It is not a pleasant time for the Cooperative. Its political, social, and industrial spheres have been stretched to the absolute limit, from the Western capital of Cerea to the League member Glee Anselm, from the xenophobic headquarters of TransGalMeg Industries to the distant and secluded Drackmarian Inner Sanctum. It is once more a time when hope, faith, and belief are all that stand against the surging tides of damnation . . .

The wellspring of talent and influence has run dry: the commanders, ambassadors, and political heads of the Cooperative have all been dispatched on most urgent tasks. Even the Overseer, whose seemingly limitless ability to expand his will wherever he needs, has found himself unable to manage the mounting and varied tasks at hand.

And time is running out. Now, a hodge-podge task force of Coalition diplomats and military personnel must charge into the depths of the Rim, and wrest from the grip of isolation what may be the last hope of the Dac people.

The Cooperative is not one to allow its promises to go unfulfilled. The Coalition will no longer stand by and allow one of its members to fail. It is time to make things happen.


Varn

Rane Cardan was a man without a purpose. Officially, he was Traan Shi's chief assistant, but Traan was away now, and Rane had been left to tend to Traan's day-to-day duties . . . except the Overseer had assumed a great many of those duties in order to facilitate a more efficient reorganization of the Cooeprative government. Technically, Traan Shi was still responsible for the administration of the Onyxian Relocation Plan, which even in this stat of crisis was proceeding at some small scale, but the Plan had taken on a life of its own long ago, with the relocated populations holding new elections and assembling a new internal government.

His real duties now consisted only of ensuring these once-Onyxian citizens remembered that they were now members of the Cooperative, that their one-time brothers and sisters still within the Imperial Occupation Zone - a great many of whom had taken to armed and even self-destructive conflict against their Imperial masters - had forsaken their bonds of friendship and unity, and had chosen the endless sorrow of war over the chance of peace and prosperity. But peace had been shattered with this growing Reaver Threat, and as is the nature of all sapient beings, the ex-Onyxians had turned the focus of their attention to the most urgent need, any thoughts of reunification or independence for their lost homeworlds fading to the background.

Rane Cardan truly had nothing to do, despite his varied qualifications.

His commlink chimed, and Rane answered immediately. “Yes?”

“I need to meet with you,” The voice of the Overseer answered.

“Of course; when?”

The door slid open, and the converted ASP labor droid known as Beta stepped through. “Right now,” It answered in its own voice, Rane pocketing his commlink as he recognized the new arrival.

“How can I be of service?” The man asked, turning his full attention to the droid.

Beta extended his hand, holding a leather-bound rectangle imprinted with a metallic symbol. “Congratulations, Ambassador.”

Rane took the now-familiar badge, examining the less-familiar emblem carefully. “What's the meaning of this?”

“The Mon Calamari and Quarren populations of the Coalition are growing . . . discontent with the Overseer's decision to dispatch the Ryn Fleet to Glee Anselm. Each passing day, we grow closer to failing them. Ando has become self-sufficient, but the others . . .”

“You want me to go calm them down?” He asked dubiously, almost totally unfamiliar with either the Mon Calamari or the Quarren.

Beta shook his head, pointing from the badge to Rane's pocket to goad him into wearing the small leather object. Rane finally slipped the back flap of the badge into his left shirt pocket, clearly displaying the emblem imprinted on it. “We need you to go get us a replacement for the Ryn Fleet.”

Rane's eyebrows rose in disbelief, the droid's even tone disguising what must have been a joke.


Teth

Ambassador Erek Joron ran down the long hallway for about the dozenth time today, the permit he had been negotiating finally in hand.

“Got it!” He shouted triumphantly, holding the datapad over his head.

The Ryn grabbed it unceremoniously, walking off without a word spoken.

“You're welcome,” the ambassador mumbled, shaking his head and taking a seat. How has it come to this? A year ago, he had been among Teth's most senior diplomatic officials, and while that was still technically true, the Ryn had gotten their hands on him, and he was probably tainted for life. As it stood at that moment, Erek was little more than a messenger, transporting requests and counter-offers between the Teth government and the Ryn relief forces still on-planet.

The door he had just come through slid open, and an unfamiliar human stepped through, wearing one of the Cooperative's badges that marked him as some sort of government official, though Erek wasn't familiar enough with Cooperative symbols to know what exactly that one stood for.

The man sopped immediately, his focus turning to Erek. “Ambassador Erek Joron, of Teth?”

He nodded, standing slowly. “Yes; is there something I can do for you?”

The man smiled, extending his hand. “I'm Rane Cardan . . . Ambassador Rane Cardan, here on orders from the Cooperative Overseer.”

Erek shook his hand, nodding. “I can put you in contact with the Ryn commander of -”

Rane Cardan shook his head, retracting his hand. “No, no; you misunderstand: you and I have a job to do. Get ready; we're leaving in six hours.”

“What are you talking about?” Erek demanded, now completely confused.


Longsword Frigate Awakening, Ketaris orbit


Awakening had seen her fair share of combat over the past several months, as had her Rattataki captain, Zive Brintt. The pair had been tasked with leading the Ketaris-based Coalition forces which had been contributed to the Rimward Defense Initiative's efforts. While logistically and operationally independent of the RDI, these Coalition military assets nevertheless shared a common objective with the international organization, and coordinated their efforts with RDI forces in surrounding regions.

The Longsword frigate and her crew had just been recalled to Ketaris by the joint Coalition oversight committee responsible for ensuring the task force didn't overstep its bounds, however, and the Rattataki was growing increasingly agitated as his demands for an explanation went unanswered.

He was finally answered, after a fashion, by some sort of diplomatic team requesting permission to dock. And so Captain Zive Brintt stormed through the corridors of the ship toward the docked transport, forced to wait on the deck of his own ship while a pair of humans deposited themselves at their leisure.

One was wearing one of those stupid Cooperative nameplates, and the other was dressed like he thought he was on his way to take up a seat in the Republic Senate; neither of them seemed in a rush to let Brintt get back to his men, either the ones onboard or those he had been forced to leave on-station in the space surrounding Ketaris.

They approached slowly, conversing with guarded words to one another, paying the captain little attention.

Arms crossed at his chest and eyes boring into the unaware diplomats, the Rattataki had had enough: “Yes?”

They both stopped talking and turned to the captain, and it was only then that Zive recognized Erek Joron in his ridiculous garb. He smiled - it seemed genuine enough - at Zive, opting to wave informally rather than offer his hand. “Ah, Captain Brintt. I didn't expect it would be you.”

The other man continued forward, and Zive shook his hand as he introduced himself: “Rane Cardan, Cooperative ambassador.”

“Could someone tell me what's happening on my ship?” He demanded, his eyes moving back and forth between the two humans.

“You haven't heard?” Erek asked, surprise obvious in his tone. “We're heading West; we've got a planet to conquer!” The excitement in his tone was somewhat out-of-character.

Zive furrowed his brow. “With one Longsword and an uninformed captain? Doubtful. I'm in no mood for games, so tell me what's going on here.”


Minntooine

When a Quarren runs away from home, he makes sure to do a good job of it. When the Quarren Isolation League fled from Dac in the midst of the Clone Wars, it fled just about as far as the galactic disc would permit. But the Clone Wars ended long ago, the Confederacy of Independent Systems collapsed, the Isolation League dissolved, and Minntooine had become one of many former Separtatist-aligned, alien-dominated worlds to be subjugated under Emperor Palpatine's decrees.

But that, too, had ended long ago. Imperial warlords had been forced to weigh the value of Minntooine's shipyards against the logistics of keeping a sub-sea population subjugated, and eventually the tenacious Quarren ex-Separatists retook control of their adopted home. Minntooine has existed in near-total isolation for the past decades, its shipyards filling contracts with only the most trusted business partners and running substantially bellow production potential to avoid drawing external attention, maintaining no political ties with any of the galaxy's developing interstellar governments.

But the meddlesome Coalition and its determined Cooperative had plans to change all of that.

The Longsword Frigate Awakening exited hyperspace well beyond the range of whatever defensive installations Minntooine might have, unceremoniously broadcasting its intentions at the world.

Onboard the vessel, Captain Zive Brintt and Ambassadors Rane Cardan and Erek Joron awaited a reply, hoping the approaching group of starfighters and picket ships were just coming in for a sensor sweep.

”Vessel of the Galactic Coalition, you have intruded upon the sovereignty of Minntooine; prepare to surrender yourself for questioning.”

“I will do no such -”

Rane Cardan put his hand on the Rattataki captain's shoulder, silencing him. The Cooperative representative nodded to the communications officer, who opened the channel for his response. “We come here in peace, bearing the flag of diplomacy, and ask only for the opportunity to do just that - answer your questions . . . though we'd prefer to do so freely and without threat of punishment.”

”You speak of peace, yet you arrive here in a vessel of war; which am I to believe?”

Erek stepped up, noticing Rane's uncertainty in how to proceed. “We required time and safety in a galaxy short on both, and the Longsword is among the fastest capital ships in the Coalition Navy. It was a choice made by necessity, not preference. We are here, now; and if we are to speak, perhaps it would be wise to do so at the table of diplomacy, rather than that of interrogation? We come as friends . . . do not treat us as enemies.”

There was a long silence, but finally the voice answered, sounding somewhat disappointed: ”You will hold position for full sensor inspection. Our patrol will escort you to orbit.” The voice added threateningly: “Do not deviate from the approved course.”

The comm fell silent, and the three turned to one another with varied looks of uncertainty and doubt. “When you hail the Quarren Separatist homeworld, you don't expect to be answered by a Mon Calamarian,” Erek spoke up.

Whatever was going on at Minntooine, the trio had to figure it out fast. They were running out of time.

Minntooine surface, island-city Barrier Town

They weren't quite in an interrogation room, and that was probably a good thing. Two Quarrens, a Mon Calamari, and a Gossam sat across the short table, none of them looking happy to see the Coalition representatives.

“You can't have them,” The Mon Cal declared gruffly, moving his whole body in an attempt to shake his head. The other three looked somewhat annoyed by the Calamarian's outburst, but said nothing.

Erek Joron was truly perplexed: “Excuse me?”

“They came here of their own free will,” The gravelly voice continued, “and by their own free will they remain! You can't have them!”

Rane and Erek exchanged brief glances, understanding dawning on them simultaneously. “We aren't here to . . . reclaim . . . any Coalition Citizens that have chosen to seek refuge on your world,” Rane Cardan clarified.

“Quite the opposite actually,” Erek reaffirmed.

The Mon Cal looked from one human to the other, and then back again. “Then what -”

“What do you want with our world?” One of the Quarren asked, cutting off the Mon Cal.

“It is your people we are here for,” Zive Brintt said simply, drawing looks of concern from the Minntooine officials.

“Fifty years ago,” Rane Cardan began, regaining the attention of the Minntooinians, “your people made war against their homeworld and its allies.”

“You dare to threaten us!” The Gossam challenged, rising to her feet.

Rane continued, unfazed: “While the motives of that movement's leaders may have been corrupt, the spirit of many who followed them was pure. The people of this world are heirs to a proud legacy, because they fought for freedom even when the great Republic instituted to ensure it had abandoned it in favor of Order and Might. The Confederacy of Independent Systems was a sham, but it drew so near to victory because it called out to those universal truths espoused by all who love freedom, and have the eyes to see a growing tyranny.”

The Minntooine officials had grown silent and decidedly less confrontational, but they were still clearly uncertain what to make of this, still searching for the Coalition's intentions. “What do you want?” The Mon Calamari finally asked.

“An introduction wouldn't be too much to ask,” Erek replied, perhaps a little too hostile.

“Since this isn't an interrogation,” Captain Brintt added dryly.

The Quarrens and Gossam looked to one another, but the Mon Cal rose to his feet. “I am Kral, loyal son of Dac.” The others cast another disapproving look at the Mon Cal, but they soon followed suit.

The first Quarren rose as Kral sat. “Khelk,” She said simply, returning to her seat.

“Ulav Tez,” The next Quarren stated. He added: “Admiral Ulav Tez.”

As he sat, the Gossam stood once more. “Ruk Tuk, Administrator of the Minntooine Shipyards,” She stated proudly.

Erek nodded, speaking up. “Ambassador Erek Joron of Teth.” He gestured to Rane, and the man opted to stand as the Mintooinnians had.

“Ambassador Rane Cardan, here on behalf of the United Cooperative of Peoples.”

The Rattataki captain had been standing the whole time, off to one side of the room, by the wall. “Captain Zive Brintt, Longsword Frigate Awakening, Western Fleet.”

The Quarren admiral seemed to be stifling a laugh at the Rattataki captain's introduction.

“Now what do you want?” The Mon Cal demanded again, obviously considering the venture pointless.

Rane cleared his throat, reaching into a small bag and retrieving a datapad, looking over its contents. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at the Minntooine leaders, but finally he pressed on. “We have a number of -"


“No,” The Gossam interrupted. “No trade deals, no construction contracts, no 'economic initiatives'.” The others nodded in unison, affirming Administrator Tuk's sentiment. “Now put that down and tell us what you want.”

Rane opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to find the words he needed. The datapad was somewhere between being in his hands and on the table; the newly appointed ambassador was stuck.


“We want to put you on the Dac Council,” Erek Joron said evenly, ignoring Rane's current state and plucking the datapad from his hands.

If Rane Cardan felt foolish for losing his place, he didn't need to, because the Eastern ambassador's casual remark had put the entire Minntooine delegation into a similar state.

“And we want to sign you in to the Western Province as the centerpiece of a new industrialization program,” He added, tapping the datapad against the top of the table.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Mon Calamari Kral asked upon recovering. None of the Coalition officials responded; none of them were sure how much they should tell these Minntooinians. “I'm waiting!”

“We're running out of ships,” Rane Cardan spoke up, deciding to be as honest as possible. The Quarren admiral burst into laughter, but Cardan's features didn't change. “We're running out of ships to continue the Dac relocation. The Plan is stagnating, and we may very well be on the verge of losing all the faith and goodwill we have built with the Dac people. You might just be our only hope.”

The admiral fell silent, realizing these Coalition ambassadors weren't talking about warships and combat capacity, but about the lifeline that was sustaining the billions of souls to whom he was bound by blood.

Kral shook his head, refusing to believe it. “No, no; that's not possible.”

“You have a decision to make,” Zive Brintt spoke up, moving into the center of the room. “You have a decision to make . . . all of you. Either you can choose to remain hidden away in the edge of existence, ignoring the reality of a galaxy in the midst of Cataclysm and the brothers and sisters trapped in its grasp; or you can embrace those you once forsook, bear a burden no one else can, and become the saviors of the very people you once sought to damn. Mon Calamari - Dac, whatever you want to call it - is lost; Minntooine is the only heir to its great legacy. Can you refuse its people's cries?”

Some five hundred million Mon Calamari and Quarren had managed to “sneak” out of Coalition refugee camps and relocation centers and transplant themselves to Minntooine. The planet's government had become largely dominated by Quarren since the triumvirate political institution of Quarren, Skakoans, and Gossam was disbanded under the Empire, but the Gossam had made a comeback in recent years and multiple influxes of disillusioned Mon Calamari had secretly arrived over the years as breakaway groups of the species sought (for any number of reasons) to distance themselves from the Mon Calamari Republic and subsequent Galactic Coalition.

But now the fate of their species was at stake, and political possibilities soon gave way to a more basic, primal impulse to defend their own kind. The planet's Mon Calamari and Quarren populations had been forced to work together in order to effectively counter their Gossam and Skakoan counterparts, and ensure the wellbeing of these wayward souls who had stumbled upon Minntooine. Now, in the face of this great threat, that bond had been forged stronger than ever, and the Gossam - recognizing the utter hopelessness of opposing a unified Quarren and Calamari populace - had submitted to the aquatics' superior will, electing to salvage what political capital they could from the endeavor.

“Do you have a plan?”

The question from the Quarren official took the Coalition delegation by surprise, and Erek Joron gave the only sensible reply: “Excuse me?”

“To gain leverage over the Dac Council,” The Gossam elaborated. “What does the West have that they need?”

“Uhh . . . I don't follow,” Erek admitted, his confusion evident.

“What can you and the West give us that will win us the favor of the Dac Council?” The Mon Calamari repeated, his tone one of annoyance.

Rane Cardan exchanged a brief glance with Erek, then shook his head as he furrowed his brow. “You misunderstand: we don't represent the West.”

The triumvirate exchanged puzzled glances, the Gossam finally venturing the question they all were thinking: “Then who do you represent?”

Realization dawned first on Erek, and as he retraced the past hours of carefully offered and scrutinizingly received diplomatic talk, he realized that the two groups had all but been speaking different languages. Grinning broadly, beside himself with harmless embarrassment, he answered: “The Dac Council, of course.”

Shock and disbelief swept through the Minntooinians, but as understanding dawned, those feelings were replaced by calmer, more logical analyses.

The Mon Cal's eyes turned to hungry, greedy orbs, and the Coalition delegation knew that something monstrous was forming within the squid-man's mind.

The Quarren began slowly, as if despite his best efforts: “The Dac Council . . . asked you here?”

Rane Cardan nodded, folding his hands on the table as the tension that had been building for hours finally receded; the Minntooinians were very pleasantly surprised by this revelation. “The Overseer contacted me on their behalf; it was they who offered Minntooine as the first option for seeking outside aide.”

The Callamarian was still frozen in place, his massive eyes scanning from side to side as he pondered some unknown puzzle. “We were under the impression the Dac Council wanted nothing to do with us,” The Gossam piped up, doing little more than stalling for time since that sentiment had already been deduced by the Coalition officials.

Erek Joron nodded, casting a cautious glance to Rane as he began: “The Cooperative is dedicated to intra-Coalition prosperity; their policies are specifically designed to help facilitate cooperation and goodwill between Coalition members. They prefer to draw upon the strengths of allies, before seeking assistance from . . . outsiders. The recent loss of the Cren and Sinsangese has forced the Coalition as a whole to reconsider its practices -”

“- Not to mention it was your Overseer who left the Dac people in the mud,” The Mon Cal jumped in, his voice unusually harsh, “by pulling out the Ryn and sending them to the ass-end of nowhere.”

Rane rose to the occasion, hoping to curb the Mon Cal's rant: “Sir, the Cooperative -”

“Bah! Save it, surface-dweller.” Rane promptly fell silent. “I'm not here to argue Cooperative policy; I'm here to save my people from a fate worse than death. Now . . . what can the Dac Council leech from the West?” His eyes still belied the hunger drawn out by the recent revelation, but now Erek Joron believed he understood its purpose.

What do the forsaken children of Dac require from the West?

(Edit: typo)

“Prime Minister, you're 12:30 is here.”

Oh, was that today? “Yes, yes, of course. Send . . . him? . . . in.”

The trio filed into the Prime Mister of the Western Province's office, Erek Joron taking a seat in the corner and leaving the two nearest the Prime Minster's desk for the pair of Minntooinians.

Pro Moon eyed the Mon Calamari and Quarren in front of him for a moment, puzzled at the unexpected pair of aliens. “Ahh, I assure you I have done everything possible to support the Ryn colonization efforts; however, the Council of Elders insists on maintaining current -”

“Prime Minister,” Erek interjected, stopping the Cerean before he could give the pair of Minntooinians a full summary of his planet's relationship with the Ryn.

“Oh, yes, Ambassador Joron?”

“These are the representatives from Minntooine,” He explained, standing and gesturing to each in turn. “Kral and Khelk.”

Pro Moon's eyes widened in shock, and smiling, he said: “Yes, yes, of course they are!” He stood, reaching over his desk to shake their finned hands. “Now what can I do for you today?”

The Quarren, Khelk, rose slightly from her seat, passing a datapad to the West's Prime Minister. “Sign on the dotted line.”

Pro Monn's eyes once more widened as he glanced over the information. “I'm sorry, I don't . . .”

“She meant it figuratively, I'm sure,” Erek piped up, drawing out a sigh of relief from the unprepared Cerean.

“Minntooine wishes to join the Western Province and spearhead a Western-led campaign to accelerate and complete the Dac relocation and reintegration plans set up by the Cooperative,” Kral, the Mon Cal, explained.

“Hmm, yes, I see,” Pro Moon mumbled, returning his attention to the datapad. “Yes! I see!” He exclaimed, grinning broadly as he looked from one guest to the other, then settled on Erek Joron. “This is just what the Unity Party has been waiting for! A project to assemble around, and a highly industrialized world to serve as the catalyst! Brilliant, Ambassador; truly brilliant!”

Erek was stunned, amazed that Pro Moon had interpreted the list of demands by the Minntooinians as some sort of Western economic plan. But when the aquatic duo didn't offer any immediate objections, Erek opted to simply nod.

“I'll assemble the Parliament immediately,” Pro Moon said, standing as he continued to read down the datapad.

Kral, the nearest, reached out and grabbed the Prime Minister's wrist as he walked by, stopping the Cerean momentarily. “I trust there will be a negotiation session?”

“Of course, yes; of course,” Pro Moon responded absently, his attention still on the datapad. “Now if you'll excuse me . . .”

Pro Moon walked out of his own Prime Ministerial office, leaving the Western ambassador and the two aliens from a not-quite Coalition world alone.

“Well,” Erek remarked in surprise, turning his attention to the seated pair, “that was unexpected..”

Khelk shifted her chair, turning to face the Eastern ambassador. “Not really,” She answered after a long pause for effect, and there was something in the Quarren's tone that told Erek Joron he would like this new surprise.

“What do you mean?” He slid his own chair closer to the pair from Minntooine.

Kral joined the exchange taking place in the corner of Prime Minister Moon's office by standing, sliding his chair between himself and Ambassador Joron and leaning against its back. “We have existed these past years in isolation, ambassador, not ignorance. We are aware, for example, of the current political and economic status of our Western neighbors. We are aware, for example, of the trans-Coalition trade route that has been forged at some great expense to the Coalition's members.”

“We are aware of the continued sacrifices made by the Coalition to ensure the people of Dac receive a fate greater than stagnation and ruin,” Khelk added solemnly.

“But we were unaware that the Dac Council wanted this new union; that knowledge has changed everything. Since the dawn of Dac's civilization, when the first Quarren swam too high, and the First Calamarian swam too low, and our two peoples became one -”

“- since that time the Council has watched over us, directed us, preserved us,” The Quarren picked up where her Mon Calamari counterpart left off. “We thought we knew better: better than thousands of years of peace under the Council . . . better than thousands of years of unity and strength.”

“And so the Quarren Isolation League was born,” The Mon Calamari continued, “and we embroiled our sacred homeworld in a new age of war and death. Never mind our motives, never mind our beliefs: we were wrong, and Minntooine has become our exile, the home of Dac's forsaken outcasts.”

Khelk stood slowly and moved the short distance between herself and the Ambassador. “While we hid in anonymity, the East and its allies saved our righteous siblings, preserved the Council, effected by choice what was our duty as Dac's heirs.”

“The prodigal sons of Dac will return to a Council whose compassion has far outlasted our foolishness.” Kral paused for a moment, considering something. “The Coalition will be rewarded for its great commitment to those we had forsaken.”

Khelk had taken Erek's hands in her own, holding them gently in some sign of thanks. Erek stood, freeing one of his hands and squeezing the Quarren's as a sign of affirmation. “Gods, for a while there I thought we were making a deal with heartless monsters.”

“You were,” The Mon Calamari's gravelly voice replied. “Most thankfully, that deal gave our heart back to us.”

The door hissed open suddenly, and Pro Moon's secretary poked her head in. “Gentlemen, ma'am . . .”

Erek laughed out loud, nodding at the woman as he patted the Mon Calamari's shoulder on the way out. “Of course: we'll be leaving now.” And the trio made their way out of Pro Moon's empty office.

The pair of Mintooinians and their Eastern ally took to the streets of Cerea's capital with a newfound sense of peace between them. “I've never been so happily surprised in my life,” Erek finally admitted, casting a sideways glance at the nearest of his new friends. “But just out of curiosity: what exactly are you planning?”

Kral shrugged, his bulbous left eye turning to view Erek as his right remained fixed straight ahead. “The West is boring; the East is chaotic. We're going to give the West something to get excited about, and the East a reason to calm down a little.”

“Oh, how very exact,” Erek mumbled, more than a little disconcerted by the Mon Calamari's independently roaming eyes.

Kral and Khelk switched places beside Erek, allowing the Quarren to answer the ambassador's question. “Despite the Cooperative's extensive efforts to revitalize our people, the East has remained the focus of the Dac Relocatin's efforts. Teth was the initial refugee world that took on Dac's population after the Exodus, and Chadra has become the home of the Dac Council. Our entry into the Dac Council will mean that our people have a powerful world of their own to refocus on, and that world is neither Eastern nor Cooperative: it will be Western. Just as Chadra helped bridge the gap between the Cooperative and the East, Minntooine will help to unite the East and West. All of our efforts will stem from this . . . transfer of responsibility, alleviating some strain on the East and giving the West's Unity Party a project of true importance.”

“That's it? That doesn't sound so bad . . .”

Kral waved his flippered hand as if to stop the ambassador from saying something he might regret, and Khelk actually shouted “Yep!” as they once again switched places.

“What? Is there something I need to know about?”

“Well, we are reforming the Mon Calamari Fleet.” Kral and Khelk nodded in unison, and Erek Joron shook his head in disbelief.






Minntooine was really quite beautiful from orbit. Three or four massive storm systems slowly plowed their ways through the world's vast oceans, their cloud layers almost translucent, some strange confluence of ecological events apparently allowing for vast storms, but restricting their severity. The systems would undoubtedly continue on toward eternity, growing and shrinking before unseen forces, their paths almost totally unimpeded by land, forever circling this watery world along their eccentric paths.

Beautiful.

The curvature of the world shifted toward the horizon as the craft made its way into the atmosphere, soon enveloped in those impossibly peaceful storm clouds, passing through alternating layers of thick mist and empty sky, the gray-white haze finally giving way to a sparkling blue. The craft drifted gently toward the ocean surface, its own hull flashing in sync with the illuminating of the waters below as here and there lone bolts of lightning slashed their jagged courses between heaven above and paradise below.

Finally, inevitably, the small shuttle settled atop the lightly stirring waters, and as its side hatch slid open, a single figure diving out into the water . . .

And bolted through the warm seas like some predator closing in on a distant prey. The form cut strange patterns through the ocean, brief bursts of enormous speed giving way to even briefer moments of relative calm. And finally the visage of a Mon Calamari leaped above the ocean's surface, crashing once more into its warm embrace and snaking away atop the light seas.

And then the lone being flipped onto his back, his feet splashing rhythmically as he made the slow trek back to his shuttle. There was a distinct beeping, and then the man's fish-like features contorted into a grossly oversized approximation of a toothy grin. “Come on down: the water's great!”

As if on cue, hundreds of transports burst through the cloud cover, descending on the vast ocean in one great Arrival orchestrated by destiny and enacted by fate. And as the Mon Calamari floated in a sea of total contentment, he watched the vessels bearing his brethren near the rippling surface, and swore that he saw the very waters of life reach up from ocean's depth to embrace them.