Admiral Jonathan Blakeley of the Cooperative Fleet stood at attention, his old uniform now bearing one of the Cooperative's new rank badges. Kerrick laughed. “Calm down, old man. No need to be getting all excited on my account. Have a seat, please.” Jonathan complied, eying the younger man―his technical superior―questioningly. “Look, I know you've run a tight ship on Halmad, and honestly I need to be thanking you for that. But I don't work like that, and I never will.” Kerrick was pacing about the room, glancing at the older man every few seconds. “Add to that the fact that this whole idea of a supreme commander is really pointless in the system the Cooperative is working to create, and I think it'd be safe for the two of us to treat each other like equals. At least I'd hope so, because I'm gonna be needing a lot of help, and I'd hate to have to ask my subordinate to do so much of my job for me.”

Blakeley smirked, getting a little more comfortable in his chair. “I must admit that I am not used to this . . . style of command. To a degree, I'm sure it is a necessity; the Cooperative is in a state of extreme strain, and none of us have the time or resources to assemble a proper military force. Circumstances require us to make do with what we have, even in the case of leadership. Let's face it: an old man from some backwater trade world, and a no-name renegade who somehow found religion in government don't quite make for the most promising tactical minds in the galaxy, now do they?”

“It's got nothing to do with circumstances, and we both know it.”

Blakeley paused for a moment, his mouth opened as if he were about to speak. “Ahh, I believe I've just been caught spying.”

Kerrick chuckled. “I have no intention of trying to hide who I am, John, but I won't be chatting about it, either. The bottom line: we are not the Empire, and we will not function as they do. We write our own rules, we draw our own conclusion, and we forge our own destinies. From the simplest salute to the largest warships we field: we are who we are, and nothing else. Can you work with me here, or am I going to have to beat up an old man?”

Blakeley nodded, making sure not to look amused. “Very well. Perhaps I should follow your lead on this one, however; I have a feeling you'll be a little more qualified to meet with todays lineup than I.”

“Sounds good. Let's go.” The two men walked out of the ship captain's ready room and onto the bridge, where the captain and a hologram were in conversation. The hologram seemed to notice their arrival on the bridge, and Kerrick offered the man at the other end of the comm an acknowledging nod. The hologram turned back to the captain, and the admiral and general made their way off of the bridge and toward the nearest docking bay.


Fifteen minutes later the two men were face-to-face with the person the bridge hologram had stood in for. “Admiral Blakeley,” he said respectfully, “General Arkanus,” he added, obviously stifling a laugh, “welcome to the The Rock.” He turned to the admiral. “My name is William Rhaz; I'm something of the governor around here. But what―might I ask―can our humble people offer you?”

The obvious answer was, well, obvious: the small settlement based on the Vahaba Asteroid Belt's largest member was the centerpiece of a network of similar settlements that formed a society of superior miners and metallurgists. They maintained total control over their metals from start to finish, mining and refining the ores themselves. Though their work was of extraordinary quality, collectively their operation remained small enough to be all but meaningless on a galactic scale. On a smaller scale, however . . .

“So Bill, how are the pirates treating you these days?” Kerrick asked casually as the three men made their way out of the docking area.

Bill snickered. “Nothing ever changes, Kerr; you know that. Every now and then some new little band gets the idea in their head that we're just another pushover outpost, and they come along and pick a fight. It always ends one of two ways: they outrun us, or we kill them. Either way, we never have to hear from them again.” A less known but almost equally impressive truth of the Vahaba miners was their extraordinarily skilled defensive force, made up almost entirely of starfighters. In the density of the asteroid field, and with nothing but asteroid-based settlements to serve as launch points, starfighters had proven to be the most simple and effective form of defense.

“But how about you, general?” Bill said, giving Kerrick a provoking pat on the shoulder. “It seems you've been moving up in the galaxy. Last time I saw you, you had one extra set of clothes and half the credits you needed to get off this rock.”

Kerrick was hovering between amusement and anger. Fortunately he chose the former. “Yeah. Those were the days, eh?” He flashed Bill a sly smile as they entered a rather casual sitting area.

“You know it wasn't anything personal, Kerr,” Bill said, sitting down. “You've got a way with people, I'll give you that. Too bad you're way is to piss them off.”

Kerrick nodded in a sort of reluctant agreement. “Looks like it's all worked out, though. Well, sort of.”

Bill looked over at Admiral Blakeley, who seemed to be following the exchange rather well, but it was obvious that he wasn't there to reminisce. “So, Kerrick's sad string of misfortunes aside, what brings the two of you here, now, when I'm sure your Cooperative needs you the most?”

“Halmad has been a valuable trade partner to your people for quite some time,” the Admiral began, obviously feeling that the conversation had shifted into his realm of experience. “While the Cooperative would never seek to demand anything from you, we hope that the goodwill that has been garnered between Halmad and your people will be sufficient to ask you to hear our request, and consider carefully its implications.”

“Of course,” Bill said, offering a friendly smile.







Desperate people do desperate things. Two thousand desperate people had gathered in the town square of Amorris Settlement Thirty-seven, many wearing the military uniforms and government seals of the Onyxian Commonwealth. The “street” beneath them was a mud slick, the bare earth having soaked up the recent rain. The small platform from which government announcements were often issued had been overrun, and now the microphones and amplifiers were in the hands of these desperate, cold, hungry people. Here and there were dispersed small groups of Cooperative police forces and Praetorian Guardsmen, though the former weren't sure to which side the latter belonged. Regardless, there weren't enough of them to do anything, and none of them would have known what to do anyway.

One particular human was on the stage at the moment, yelling unnecessarily into the microphone. He wore an Onyxian military uniform, though it was curiously missing its rank bars. He was very energetic, very loud, and generally very pointless; but he was quite obviously mad, and the crowd loved it.

“We are Onyx! We are the Commonwealth! We are brothers, all of us; stand as one, and demand what is rightfully ours! We came here seeking freedom, not tyranny! We will not bow down to our would-be masters and accept blindly the dregs to which they have cast us! We demand a free Onyx, the power to write our own destiny! As one people! As one nation!” He had been shouting for a good fifteen minutes about the “New Onyx” and the evils of the Cooperative “slave-masters.” With the crowd growing with each passing moment, and every new exclamation of the speaker echoed louder and more passionately by the growing crowd, it was obvious that things were about to get terribly out of hand.

With the speaker content that his job was done, he stepped down and made way for what would surely be one of the most influential speakers of this unofficial gathering. A towering, gray-skinned form made its way onto the podium, its hungry eyes sweeping across the still-screaming crowd. The true Onyxian stood quietly, his calm poise and patient demeanor finally bringing the crowd to near silence. He began slowly, his voice remaining quiet and calm:

“The choice to leave my ancestral home and traverse the stars―a prospect that my people had not dreamed of even a generation ago―was the second hardest decision I will ever make in my lifetime. The first was the choice to convince others to follow me. I have abandoned my home, never to return. I know nothing of the Empire's evil, yet I chose to cast aside all that I know, and make this journey from which I will never return. I have done so because I and my people have chosen to trust in you, and you have warned us of the terrors which await those who fall under the Empire's sway. You, my brothers, have become more dear to me than the soil upon which my forefathers tread, the soil in which their undying souls now rest. I have abandoned everything to remain your brother, and for all of my regrets, I would not unmake the choice to come here and stand beside you.”

The grave Onyxian paused for a moment, a moment in which total silence reigned. “Onyx is dead. The Commonwealth is gone. My home is not my own.” Tears began to show themselves on the giant's face, and the dumbstruck crowd of angry nationalists found themselves unable to respond, either in sympathetic agreement or outraged dissent. “We have journeyed across the stars to escape an unjust Empire. We have not found ourselves upon this world because it lurked in the shadows, waiting to steal away our souls: we have found ourselves here because this was the only place that would accept us, tainted by the failures of our leaders, marked by the seal of our enemies. We have lost all that we know, and all that this Cooperative demands of us is that we not go looking for that which is truly hopelessly lost, but embrace the opportunity they have fought so hard to give us.”

The Onyxian made a sort of ushering gesture with his hands, and immediately refugees dispersed throughout the crowd began moving toward the edges, gathering along the base of the raised platform and the walls of surrounding buildings. With one gesture, the mass of angry refugees had divided itself in two, an amorphous mob of confused and disorganized men and women at the center, surrounded by a much smaller yet seemingly organized ring of peculiarly hopeful looking people. As one they withdrew small, rectangular objects from their pockets and cloaks, sliding the leather-bound emblems into pockets or pinning them onto shirts and jackets.

“We all are brothers!” The Onyxian yelled, raising his hands in an all-encompassing gesture. “It is only together that we have any hope of survival. Today must be the day that division dies among all our peoples; today must be the day that we can stand as one! These men, these women, these beings before you are your brothers and sisters, marred by the same atrocity which has torn us all from our homes . . . but they stand as something more. They stand as loyal and willing citizens of the Galactic Coalition of Planets, and its Cooperative of Systems. These are the first of the Cooperative Worker's Party. They will toil in the name of their New Onyx: it is called the Cooperative of Systems, and it is something more than any of us have ever known. As my people have entrusted our fate to you, so I ask you to entrust your fate to this Cooperative. We stand as sons of Onyx, and citizens of the Cooperative. We pledge our relentless toil to the future of our people, our brothers, whether they hail from the lost worlds of the Commonwealth or not. We fight for a hope that has passed out of sight, but may yet come within our reach.”

It would seem that a new power was at work within the refugee camps and sprouting settlements of the Commonwealth's displaced peoples. For the first time the name “Cooperative Workers' Party” was being spoken in public, and it filled those listening with a sense of fear, hope, and intense curiosity.

From: A Coalition of the Damned: Struck Down, but Not Destroyed

“We cannot allow this 'Workers' Party' to threaten what we have achieved. Ambassador, you must speak to the General; you must ensure that the situation does not degenerate. We must know who our allies are, and we must know their intentions.”



Kerrick and Jonathan were halfway through a guided tour of The Rock, the local nickname for the Vahaba asteroids' central city. “Now I can't help but feel like there's some reason the Cooperative sent its two senior military officers here. If you just wanted to negotiate for trading rights or ask for an increase in supplies for the Onyxian relief effort, I find it hard to believe that the two of you would be the ones to do it. So how about we talk business?”

Kerrick nodded in accent, and his long-time friend gestured to a nearby table and chairs, positioned in front of a large viewport that showed the expansive “South quarter” of the asteroid belt. They sat, Kerrick looking out the viewport for several heartbeats. “We need help. We need a lot of help. I know I'm not qualified to ask, but right now I'm all that we can spare.”

Bill sat forward a little, staring intently at Kerrick's features, though the other man was still gazing out of the viewport. “Let's just talk for a minute, then. Let's set the agendas asside and talk this out.”

Kerrick turned to his old friend, nodding heavily. “We can't get anything out of Coalition High Command. We don't know what they want from us, and we're pretty sure we wouldn't be able to grant it, anyway. The Prime Minister's departed, and the relief fleet he brought is slowly dissolving around us. For whatever reason, the Onyxian government ran to Sinsang once the evacuation began, and they took a sizable chunk of the Onyxian fleet with them, meaning we have a ridiculous number of people, but no ships to protect them with. Ord Cestus is running at a fraction of its production capacity because it's lost several trading partners from the Cooperative aligning itself with the Onyxian refugees; we could supplement their resources with materials from the Kauron mines, but we don't have the refineries to process ore in the quantities Cestus needs. The endless labor we've imposed on our people is wearing them out, and the possibility that everyone is simply going to give up is becoming more and more likely. The Overseer hasn't returned from the East, but it seems he's not still there, either. Ambassador Traan Shi has just dispatched the majority of our Ryn population to the East, along with most of our processing ships and another sizable chunk of the Onyxian fleet, further reducing our own production capacity and defense capability. We've been stretched to the absolute limit, and it's not enough to cover this wound.”

Bill nodded, not looking terribly concerned, but not looking like much of anything else either. “So why are you here?”

“To beg.” Admiral Blakeley seemed more surprised by Kerrick's comment than Bill, but it was rather honest.

“Beg for what?”

Kerrick sighed. “Everything. Everything. Your supplies, your refineries, your expertise. . . your defense force. We need everything you have, and you have no reason to give it to us. Your people have learned perfectly how to balance success and anonymity. Yours was the only system in the Quelii Sector that the Cavrilhu Pirates utterly gave up on; you're productive enough to have constructed three more cities in the past two years, but quiet enough to keep your skills from drawing the attention of outside parties. Your industry is completely self-contained, and you've got enough trading partners in enough regions to all but guarantee that no one's going to be able to cut you off from the outside galaxy. You've got everything you need, and we've got nothing to offer.”

“Then why are you here?”

As if on cue, a CDF officer came running down the hall, skidding to a stop before Kerrick. “Sir, Ambassador Traan Shi is on the comm. He requires an immediate audience.”

Kerrick threw a wry smile at Bill. “Heh, looks like I went out and made a ruckus again. I think I have to take this. We'll pick this chat up when I get back. In the meantime, I think the Admiral wanted to see your defense forces in action, if that's okay?”

“Uhh, yeah, of course. We've got a training exercise waiting for my go-ahead. Admiral?”

Blakeley was obviously confused by Kerrick's being called away. “Go ahead, Admiral. I'll be fine.” Kerrick smirked, turning and following the messenger.

Blakeley turned back to the governor, who was now standing. “If you don't mind, Admiral: this way.”





It's amazing how angry holograms can get. “I don't know what you were thinking, Kerrick, but you're endangering everything that we've worked for.”

Kerrick sighed heavily. “Traan, I won't stand by and let this Cooperative die. I can't. I've committed too much to watch another dream burn. I need you to trust me.”

“You are plotting behind the backs of the Combined Council. You have allied yourself with businessmen and money-lenders, and have reduced the value of our citizens to a blanket, defined quantity. They might as well be labor droids or slaves, after all you've done to them.

“I think you're misunderstanding the nature of the Worker's Party, Traan.”

“Am I? Am I!? You've placed the fate of the Cooperative in the hands of men who consider only the bottom line! Acceptable risk and collateral damage are nothing more than inconvenient terms for these people. Who's going to keep them in line, and under what authority?”

“There's a reason that over seventy percent of the Defense Force are members of the Workers Party, Traan.” Traan's eyes widened in shock, and not the good kind. “The Workers Party ensures―among other things―that government will fear its people, and not the other way around.”

“You can't do this, Kerrick. You've circumvented the government. You've united business, military, and the hungry masses in a system with no accountability and no legal authority. There aren't any rules in this fairytale you've built, and people are going to get hurt.”

“You need to understand something, Traan: I serve the people of the Cooperative, not a dark room full of rich businessmen with their pockets stuffed with credits and their hands holding the leash to which the citizens are chained. I won't let anyone stop what we're doing. The Cooperative will survive, it will prosper, and it will do so by the will of its people.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“Does it need to be?” Kerrick realized immediately that he had said something he shouldn't have. He shook his head shamefully. “Listen, Traan. The Workers' Party has grown out of the will of the people, not the dealings of the Board, whose creation―by the way―I was opposed to. If the Cooperative government formally recognizes the Workers' Party and its goals, you will be acknowledging the will of your own people to fight on. There is no need to make policy in the dark gathering of the Combined Council, when policy is made by the people on whose behalf the Council meets. The people of the Cooperative have spoken: I'm begging you not to try to silence them.”

“Kerrick: I have to protect the future of this Cooperative.”

“So do I, Traan.”





One hour later, observation deck of the survey ship Stonegazer

“We've upgraded the sensor suite and comm systems to allow Stonegazer to serve as the command hub for our starfigher training exercises.”

Blakeley nodded, checking the readouts on the screens around him. “So, what are we going to be seeing today?”

“A half-squadron of our ace pilots in A-wing interceptors―Dagger Squadron―against a newly formed squadron in E-wing escort starfighters―Scythe Squadron. They're all veterans, but none of the E-wing pilots have seen extensive combat in an asteroid field, and most of them are used to support from larger vessels. I'm sure it'll be an interesting match off. This particular fight is going to be centered around a derelict medium transport, which Dagger Squadron is under orders to protect, and will be conducted with full comm access.” Bill smiled. “We don't get too many people out here with comm jammers.”

“New Republic gear. I trust you've been keeping your ships in proper working order?”

Bill nodded, smiling. “We've kept our ships up-to-date with the best refits we can find. I'm not saying they're as good as all those newfangled contraptions the big guys are churning out, but I'm not saying they aren't, either. Guess you'll have to judge for yourself.” He pointed at a screen. “Here we go.”

Asteroid fights aren't usually much different than ordinary fights, but there are a few exceptions. One of them is when one side lives inside of an asteroid field. The outnumbered A-wings broke into groups of two, breaking with the galaxy-wide tradition of three fighters to a flight. “So how often are you outnumbered two-to-one?”

“Heheh, hasn't happened yet, but if we can win a fight two-on-one, then we can win it with more favorable odds.”

“So you're expecting your A-wings to win?”

“Eh, these new guys in Scythe Squadron are good, but I think they're going to underestimate our best.”

The supposedly derelict freighter began moving across the sensor screen. “Part of the simulation?”

“Standard procedure when under attack with help en route is to hunker down, land on the closest big rock and dump whatever power you've got into dorsal shields.”

“It's not going to make it.”

“That's part of the simulation, too.”

The two groups were closing on the centerpoint of this engagement, the A-wings slightly closer than their counterparts. They were approaching head-on, seconds from combat. Bill smiled. “Magic.”

Dagger Squadron cut forward acceleration uniformly, a split second later performing erratic evasive maneuvers as they overshot the freighter and blocked Scythe Squadron's attack vector. Then the fighters were past each other, and the damage report came in to the command hub: two E-wings were down. “Oh, did I forget to mention that none of our pilots are human?”

Blakeley's eyes widened in shock as he reviewed the screens worth of data that had been reported in less than a second. Bill was still smiling. “It's sad, really, when you compare the G-force tolerance of humans to some of these guys. Reflexes, mass-input processing, computer-interface proficiency. Over one-third of our defense force has some kind of bio-implant to increase communication with their ships' computers.”

“Did they just . . .”

“Cut engine power, reversed alignment, executed pre-set evasive pattern that included a max burn of their engines almost directly opposite their current velocity, then opened fire as the E-wings passed by, yeah.”

“How?”

Bill waved the question off, pointing back to the screens. “Round two.”

Dagger Squadron had recovered and reversed course much faster than their opponents, catching the E-wings by surprise right after Scythe Squadron came out of their 180 degree turn. They hit from a slight angle, the individual A-wing duos rotating around an invisible central axis, spraying a wall of energy at preselected targets and launching pairs of concussion missiles in the wake of their sensor-scrambling blaster-fire.

“Our primary squadrons use ships customized for their individual pilots,” Bill said, answering the Admiral's previous question. “ All of them include heavily modified inertial dampening systems, but maneuvers like that first one overload even them. We take people with multiple times the endurances of regular humans and then push them to their limits.”

“Customized fighters . . . sounds expensive.”

The E-wings had broken off their attempts to get at the freighter, their count now down to nine and Dagger Squadron turning once more to pursue.

“I'm sure it would be on a large-scale production, but it more than pays for itself with an operation this small. We don't have to train as many new pilots, because far fewer of ours die, for one. You've got to remember, though: we're fighting pirates and the like, people who would rather destroy our equipment than lose graciously. These people want to steal, kill, and destroy; every time we prevent them from doing that, we save a little more money that someone else with a less-effective defense force might lose.”

Scythe Squadron had plunged into the asteroid field and split up, hoping to mask their positions sufficiently to surround the pursuing A-wings and catch them in cross-fire. “How ugly is this going to get?”

Bill smirked. “They're already down a quarter of their original size. If they played this scenario perfectly from here on, I think they could take out half of the A-wings. But they're not going to , as evidenced by the three losses they've already suffered.”

“What have I missed?” The two turned to see Kerrick Arkanus standing in the doorway, staring back at them. Blakeley glanced back at the readouts, confused.

“We're only receiving sensor data from the combat zone here, that's why we didn't pick up on Kerr's shuttle.”

Blakeley nodded in understanding, looking a little foolish. “General, have you taken care of your business with the Ambassador?”

Kerrick walked forward, glancing over the readouts, not very interested. “For the time being. Traan thinks it best that I stay and finish my job here. Apparently I've pissed off the Combined Council, GASP,” He said the word, accompanied by a look of exaggerated shock.

Neither of the two men cared to know what Kerrick was talking about.





Amorris

“General Arkanus has suggested that we recognize the Cooperative Worker's Party as a legitimate organization created by the people in the interests of peace, prosperity, and freedom. He seems to believe that―by legitimizing an organization created out of free democratic will―we will regain a measure of legitimacy in the eyes of those who have come to believe we are hording power for ourselves.” Traan Shi was not enjoying himself at the moment.

“On a perfect world, perhaps that would work.” Neither were the members of the Combined Council.

Traan sighed, tapping his finger on a datapad. “General Arkanus did bring into light some important facts: That the Cooperative―at its core―is an organization that believes in the right of all beings to freely express themselves in an open forum. That the Workers Party does not violate any core laws of our government, in and of itself. That we cannot justly extinguish something, simply because of what it might lead to. The democratic form has always been fraught with difficulties; if we are to abandon its essence in an attempt to preserve its appearance, how is it that we may call ourselves 'just,' and those who seek a voice 'unjust'?”

“What are you saying, Ambassador?”

There was a war going on inside of Traan's mind, but he knew what he had to say. “I hold no power to make policy in this chamber, but I must say: opposing the Cooperative Worker's Party would be a clear and evident sign that you are unwilling to yield power to the will of those you claim to serve. It is the right of citizens of the Cooperative to enter into organizations which uphold their values and facilitate their needs, so long as those organizations do not serve to challenge the authority of the Cooperative government, or move in opposition to its allies. The Workers' Party has not done this.”

“Yet.”

“The Empire has not stormed our borders and razed our worlds, yet, and we choose to believe that they will not. The question at hand has nothing to do with perception of future events, and honestly, it is no longer a question at all. I must get back to Amorris: you know what you must do.”

The Rock, Vahaba Asteroid Belt

The exercise had been called off once the numbers reached four-to-one, Dagger Squadron's favor. The trio had been flown back to the central settlement, where they intended to continue their friendly conversation about what Kerrick was making out to be the end of the Cooperative. “It would be very interesting to see your men participate in a larger engagement,” Blakeley said to Bill as they made their way out of the busy starport.

“Yes, such small-scale exercises aren't a very appropriate measure of a combat system's effectiveness.”

“Alright, here we are,” Kerrick said, pushing the two men into what seemed like a random structure off of the city's “main street.” It was, however, a cantina, and Kerrick looked very happy to be there.

“You come here on behalf of the Cooperative of Systems, and your plan is to get me drunk, Kerr?”

“Yes.” He said flatly, sitting in a corner and banging on the table. Someone came scurrying over, and he mumbled something Blakeley couldn't make out, but the young woman ran off to get him his drink, apparently knowing exactly what he wanted. “Sit.” It may have been the first real command he had ever given either of them.

“So, where were we,” Bill asked, giving the young woman a “no-thank-you” sort of wave as she gave Kerrick his drink and checked to see if Bill wanted anything.

“We're hopelessly damned, and you're our only hope, I think it was,” Blakeley said rather blandly.

“So is it really that bad?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Kerrick looked at Blakeley, who looked back. “I can't say the General has exaggerated the negatives, but I can say that he hasn't pointed out many of the positives.”

“Such as . . .?” Kerrick retorted, sniffing at whatever was in his glass.

“The Praetorian Guard is almost completely behind us, and has dispatched an envoy to formally request their relocation to Cooperative space from the High Command. We're processing Onyxian refugees faster than we had thought we would, and they are filling many of the gaps left by those members of the relief force that are leaving.”

“The problem isn't that they're leaving,” Kerrick said, irritated. “The problem is that they're leaving because they don't have anything to do, because nobody's willing to part with the equipment and resources we need to get things done, on the scale we need them done on.”

“Right. Well . . .” Blakeley faltered, trying to remember what Kerrick had complained about earlier, and trying to figure out how to best go about damage-control. “Ah, yes. The Ryn Nation is still drawing support from its transient brothers, and we're not quite sure where it's all coming from, but it would seem that the Ryn have more friends in more places―or at least more people who owe them something―than you might believe. They're bringing in ships and supplies of all shapes and sizes, which are―”

“Being funneled straight to the East.” Kerrick said, finally working up the courage to drink one big gulp of the gray, frothy liquid he had ordered. Coughing violently, he continued: “Look, I'm not saying we shouldn't send help to the East. I love the Mon Cal; got thrown off-world once.” He leaned towards Bill, who seemed surprised that Kerrick had ever left the Quelii Sector. “I was on vacation,” He said, winking. “But we've got to be honest about what's going on here, or it's not gonna get fixed.” His features turned sour, and he eyed his glass again, bracing himself for another try at the stuff.

“So . . .” Bill began, tapping his chin with his finger, “You're here to scout us out and see how easy it'll be to overrun us and strip us clean?”

“That'd be my plan,” Kerrick said, sliding the glass away from himself. “That is, if they'd let me make one. Good old-fashioned smash and grab.”

“I believe the plan is to appeal to your humanity,” Blakeley said, leaning forward to try to block Kerrick out of the conversation.

“So you've got stacks of cash for us?”

“Umm . . .”

“We're begging for mercy,” Kerrick said, sitting up and pushing Blakeley's shoulder out of the way. “We're reaching for that tiny sliver of humanity right between outright revulsion and that smug sense of justice you feel when an idiot cuts his own arm off trying to juggle vibro-axes.”

Bill wasn't buying it. “And they sent the two of you to do this?”

“No,” Kerrick said, relaxing. “They sent us to convince you that the Cooperative's made of pure, Grade-A Awesome, and that you need a piece of it. We came up with this angle all by ourselves.”

“It is the fate of all things to pass away,” Bill said flatly.

“Yeah,” Kerrick countered, “and we're trying to make sure billions of people don't die when that happens.”

“You could always surrender.”

“To the Empire?” Kerrick was getting angry. “The goal is for people to NOT die.”

Blakeley leaned back into the conversation. “Besides, haven't you heard? We're not at war. You can't surrender if you're not at war.” The other two men took the next several seconds trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or not. It was often hard to tell from the old man.

“What do you really expect me to do about it?” Bill finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Join the Cooperative,” Kerrick said, deathly serious.

“Yeah . . . no.”

Blakeley shook his head. “You don't understand. The Cooperative has never existed as it was originally intended to. Cestus joined under very strenuous circumstances, requiring more Combined Council intervention than would ordinarily be present. Amorris contained a very small population, making it almost inconsequential until the Onyxian Crisis. Now the Cooperative is in a state of crisis, and Halmad has taken it upon itself to step in and accommodate the most basic needs of the people.”

“I'm still not seeing the part that I don't understand.”

Blakeley continued, undeterred. “The Cooperative was meant to be a model for the larger Coalition, showing that a strong central government wasn't needed to facilitate goodwill and strong ties between very diverse people-groups. Your people are the first situated in such a position to greatly influence the course of events in the Quelii Sector for the better, with only the smallest demand of self-sacrifice.”

“We don't want Vahaba under the sway of the Combined Council,” Kerrick said, cutting in. “What we want is for you to be committed to its people. You can consider the seat on the Council you'll get as a bonus.”

"A bonus?" Blakeley asked. Now Kerrick was confusing his own people.

"Sure. The Vahaba seat will get to play by the Council's new rules and make policy for the whole Cooperative, then call foul when the Council tries to impose law on the miners here."

Bill was shaking his head, huffing and puffing. “Look, guys: it's not like we aren't sympathetic. But what if something big does happen? What if there is a war . . . or a plague . . . or a madman with a crusty fleet he dug out of some galactic drainage pipe? What then?”

Blakeley smiled. “Blessed are the merciful . . .”

“. . . for they shall obtain mercy.”

Bill was pretty sure the two of them had been saving that little gem for quite some time.





“We need to begin immediate ratification of legislation to restrict the Board's power to exploit the authority of the Cooperative Workers' Party. We have to protect against any attempst to exploit the available workforce. Just compensation for services rendered must be ensured, otherwise we're going to have slave farms and factories on our hands when we start pulling out government aide.”

“Since when are we talking about pulling out government aide?”

“Now. If we don't start laying the groundwork well before it's time to make it happen, we're going to have a quagmire on our hands, from which we may never escape. We have other things that we need to begin to consider, or the social and economic order that our efforts instill may be for naught.”

“But how―”

“Could we try to stay on topic please?”

“Yes, let's. The Cooperative Workers' Party has been acknowledged by this Council, and provisional legislation is in place to legitimize it. We must expand upon that legislation in order to ensure the rights of those who enter into such organizations. That is our chief concern now, and the only one we will address at the moment.”

Traan continued to watch the small holofeed of the meeting, still torn about the decision. If only Smarts were here. It had been two months now, and the single most influential being in the Cooperative was still missing, or at least that was the official story. Traan looked out of the viewport at the night sky of Amorris, counting the stars, wondering how much longer it would be, how much longer the Cooperative could hold out. . .

But then there was this Workers' Party . . . and Kerrick. Kerrick's standing orders were to report to the Combined Council immediately after departing from the Vahaba System, and there was a pretty good chance that the Council was going to try to arrest him. Traan knew that was a bad idea (he was pretty sure the Combined Council did too), but he didn't know how they should handle him (he was more sure that the Council didn't know that, either).

Traan buried his head in the pile of stuff on his desk, closed his eyes, and decided this was as good a place as any to fall asleep. Then the door opened and a messenger stepped in. “Sir, some of the Praetorian guys are getting a little antsy at the Workers' Party celebration in the Town Square. Somebody needs to tell them to calm down, and I don't think they're going to listen to any of us.”

Traan sighed heavily, searching idly for his cloak while he left his head buried on top of his desk. “Of course,” He said weakly, standing up and preparing to leave the dark little corner of Hell that belonged specifically to him. Well, at least we know whose side they're on.

Kerrick had managed to stave off the Combined Council's fury, at least for a time. He had arrived with William Rhaz in tow; as the semi-official leader of the Vahaba settlements, Bill had been dispatched to face the Combined Council personally, and ensure that any fears the society of metallurgists might have would be appropriately laid to rest. Still, Kerrick had noticed that the standard CDF guards had been replaced with Praetorian Guardsmen, and he knew how serious his situation had become.

Traan Shi was not there, and whatever respect Kerrick had formed for Admiral Blakeley, he was pretty sure the old man wouldn't be of much help if the Praetorians decided to detain him. Kerrick just kept his features set and continued to lead his old friend down the long hallway, intent on doing his duty and nothing else.

He threw the hinged doors open without breaking stride and moved to the side to make way for Bill. “Esteemed members of the Cooperative Combined Council: William Rhaz, leader of the Vahaba Colonies.”

Bill stepped forward and opened the small bag he had brought with him, pulling out several identical datapads and setting them in front of the nearest Council member. As they were being distributed to the leaders of the Cooperative, he stepped back and cleared his throat. “You will agree to the terms laid out by the leaders of the Vahaba Colonies, or you will receive only that which we have already offered you. I have no authority to negotiate on behalf of the Colonies, and the governors have no desire to waste time playing at compromise with a people whose alliance they do not seek, or require.” Bill turned and walked out of the room, throwing Kerrick a “that's the best I could do” sort of look as he went.

As one the Council members set the datapads aside, focusing on Kerrick. It would seem that the priorities of this particular meeting had changed. “Wait; I can explain,” Kerrick began, raising his hands to fend off their harsh glares. Blakeley had stepped back, but Kerrick hadn't noticed, too focused on the Combined Council.

“I suggest you do a better job now than you did with Ambassador Shi.”

The words were grave, but Kerrick had to try to explain himself. He looked around and waved the four guards out of the room. They didn't move. “A little help here guys?” Kerrick said, turning back to the Combined Council. One of them waved the guards out, and Kerrick nodded thankfully.

“You have something to say?”

Kerrick smiled broadly at them. “Smarts told me to do it.” He started laughing when he saw their response. “He seemed to think I'd be more than capable of handling the situation.”

After several seconds of silence, one of them finally spoke up. “The Overseer is not here, neither does he represent the will of the Cooperative.”

“And you do?” Dang . . . didn't mean to say that out loud. Kerrick could feel it coming. It was the same feeling he'd had dozens of times in the past twenty years. Any second now . . .

“Good people,” Blakeley spoke up, half-running forward to make sure he diverted the Council's attention from Kerrick. “If I may be so bold: arresting General Arkanus would be a very bad idea.”

“Who said anything about arrest?”

Blakeley's features turned from the general sense of indifference that they often possessed to that of supreme displeasure. “Don't play games with me. You can't honestly remove without cause one of the handful of public figures that the people have come to respect and expect anything good to come of it.”

“Our cause is no concern of yours.”

Kerrick had never seen Blakeley this indignant. “You have acknowledged the Workers' Party. You cannot cast down the man chiefly responsible for its creation with one hand and raise up the Party with the other. Do not play power games with the people of the Cooperative or you will have chaos in the streets.”

“We will not allow any one man to draw such power to himself.”

Kerrick was surveying the Council, trying to find out just how many of them shared the speaker's beliefs. “I'll step down,” Kerrick offered. “The Admiral is more than qualified to handle my duties for the time being. And despite what you would like us to believe, I happen to know that Smarts didn't just up and vanish without cause or warning. He'll be back soon enough, and then we can all work this thing out.”

“Do you think it will be so easy to evade justice?”

“You guys don't seem to have any trouble in that department.” That one was fully intentional. “Look: I won't make any public appearances. I'll keep my hands in my pockets and my face buried in the sand.” He raised his hands again, this time pleading. “Don't make this worse just to try to prove that you're in charge. You know Smarts has got a plan; just give him the time he needs, please.”

There was a long moment of silence, then a X'Ting in a corner rattled off something, the translation following just behind. “Kerrick Arkanus, this is a closed meeting of the Cooperative Combined Council. You possess no rank or authority with which to intrude upon this gathering. Leave now of your own free will or you will be forcibly discharged.”

Kerrick nodded in sad compliance, turning to leave. “Hold out,” He whispered as he left, just loud enough for Blakeley to hear. The swinging doors closed behind him, and Kerrick Arkanus walked down the long hallway alone, stripped of his rank, powerless to right the wrongs all around him. He could not have predicted the sequence of events that had begun with that horrible sensation, but the outcome had remained the same. Once again, Kerrick Arkanus had been cast out by the very people he sought to protect. He would walk down narrow streets and dark alleys, watching as the dream he had dared to believe in slowly rotted around him.

The men, women, and creatures of the Cooperative Combined Council would mull over the terms Bill had given them for a good long time, eventually consenting because any complaint would lose Vahaba to them forever. But for the first time, Kerrick wished he had never gone back to see his old friend on that wretched Rock.





A massive sphere appeared in the heart of the Varn System, flanked by four large vessels of various design. At Sensor Station Three of Varn's almost un-begun defense network, the poor Defense Force kid who'd been stuck on sensor duty thumbed the comm tied directly to his commander. Bright-eyed and disbelieving, he only managed two words: “He's back.”