Varn orbit

Athan had been called back to Cooperative space, a substantial segment of the Ryn fleet's defense vessels accompanying him. The action was twofold: escort the new Squib delegation to the Cooperative Senate, and put Athan squarely in the midst of the arising Ugor problem. To that end Athan had found himself alone on board the Smarts, staring at a vaguely humanoid distortion of an otherwise static-filled holoprojector.

“The Ugor are notoriously untrustworthy,” The Overseer's avatar began, “and the fact that the Squibs have felt the need to join the Cooperative doesn't make our job any easier. We will approach from two fronts, military and diplomatic, and I am determined not to use the Praetorian Guard for this endeavor. You will be supported by Cooperative forces only. We must make this count.”

Athan nodded silently, feeling a little awkward as he stood in the middle of the nearly-empty docking bay. “Sir, I really don't know how much help I'm going to be here. I know a thing or two about the Ugors, and whatever bad you've heard about them, it'll go doubly if you make them deal with a Ryn.”

“Maybe so,” The image responded, “but you're all I've got at the moment.”

Athan took a deep breath. “The Ryn fleet―”

“―Will be there when you are finished. They have a task and a leader; they will be fine without you for a time.”

Athan was feeling a little trapped, struggling to find something reassuring in the bleak, empty, expansive room. “I don't think I can do this.”

“Athan, listen to me.” The change in the Overseer's voice was apparent, and it gave Athan just enough clarity to focus. “Ambassador Shi chose you well. There is no force in the Galaxy that can stop you from doing what you know is right. The Coalition needs you. Do this for all of us.”

Athan closed his eyes, weighing carefully all that he knew, trying to draw a map in his mind, laying all that was to come over this point of singularity and seeing what would happen if he removed it. “I guess I've got a trip to take.”





The heart of the task force was comprised of the Venator-Class Star Destroyer Redemption and the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser Heroic Defender, the last of which had somehow made its way into Cooperative hands. Admiral Jonathan Blakeley was on the bridge of the newly refit Star Destroyer, readying his kaleidoscopic array of ships and crews for the inevitable fight ahead. There were a handful of the Coalition's Second Wave vessels present, but most of the force consisted of older-model vessels refitted for modern combat. That didn't bother Blakeley at all, though, because he frankly didn't like Second Wave technology all that much. He'd served as the commander of Halmad's defense force for well over a decade, and good old-fashioned backwater ships were just what he was used to.

The familiar swoosh of the door opening drew his attention to the new arrival. Blakeley smiled broadly, gesturing the newcomer in. “Mr. Ambassador! I await your command.”

Athan glanced around blankly, rather unfamiliar with the military bridge. “Hello, Admiral,” He offered absently, still checking out the old but well-kept ship. Something seemed to snap in his mind, however, and Athan pulled himself back to the matter at hand. “I told the rest of my men to stay in the docking bay; they should be fine until we're ready for them. I assume the Overseer has given you jump coordinates?”

Blakeley nodded. “We will arrive well within the outskirts of the Paradise System, but reports indicate that none of their vessels or defensive installations will be within range of us upon arrival. Do what you do quickly, however, because I fear that these beings will fight to the death if given the chance.”

Athan sighed heavily, his eyes widening in an exaggerated fashion. “Well thanks, Admiral. No pressure.”

“Just the weight of the Coalition on your shoulders,” The old man retorted snidely as he turned around to face the viewport. “Signal the fleet. Set jump timer and go at Zero.”

The timer counted down and the stars flashed by, then the blackness of space gave way to the disorienting torrent of hyperspace. The admiral turned away, unbuttoning the top button of his uniform. “It'll be several hours; I understand your people have a knack for sabbac?”





The trip to Ugor space had been eventful, at least for Athan and Blakeley. Athan got the distinct impression that the older human was rather apprehensive, and what little he knew about the Admiral seemed to contradict his current behavior. Over the duration of the trip, the two had managed to win and lose from and to one another a half dozen credits, two packs of chewing candy that the Admiral carried around to help alleviate some of his apparently common apprehension, a small wood carving Athan had carried around as a horribly unsuccessful good-luck charm for most of his life, and a handful of random items the two had found in their pockets or bummed off the average passer-by. In the end, they decided to trade back their won and lost prizes, leaving the single decicred they couldn't decide the proper owner of sitting on the table.

The two had discussed a good deal in the hours that passed, most of it inconsequential, some of it not so much. The two were back on the bridge in time for the reversion however, Blakeley back into his stern old man persona. The stars burst once more into the universe, receding and quickly freezing in viewport.

“Comm,” Blakeley called.

The Comm officer gave a thumbs up and Athan nodded stiffly. “To the Holy Ugor Taxation Collection Agency: this is Ambassador Athan Sahalan of the Cooperative of Systems. We come here in the name of peace and goodwill. Please respond, neither of us have much time.”

The seconds ticked by and the fleet grew restless. “Fighters to the ready,” Blakeley called, his jaw tensing as he sought to chew something that wasn't there.

“Wait,” Athan said quietly, staring intently at the viewport.

“Contacts,” The tactical officer reported, painting a number of Ugor vessels in the bright red of enemy targets.

“Wait,” Athan said more sternly, ignoring the blips on the screen. “Comm, let's try this again.” The officer gave another thumbs up, and Athan took a deep breath, steeling himself.

”Vessels of the Cooperative of Systems, you have intruded upon the Holy Ugor Homeland. You dare to defile our Sacred and Ancestral Habitat. 'Peace' is only the messenger of death. State your true intentions.”

Blakeley was smirking, reading the layout of the approaching Ugor vessels. Athan's features had curled into a scowl, however, and he was obviously not enjoying this. “I believe we possess the unique opportunity to offer each other something we each require. Please, stand down your attack and listen, only for a moment.”

“Ugor vessels are breaking from their intercept vectors, Sir,” The sensor officer reported, more to Athan than to anyone else. “But they're getting friends from . . . all over the place. If they decide to attack, they're going to have a whole lot more firepower on their hands before too long.”

Athan and Blakeley nodded in unison, but only Blakeley seemed to notice, casting a disapproving glare at the Ryn, who didn't notice that either. “We can hurt them a lot more than they can hurt us,” Athan said quietly, trying to reassure himself more than anything.

“Speak, servile Coalition dog.”

“Servile, even?” Blakeley remarked sarcastically and quietly.

“I'd prefer to speak in person,” Athan prodded, hoping this would work out. “My team and I would be more than willing to meet you on one of your vessels.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which more Ugor vessels assembled themselves in a quickly-forming sphere of potential enemy craft. “You shall have your audience,” The faceless voice replied, and immediately a single Ugor vessel broke from the formation and moved a few kilometers closer.

“Thank you,” Athan said politely, turning to leave the bridge.

“Understand this,” Blakeley spoke up, his voice carrying a very evident threat. “Any action taken against the Cooperative delegation will be considered an act of aggression against the Cooperative Fleet, and we will respond with the full force of our capacity.”

Oh, that'll help, Athan thought as he ran down the corridor, hoping to get to the Ugor ship before anyone messed things up too badly.

“What are you doing! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” Athan reached down and scooped the screaming Squib up, throwing him over his shoulders and continuing to run down the hallway.

“I've got everything under control, Juri.”

“Blow them out of the system! Burn 'em to space dust!”

“There's another way, Juri.”

“They'll knife 'ya in the back. They'll stab out your eyes! Don't give 'em the chance! Filthy, Ugor scum!”

Athan was struggling to hold on to the fighting Squib's arms, but absolutely refusing to slow down. “Juri, do you have any idea what they've been through over the past few years?”

“They deserve every bit of it! They're not dead yet! They deserve more!”

Athan hurled the Squib into the back of the transport, waving everyone else on board. “Let's go, people! We've got work to do!” He jumped on and shouted for the pilot to take off. Oh, this was going to get interesting.

The Ugor were indeed a peculiar race. Two meters in diameter, the amorphous beings claimed to be massive single-celled organisms. Despite the impossibility of this claim, a number of respectable xenobiologists―including a number of Imperials―supported the claim (probably as a result of bribery or other coercion.) Why the Ugor so fervently maintained this foolish claim, no one was sure.

They were, however, a rather interesting oddity, if one could overlook their rather social order. They possessed the ability to contort into a number of shapes, often using humanoid space suits to mold them into a more standard form. Their cellular structure was believed to be dissimilar to most life, and the effectiveness of the Squib people's tensor weapon technology seemed to support that claim. They possessed no discernible head, only a number of eyestalks protruding from their otherwise amorphous bodies.

Of course, none of that mattered at the moment, because a dozen of them had an array of rather impressive weapons leveled at Athan and his small team. I'm just glad I left Juri in the shuttle. Athan and his team had raised their hands slowly, not wanting to provoke the Ugor.

“Filthy Ryn,” A commlink-type device clipped onto one of the Ugors' space suits said.

“You're calling me filthy? Seriously?” They snapped their weapons into firing position, and Athan stuck out his arms. “Hey hey hey! Okay! Okay! I'm a stinky Ryn, I got it!” He lowered his hands slowly. “But I've got something to offer you, and I think you should consider it before you start shooting and get yourselves killed.”

“Speak.”

“The Cooperative knows what's been going on here. It understands the pressures that have been building on your people, and it has identified the people who have begun attacking you. Now I have no idea how you fended them off last time―”

“We rammed them.” The simple statement expressed just how desperate the Ugor must be getting, especially considering the race's selfish nature.

“Okay, okay; I'll keep that in mind.”

“You would be wise to do so.”

Athan nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, but this is what we're getting at: we want to help you.”

“Why?”

“Juri!” The little Squib ran out from the transport, skittering nervously up to Athan, where he stood behind the Ryn , absolutely terrified of the Ugor.

Every one of the Ugor tensed at the sight of the Squib, and Athan knew that this was going to be very difficult. “The Cooperative is in a position to end the Squib/Ugor conflict, and allow both of your peoples to carry on with what they do, unhindered by the other, and free of the threat of war.”

“Why should we trust you?

Athan coughed lightly. “Well, because we're offering to protect you from the people trying to destroy your way of life, and . . . neither of us wants to try to kill the other.”

“What do you gain from this?

Athan frowned. “What, you mean besides your eternal gratitude and unwavering friendship?” He countered sarcastically, then turned very serious. “An outpost on the system's periphery and limited authority to monitor and police your activities.”

A deep, roaring laugh emitted from the voice synthesizer, to which Athan simply shook his head. “Look, I'm getting the very real sense that you aren't the person I need to be talking to, so here's the deal: let me talk to someone who matters.”

“Why don't I just shoot you here and space you now?”

“Because,” Athan said forcefully, balling his fist and shaking it once for emphasis. “Someone's going to come here to kill you very soon, and they possess weapons and technology that far outmatch your . . . Black Hole-class Salvage Dreadnoughts.” He didn't seem to be getting through to the blobs. Athan rubbed his face, sighed heavily, scratched the end of his nose, sighed again, made some odd grasping hand gestures, closed his eyes, sighed again, and tried once more. “Okay. How about . . . hmm. Okay, let's make sure you don't die, and then we can decide if you want to kill us or not. At the moment, however, we're gathering every weapon in the system into a nice hole, where nothing exists at all, and we're sitting there. What do you say? How about we give this a try?”





The Ugor had demanded that they keep Juri as a hostage, which led Athan to demand that he stay with Juri. The Ugor vessel had agreed to stay out of combat, so long as the Cooperative task force made good on its promise to defend them from the impending attack.

Admiral Blakeley had remained on the bridge of his Star Destroyer for the past twelve hours, carefully monitoring every corner of the Paradise System. The Ugor had pulled their vessels back to their homeworld and a few of their most precious piles of trash, including a moderately impressive hub-type construct ringed with tractor beams, which held streams of rubbish in eccentric and shifting artificial orbits. They had managed to scrounge up a few true defense vessels, though most of them looked like they had been recovered from the maw of a black hole or had had one too many close encounters with meteor storms.

The Ugor had been in a state of decline for years, since the fall of the original Empire. The waste management contracts they once held under the Empire vaporized, and the New Order's internalized economic system had prevented the Ugor from reclaiming their former status once the Empire had risen back to dominance. With the Outer Rim becoming more and more dangerous and the Ugor vessels growing more and more outdated, it was only a matter of time before some star-hopping band of would-be tyrants stumbled upon Paradise, and realized the potential wealth stored in the system's overflowing trash heaps.

An organization known as the Brotherhood of Wrath had been carrying out a siege of sorts against the Ugor for months now, swooping in from time to time, tearing through the aging Ugor vessels before running away to treat whatever minor wounds their unspectacular but comparatively overwhelming vessels might have sustained.

Blakeley felt that the term “pirate” was very much overused by the galaxy at large, and this was one such time that it might be misused. The Brotherhood of Wrath was not a pirate organization; it was something more sinister. They carried out their tactics with an intent and a precision that put them on a whole new level. The Brotherhood of Wrath didn't exploit opportunities, it made opportunities to exploit. They had every intention of grinding down the Ugor for months more, on and on without relent, tearing into the isolated and unequipped people whose greed and manipulative nature had cut them off from even the most sympathetic of peoples.

No, the Brotherhood of Wrath were not pirates. They did not pillage and plunder; they razed. They scorched earth and felled societies, and in their wrath they reaped the rewards stewarded by now-dead hands. It was from the burning embers of their victims that they prized away their so carefully chosen rewards. They would grind the Ugor's pitiful defenses to dust, and then they would claim their spoils.

But the Cooperative was now aware of the threat they posed, and here these vile brutes would be stopped. This had become more than an issue of appeasing the Squib king; the Brotherhood of Wrath had to be stopped, not to win over the favor of the Ugor, but to dole out Justice to those who believed they were beyond it's grasp. This Brotherhood would burn.

“They're here.”

Blakeley nodded grimly to his sensor operator, glancing around to make sure everyone was ready. The Star Destroyer was hiding behind a large asteroid's shadow, its location carefully hidden from the encroaching enemy. Three squadrons of starfighters were spread throughout the system, hiding in the debris, scanning the enemy and transmitting information to the hidden task force.

A half dozen Ugor vessels served as the bait, diligently stripping anything of worth from a string of debris. The Ugor responded as they normally did, so as not to alert the approaching enemy. The Ugor salvage vessels poured from wherever they happened to be, grouping up haphazardly and continuing the charge. Though the Ugor's religious order constructed around the acquisition and display of the filth that floated through their world was largely an illusory construct they used when dealing with outside sources, the Ugor nevertheless viewed the incursion of unauthorized beings into their system as an unforgivable crime. Even when so vastly outmatched, the Ugor would fight relentlessly against an encroaching foe.

Fortunately, today would be a massacre of the wrathful. “Now would be good,” Blakeley said simply, and the comm officer nodded in understanding, issuing the Admiral's command. Having been drawn deep into the cluttered Paradise System, the loose formation of enemy vessels would be unable to make a quick escape. The smaller vessels of the Cooperative task force began to make themselves known, moving in from all directions to corral and neutralize the threat.

Blakeley issued his declaration immediately, using two strategically placed vessels to bounce his comm signal around the asteroid. “To the vessels and crews of the Brotherhood of Wrath, this is Admiral Jonathan Blakeley of the Cooperative of Systems. Stand down and surrender immediately, and we need not spill blood today. You have been trapped; there is no shame in submitting to justice.”

There was a moment when the incoming enemy vessels realized what was happening, a moment when they all seemed to waver slightly, spread apart a little, and then tighten up in an instant as they realized they would be torn to shreds if they split apart. They remained locked on their target, forcing the Ugor vessels to flee at best possible speeds. A pair of Coalition Lancer frigates had opened up to maximum acceleration, pulling ahead of their counterparts and placing themselves between the Ugor and the encroaching vessels.

The ships of the Brotherhood were small and mismatched, a half dozen or so corvettes and a pair of light cruiser analogs making up the largest of its vessels; but the group was large. Impressively so. And they gave no indication that they were going to surrender.

Blakeley had already ordered the remainder of his vessels to break from their hiding places and close in on the hive of Brotherhood ships. “Do not let them escape,” He stated firmly, now chewing furiously on a piece of gum.

The Cooperative force had them outgunned, there was no question about that, but the Brotherhood's heavy numbers made stopping them almost impossible if they chose to flee. Whatever they were doing, it was obvious they weren't going to surrender. The first volleys of fire had been exchanged between the fastest of the Cooperative vessels and the most long-range of the Brotherhood's turrets. There was a fight to be had.

The fight had gotten pretty nasty, with the Coalition command ships still out of range and the Brotherhood absolutely refusing to surrender (or even respond). They were moving generally away from the Coalition's two largest ships, smashing their way out of the system and determined to do what damage they could on the way. Their numbers were dropping like flies before the concentrated fire of the Cooperative's forces, but the Brotherhood was doling out damage of their own, mostly to whatever poor Ugor vessels got caught in their path.

The Cooperative was doing all that it could to keep casualties to a minimum, but the Brotherhood's ruthlessness demanded equal retaliation. The Cooperative had lost several fighters, and a couple of its own corvettes had been forced to pull away from the engagement, but the Brotherhood vessels continued to take damage from ion cannons and turbolasers alike, further reducing their numbers, which only seemed to further enrage them. For these people―whoever they were―death was favorable to capture.

An unexpected explosion caught the Admiral's eye as a previously disabled Brotherhood ship exploded, apparently the result of a forced core overload.

Then the first of the Brotherhood vessels cleared the gravitational field and spatial debris of the Paradise System, and jumped into the safe embrace of hyperspace. As the last of the vessels jumped away, a short message was sent throughout the system. “You will be punished!”

And then they were gone.





Seven Ugor vessels had been destroyed in the attack, approximately sixty percent of the Ugor onboard lost. The Cooperative had lost seventeen fighters, with only three pilots having escaped. Another six crewmen had been killed from moderate damage to a few other vessels.

Of the damaged and disabled vessels belonging to the Brotherhood of Wrath, a few others had destroyed themselves soon after their companions had fled, but it became apparent that the surviving members in-system were committed to fighting to the last. After losing five men on boarding operations, Blakeley had given the order to allow the Ugor to cut and blast holes in the Brotherhood ships, venting atmosphere from the derelict craft. As cruel and unusual as it may be, Blakeley was unwilling to sacrifice any more of his men trying to take live captives that would rather be dead.

The Ugor, on the other hand, found it just and appropriate, and probably would have outright destroyed the vessels if Blakeley hadn't wanted them intact.

With joint operations still going on throughout the system, Blakeley had returned his attention to the two Cooperative hostages in Ugor hands, the Ryn Athan and the Squib Juri. “You must pursue them” An artificial Ugor voice said over the comm.

“Oh, they will be stopped,” Blakeley assured the Ugor. “But the Cooperative can not and will not maintain a military presence in a system that has no ties to it. We have proven to you our goodwill; it is time to reopen negotiations.”

“Hi, Admiral,” Athan's familiar voice sounded through the comm, his miniature holo appearing a second later. “We're fine over here . . . both of us. The Ugor have treated us just fine, considering.”

“And?”

“Uhh,” Athan looked around, searching for something. “They gave me a name . . . well, a title anyway. Look, Admiral, it's like this: if we try to go through channels, this is going to take forever.”

“You have a suggestion?”

The tiny image nodded. “I've been talking to the Ugor over here―they even talked back a little―and they seem to think that a system-wide broadcast is our best way to go. Lay it all out for all of them, spam it to every corner of the system, on every frequency.”

“And nobody's going to mind that?”

“Hey, if they do, it'll take them a year and a half to decide the proper course of action,” He replied, smiling wryly. “These guys have got layers on top of their layers of layered bureaucracy. The catch is: neither of us has the time for that, and―whether they like it or not―they need us. Let's be fair, let's be straightforward, and let's be honest. We can't expect the same from them, but at least we know that.

“Achieving peace with these guys is going to be hard, but we just saved their lives, and they know that. Let's cash in on it while we've got the chance.”

Blakeley nodded slowly. “That's what we're here for, right? What do you need?”

“Care to bounce a signal for me? I think I might still be a prisoner, here.”

Two weeks later, Skor II

“Bring now the quest-object to us and we will keep short end of deal."

Athan stepped forward, extending to the king of the Squib people a thin datapad.

The king took it, glancing at the title and sets of signatures, his face turning immediately into one of rage.

Juri rushed forward. “The Ugor will never again threaten the Squib, so long as the Cooperative stands. The Squib will salvage within, the Ugor without. The line will be held by the Cooperative; they will not fail us. We have nothing to fear; you have brought us peace, king.”

Three Ugor entered the room, guiding a hovercart laden with a large, sealed box. They brought it before the king of their generational enemy, pressing a button and opening it before him. From within appeared a life-sized statue, two figures shaking hands, created from a dazzling array of precious and common metals and minerals. The likeness of King Ebareebaveebeedee was shown shaking hands with an elaborately dressed Ugor, whose garments matched those of one of the Ugor present.

“There remains one signature that this treaty requires,” Athan said, cutting through the king's astonished paralysis.

He glanced about furtively, eying the Ugor disbelievingly. He muttered something in his native language, which Juri was only happy to translate, though he probably shouldn't have. “What's to keep him from just having them shot right now and being done with it?”

“Because I'd have to shoot you back,” Athan said grimly, locking eyes with the Squib king. “I've already signed the treaty. I'm bound to its declarations.”

The Squib king looked back to the datapad, studying it more closely, obviously unconvinced that this wasn't some elaborate ruse. “They will uphold the treaty,” Juri said, pointing to Athan. “Peace is at hand.”

The king turned his attention to the hundreds of Squibs gathered in the grand hall, and though here and there a few cast vengeful glances at the Ugor who had been rushed into their most “Squibbish” realm, the great majority was focused on the king and Athan, bright-eyed and hopeful.

In a flurry of motion, he signed his name to the treaty, standing proudly as he did so and holding it up for all to see. The room full of Squibs immediately erupted into celebration; the Garbage Wars were at an end.

In the midst of all of the commotion, Juri managed to stay composed enough to remember what was going on. He approached the king slowly, accepting from him a datapad, which he immediately handed over to Athan. “All of our star charts,” Juri said happily. “Even the good ones.”

Athan looked down at the (obviously recycled) datapad, marveling at the number of entries and sub-tabs on the index. The Squibs had been around.

“You should have been there when the King realized there was a reciprocation clause concerning the Ugor gift.” Juri chuckled, piloting the Squib shuttle haphazardly as he shouted over his shoulder.

Athan, sitting somewhat comfortably on a supply crate, stared out of the small viewport in front of him, wondering where the crazy Squib was taking him. “I'm sure the king's mad he had that statue of me made now; no self-respecting Ugor is going to want a statue of a Ryn, so there's no chance of recycling that blunder.” Athan chuckled himself.

“You have been granted a great honor, Athan. Few before you have been gifted such a high post before the Squib people. 'Big Time Hero of Beyond-Squib Eliteness.' It may sound silly to you, but in Squibbian it is a most honored word.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Athan said, sitting back as he decided there was no point in straining his neck, trying to see where Juri was taking him. “I hear you're doing rather well for yourself, though.”

“Oh, yeah, you bet,” He said excitedly. Juri was always happy to talk about himself. “They gave me a brand-new job; let's see if I can translate the name right. Umm, yeah, here it is: 'Procurator of Friendly-Signed Colectivity Rights.'”

“Don't even pretend like I'm supposed to know what that means.”

Juri laughed at Athan's snide remark. “I'm a, umm . . . liaison―yeah, that's the word―liaison between the Squib and our Coalition business partners.”

“Diplomatic job, huh? I know how much fun that can be.”

“Oh yeah, diplomatic; I get a Fizz-Pop Cap―with foil cluster, even. I'm a good ole', genuine Squibbish official, you bet.”

Athan smirked. “So did I make good on my promise? Are you bringing in the big numbers now?”

“Oh, you bet; you bet! I get a . . . a . . . commission―yeah, a commission―off of every deal I cut.”

Athan smiled wryly. “I'm glad to see you profiting off of all my hard work, Juri. Really, I am.”

Juri started laughing, the kind of laugh that lets everyone around know that its owner knows something the rest of them don't. Athan wasn't amused. “Alright, I give up: what's going on here.”

Juri simply pointed out of the viewport. Athan's eyes focused on the massive object so far away, barely able to make out its shape due to a combination of deep shadows and missing parts. “What the . . .”

“Yep, Lucrehulk-class LH-3210 cargo freighter, you bet. Modified for combat by our great friends, the Trade Federation, and employed in the Clone Wars' Battle of Skor II.”

Athan was dumbfounded. “I don't understand.”

“It's yours.”

“What?”

“You bet!”

Athan's mind was reeling. “Juri, what are you talking about?”

Juri smiled mischievously. “The first rule of Squib bargaining: if something is free, then it's a good deal. You're a hero of the Squib people, Athan; this is our gift to you.”

The Ryn couldn't believe it. “What am I supposed to do with a battle-scarred, half-scavenged, broken-down, outdated, kilometers-long crate, Juri?”

“It works, mostly,” Juri retorted. “The important parts, anyway . . . mostly. The engines are there, the main reactor is there. . . life support, most of the gravity plating . . . the command ship for it's around here somewhere.” He was talking about it as if it were some kind of toy.

“You're trying to give me a broken warship with all of the war stripped off of it. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Juri was looking a little disappointed. “I can get it fixed up real nice for you, you bet. It'll take me a while, though.”

“What is this? Are you reverse bargaining with me now? You're going to give me extra stuff because I wouldn't take the free ship by itself?”

Juri just smiled.

“Juri: look at me. Look at me.” Juri turned around in his seat to look squarely at Athan. “I-DON'T-BELIEVE-YOU.”

The shuttle had been drifting closer to the massive Trade Federation vessel this whole time, and the ship now stretched across the entire viewport. “Look,” Juri said, pointing at the ship. “See all of the movement? We're getting it ready for you.”

Athan's eyes focused on the specks buzzing about the warship, hundreds―probably thousands―of them. Everything from Squibs in space suits to Squib salvage ships, all running about wildly, apparently doing exactly what Juri said they were.

Juri nodded to himself. “Yeah, you're gonna need a crew.”

Epilogue

Paradiso, Ugor home world

The Ugor had been kind enough to pump their world's toxic atmosphere out of the Holly Ugor Taxation Collection Agency's central office, allowing the small Squib delegation to proceed without the use of environmental suits. On a throne larger, more expensive, and obviously newer (maybe three days old) than the Squib king's, a single Ugor “sat,” having reverted to his amorphous blob form. Behind them floated a crate not unlike the one a trio of Ugor had brought into the Squib king's chambers only a few days ago, except for the fact that this one was easily three times the size.

King Ebareebaveebeedee of Skor II stepped boldly forward, gesturing first to the Ugor and then to the crate, which proceeded to disassemble itself in an orderly fashion. It revealed a trio of figures attached to a solid base, all made of an array of materials that rivaled the Ugor-given statue of the Squib king (except being considerably larger, of course). The likeness of the Ryn Athan stood in the foreground, shoulders squared and arms crossed at his chest. To the left was the Squib king, striking a ridiculous and grandiose pose.

And in a rather un-Squibbish turn of events, the Ugor was not made to look like a blundering fool . . . well it was, but not intentionally: the Squib had portrayed the Ugor in a humanoid form, wearing the elaborate dress of the Ugor who had presented the Squib king with his statue. He was standing with his fingerless hands on his hips, his entire body arched back to give the headless creature the illusion of staring into space, half of its eyestalkes fixed firmly on the heavens while the others hung limp and unused. He looked like some hideous beast masquerading as a child's superhero, but the Squibs seemed proud of it, and the blob on the throne didn't seem to mind the pose.

The two rulers offered the briefest of exchanges, then the Squib delegation turned and made their way quickly out of the grand chamber. King Ebaree smiled to himself as they crossed the archway leading out of the room: the foolish Ugor didn't know that the statue's core was made up of a low density foam worth a grand total of maybe five credits.

Of course, if the King had known that the beautiful and elaborate statue of him that had been given by the Ugor had a core made of low-radiation waste metals, maybe he wouldn't have been so happy. The war was over, but the battle of dull wits and childish play was still on.