~




It’s always the last thing you would expect. Suspicions nothing, imagination cannot account for everything. Certain variables will always be impossible to predict.

Things just like this; this is the sort of thing you are just never prepared for.

Fishing.

“It’s the last great sport,” said President Beff Pike, knee high in the Slikwamen River and clad in waist high boots. He pulled back his arm and cast his line deep out into the currents. “Fishing is just like what we do Jorel. You of all people should appreciate this.”

Jorel Fett and Beff Pike had tucked themselves into a quiet little alcove behind a protruding rock wall that jutted out into the river affording them shelter from even the mild currents close to shore. Each man brandished a fishing pole, a long rod fixed with hook, wire, and reel. Somehow, even with his mercenary background, Fett managed to look totally out of place, totally uncomfortable.

“It’s stupid is what it is.” He tugged his arm back and tried, with mild success, to cast out into the deeper stream. Few ever saw the man out of armor, fewer still out of uniform. No one, in the history of time, besides Beff Pike, had ever seen a Fett in fishing gear. “Take a picture,” he snapped. “It’ll last longer.”

The two shared a warm laugh in the morning sunlight.

They had come to Bartyn’s Landing on a job but that job had become a secondary objective. It had been all along, not that Pike had shared that fact with his partner until they had actually arrived on the planet Lamaredd. As it turned out the grab and stash had been a remarkably simple one and they had managed to acquire the target, alive, in a matter of hours.

“Let him cool his heels for a few days,” Pike had said when they were deep within the bowels of their starship and stowing the bounty in a cell alongside a number of similarly caged individuals. “I want to do some fishing.”

And so they had. Chartering a skiff, they pair sailed up river a good dozen kilometers from the Landing to do, as Pike had put it, ‘a real mans sport’. As it turned out the President was a natural and had been doing the thing for more years then Fett could even imagine. It was not until Fett was knee deep in almost freezing water jerking his arm around in the air that he understood why Pike kept his passion a secret.

“Real men don’t fish,” joked Fett good naturedly. “Real men throw grenades into the water and then scoop up the goods.”

“I think you are confusing real men with real lunatics, Jorel.” He shrugged. “Not that I’m an authority on what lunacy is and what lunacy is not. Get me a cigar, will you?”

Bartyn’s Landing, the only settlement on the planet, was built from the skeleton of an ancient H&K LH 3010. The Trade Federation freighter had settled onto the beach with the forward extremities, the front of its horse-shoe shaped body jutting out into the bay. Tens of thousands of people lived in and around the Landing. Lamaredd had only two major assets, the second being a considerable mining industry based in a ridge of high, jagged mountains rich in valuable ore deposits. The first asset, the first commodity offered on Lamaredd, and by far the most profitable, was its expansive fisheries industry.

Massive, unimaginably deep oceans cover 95% of the surface of Lamaredd. Only two continents exist on the planet. One is a long broken series of islands, home to Bartyn’s Landing and the mountain range home to its mining industry. The other is a larger, more lush continent that was, long ago, tithed to the locals. Many aquatic and semi-aquatic species make their home on Lamaredd including a sizable population of Quarren and Mon Calamari many of whom now make their homes on the far continent but all commercial trade is focused in Bartyn’s Landing. Both fisheries and mining sectors house the majority of their operations in the Landing.

“I like it here.”

“Hmm?” Fett enquired.

“I said, I like it here.”

Jorel Fett frowned, deeply.

“What is it,” asked Pike knowing full well what his friend was thinking but playing the part all the same.

“There’s always an alterior motive with you,” said Fett shaking his head.

“What alterior? I just want to do some fishing.”

“Right,” groaned Fett. “Just some fishing, I just wonder what it is you’re really fishing for.”

Pike contemplated this for a moment, then replied.

“The big fish, Jorel… I’m fishing for the big fish.”

A few weeks earlier...

Jorel Fett stared at his reflection in the mirror. He stared back at himself with black, soulless eyes. Staring back at him was his clone, the clone of his clone, the clone of a clone…

A rough, calloused hand brushed across his face. Knuckles scarred and protruding from years of hard work, hard, soulless work backed those worn palms and flashed in the corner of his eyes as they did. He flexed them into a fist.

Behind him, sprawled across the mattress, a half naked woman watched him with careful eyes. Her skin, and a deep blue hue, glistened with beaded sweat and reflected the starscape visible in his quarter’s view ports. She coiled her thick, raven hair around a finger and giggled. Hers was not the giggle of an excited school girl but rather the mocking smirk of a master protagonist.

“If you get enough scars, maybe one day it will really be your face.” She jibed him, laughed, and rolled onto her back. The blanket fell back exposing full breasts, toned stomach and flawlessly smooth flesh. “Get over yourself Jorel. You can be such a fucking pussy…”

In a flash he was upon her, strong arms rippling with muscle pinning her body down. He pressed his considerable weight against her and locked her legs with his own. His naked body, soaked in the heat of a furious night of passion, pulsated with the sexual intensity of a predatory beast.

“Shut up,” he commanded, “slut.”

The woman, prone with her back pressed into the mattress, pressed her lips together and spat in his face. “Fuck you.”

Jorel Fett grunted, “No, fuck you.”

Hours later, sheets in a bundle and limbs desperately intertwined with both, the lovers lay in one another’s embrace staring up at the starry sky above. In the distance, hundreds of light years away, a sun exploded. The irony was not lost on the pair.

“You have to go to Lamaredd,” she said with a sigh. “If you do not…”

“He will die. I know.”

She turned and fixed him with the full weight of her ocean-deep gaze. “You could let him die. Kill you know who and take his place at the top.”

“I could,” agreed Fett. “But I won’t.”

“Why,” she demanded.

“For the very same reason I keep coming back to you,” he closed his eyes. “Love.”

She called him a faggot then and the whole thing started again.

Overcast, the sky could only be seen between the narrow gaps in the broken superstructure of Bartyn’s Landing. Great sections of hull plating and bulkhead steel had been cut away to create an arching overhang that protected the settlement from the worst of the weather while allowing the pedestrian traffic to feel a certain degree of exposure. Great black storm clouds were breaking in the distance, away from the ocean and coming down from the snow-capped mountains Outer-Rim-Mining-Operations, ORO, had been mining for centuries.

Jorel Fett narrowed his eyes. Coming from the hills, riding along rails of steel and alloy, massive transport lifts carried the raw ore from the quarries high in the ridge down to processing plants nearer the Landing. Here the minerals were processed and packaged for shipment off planet. Lamaredd boasted a fair abundance of mineral assets which ORO had long held the rights to.

Aside from the considerable revenue generated by industrial export, Lamaredd produced and sold an impressive quantity of sea-food. Both exported assets tended to be shipped in tandem, to reduce the cost of transport and keep the overhead as low as possible. Security came in the form of an elite group of tactical fighters funded and supported by ORO and the Department of Fisheries alike. Located so far from the major trade routes a single major shipping company had risen up to fill the need. Lamarro Commercial and Industrial Shipping and Export, or LMCISE (often referred to as the L-Mice) dominated the market. It alone was responsible for ferrying goods from Lamaredd to the nearest major trade junctions. As its jurisdiction and operational area is limited to the area surrounding the Lamarro system, L-Mice only ships in and out of Lamaredd with no external trade lines in operation.

Countless criminal syndicates had, over time, tried to establish footholds on Lamaredd either in the Landing itself or on the island of Little Mon Cal. None had been particularly successful, nor had they met any significant opposition. Simply put; the value of Lamaredd had never been sufficient to attract serious galactic-syndicated crime. A few small local operations had arose but by and large their domain was limited to the drug trade and prostitution. None had ever managed to gain leverage on ORO, The Department or the newly formed LMCISE.

The Bounty Hunters Guild aimed to change all that.

And Jorel Fett knew this because Beff Pike had told him so, in the capacity of Mandalore (displaced) and President. It had ruined the fishing trip.

Or, Fett reflected, the fishing had.

“Stupid sport,” he cursed.

“Pardon me?” A mousy desk clerk, the sort of receptionist generally reserved for an elementary school office, looked up from her work and fixed Jorel with a nasty glare. “Was there something?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head and pretended to go back to his magazine but muttered under his breath, “Clown-shoe operation.”

She probably heard him. He didn’t care, he half hoped he did. It made him feel like a kid again.

That gave him cause to chuckle. Jorel Fett had never been a kid, not like most humanoid children were at one point. A copy of a copy of a copy, Jorel Fett had been cloned and raised in a laboratory; his age sped up and then slowed upon maturity. So, he imagined, it made him feel like a kid.

ORO had offices on all levels of the Landing, but opted to tuck their Public Relations Division in a low, dank recess of an office located near the end of the west pylon and only meters above water level. It had the look, and smell, of a taxi office or similar establishment of ill refute. Although, in his long years working the trade (bounty hunting that is) Jorel Fett had been exposed to all manner of thing, he had honestly expected more of ORO.

A buzzer, a dull and utterly annoying sound, rung from behind the piggy receptionist’s desk (Jorel badly wanted to call her a ‘secretary’. She had one of those ‘Receptionist of the Month’ badges on her desk and wore a leaf and flower patterned smock of the variety that typically belonged on a nurse or other menial health oriented orderly) rousing Fett from his thoroughly involving magazine about Deep Reef Fishing. She tilted her head and her four or five chins slowly followed suit. Clearly reading from some sort of digital display, as Fett could hear no conversation nor see her pudgy lips shake, he had to wonder why they bothered with the buzzer.

As though glad to finally dismiss the armor-clad man, she turned her attention to the bounty hunter and, in a stuffy little tone declared that “Mister Stronginthearm will see you now.”

Jorel Fett had never wanted to kill someone so badly, for so little reason or money. Half-way across town, meeting with the representative for the Department of Fisheries, Fett hoped that Beff Pike was having better luck.

"Too much water."

Sven turned around and snorted. "What's the matter kid? You don't like water?"

"It's not that, well, yes, there is. There's no balance, what does this planet have that's valuable? Nothing I tell you," complained Reb.

The bounty hunter squinted his eyes and brought his right hand in a fast, upward cut, knocking the other man back hard in the face. Clutching his nose with his left hand, Reb reached for his blaster.

"I wouldn't," aired the rogue Kashan man, pointing a DeathHammer blaster at the man's head.

"Why you-"

"There's something for you to learn, Reb," stated the black-armored man, "and that is never, ever go say anything against the President."

"Is that some sort of rule?"

Sven frowned. "It's common sense. And even when it's not common sense, still don't, or I will personally space you wherever we are."

"Well, excuse-"

"Don't."

Reb nodded.

"The readings look pretty clear," noted Reb, looking at the sensor's readout from their MRX-BR Pacifier.

Sven nodded. "Yeah, reasonable. It's a little early to tell too much about it. Let's make several more runs at it."

The Pacifier soared overhead of the bluish planet, its powerful sensors charting the little geography of the planet, taking lifeform readings, and even mineral deposoit positions underneath the ocean. The Pacifier was uniquely suited for the mission, not only possessing excellent sensor equipment, but also packing the punch of a heavy bomber if something went wrong. And in Sven's experience, nothing always went right.

“Nice office though,” remarked Pike in an off hand sort of fashion. “Mine is bigger.”

The man seated across from the bounty hunter, for the two were separated by a desk, held his head in his hands and cried.

“It’s like fishing,” he went on. “Eventually every slimy, scaly wet-back eventually knows he has been beat. He gives up. Like you, Administrator.”

The Administrator had, only moments earlier, seemed a man of infinite composure and moral standing. He had greeted the President of the Bounty Hunters Guild with a sublime patience and subtle arrogance which had become the tool of so many political underlings when greeting one of (supposedly) higher rank. In his button down blue suit, hair slicked to the side and brandishing a smile of pearly whites so bleached it was almost blinding, he had offered Pike his hand in greeting and welcomed him to the Offices of the Department of Fisheries.

“If you want to talk to the man at the top,” he’d said, “you’ve found him.” And then he laughed and winked like some slick movie producer. He had probably been someone, or though he was, before being exiled to the extreme reaches of the Galaxy.

Now, sitting across from Beff Pike and sobbing into his own palms, the Administrator was witnessing the death of his own career, and potentially the end of his life. For all his opulence and expense, derived in large part through illegal or illicit channels, the wannabe Senator could not escape himself.

His own corruption lay splayed across his desk like so much deadly detritus.

Beff Pike and his band of rogues had uncovered a disturbing history of abuse, violation and moral disregard. Now, he would exploit it.

“Thirteen years old,” Pike was shaking his head and motioning to one of the pictures amongst the piles similar images and documents. “How cliché is that, Administrator?”

The sobbing went on unabated. Tears stained his expensive suit while phlegm trailed down his chin. It was all just one big metaphor, Pike observed. “You accepted bribes from over a dozen illegal organizations and most of those hate one another. How did you expect you wouldn’t get caught?”

“This is a cry for help, if you ask me.”

There it was; the bait, the reprieve. Sniffling, scrounging up the will to form words between sobbing bouts of self pity, the Administrator turned his bloodshot eyes, peeled them open, and looked upon the stogy President as though prevailing upon his better nature. Puppy dog eyes…

“You didn’t really think I would come all this way just bust you wide open, did you?”

“My god, the ego on you people.” Pike spat. “This is blackmail, Administrator. I didn’t come here to pick up some penny ante bounty and I sure didn’t swing by just to do Justice Upon You. That’s not how this works.”

“W-what do you want?”

It never ceased to amaze Pike, how a man who seemed so rigid, physically and mentally, could be reduced to a whining ninny when confronted with the deeds of his own past. Furthermore, and though distressing on some level, the Guild had established itself by preying upon this sort of person and the success the Guild had enjoyed over the years only spoke to the truth; that there was no conceivable limit to the corruption which plagued in the Galaxy.

Indeed the Guild enjoyed the vague definition allowed to any organization which existed between the worlds of Good and Evil, Right and Wrong. These precepts, of what should be and what should not, tended to shift and change as one moved throughout the various cultures and societies, but one uniting norm seemed to be this; that vigilantes would always have a place in the universe.

“Well now, that’s just the question isn’t it? What do I want?” Between the ceiling and the desk, Pike seemed to find some humor in this. “What you want, I can guess. You want this all to go away. I can make it all go away.”

The Administrator jerked visibly and Pike imagined, for that moment, that he had landed his hook and sunk it deep into the maw of his catch. Only moments from reeling him in, the Administrator had been had.


“J-just one thing,” pleaded the Administrator. “How did you find out?”

Beff Pike, President of the Bounty Hunters Guild, just smirked and said, “I’ve got eyes everywhere. In the sky. On your streets. In your businesses and in your families.” He leaned close, “And when I come calling, you better know… you’re fucked, buddy.”

Bounty Hunter Tull Wynders stood outside the Lamarro Commercial and Industrial Shipping and Export Executive Building. “L-Mice EX” was quite a feat of architecture and engineering.

The office building had begun its life like most other buildings on Lamaredd: a compartment in the derelict Trade Federation H&K LH 3010. Though time went on and L-Mice actually made some money. They soon out grew their lodgings. Space was a premium in Bartyn’s Landing, so there had been only one solution: up.

The superstructure of the great ship was not designed to support such an undertaking, so drastic measures were taken to achieve the company’s lofty goals. The portion of the beached ship that L-Mice owned was completely gutted. All ten stories were removed and converted into, what else, but a lobby. Correlian Corvette sized durasteel girders had been imported to provide a base for the one-hundred stories of glass, steel, and the duracrete the company called for.

Tull shook himself out of his ponderings as the office building’s twin glass doors swung open to allow the man Tull was waiting on to make his way onto to Bartyn’s Landing’s wet streets.

“Gustavus Cineburg?” the bounty hunter questioned.

“Who’s asking?” answered the mousy looking executive.

“Michael Simpson,” he lied. “You cousin, the admiral, hired me to protect you,” he lied again. “Come with me,” he commanded, grabbing the man’s arm firmly.

To his surprise, Gustavus followed without complaint, a sure sign of a desperate man. The two came across an obscure eatery, and entered.

“So… Mr. Cineburg, you have been nominated for the top spot. Chief Executive Officer of L-Mice, twenty years of hard work finally paying off, aye?”

The frazzled looking business sighed. “Your information is out of date Mr. Simpson. I have pulled out of the race. Too many threats against my life and the lives of my family,” he added.

“Well, it’s time for you get back in that race Mr. Cineburg.”

“Why is that Mr. Simpson?”

“Because if you don’t, and choose to retire, I’ll take you around the back of this shithole you people call fine dining, and blow your fucking brains out. How does that sound asshole?”

The executive man, obviously scared, nodded. “Whatever you say man!”

“Let’s get one more thing straight Gustavus. You’re not Gustavus Cineburg’s man anymore. You belong to Beff Pike: property of the Guild.”

The man nodded again.

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you,” said Tull leaving the eatery.

“Is Sven on schedule?”

The two men, Beff Pike and Jorel Fett were sitting, strapped to their chairs, aboard a hover-skiff. Their ride skimmed the waves at trolling speed. Lines taut, each man gripped his pole against the gentle tug of the swelling ocean below.

“Shortly,” responded Fett, still managing to look completely out of his element in command of rod and reel. He squirmed against the restraints, “Is all this really necessary?”

“Have you even seen a marlin?” The President cocked his brows and regarded his friend with an honest look of concerned sympathy. His own line jerked visibly and then went slack. Nonplused, he shook his head at the Mandalorian and turned away in dismay. “I wonder about you, Jorel.”

“It’s a fish, right?” was all the clone could manage.

“More like an angry bantha.”

“Ah.”

“So, about Sven and the others,” inserted the Guild founder. “Where are we?”

Clearly Jorel was not, or had not acquired the mood to discuss matters of business. Curt, he replied, “On some god forsaken ocean hunting underwater lizards with a rod and bunch of string.”

The two shared a laugh, the sort of belly rumble that died with inexorable slowness and would inevitably leave the conversation at a standstill. Indeed, as the pair of men fell gradually quiet they each turned, inward, to their own thoughts.

Lapping quietly against the bottom of the skiff, the waves tapped out the silence between them. Tumbling towards the horizon sat the squat orb, the Lamaredd sun, turned the sky a brilliant azure hue that lit the heavens and seemed to reach out beyond the planet itself. Sunsets on the Landing were unlike any other. Water virtually saturated the planet and such a high concentration of moisture had the effect of bending and distorting the suns rays.

“Sven should be setting up shop within the week.” Fett spoke after the long silence passed between them. “We’ve been authorized to replace the L-Mice escort squadrons with BHG fighters and pilots. He sent a communiqué last night; he thanks you for being put in charge of the project and says that his men will be on station and active within two weeks barring any further bureaucratic red tape…”

This caught the Presidents attention. “What delays?”

“It seems that Tull Wynders, though extremely successful in motivating our man to run again… he won of course, but you must have known that… he had some problems bringing the pilots union into our way of thinking. And it seems that a few of Gustavus’ detractors had a hand in the whole thing. We cleared it up quick enough… but still. Sven should not be held responsible.”

Pike enquired, “And what of Mr. Wynders?”

“It was his quick thinking that snapped the pilots to attention. He didn’t tell me how, and I didn’t ask.” Fett reached for his beverage, clasped firmly in the arm-rest of his chair and drew in a mouthful of the lager. It bulged his cheeks before he gulped it down. “Wynders is good people.”

“Good enough,” Pike nodded.

“What about your man, what did you call him… Snake Eyes?”

The President chuckled in earnest. “Pet names, Fett. Suffice to say that, yes; my man is doing his job… even as we speak. I imagine that the criminal element will, by and large, be brought under our umbrella with the closing of our other ventures here.”

Jorel went silent for a moment, then added, “It was never about the fishing, was it?”

At this, Beff Pike turned in his chair and, smiling, stared straight into the eyes of his closest ally… the nearest thing the President had to a friend and said, “It is always about fishing, Fett. That is what we do, and exactly why you do what you do, and I do what I do. Now, finish your beer and reel in. We have work to do yet.”

Lamar City,
Shadow Lane Sector

The dark, almost claustrophobic confines of the Shadow Lane Sector were by far the seediest scenes found in Lamar City. From the constant darkness supplied by the labyrinth of narrow alleyways between run-down, condemned buildings, to the denizens who filled almost every inch of any rubbish cluttered space available, the location was clearly that one dent on a finely polished economy; and the fact that security stations were established around the edges of Shadow Lane Sector indicated that whomever ruled over Lamar did not want it's populace venturing into the perfectly kept city streets beyond.

It so happened that, as one could have guessed, the largest gathering of criminal population reigned supreme in the largely ignored cesspit of social trash...

...And it also so happened that the Bounty Hunters Guild held a vested interest in the underground society within Shadow Lane.

The Sector had been divided up between two major criminal groups. The largest, and by far the most influential, were the Star Slammers; they were a community of professional under-the-table-dealing, slaving, pirating, anything for a price scoundrels who were exactly the right source of information needed for the entire city and everything that happened in it. The second were the Bantha Blazers, and despite holding more territory than the Star Slammers, they were less organized and tended to end most days with a typical cantina brawl to sate their barbaric attitudes. The 'slammers allow the Blazers to have their allocated (though the Blazers believe they own it rightfully, completely earned through respect) territories, if only to stop the ion-heads from breaking into needless gang wars...

All in all, it was the Star Slammers who were holding the cards; and it would come as no surprise to see that the Star Slammers were the more valuable commodity.

So it came to be that Trakinor, an Agent of the Bounty Hunters Guild, walked the darkened streets of Shadow Lane that led to the Star Slammers base. The Twi’lek remained the being Beff went to when there was secretive business to be completed, business that had to be below the radar, so to speak. Often operating behind the scenes, and only being known to those in the Guild and whom he had crossed paths with, Trakinor was anything if professional. He had worked his way through the ranks of the Bounty Hunters, and now he answered only to the Guild leader himself, and no other sentient in the faction.

If you had business with Trakinor, it was safe to assume you were in over your head, or about to die... if not both.

Coming to a stop at the alleyway mouth, the Twi’lek peered across the street toward the front entrance of the Slammers building. The immediate appearance of the facility indicated a typical assortment of both security devices and guards; on the far Eastern wall there was a hastily fastened holorecorder, seemingly angled to see the front door and who wanted to come in or out, while two members stood watch at that same door, talking to one another at regular intervals. Trakinor reflected on the dismal security precautions of the gang, however he had expected less, considering.

None-the-less, it was time to see the Slammers leadership, and to propose the terms that the Bounty Hunters required. If the Bounty Hunters were to take control of the planet, so far as to claim their share in the economy and going-ons planet side, then Beff would need to have people with knowledge working for him; and the gang would either accept the offer, or simply be destroyed to be replaced by more willing clientele… perhaps the Blazers, or even a sham gang created by Trakinor himself, that would eventually grow into what was required.

Simple.

However, before he got ahead of himself, the Twi’lek had to gain entry into the compound. Stepping back into the shadows, the Guild Agent disappeared, focused completely on attaining the objectives given to him by Beff…

Inside the Star Slammers base

"Haven't had much on the security holos tonight," A Slammer member said, glancing to his companion who sat beside him at the monitoring control panel.

"Nope," Replied the other, pressing a few buttons that caused the main viewing screen to switch between holorecorders. "I'm glad, though. I hate when something happens on my shift."

"I hear 'ya,"

Behind and above the two make-shift guards the ventilation grate slowly eased down out of position. Holding the metal firmly was a gloved hand, to which the arm adjoined lowered the off cast of building accessory. Sliding through the narrow hole with a practiced ease, Trakinor fell softly to the ground without a sound. Remaining crouched, he placed the grate carefully onto the dirty tiles, before moving forward on silent hands and feet; and once he was within reach, both arms lashed out, index and middle fingers extended, and simultaneously jabbed the nerve endings on either beings' necks.

Both humans slumped forward, unconscious.

Standing, the Twi'lek shifted the human on the left, allowing him access to the control panel. If he was to continue into the lower levels of the building, then Trakinor would be required to disable to the holorecorders in the hallways. There were only several actually working, and it took a further three minutes for the Agent to set up a basic, yet acceptable, feedback loop that would save against any internal alarms being triggered by security recorder drop out.

Turning sharply, Trakinor stalked from the security room. He didn't bother hiding the humans, as he had simply sat them upright in their chairs, arms resting before them on the panel. Unless someone actually stopped by to talk to the two, then they would probably be as they were until Trakinor had finished his mission. Either way, the time needed to find acceptable hiding places for the bodies was not worth increasing his chances of detection.

Glancing out of the security room doorway, Trakinor was satisfied to feel no presences within the immediate area, and promptly rounded the edge and started sneaking down the hallway...

Several minutes later

Genrek Kal sat lazily on the comfortable couch of his personal office. On one side of him he had a young girl, a muscular arm draped over her shoulders, while the other hand idly fiddled with the curves of her chest. The girl didn't seem to mind, and the tattoo on the right side of her neck indicated she was a member of the Slammers; the fact was that she, more than likely, enjoyed playing booty call to the big boss, in favor of working up through the ranks of the gang (no matter how her reputation was smeared in the endeavour).

"You wanna' get me another drink, luv?" The Slammers leader asked, glancing to the girl, taking a moment from watching the swoop race playing on the holovision set. "And while you're at it, why don't 'ya get into some more comfortable clothes?"

The girl smirked, moving to her feet lithely. "Whatever you say, Kal," She soothed, grunting as her rear was spanked in turn. Walking around the couch, the girl sighed to herself, but knew that at least tonight Genrek wasn't so drunk as to beat her... hopefully.

He had a tendacy to get rough.

Gekrek turned back to his programme, grinning like a Nexus. It wasn't everyday that you got a fine, rich little girl who wanted to rebel against her parents who joined your outfit; and it wasn't everyday that you managed to talk that same girl into emptying her parents' accounts and putting the credits into your own.

It had been about a year, now, and the girl still found ways to amuse him, so that was why Genrek kept her around. Until then, she'd be useful, and her parents were always earning more money with their shipping business; and having a hand in owning the planets shipping business was always a good investment, especially when you knew the codes and the corrupt officials who would look the other way... for a price.

Movement to his left made Genrek turn his head, a smirk on his lips. "That was qui--"

However, before he could finish, the Slammers leader was staring up at a tall Twi'lek dressed in a skin-tight black outfit. Before Genrek could move, Trakinor had his wrist-sheathed vibrodagger in hand, the reverberating blade held within inches of the human's throat.

"W-what the frell do you want, tail-brain?" Genrek seethed, his voice like venom, as he remained stock-still.

Trakinor reached behind his back, his fingers touching at the pouch on his belt. Pulling his hand back, within the gloved hand could be seen a small holoprojector; and with a push of a button, a small image of Beff's head appeared at about a foot in size.

<<"Greetings,">> The projection began, <<"As you may be aware, I am Beff Pike, the leader of the Bounty Hunters Guild. My companion here wishes to offer you a deal that you simply can't refuse...">>

Reaching across to the small number of buttons on the holoprojector pads side with his thumb, Trakinor pressed another button, activating the required pre-recorded message:

<<"You've been chosen to join the expanding network of Bounty Hunter informants, and believe me when I say that your cooperation would be much appreciated, and your time made worthwhile...">>

Genrek fumed, watching the display, though listening none-the-less. "And what if I say no?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow.

Trakinor pushed a button. <<"If, for whatever reason, you decide to decline my offer,">> The image of Beff continued, speaking for the Twi'lek. <<"then I am afraid my Agent here will be forced to ensure that the offer in question is not revealed to any other living being.">>

"Heh, about as I expected," Genrek grunted, swallowing as the vibrodagger blade shifted, being returned to its sheath against Trakinor's right wrist.

The Twi'lek pushed another button. <<"There is no need for hostilities, and a peaceful resolution can be made that will benefit the both of our groups. If you wish to agree to the offer, then simply say the word and we can begin discussions...">>

Genrek smirked, easing off the couch to stand in front of the alien. "Alright," He said, nodding. "I can talk to Pike, but I can tell you now that the information I have isn't gonna' be cheap, fella'... not cheap at all. And hey, how come you ain't talkin' to me yourself?"

Trakinor simply pressed another button on the small, but largely populated pad, to which the projector spoke. <<"You will have to excuse my companion, here, as he is a being of little words. None, actually, as he can't speak, hence the need for this means of communication.">>

Deactivating the holorecorder, Trakinor returned the small device to its proper location, before he produced a communicator. Lifting it up to Genrek's head height, the Twi'lek pressed a small red button on the side of the cylinder, which in turn activated another voice from within the device:

<<"At the end of this message, introduce yourself. That is all.">>

To which Genrek took the comm, as the scrambled line to Beff's personal communicator was activated and connected.

"Pike? This is Genrek Kal, leader of the Star Slammers... I believe your man non-told me about your offer, and I'm willin' to talk."

Trakinor crossed his arms, simply waiting. Beff would conclude the affair, and then the Twi'lek would be given new directions, depending on the outcome of the conversation that was about to begin...

“I don’t like it,” murmured Sven, gazing into the sky above the Landing.

“Now you’re disagreeing with the President after telling me not too?”

“No, I’m saying I have a bad feeling about this; I mean, the position is good, everything looks good from a purely logical standpoint. With our central location, that gives us optimum times to get to anywhere of the aerospace and space that we’re suppose to cover, but I feel we might be too exposed.”

The other pilot snorted, leaning against their landed Pacifier. “You’re too use to being Kashan; remaining hidden in the shadows from Galactic affairs. If you want to influence the galaxy, you have to get out into it. If you want to influence or direct those coming and going from the landing, you have to get into the thick of it.”

Sven’s lips twitched. “Maybe. Yeah, I know the base should be pretty safe, since it’s disguised as another one of those blasted docking bays-”

“Blasted docking bays? They don’t look bad to me.”

The Kashan exile frowned. “The docking bays themselves are fine, the ships and personnel in them on the other hand…”

His co-pilot barked a laugh as the pair continued to inspect their ship. “It’s a lot more fun to simply vape and blow stuff up, is it? You’re going to have to get use to all of us patrolling everything rather than going on those glorious hunts and pursuits across the galaxy.”

A woman skirted the edge of their pad, prompting a smile from the subordinate. “Heh, believe me, there are some definite advantages not going on those hunts everywhere…”

Sven shook his head with a mixture of amusement and disgust. The only thing he thinks about is women, well…aside from beer. The maker help me.

“Go ahead Lars, I’ll finish up the inspection of the ship. You appear to have some planned company.”

Lars flashed a yellow smile, “You’d better believe it.”

The youngest Lucerne shook his head ruefully as Lars sauntered off to his lady friend. Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, he looked around at the rest of the base, which basked in the rays of the sun. It appeared to be another one of the docking facilities, easily overlooked by the casual observer. But a closer inspection would show other details, like the series of stacked boxes that hadn’t been moved in a week; those were the concealed anti-air batteries or that over half of the attached hangars were always closed, locked, and routinely checked up on by security; for those hangars housed the fighter units assigned to the landing. But efforts had been made to make it appear normal. The unused hangars were allowed to be used by those that the Guild trusted and had performed extensive background checks on. Thus, it appeared to be only slightly less busy then the rest of the facilities. The dark-clothed hunter looked down and grimaced, and with a quick shake of the head, headed off to the local cantina for a dinnerbreak.

The street was dark outside of the Chief Financial Officer’s house. Tull’s landspeeder came to a quiet halt. The bounty hunter bowed his head, gripping the talisman hung around his neck, he began to pray.

Forgive me Lord for all my sins against you and your glorious creation.

Tull grabbed the pistol from off the dashboard.

Forgive me O’Lord for I must sin again.

Tull exited the vehicle and made his way up the residence’s driveway. The house belonged to Zan Coecho, Chief Financial Officer of L-Mice and the swing vote in the corporation’s upcoming election.

He knocked on the front door. A second later a light came on within the house. Another second later, the door opened, and Tull found himself staring into barrel of a pistol.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man questioned Tull.

Tull reacted quickly, swatting the pistol down and slamming the man’s head into the door jam.

“Who the fuck are you?” responded Tull. “Get in there!” commanded Tull, as he pushed the stunned executive into his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Zan wiped the blood from his bow. “I’ve got money upstairs locked in a safe. It’s yours if you don’t hurt my wife or me!”

“SIT DOWN! AND SHUT THAT CRYING WENCH UP!”

“Go upstairs darling,” said Zan in a half soothing, half scared shitless voice.

“Okay…” began Tull, “let’s get down to some business. “The L-Mice CEO election is tomorrow, and you’ll be voting the Gustavus Cineburg ticket. Got it jerkoff?”

“W-what if I don’t”

“Let’s not go there, but I’m pretty sure that you’ll regret it.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll be in touch,” snarled Tull as he left the house and headed for his speeder.



“The news is on Tull,” yelled Rick, his fellow bounty hunter.

“This Andy Dale with the Bartyn’s Landing Daily News! Our top story tonight is the selection of a new CEO by L-Mice’s board of directors. Nat Turner was selected over Gustavus Cine—“

“THAT LYING SON OF BITCH!”



“Are you sure you really want to do this Tull? He’s got cops in front of his house.”

“Just be ready to drive,” said Tull, pulling the black mask over his face.

The bounty hunter exited the speeder, and made his way down the lane. He sprinted across the yard, catching to the two guards in the chest with a pair of stun bolts from his blaster pistol.

Fucking rent-a-cop douche bags...

He kicked in the door, and ran up the stair case. He found Zan and his wife asleep.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU? WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU?”



“The news is on Tull.”

“This is Andy Dale with the Bartyn’s Landing Daily News! Our top story tonight is the shake up of the upper echelons of L-Mice. In the last week, two of its executives were killed, along with the selection of a new CEO. CFO Zan Coecho was found shot in the head execution style in his home last night. Earlier this morning, CEO Nat Turner was killed after his speeder was rigged with explosives. Due to plummeting stock prices, the board quickly selected Gustavus Cineburg as the company’s new chief executive officer. Foul play on the behalf of Mr. Cineburg has been ruled out by investigators.