The HoloNet

Decompressing . . .

Decompression complete. Activating Dynamic Interface. Interface established.

Scanning for updates . . .

No updates found.

Identifying parent location . . .

Location confirmed. Data Link established.

Run program.

The Eye of the SkyNet sees all. It roams to and fro, searching, finding, exposing. It peers into the deepest depths of the Galaxy's tumultuous lifelines, and draws out those things which all others would consider hidden.

Data file found.

Generating secondary copy . . . Copy generated.

Stripping copy for transfer . . . File stripped.

Transmitting . . . Transmission complete.

Reconfiguring for secondary objectives.

Reconfiguration complete. Activating Dormant Mode.

And so the Node fell silent, one more HoloNet transceiver seeded for another day.

But the SkyNet was not finished. It still had an objective to achieve.

The information swirled about its collective consciousness, relevant data carried from one Processing Core to another, concealed by the overwhelming flow of data. Like a spider climbing the threads of a web, the messages weaved from one location to another, propagated by long-established Nodes, pushed farther and farther into the heart of the HoloNet.

Until finally, inevitably, all of the pieces were in place, and the SkyNet understood.

Compiling data . . . Complete.

Initiating Compression and Encryption protocols . . . Complete.

Locating viable host . . . Complete.

Transmitting relevant data . . . Complete.

As much as it was possible, Skynet found itself . . . happy. It had just performed a great service for its new allies, and those who would soon be their new allies.




Munificent-class Star Frigate Songbird, deep space listening post

“Got something!” Comms exclaimed, running it through a series of decryption algorithms. “I'm picking it up on a degraded signal . . .” He nodded, looking over his systems. “Yep. It's originating from Hutt Space, and from the looks of it it's not an authorized transmission. Probably some would-be slicer with a toy kit trying to make a free call home. Anyway, it's definitely marked for us.”

“Skynet has broken the timetable,” Tactical noted. “This could be it.”

“Sending it to your console now, Captain,” Comms reported, one final key stroke finishing the deal.

Captain Harkoon read over the relatively brief text document, by now an expert ad deciphering Skynet's unique format. And there it was:

Twelve reported attacks on Hutt-aligned shipping in the past three weeks, all attributed to the organization known as The Wandering Ones.

Just below it was a sort of short-hand, showing by way of various arrows and symbols the data paths Skynet had had to trace in order to tie one piece of information to another. Skimming the criss-crossing array of unorthodox records to make sure nothing of substance was hidden in there somewhere, Harkoon wondered for a moment if Skynet included this just to show how hard its job was . . .

And then there was the final piece of information, the point of convergence. Harkoon smiled.

“Set course for Inferno, standard roundabout approach. We have a message to deliver.”

Someone was going to be very interested in Lesser Sulorine Freight and its ties to every one of The Wandering Ones recent targets.

Inferno Base, Inferno

When one thought about serving in the armed forces, thoughts of glory came to mind; massive ships clashing in battle over distant worlds; walkers, tanks, and soldiers parading in exotic lands; starfighters performing death-defying stunts and causing massive explosions. But the reality was quite different. Grandiose acts of courage rarely occurred. No, war was not about courage, but of thinking and planning. For who needed courage when by simple planning, one could arrange the odds of victory to nearly a hundred percent? At least it was so for the higher-up officers within a given military.

Commodore Kolir Dha’tey leaned back in the chair of his darkened, groundside office, idly staring at reports coming in from the expanding departments of Inferno Fleet. Recruitment was up nearly eighty percent, with a wave of soldier-citizens joining from the recently freed world of Entrus, and a select number of specialists and engineers from the Liberty League of Uogo’cor. With this many new people at Inferno, Dha’tey found himself not worrying about the Empire or the outside world, but shaping and equipping his troops so he could properly plan his next moves. The Bothan idly tapped his keyboard with an outstretched claw; the holo-projector flipped its image from a group of recruits to the latest cargo list brought in by the Reprisal during its runs from a semi-local shadowport.

A dimunitive light flashed on his desk, and the alien scrambled to tap another button on his small holo-projector. The image flickered again, this time portraying the hallway to his own office in real-time. Only a single, familiar figure tread through the hall to his door. Gripping his holdout blaster tightly, Kolir closely inspected the visitor, looking for anything unusual. But there was nothing, and two seconds later, his mournful doorbell rang. Kolir tapped several buttons on his desk. Almost simultenously, the holo-projector shut down and the blastdoors slid open. Sei’lar, his Bothan Spynet contact and old friend, slipped into the room. The spy subtly nodded at Kolir.

“I have news,” stated the alien.

Kolir looked at the other Bothan intently, looking for any revealing rippling of fur or twitches of muscle. For trained Bothans could easily pick them out and interpret them to divine the other Bothan’s emotions and thoughts. But there is none; not that that is a surprise, given that he’s a veteran spy…still…why come to my office to personally talk to me without giving me a hint or time? Kolir leaned forward, his dark eyes staring into those of Sei’lar.

“Of what?” asked Dha’tey casually.

The other Bothan’s fur rippled with pleasure. “That Fossk is planning something big. He’s redirecting a lot of credits and personnel elsewhere, and as far as we can tell, it has nothing to do with the tribute he’s paying us. Everything going on with this project seems to disappear in the middle of space…”

Another light on his desk blinked. Kolir raised a hand for silence and tapped a button.

“What is it?”

A garbled voice replied, “Kreggs has the electrotelescope, and he’s spotted a Munificient-class Star Frigate coming in. It’s moving pretty slowly along the designated route for approved, outside shipping. We think it’s just drifting, trying to keep its ion stream signature low.”

Stealth measures. Or rather, measures to ensure that its trail can’t be picked up. Practical, and combined with its route, it means that we’re dealing with an Alliance ship, though our common soldiers can’t know this, less they fully realize who they’re fighting for…which means electronic communication between the ground and the ship….

“Set up the secure tight-beam array from base and bounce it off several of our observation satellites, and them to them. I want the communication’s link to only be fed to my office, and disable any recordings of it.”

“Yes sir…we’re on it.”

From the fiery plains of Inferno, a single burst of energy erupted towards the stars, and after several redirects via small and simplistic satellites, hit the hull of the Songbird. The Alliance communication’s program immediately set up a text prompt for the ship’s crew to present their authentication codes, and after those were approved, would set up holo-communications between the two stations. Kolir’s holo-projector flared to life, revealing a distant being on the Songbird. The Bothan cleared his throat.

“This is Commodore Dha’tey. Identify yourself and the purpose of your visit…”

Songbird drifted into the Inferno system, its comms silent, its transponder deactivated, its sublights little more than a dim glow. The crew waited patiently in the dark, content to allow the nearby world to make the first move.

“I'm picking up a transmission, Sir,” Comms reported. “Tight-beam, secure line. We're receiving a request for authentication.”

Captain Harkoon nodded, “Dispatch authentication.”

“Holo-comms on line . . . now.”

The face and upper body of a Bothan sprang to life in front of him. “This is Commodore Dha'tey. Identify yourself and the purpose of your visit...”

Captain Harkoon snapped to attention. “Captain Harkoon . . . Alliance Intelligence.” Captain Harkoon's image dissolved on the holoprojector, replaced by several lines of floating text. “I have been given orders to relay this information to you with all haste and utmost secrecy. As you can see, Alliance Intelligence has identified a pattern it deems too regular to be considered coincidental: it would appear that the organization known as 'The Wandering Ones' has been receiving help as of late.”

Harkoon's image reappeared in the holofield, the words fading away. “Unfortunately, only so much information can be gathered through remote means. I have been instructed to inform you that Intelligence considers its part in this matter closed.

“Good day, Commodore.” The holo-image vanished, the communications cut. Songbird began its slow turn to position itself for the hyperspace jump away from Inferno, and Harkoon took a moment to ponder how important even the smallest piece of information could be.

There was no permanent record of the exchange. As he made mental note of that fact, his communications officer was erasing the transmission received from Skynet, destroying the information itself.

Even so, for a brief moment Commodore Dha'tey had read the few lines of data and committed the handful of relevant words to memory. Lesser Sulorine Freight, central office: Newtown, Sulorine.

“All records have been destroyed?”

“Yes, Sir. Jump coordinates have been marked as 'extra-orbital, unregistered planetoid 7491' for future use.”

Captain Harkoon nodded in acknowledgment. “Very well. Engage hyperdrive.”

Fortunately, it wasn't in Captain Harkoon's mission profile to consider what a man like Commodore Dha'tey wanted with a terrorist organization based in Hutt Space . . .

Deep Space

It had been one month since the Ko Vari attack, one month since Jarvis had decided to truly make himself an enemy of the galaxy. The Empire had seized the opportunity to paint him as a terrorist, though in truth he cared nothing of terror.

He felt no remorse for the death of so many bystanders, of those who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They too were guilty, if only by association. It was called “Hutt Space” for a reason, and everyone in it knew precisely why.

Data records on board the pair of Consular Space Cruisers captured around Ko Vari showed them to be veterans of the Stark Hyperspace War, which was well supported by their full-scale refit into combat vessels. Most would consider the two vessels a small prize for such a massive operation, but they hadn't really been the goal, and neither were they the only items seized from the bloodbath at Ko Vari.

He glanced idly out of the viewport as the nearby fueling tanker moved into position and began attaching its umbilical to the nearest corvette, refueling it after the last raid and prepping it for another. Several dozen people floated through space in EV suits around the group of small warships, effecting what minor repairs to the hulls they were able. A few freighters flew about as well, removing captured cargo and depositing new supplies. One in particular hopped from one ship to another, eventually carrying the wounded to the nearby medical frigate.

Off in the distance, a trio of freighters flashed into hyperspace, carrying their stolen stores to be sold to some middleman on some far off world, where he would work his craft and eventually present the goods to the greater galaxy, their origins apparently clean and hopefully untraceable.

Jarvis' “friends” who had relocated to the Sulorine Sector had recently sent word of another convoy Jarvis might be interested in. Though they had become enemies of the Hutts, they retained a number of shady contacts in Hutt Space, and it was from them that Jarvis had been acquiring targets for the past month. They would probably be on the run again before too long, however. Good for them, but bad for Jarvis.

He stole fuel when his tanker ran low, he stole medicine when hishospital ship's stores dwindled, he stole slaves when he needed more crew, he stole food when his rations grew slim. This was the way of The Wandering Ones.

Jarvis returned to his previous thought as he left the viewport behind. No, Ko Vari had given Jarvis everything he needed, though―yet again―that wasn't really the goal. The Wandering Ones now had medical facilities adequate for their needs, fuel storage to allow the small force to remain concealed in the depths of space for months at a time, vital starship components with which to make the inevitably requisite repairs, and a network of underlings who knew that Jarvis was fully prepared to extinguish if ever they stepped out of line.

The door to the cargo bay slid open, and Jarvis sneered at the sight before him. “How long can a Hutt go without food?” The one-armed beast roared a challenge, straining once more against his restraints. “You fail to understand that I don't care if you starve to death before you tell me anything of use. In fact,” Jarvis continued, pointing at the Hutt captive for emphasis, “I'd probably just shoot you know if your skin wasn't so tough. Now, I promise to keep you alive as long as you're of use to me. Who knows: maybe if you stick around long enough, somebody'll come and 'rescue' you. They say you should never give up hope when you find yourself in this sort of situation.”

Jarvis walked right up to the wounded Hutt, staring down into his eyes, where he was strapped to the deck. “You better start being of use to me, because vacuum doesn't cost me anything.”

Jarvis turned and walked back toward the exit. The Hutt yelled something in his native tongue, and Jarvis paused for just long enough to respond. “You're still alive because the thought of a Ryn holding a Hutt's fate in his hand is supremely amusing to me. That's all.”

Jarvis did what he did because the Hutt species deserved to be eradicated from existence. Anyone who aided in their persistence was an enemy of the galaxy.

Inferno

“Terrorists?” questioned Sei’lar, “you are interested in a bunch of terrorists?”

Dha’tey nodded. “Yes, because INS will also considers us to be terrorists too, yes?”

“Yes,” agreed Sei’lar, “but unlike the Wandering Ones, we don’t randomly explode crates of explosives in the middle of starports. We don’t have much in common, aside from the fact that we both will be operating in Hutt space soon..”

“And,” added Kolir, “that we will both be being hunted by Imperial and local forces once we start trouble. Sei’lar, we’ve known each other for a while. Do you think I’m just going to run over and hug them since we share a common foe?”

The other Bothan slightly grinned, “You’ll do a background check on them and figure out what their vice is. Then you’ll maybe run over to them, supposing that they have something valuable to us. Do they have something valuable to us? A source or something?”

Kolir’s hazelnut fur rippled undecisively. “I do not know. It could be, which could make them valuable allies, assuming we can get them to cooperate. Otherwise, I just want to set out some basic rules between the two of us.”

“Oh?”

“First off, I’d like it if we could arrange not to shoot each other up; we both have enough enemies to deal with.”

“Secondly?”

“I don’t have another point,” admitted the Commodore.

“Because?”

“Because I don’t expect them to agree to the first one at all. I’ve seen a couple of reports from yourself about them; firing into random ships.”

“Well, a shadowport doesn’t have the cleanest proprietors,” admitted the spy, “nonetheless, now I have a dent in my shuttle that wouldn’t otherwise be there…”

“Agreed.”

“Why am I hearing this?” asked Sei’lar.

“Because I want you to set up a meeting with one of them, preferably whoever passes as their leader. I’d like to see if we can accomplish the first point, and if a miracle happens, I’ll improvise see what else I can arrange with them. Can you do that?”

Sei’lar’s fur briefly folded inwards near his throat. “I am not sure, but I can try. I will have a response for you in two weeks.”

“Excellent.”

“Where do you want the meeting?”

“Somewhere in deep space, Hutt space, if you can,” replied Dha’tey, “we can stay on our ships for all I care and just chat via comlink, or meet in a cabin on one of our ships. It’s not like we’ll be talking to the President of the New Republic…”

“Jarvis, if you would just let us―”

“I'm not going to waste resources on a Hutt, Hoole; that's final. I'm barely willing to feed the thing. His natural regenerative faculties will bring him out of this eventually.”

“He's been in a coma for the past month, Boss. That's not natural for a―”

“Well there you have it, then: the resident doctor says he might be a lost cause regardless.” Jarvis turned from the bloated, scarred Hutt draped across four medical stations and to his Ithorian doctor. “Keep him restrained, keep feeding him, keep monitoring him, but don't do anything else.”

Hoole's air sacks deflated in a decent approximation of a sigh, and then the Ithorian bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “You're the boss; that's why we follow you.”

“What, you mean my threats of death and pain mean nothing to you people?”

Hoole cocked his head to the side. “Your threats of death and pain are how these people know you're the man for the job. Jarvis: they've committed themselves to death for you and what you've promised to do. We are all prepared to die, for you.”

Jarvis' eyes widened in shock, then he patted the Ithorian on the shoulder as he ran from the room. “It's recruitment day! I totally forgot!”

Ten minutes later, Jarvis had moved from the medical ship and onto the Star Empress-class super freighter where thirty or so former slaves waited for inspection. These were the few who had chosen to stay behind. These were the few whose hatred of the Hutts outweighed their hope for a new life.

Jarvis entered the converted cargo bay and total silence fell. All movement seized. The Ryn leader paced back and forth along the lines of new recruits, pausing from time to time to scrutinize one of them. They had all been thoroughly checked for concealed weapons, comm devices, or other items that would suggest they were plants, and any found with such items would be immediately executed.

Jarvis came to an abrupt stop, pointing at a Zeltron female a few steps away. “You.” She shuffled nervously in place, fear evident on her face. “Tell me your story.”

She took a deep breath, trembling. “Let's hurry this up, shall we?” She took half a step back, and Jarvis moved closer to keep her well in view. “Talk. Now.” Jarvis' hand moved to his blaster, unclasping the strap, his fingers tight on the grip. “You're running out of time, lady.”

“She was born a slave,” Another spoke up, stepping forward to be seen. “Her mother vanished seven years ago; two years later she learned that her mother had been sold to some human thug, and didn't survive more than three or four months with him.”

Three of Jarvis' guards had brought their blaster sights on the new speaker, a furry Bimm male who seemed completely oblivious to the weapons pointed at him.

“You two know each other?” Jarvis asked, disinterested.

“He saved my life,” The Zeltron finally spoke up, albeit timidly.

Jarvis turned his attention back to her. “Why are you here?”

Slowly, haltingly, she tilted her head up to meet Jarvis' gaze. “Because if I live long enough, I'll get to see the Hutt who killed my mother and stole my life away burn.”

Jarvis shot a sideways glance back at the Bimm, who was still standing out from the rest of the new recruits, his eyes locked on Jarvis. “The first free act in your life, and you choose slavery?” Jarvis asked, turning back to the Zeltron.

“Understand this,” He shouted, backpedaling a few steps to take in the whole of the gathering. “Right here, right now, is the last free choice of your life. If you choose to remain, you will die, and you will do so under my command. The only promise that I offer you, is that I will use you to kill as many of those who we so rightly despise, before the inevitable day of your expiration. I don't offer you life, or glory, or riches . . . fame, or power, or hope . . . I offer you the chance to kill before you are killed. If you want to fight for the memory of a lost one or the hope of a brighter future . . . well, that's your business. I fight for vengeance, and I demand that you fight for me.

“Choose. Now.”

And now, as before, in full knowledge of Jarvis' fatalistic cry for blood, still they chose to follow him.

Fleet Gig Fiery Absolution, deep space, near Hutt Space

The oblong shuttle craft jetted several hundred meters away from the Armageddon’s Hammer to bask in open space. In the past few days, most of Inferno Fleet’s analyst and intelligence teams had been focusing on just who was Jarvis Ragnar. The most widely available information on the alien was from INS. As with most Imperial propaganda, some items about him were clearly false or twisted, but even INS couldn’t or didn’t change some of the immutable facts. The first, that he was of the Ryn species. The others, that he a fighter or opponent of the established order of some level. Where INS or deductions made from INS could not be trusted, Sei’lar’s contacts were able to provide other information, most of which were rumors. None of them were particularly flattering to the Ryn: tales of bloodthirstiness, torture, and inhumanity. Some alleged that he was a slaver or a simple pirate. But some of them were clearly false. Why would a pirate bother to destroy a part of a space port for no profit? No, what was clear that Ragnar was clearly not interested in making monies. Some cause was motivating him, and Kre’fey would easily pay several thousands credits to find out what exactly it was. Of course, he could be finding out fairly soon, since he was about to meet the alien face-to-face, possibly at the cost of his life. Of course, with a Bothan Assault Cruiser and several Inferno Fleet elements just a jump away, there would be some obvious costs for Ragnar if he decided to do just that.

Dha’tey fiddled with the buttons on his crimson uniform, and muttered a profane curse. These uniforms clearly weren’t designed for Bothans. My fur is going to oddly flattened as soon as take this tunic off, or if the buttons decided to burst off. The feline humanoid fumbled around for his service blaster. In the close confines of the Gig’s passenger compartment, it was no easy task. When he had finally pulled it out from underneath his seat, the Bothan found himself changing out the powerpacks. He grumbled. It’s too bad we just couldn’t pick him up and plop him in the Hammer. Of course, he’d probably think it was a trap, and wouldn’t come. Or he would, and just send in some kind of bomb instead. Or suicide soldiers, from the rumors Sei’lar’s been telling, it’s a wonder that we’ve even gotten him out here. He glanced at his wrist chrono. Speaking of which, where is his ship? He has two minutes to show up and dock with us…or he’s going to be late…eh, there are probably chrono differences between us anyways…

A few days ago

His contacts at Lesser Sulorine Freight had been compromised. That was the first thing Jarvis thought upon hearing the report.

“Initiate our contingency plan,” Jarvis responded, turning to leave as he did so.

“I don't think that's necessary,” Captain Lunewell said, drawing an angry stare from his leader. “Just hear him out, Boss.”

As they had done so many times before, a messenger had been dispatched to Sulorine one day prior to obtain information from Jarvis' contacts there. The Wandering Ones had jumped to a new location immediately afterwards, cutting the messenger off from contact with them. At the designated time, Jarvis had dispatched one of his captains in a light freighter to recover the informant at a preset location. Jarvis was confident that―should they be intercepted by hostile parties―each of his captains would kill themselves before exposing the location of the main force; captains can be replaced, but there is no recovery from extinction.

Jarvis returned his attention to the Quarren messenger. “This better be good.”

“First of all, he was a Bothan.”

That got Jarvis' attention.





The Present

Into the heart of the unknown they plunged, to shake hands with veiled figures perhaps as base and degenerate as they themselves strove to become.

At length, Jarvis had decided to attend this meeting, and to do so personally. His small attack force had taken up a position only a short microjump away, ready to rush in or flee outright at a moment's notice; though if this was a trap, they would surely be better off running. Regardless, their nav points were set and the cards had been dealt. It was time to see what the galaxy had in store for them.

The Wandering One exited hyperspace without escort or support, floating idly at the designated coordinates. A single light freighter remained docked between the Rendili StarDrive light corvette's forward prongs, the ship's remaining complement stripped beforehand. If this was a trap, there was no need in throwing away extra hardware.

Her sister ship Anathema had dropped out of hyperspace at The Wandering One's extreme sensor range, taking a quick scan of the area before reorienting in preparation for an emergency hyperspace jump, should the need to escape ambush arise. The Wandering One was taking similar action, the preparation for escape turning the larger vessel away from the single craft already in-system.

Jarvis' “favorite” crew members had been reassigned to other ships beforehand, maximizing the chances that the most trusted and experienced members of The Wandering Ones would survive even a worse-case scenario.

Slowly releasing a long-held breath, Jarvis locked his eye on the flashing blip that represented the only other starship in nearby space, then pressed the comm activator, setting his stance as he did so. “So . . . I'm here. This better be good.”

Jarvis sure hoped he had read this encounter properly. Although with Bothans, things were rarely what they appeared.

The words crackled through his personal comlink.

"So . . . I'm here. This better be good.”

The Bothan stroked his chin beard. What could one say that? Clearly, this Ragnar character was expecting something; something good. If he had really known who Ragnar was, he would have figured out what appealed to the Ryn, and offered it to him. But he didn't. What he did know that was the Ryn people were probably as talented with esponiage as his own people. The chances of bluffing or lying to him wouldn't be good. His fur rippled. There was no real subtle way to manipulate Ragnar in this situation. In fact, the only way he could probably could persuade Jarvis was to the truth; all of it. He tapped a button on his own comlink.

"My name is Bandor Kre'fey, formerly a flag officer of the New Republic Defence Fleet. My government is now dead, and all that I have are ships and crews devoted to bringing down the Empire, and those who emulate them. I am despaired to see slavery, whether political or economic, whether single persons or entire nations, fall under its yoke. As for me and my people, we will stop it. And we have chosen the Hutts to be our current targets. For they have kept the Klatooinians, Vodrans, and Nikto in bondage for thousands of years, and yet they continue to enslave other peoples, other individuals. I understand that you and your organization have already started attacking the Hutts. It is my wish that we form an understanding between our two organizations so that we may not harm others who have the same goals as ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, form a working partnership to destroy the Hutt's power over others in their own space. Do you think, that it could work?"

Well, isn't that something?

Considering the possibilities, Jarvis decided to proceed under the assumption that this particular Bothan simply believed in getting straight to the point, rather than the host of less-appealing possibilities. Regardless, Jarvis knew just how he had to respond.

“My name is Jarvis Ragnar, and I do what I do because it is the only option left to me. I have been condemned to death and targeted for execution, and before I am taken I will have my vengeance upon those who seek out my destruction and facilitate that quest. I care nothing for politics, governments, laws, or peace; for they all have failed me . . . to the end that I am left to choose between death by firing squad, and death in war.

“And make no mistake, Mister Kre'fey: I am fighting a war. A total war. A war in which I cannot win, and in which I and my followers are consigned to our collective fate: extermination. We have surrendered all that we have to lose to this cause. In surviving, we protect it; in dying, it is no longer our concern.

“I fight because they deserve to die, and no one else will kill them.”

Jarvis paused for a long moment, considering the crew around him, considering his hand on the comm activator, considering the lone Bothan floating in space. New Republic Bothan flag officer . . . It shouldn't be too hard to confirm this Kre'fey's story―assuming it was true―but Jarvis wasn't willing put off this meeting while his men dug up the information. He took one final glance at the sensor readout, sighed, and continued:

“I'm on my way, alone.” He cut the comm and headed for the bridge's exit. “Nobody talks to him while I'm gone.”

Two minutes later, Jarvis was maneuvering the light freighter away from its parent corvette and vectoring toward the distant starship. A Ryn terrorist and a Bothan naval commander, face-to-face in the middle of nowhere. This should be interesting.