? I can return later." His expression remained unchanged.

Dodonna waved a hand. "No, please enter. Miss Williams is finished." He nodded to the uniformed woman. "You have your assignment. Our resources are at your disposal. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." She gave a sharp salute, then turned to nod at Traven. "Captain Dunn."

"Miss Williams." He replied. Petra quietly exited the room.

Dodonna didn't look up from a datapad he picked up as he sat down. "Miss Williams is quite a woman. Don't you think, Captain?"

He stiffened. "I don't know her as much as I should, Admiral. She's quite distant and quiet, even though I have noticed an admiration for one of my pilots."

He continued to study his datapad. "Interesting, but no matter. She's perfect for my needs. All that experience. A blank canvas for my designs."

"Sir? I'm afraid I don't understand, Admiral. Was I summoned here for a mission? From the tacticals I studied it seems the insurgents have rallied against us again. General Kabal, VonToma, and Davin's men are currently moving on one of the mining colonies and they've asked for our help."

"And they'll have it, but with your support. As I've told you, a coalition of pro-Imperial allies is our only long-term hope here. We have to build a force capable of stopping the insurgency and mounting a brutal counteroffensive. That may discourage them enough to withdraw from Salis Daar for good, or at least impress the Bakurans enough to support our efforts."

He leaned back on his formchair. "Captain Dunn, you will be taking the Paladins and a few chosen squadrons from the other ISD's to mount a complete offensive to give our ground troops support. Especially General Kabal's and VonToma's forces. Commander Davin is already leading an offensive and is already asking for an air strike as we speak."

Traven was surprised. "Admiral, that terrain is well forested and we may have difficulty in targeting the insurgency. Our scopes may have a hard time to pinpoint any targets. With both forces fighting in such a close proximity, we could strike on our own men."

Dodonna handed the datapad to his protege. "This is the latest intel General Kabal has transmitted. According to it, there are several patches where your fighters can target without compromising our forces. Just make sure when the TIE Bombers start dropping their proton bombs, you give them an accurate pinpoint. Is that clear? Or else, you will have one pissed off Commander Davin to deal with."

Traven gave an annoyed glance. "I can handle Commander Davin, Admiral. Just let me assemble my squadron and I will be airborne in an hour."

Dodonna glanced at the time display on his chrono. "You got about less than an hour, Captain. Davin and VonToma have requested air support again. We don't want to delay any longer than we have to. I've already notified two TIE Bomber squadron leaders to meet with you at the hangar bay as well as your squadron. You will take full command of this mission."

He licked his lips. "Yes, sir. I'll won't fail you."

The Admiral rose to give him a smug grin. "I know you won't, Traven–" A chime suddenly pinged again. The Admiral glared at the door in annoyance and allowed the doors to slide open again. Captain Uer of the <I>Ravisher</I> stood at attention and made a quick salute. Traven turned to see who faced the door and blinked in surprise. Dodonna paused a moment and pondered about having his stormtroopers guarding the door to escort him out, but concluded the interruption was probably important. "Yes, Captain Uer? What can I do for you? You should be tending to your duties."

The commander of his flagship stepped forward and stood next to Captain Dunn. Uer passed a datapad to the admiral. "Sir, the TIE bomber squadrons you ordered to join us are comprised of unexperienced pilots. With due respect, Admiral, this mission should compose of our best to gain complete victory over these insurgents."

Captain Dunn turned and frowned at him. "Captain Uer, I've hand chosen these pilots to join our ranks as we need to replenish our lost pilots. What better to first train them than in TIE Bombers? They are most easy to pilot and control."

Uer pointed to the datapad Dodonna was holding. "Hand chosen? I noticed in the roster you picked a former deck officer who is now a Controller aboard our command bridge. She probably hasn't even seen the inside of a cockpit! How can she possibly fly a TIE Bomber?"

Dodonna raised an eyebrow. "She? Captain Dunn, care to explain?" He steepled his fingers. The Imperial warlord was puzzled by this pronouncement.

Traven gave Captain Uer an annoyed glance. "I caught Leftennant Paron Emyn using the TIE simulators earlier today. When I confronted her, she told me she was interested in joining our TIE ranks. When I studied her scores, I was most impressed by them– impressed enough that I did not bring up charges. Instead, I insisted that she sign up for flight training. I vouched for her into joining this mission. She's a quick learner and has a talent for flying."

Dodonna sat quietly, trying to take it all in, then stood up, placing his hands behind his back. "Very well, Captain. I trust your judgement. But I do not want you to babysit these recruits during the mission. They know what they signed up for. You are to guide and support them, nothing more."

Traven looked up and blinked. "Yes, Sir. Thank you for giving her a chance."

Uer bit his lip, puzzled. "Admiral, you're <I>actually</i> going to allow these rookies to fly with the Paladins?"

Dodonna frowned. "Only in the case of Captain Dunn. His talent in finding new blood in our ranks is impressive. I don't encourage it, but it isn't in my best interests to forbid it either."

"Sir–"

"Captain Dunn is under <I>my</i> command, Uer. He's my personal concern, and I'll not have you telling me how to deal with him. He's one of our best officers. He's also gifted and useful. Like you, he has an important place in my plan." Dodonna shot back.

"Admiral, I won't stand by and let this–"

"Utimately, Captain Dunn knows his place." His eyes narrowed. "Now show me that you know yours."

Uer stiffened. Dodonna finally said, "You're dismissed, Captain Uer."

Shocked, Uer left the ready room without another word.

The admiral pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed quietly. "Captain, you have your orders." He gave him a look of exhaustion. "Dismissed. And good hunting."

"Yes, sir." Traven saluted a final time and left seconds after Uer. Dodonna sat down and took the glass of Dornean brandy that Petra had ignored and sipped. As he looked up, the doors were still open and another figure graced it. This time, it was a woman. A beautiful woman.

"Yes? Who are you?" he demanded.

She stepped into his ready room and nodded in respect. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but my employer needed me to see you as soon as possible." She smiled at him as she introduced herself. "My name is Jasra and I work for the Banking Clan."

"The IGBC?? And what interest do they have with me?" He sat down on his formchair. "Surely, I wonder why the Banking Clan would like to be involved with an Imperial remnant?"

She presented a datapad to him. Dodonna took it and began to scan. "This is a security contract the IGBC is offering for their services. With the problem you are having with the insurgents along with keeping curfew, I believe they can give you the help that you need." She nodded to the datapad. "This contract, if you sign it, will authorize the Banking Clan to provide what you need. Funds, artillery, mercenaries– what you need."

He studied her face and frowned slightly. "I have enough of a military force to provide what I need. Also, Mr. Sirana will be providing me with enough resources to build enough of what is needed."

She blinked rapidly, unconsciously bobbing her head. "Admiral Dodonna, if you don't mind my asking– who is going to safeguard Mr. Sirana's interests here, along with his foundries? You don't have enough of a military force to protect the <I>entire</i> planet. Already, you are having difficulty with one mining colony as we speak."

Dodonna took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You point is taken." He looked at the display again. "I suppose I could use another faction in our alliance against the Rebellion. With Sirana and the IGBC under our coalition, our progress should advance further." He pressed his thumbprint against the screen and handed it back to Jasra.

She was relieved. She didn't expect Dodonna to accept the contract so easily. Perhaps he was more desperate than the Banking Clan thought? "Very good, Admiral. Expect to hear from us very soon."

"I look forward to it." Dodonna nodded. He gestured toward the doorway. "Now, if you could please… I am very tired."

"Yes, thank you, again." She quickly excused herself and left.

He watched her leave. He had doubts, but maybe the IGBC will come around. He was doing the right thing, the <I>only</i> right thing. This was the only way to secure Bakura and create a new coalition of Imperial sympathizers.

In time, even his protege would understand this.