Vinlad, Durren

Prince Larek Maris stared up into the sky. The rays of the sun beat down on Vinlad, suffusing it in a golden, amber haze. Gazing slightly to the side, his brown eyes could see through the clouds and sky to the heavens above. Albeit partially concealed by the atmospheric phenomena, Maris could make out the blocky gray structures which floated over the planet, his planet. They, collectively known as the Durren Orbital, had become one of the pride and joys of Durren’s people. A breeze wafted the scents of fresh pine into his nostrils and engagingly rustled his mahogany hair. The adolescent took a deep breath of the forest air, and faced his native city, Vinlad, and capitol of Durren. Durasteel and duracrete towers jutted out from the ground, monoliths attesting to the strength of Durren’s people, and a beacon of civilization in the midst of wilderness. A great sea of emerald forests surrounded the city, seemingly threatening to flood it at any moment. But it was this wilderness that produced Maris’ favorite events: the Eye of the Hunter. It was a competition that drew marksmen, hunters, and soldiers from across the Sector for a famous shooting competition. Many of the competition’s marksmen came from Vinlad, and there were plenty of them who willingly taught the young prince their skills…for a price.

“My young Highness,” gestured a man, “It appears that Gunther is sick today, he won’t be able to give you lessons.”

“Well, get him up,” demanded the youth, “surely you can threaten or badger him to do it anyways. He’s the best one there is, I have to learn from him.”

Advisor Kaal shook his head. “I’m afraid there isn’t. Gunther is the one person I can’t do anything about; his record is spotless, and he has no vice with which to bribe or blackmail him with. Money doesn’t seem to ever concern him.”

“Perhaps that is his secret,” commented the Prince.

“Oh?”

“To being such an excellent shot,” replied the Prince delicately, “A clear conscience. There is nothing to cloud your mind from focusing on your target; no worries.”

“Perhaps,” considered the guardian, “but in any case, we should be back to the palace then, to do your other lessons. Lessons, which I might add, you seem to have neglected. I see you haven’t even accessed your stellar cartography datapad.”

Larek waved a hand in annoyance. “Why should I? There’s nothing of interest in there to me.”

The man sternly stared at the Prince. “If you do not learn about what surrounds you, you will never become like your father. He was always able to contribute and understand the Council’s dealings and use his popularity with the foreigners for the betterment of the people. You would do well to follow his example.”

“We live in different times,” countered Larek, picking up his sporting blaster, “there are no beneficial outsiders. The only kind of guests we have received is pirates and brigands. You don’t want me to be popular with them, do you?”

“No, of course not,” sighed Traest, “but what of the foreign hunters? The ones who come from Mandalore or Kasshyyk?”

“They are not foreign,” rebuked his Highness, “they are fellow hunters, and to be treated with the honor and compassion as we would treat our own. So says the marshal every year. Besides, we know so many of them, they are as good as my…our…own citizens. And they contribute plenty.”

“Perhaps to the sport,” probed the Advisor, “but not really to the daily life of the people. The foreigners in your father’s time brought with them peace and prosperity.”

“The New Republic is no more, and with went peace and prosperity to the rest of the galaxy.”

The older man’s face turned red. “Just listen to you, you….you sound like the Neo-Grissmaths.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to those morons..those invisuls…I should-”

“Sorry my Prince,” apologized Traest, “I let my frustration get the better of me.”

“Apology accepted.”



Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, deep space

Phantoms.

Shades of gray.

Revanants of a long banished past.

Their ghastly eyes drilled themselves into officer’s sapphire blue eyes, forcing the man to recall their existence. Uniformed men. Men and women that had served with him, either below him or above him. People that were part of some allied government, CEC, or of the Confederation themselves. They always haunted him, only to swept away by business of work or the rare social engagement. They all went away save one. One who refused to be snuffed out by the rigours of daily life. One who continued to hold a steel cold chain around his heart. One unlike the others.

A girl. A girl with long, wavy locks of hazel hair and cornflower blue eyes speckled with shards of gold. He had always called them her sunset eyes. And she had always laughed at him with both a hint of amusement and disbelief. Joy in a previous life, terror in the next. And they always came back to shatter any semblance of peace in his life. And thus far, he had only come up with one relief to this terror.

Corise contemplated the bottle of wine, and held it up to one of his cabin’s lights. The bottle was wonderfully crafted, being sculpted of Vors-glass by artisan on Alderaan nearly a hundred years ago. In and of itself, the vessel was a treasure. But the man completely ignored the heirloom, staring instead at the viscous material inside. He gently rotated the bottle, creating currents in the carmine-coloured sea. Satisfied, the man plopped down on a Corellian leather chair and set the bottle on a small, vogue table, which had been unceremoniously bolted into the floor by the ship’s mechanics. He unscrewed the elaborate stopper and set it on the table. Licking his lips, the man gingerly stretched out his hand to the bottle, and stopped half way. He let out an exasperated sigh, and glanced at his chrono. I still have time. Just one glass. Just one. His right hand extended closer. The intercom buzzed; the man slightly jumped from his seat and whipped his hand away from the bottle.

“Sir?”

“What is it now?” exploded the Admiral.

“Ah…sorry sir…”

“Sorry I snapped Breton,” apologized the man, “you just startled me. What was it you were going to say?”

“We’ve received a communication from Brandenburg, from Councilor Cabernet.”

Cabernet…Cabernet…the councilor from Hast…ah right…he’s heading the Council right now.

“And?”

“Sir, he is requesting your presence and that of the Revanche for some important guests.”

Corise wryly grinned. “Requesting? Was it an actual request, or more of a demand?”

“Ah…we have it recorded…you’re a better judge of it than I, sir.”

“Well, what was your opinion? I trust your judgement, though I still will see it myself.”

Breton hesitated. “I think it was more a direct order. Come here nicely or I’ll massacre you in public.”

“Wonderful. Well, inform the captain about these development, and the two of you can make preliminary plans to fit into our schedule, or rearrange things so that it fits in our schedule.”

“Sir, will be up to make plans with us?”

The man shook his head, despite the cabin’s emptiness. “No, I will not. I have some personal work that I need to deal with. Forgive me Breton, but kindly do not disturb me for the next two hours, and see to it that no-one else does.”

“Sir, I should hope not, as it is nearing night on the ship’s chrono. At least for another eight hours.”

“Of course, but you know Hartling. He always does work in the earlier half of the night, which usually isn’t a problem.”

“Yes sir. So you’ll be seeing our plans in the morning?”

“Yes,” replied Lucerne, “oh, and as always, if it is an emergency, do disturb. I would rather like to know if some Imperial is trying to gun us down.”

“Yes sir.”

The intercom buzzed out, leaving the man alone with his bottle of wine. He stared at for a few minutes, frowned, and in one sudden thrust, snatched the bottle from the table. Relunctantly, he set the bottle back down, and walked over to the door of his suite. He tapped a button. The blast doors locked with a slightly audible thump. The Kashan man strode over to table, sat down, and loathingly stared at the bottle. His pale hand steadily moved forward and gripped the open bottle. He ungraciously took a swig of wine from the bottle, his lips kissing it with a burning passion. A warped smell of raspberry rose into his nose as a flood of finesse spirit churned in his mouth like the tides of Mon Calamari. A slight peppery aftertaste briefly resided in mouth before another wave of fresh wine swept it away.

And the apparition of the ghostly eyes were no more.

Ynthil, Strennen

Icy winds swept across the glacial plains, bringing with them the fury of the winter storms. Millions of tiny flakes of hardened water descended onto Ynthil. Upon touching down on the ferrocrete and ceraglass bastion which covered the city, the precipitation melted, unable to withstand the civilization’s defiant heat.

Sitting in the McCreary Diner, Andan Fenn stared through a triangular ceraglass plane at the approaching storm with measured nonchalance. He shrugged and picked up his cup of hot caf. Storms such as this were common on the frigid wasteland moon of Durren, named Strennen. Modern technology provided enough fortitude for Ynthil’s citizens to have been at ease as such occurrences for over eight generations, when Ynthil transitioned from being a penal colony of the Grissmath Dynasty to a flourishing colony of miners. Geothermal vents provided heat, and the bastion provided protection not only from the storm, but also from orbital bombardment; or so it was at least rumoured. But Fenn’s mind was far away from thoughts of his homeworld when a man walked over to his table.

Fenn spared a glance upward. “You’re early Kronn, and more surprisingly, sober. Ship come in early? Or did you miss something in your routine?”

“Routine change,” affirmed the man, “I didn’t get drunk last night. No hangover means no problems finding this joint.”

Andan chided the spacer. “Come now, McCreary’s isn’t an ordinary joint. It’s a joint that’s loyally harbored our group for three decades now. This is the only place where we can have our own private booths and not have to worry about having some snitch or spook get wind of us.”

“I suppose…it’s just that the food isn’t as good as Jalpers across the street.”

“All the better; less people will come here, meaning the likelihood of being caught is even lower.”

Aren Kronn waved the comment away. “I know I’m not the smartest man here, ‘cept for when it comes to space. You don’t always have to prove it, ya know.”

Andan toothily smiled. “Sure I do. A man’s got to know his place in this world. And there are certainly a group of people who really need to learn their own places.”

Kronn leaned back. “Are we going to talk space soon?”

“You’re no fun,” sighed Fenn, “but I’m getting there. Some of our favorite government members are going on a little visit pretty soon offworld. I want you to gather who you can, and eliminate them.”

Aren snorted. “Who we talking about? The local shipping or customs commission?”

“Much bigger. We’re talking about members of the Durren Central Planetary Council and their figurehead, the young Prince Maris, heir to the throne. It will be a long journey, they’re heading south of the Perlemian to meet some other diplomats at a mid-rim planets.”

Kronn frowned. “Which other diplomats?”

Andan winced. “You don’t need to know that.”

“Sure I do, and you’re going to want to tell me about it too,” countered the spacer, “because they might get involved, and if me and my crew who get taken, we’re going to blab about who hired us. And then it will be your head on a platter. If you tell us exactly who and what we’re going up against, or what we could go up against, we’ll have a better chance at gettin’ em. You know that.”

The other man shifted in his booth and gazed downwards. “They’re visiting Genon and meeting with some Confederate diplomats.”

“You know Fenn,” replied the spacer, “I really like your Neo-Grissmath party, and what they intend to do about us, and especially concerning Strennen here, but what you are asking is the impossible. We’re going to have a hard time getting volunteers for this mission from our own people, and nevermind any mercs that we-ah might need. I bet they’ll want at least double the price.”

“Outrageous,” complained Andan, “smuggling through Imperial space isn’t even hundred credits more. Tell them I’ll offer them up to 1.5 times their normal price. Not any more.”

“That going to be-ah hard. The Confeds have a reputation that the Imps don’t have ‘round these parts. The Imps sit around on their chairs and just talk and have internal power struggles. They don’t giva a damn about some smuggler trying to make a little profit in their space. As long as it doesn’t threaten them. Heck, sometimes they even work for us, if they can get a little share of the profit. Confeds are different. They see you, and they will chase you down past their borders. Heck, look what they did at Peduccis Chorios. Mercs and pirates ain’t going to wanta earn their ire, them Confed folks.”

Andan nodded. “Which is why you have a personal stake in this. The council isn’t going there for some trade summit, but rumours have it because they’re thinking of drawing up some sort of alliance with them, maybe even membership. If they succeed, you and your friends will be the one out of business, not me.”

“You joshing me.”

The leader shook his head. “I’m not. When you get back to your berth, take a look at the news holos. You can’t miss it.”

Kronn’s flourid face wrinkled up. “You-ah better not be messin with me.”

Brandenburg, Genon

Thorn strode through the corridors of the capitol building, the tapping of her high heels echoing off the hardwood floors. The fragrant and enticing scent of arcadia wood pervaded through the hull; doubtlessly from the new wood work being sculpted and fitted throughout the hall as a contribution from Pedducis Chorios, one the Confederation’s newest members. The hall was never the same. There were always new people, new fixings and artwork, and new experiences to partake in. But there was one thing that was always the same: the strict security. It had been designed with security as much as mind as in aesthetics, and even if there seemed to be no-one around, Thorn was positive that there were at least three holocameras concealed in the area watching her, and probably some more sophisticated sensors as well. But observation and technology was not real security to the building, it was rather the supplement to the best known security implement for millennia: guards. The Kashan woman approached the doors to her office and was met by a pair of Talcorran soldiers who flanked either side of the doorframe. A smile blossomed on her face and she waved at them. One, who the Pro-consul didn’t know, snapped off an impeccable, and emotionless salute. His companion, however, casually saluted the woman.

“Madam Pro-consul,” greeted a guard, offering a slight bow.

“Morning Greer, how is your wife? Has the treatment been working?”

Pleasantries.

The grease which kept the galaxy running.

Experienced diplomats and politicians such as Thorn knew that truth too well. But not only did they acknowledge it, but they practiced in endlessly. It seemed like such a simple act, yet it was exceptionally deceptive in its power and workings. A greeting that would be compliment in one culture could be perceived to be an insult in another, or at the very least, make it awkward between the two conversationists. And top of that, with how many different people Thorn encountered in her daily life, she found it to be a challenge to remember the small details about individual people. But when she did achieve her goal, she felt an almost saintly sense of satisfaction rise up in her soul.

“Good ma’am,” replied Greer, “the doctors say she’ll be good to go back home within a week. Anything we should be aware of for the day? And people you want us to block?”

Christina shook her head, the polite smile still plastered on her face. “On the contrary, I’m expecting a few guests, please admit them in kindly. You won’t have to do much. Just make sure they go all through the standard code cylinder identification process.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you kindly, gentlemen,” replied the politician somewhat absently, inserting her own code cylinder into an inconspicuous socket built into the door.

A partially muted click announced the door’s unlocking, and the woman proceeded into her office. Sunlight passed through the crystisteel windows and on the polished white marble walls, smoothly sculpted to emulate Alderaanian architecture. Thorn walked over to her similarly styled desk, and sat down. She booted up the built-in console, and took small sips of chamomile tea, letting the soothing nature of the liquid gently wake her up. With the console fully booted up, the woman scanned through her messages for some minutes. There was a large flux of information, but nothing interesting, or in her opinion, worth her time. Her comlink clicked, and Greer’s disembodied voice emanated from it.

“Ma’am, your guests arrived, and they’ll be in within a few minutes…the last pair of them have yet to go through the ID process.”

“Thank you Greer,” replied the Pro-Consul, “I’ll be ready.”

The doors swung open, and a menagerie of diplomats and politicians from throughout the Confederation entered her doorway. Her umber-colored eyes immediately picked out an old friend in the group of eight; Councilor Harding of Audacia. Their eyes met, and she smiled. Several other members of the group Thorn knew from the Council or recognized various other governmental events, but she couldn’t depend on them like Harding. The doors swung shut behind them. Christina gestured for them to take a seat.

“Welcome everyone, take a seat of your choice. I’ve taken a look at your messages and concerns regarding the visit of members of the Durren planetary council and their prince. We don’t particularly have much time to prepare any more from their visit, but there are things I think we need to discuss before we make any sort of decision on them.”

“I was going to say,” replied Harding, “that everyone needs to be aware of Durren’s situation, that is back in their home, because it will affect everyone of us in some way. From food preparation to choices of conversation. As you know, about the time of the fall of the New Republic, Durren became rather isolated and reclusive from the rest of the galaxy. But what you probably do not know is that it wasn’t the fall of the Republic that isolated Durren, but rather the actions of the Neo-Grissmath Party. The Neo-Grissmath’s aim is to restore the Grissmath kingdom which once ruled over the vast bulk of the sector. However, their views to revive the kingdom were stopped in the Planetary Council by more liberal and independently minded councilors, and through the politicking of the planet’s own reigning king. While members of the royal family have no official power, they command the respect of the people and enjoy a great amount of popularity among their subjects. So much so, that on Durren and its moon Strennen, it is said that the voice of the King is the voice of the people. We should keep this in mind when dealing with the Prince, because he wields more influence than any single councilor. In any case, the Neo-Grissmath tried to covertly kill off the king and those councilors that opposed them. They were successful in the first two attacks, their assassins killing the councilors without the government knowing the motives or the attacker’s identities. However, when they attacked the king, they killed him, but in doing so, were found out. Most high ranking members of the Neo-Grissmath Party were consequently arrested and the party itself was universally despised by the populace, and then officially banned. However, the party still exists, and has attempted to stage several coup d’etats and attacks with almost no success. The Planetary Council’s and the royal family’s security has been quite high now for years. In fact, coming here is probably when they are going to be the most vulnerable, and I fear that they are going to be attacked.”

Christina nodded. “This is something everyone should be aware about, and for your own safety, I think it is best that your own areas of this visit should be designed or modified to protect them at all costs. We will be the laughing stalk of everyone around us if they do not survive or are seriously harmed. To that matter, I have assigned nearly a squadron of our most elite warships to escort them to Genon, as well as a handpicked ground security team to watch over them groundside…”

Grand Vinlad Court Palace, Vinlad, Durren

The room was ancient, doubtlessly built by the ancient kings of Durren at the height of their power millennia ago. It had held up well over the ages. Staunch stone arches and pillars of ash gray upheld the ceiling. Fine woods with masterful carvings of the royal retinue of ages past paneled the walls and constituted all of the furniture in the room; the throne, the table, the high-backed chairs. Millenia ago, tapestries of the kings would have adorned the walls, but with the fall of Royal power with the Edict of Lorraine, and changing of the government into a constitutional monarchy, the Planetary Council’s own banners dominated the backdrop, with only the tapestry of Prince Maris representing the once ubiquitous displays of royal lineage. And all members that the banners represented were present, with the councilors, the Prince, and his advisors occupying a single, long table in the rear of the room. As typical with these meetings, the lead councilor lectured endlessly to the room’s other occupants.

“…as per fitting the station of your office, and by the Edict of Lorraine, we the councilors of the Durren Central Planetary Council, formally request the presence of your Majesty, the Prince of Vidland, and heir to throne of Durren, his royal highness Prince Larik Maris, to travel with designated members of the Council to visit Brandenburg, Genon. In doing so, the Prince will be exposed to a new culture and a rising power which he should at the least take studious observations from to better his education when his reign apparent occurs. The Council beseeches the young Prince to be the perfect gentlemen in every manner possible, with the graciousness of his forefathers, and as an example to demonstrate the good will of the people of Durren. So stands the Council.”

The brown-haired adolescent fidgeted in his seat, and spared a glance at his chief advisor, Traest Kaal. During most of these meetings, the Prince sat down silently, his mind elsewhere; typically wandering the fields and forests of Durren, or recalling past hunts. If the Prince had anything to say or any concerns Traest immediately delineated them to the Council rather adroitly. Kaal met Larek’s gaze and almost imperceptibly nodded back. A rather precise and almost aristocratic voice emanated from his crag-like face.

“The Prince and his advisors are pleased to accompany the Council on this grand journey which we hope will bring prosperity and enlightenment to the people of Durren. However, because of the recent situations regarding the plight of the Meridian Sector and surrounding space, and the cherishment of the royal family by the people, we wish to know the security arrangements, and possibly suggest several changes as we believe the situation dictates.”

The head councilor’s lip twitched.

“We all have long realized that none of us will truly be free given the state of both internal and external affairs. That for the necessity of order and the betterment of the people, the highest security must be an ever present factor in our lives and in our smallest decisions. To this end, the Council has ordered an escort of our own warships from the Durren Orbital to escort and transport us to the Confederates. As well, the Contegorian Confederation will also be sending us one of their most celebrated officers and several warships to protect us during our travels as well. Their Pro-Consul has also suggested placing members of the Council and the royal fleet on one of their warships. We the Council has declined the request as we have much faith in the hands of our crewman and our ships.”

Traest pensively leaned back. “Nonetheless, the royal family has always maintained the right to dictate its own travel arrangements as long as they were maintained as being reasonable in keeping in the demands of the people. For the safety of the Prince, and for exposing him to another culture, I request the Council to explicate travel arrangements more specifically. The Prince has been on our warships several time, and doubtlessly feels confident in their own ability. But as a young mind, and being so secluded on Durren, he is in need of new exposures and experiences.”

“The Confederates have offered the use of what they call their diplomatic complex on their battleship Revanche. It’s a rather large ship, at least three times longer than an Imperial Star Destroyer, and seems to be of Mon Calamari origin.”

“Head Councilor, the royal family wishes to arrange possible travel on the Revanche pending approval of the Prince when he sees the vessel.”

“Very well, it shall be done.”

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, Deep Space in the Meridian Sector

Lucerne loomed over the command walkway’s durasteel railing, staring at the crewmen below. The incessant taps of the crewmen on their consoles as they went about their daily work seemed to loudly reverberate in the Rear-Admiral’s head; as if people were using his head a snare drum. He scrunched up his face in repugnance. Slowly shaking his head and restoring a calm expression, the officer strolled over to the forward viewport of the Revanche’s observation bridge. The younger Lucerne gazed at the stars, much like when was a child. Calming blues, fiery reds, and golden yellows all twinkled in the distance. He exhaled, concentrating on the celestial objects. It was his favorite technique in dealing with the last vestiges of a hangover. The soothing from the stars and the lack of intense light made it enjoyable, and it was a discreet in public; at least for a bridge officer.

“Sir,” reported a bridge officer, “the last of the escort starships have dropped into formation.”

The Kashan man nodded. “What was the last ship?”

“Courbante, sir.”

“They seem a little late,” announced the Rear-Admiral.

“Only by two minutes.”

“Hm…very well. Thaneo, any word from Durren?”

“Yes sir. His majesty the Prince of Vinlad and his advisors wish to travel on the Revanche.”

“His advisors being the Planetary Council?”

“Negative sir. I imagine it’s his protector, dresser, or whatever passes as his servant retinue.”

“I see,” mused the younger Lucerne, “better have Fortinet prepare the Diplomatic complex then.”

“Aye sir.”

Corise turned his head for a second. “Very well, signal the Fleet to make the jump.”

A cacophony of voices acknowledged the orders and relayed them to various ships and departments. Escorting starfighters immediately flashed into the alternate realm, their tiny ion engines pushing them. Seconds later, the ships surrounding the Revanche entered hyperspace as well. Seeing that all ships had made the jump successfully, the battleship lurched into hyperspace. The sea of calming stars vanished into the harsh white lines of hyperspace, forcing the Rear-Admiral to shield his eyes with his hands. Silently cursing, the man stumbled over to his command chair. While it was a relatively short microjump from just outside Durren’s solar system to Durren itself, it was still would take nearly a half-hour. That is, if they wanted to do it without taking any risks of colliding into other matter within hyperspace. Leaning back in his chair, Lucerne tapped a button on the sidearm of his chair. Celestial lights hovered and coalesced in front of him as the holoprojector came to life. Several agonizing taps later, the Rear-Admiral was reading the latest news pertaining to Durren. He had engrossed himself in a rather obscure story about a local sentient rights group trying to persuade their government to take a more proactive stance within the Sector, particularly with Nam Chorios, when it came to abuses against sentients. The lines faded away to another sea of stars which were dominated by several celestial bodies, the two foremost being terra-like Durren and its icy moon Strennen. Other objects occupied space, and walking to the viewport, the Confederate officer could make out various classes of merchantmen, freighters, and shuttles; most of whom were swimming back and forth between Durren and Strennen. But a large group of starships did not. Instead, the Durren Planetary Fleet calmly strode forward to meet the Confederate fleet. As they approached, the Kashan man could make out Corellian gunships, Belarus cruisers, and a host of other New Republic style craft; doubtlessly ships from the now defunct New Republic Defense Force or clones of those craft made by the Durren orbital.

“Sir, there is a shuttle approaching us,” shouted out a crewman, “with the Prince and his retinue aboard.”

Corise nodded. “Excellent. Fyre is there in the hangar, is he not?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, when the Prince’s shuttle is secured, signal the Planetary Council that we are ready to make the jump.”

“Aye sir.”

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche

The engines of the Confederate battleship thrummed incessantly, gently vibrating the hull. Otherwise, near silence permeated throughout the room. Faint cyan light from the ship’s glow panels suffused most of the bridge, and made men appear to be ghastly phantoms. And Corise, strapped into his command chair, enjoyed it to the fullest. It was perhaps one of the better settings for a soldier with a hangover. It was both sanctuary and paradise. And it was frail.

A single voice shattered it.

“Sir! We’re being pulled out of hyperspace!”

Corise’s sapphire blue eyes watched in disbelief as the swirling starlines collapsed into miniscule, individual pricks of light. Coinciding with that event, the deck jolted underneath his feet as the inertial compensators quickly adjusted to their reentry into realspace. Around the Revanche, Confederate warships in the alabaster colours of the Contegorian White Fleet emerged, along with several discoloured warships of the Durren Fleet. Across the allied squadron, shields were raised, weapons were powered up, and crewmen rushed to battle stations. The Rear-Admiral barked a question.

“What the hell reverted us?”

“Ah…an CC-7600…”

“An interdictor,” noted the Kashan man, quickly toggling over to his console’s tactical screen.

A composite holo of the surrounding realspace floated in front of him. With but a glance, Corise could make out the positions of all capital ships within the area, and even the larger sets of fighters which were beginning to emerge from the hulls of the Contegorian warships. He ignored his own formation; the White Fleet could undoubtably hold its own against even against the elite units of most other governments without his coordination. Instead, his eyes fixated themselves on another unknown formation. At its center, the Corellian built CC-7600 had its gravity well projectors powered. Sequestered around the interdictor were dozens of corvettes and even more starfighters of various makes and builds. It was a motley fleet, and given the lack of large vessels, made it seem less than legitimate to the Confederate officer. Reinforcing his views, none of the opposing ships were running transponder signals. He sighed.

“Communications, demand that those ships identify themselves. And if they refuse, tell them we will fight them to get through. Nothing shall impede us.”

“Aye sir.”

“Ah, sir, I’m not sure that’s necessary. They’re fleeing.”

Corise glanced back at his holo. The ships around the interdictor began to break away as the formation disintegrated sporadically. Only the centerpiece of the unknown fleet maintained any sort of order or rigidity, and with their compatriots beginning to wheel away, the CC-7600 and its close allies began to make a methodical withdrawal. It was a rout without any battle having every taken place. Fyre walked up behind him.

“I thought I should let you know that the Prince and his advisor are watching everything unfold in the diplomatic complex.”

Corise grunted. “Wonderful. Weapons, fire off a few turbolaser bursts at the enemy.”

“Aren’t they out of range?”

The Rear-Admiral nodded. “It’s only to send a message.”

“To the pirates?”

Corise hesitated.

“Partially; I am sure they understand that we are not friendly now. But more so to the Advisor and the Prince; to show that we will not idly stand by when our enemies confront us.”

“Our enemies?”

“Their enemies, most likely,” concurred the younger Lucerne, “anyone knowing the extent of the Confederate escort fleet wouldn’t have ambushed us with so little force. It would have to be a suicide mission, and obviously, none of them had the heart to carry it through even if it was.”

“But,” mused Fyre, “that would be enough to possibly dent or drive off the Durren Fleet by themselves.”

He nodded. “And that is a piece of information of itself. Either Durren has enemies against it that can muster a fleet, or there are people within their area that don’t want to see Durren join the Confederation.”

“Probably the latter,” commented Fyre, “given that we are beginning to make some real headway against the lawlessness in the area. And that lawlessness could bind together to try and halt the process. It would at least explain the forces and the lack of discipline.”

“Agreed,” acknowledged his friend, “but there is something odd about their centerpiece units which suggests a discipline that a band of different pirates and criminals wouldn’t normally have. We are going to have to keep a steady eye on things.”

“Indeed.”

Ynthil, Strennen

Andan Fenn’s tired eyes gazed at the wispy holo which hovered in the living room of his windowless apartment. It was of a smartly dressed man with an implacable smile; a man who emanated so much cheer that it made Fenn both disgusted and depressed. He wanted to turn it off, but he could not. The man’s revoltingly cheery voice continued enthrall the party leader.

“I’m Aaron Marks, and you’re watching the Durren Five. This just in, an attempt was made on the Durren Planetary Council and Prince Maris an hour ago when their diplomatic convoy was ambushed by brigands. Luckily, the attackers were driven off by accompanying escorts. No-one appears to have been harmed on either side during this confrontation. We’ll have more information available as the government informs us. In other news…”

“Damn them,” cursed Andan, rising from the couch, “one simple task and yet they failed.”

“You know things are more easily said then done,” said a disembodied voice.

Fenn barred his teeth into a snarl. “This is not a time for games Calfan. Show yourself.”

A rather bland man with a cold smile stepped out of Fenn’s bedroom.

“I told you Kronn would fail,” commented the assassin, “it is increasingly harder to kill high-profile targets through brute force these days, as the governments and power consolidate.”

Fenn nodded in relunctant agreement. “I’m aware of that, thank you. It would have been better if Kronn succeeded though. It would have supported our party’s ideologue that the Meridian should Meridian and reunite in strength, rather fall piecemeal to outside influences. Besides, an assassination does one thing that a straight on fight does not?”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” said Fenn irritability, “it doesn’t ellicit support and sympathy to the targets. If Kronn had succeeded, they would have been some sympathy perhaps, but not as much as an assassination. They would have also looked as fools, being unable to defend themselves in a fair fight.”

“Does this mean that Project Monitor starts?”

Andan nodded. “What other option do we have if Kronn has failed? Will you be traveling to Genon to do the job personally, or is one of your men going to take care of them?”

Calfan rocked on his heel. “There’s a lot of targets, and I don’t know how good Confed security will be. I will go to dispose of our beloved prince, and if possible the others. But in order to get the job done, I’ll be needing the teams already positioned there, and probably another two more to make sure everything goes all right.”

Fenn frowned. “Isn’t that a lot of men?”

“Yes; fifty four, to be exact. Almost all of my men. But there is no other way, and I forsee our fortunes being less than good if we somehow fail.”

“Couldn’t you send a fusion bomb or crash a freighter into the place?”

Calfan barked a short chuckle. “Is that suppose to be a joke? I don’t know all the specifics of the area, but I’m sure that their capitol is going to be able to deal with such obvious threats. A simple security scanner will notice a fusion bomb, and attempting to use a freighter in a government that leaves little leeway for flight paths won’t work. Heck, I bet if I deviated from my course by a kilometer anywhere within the Confederation, I’d have fighters all over my tail. And near the capitol, I’d be immediately shot down. No, we can’t do this with any sort of weapons.”

“With no weapons?” frowned Fenn.

“We’ll just have to use our brains…and our fists…”

Brandenburg, Genon

Pro-Consul Thorn stared up into the starry sky from one of Atlas Hall’s landing pads. Her brown eyes searched the stars, noted the blue behemoth of New Hesiode, and picked out some of the larger Confederate ships in orbit. Most of them were wedge-shaped, but a sudden prick of light flashed into existence like a meteorite. The diplomat immediately eyed where the flash had emanated from, to see a giant blob of metal: the Revanche. She let a smile expand inwardly. They made it safe and sound…probably. Footsteps echoed behind her, and she heard the distinctive clicks of blasters being taken off of their safeties on either side of her. They would have been cause for alarm, if she didn’t know they were her guards. Christina turned about, letting her white gown ruffle a little bit. Her lip twitched and she raised her voice across the engulfing darkness of night.

“Identify yourself.”

“Pro-consul? It’s me, Fallon, Harding’s aide.”

“What is it, Fallon?” questioned the Kashan woman, “Does the councilor need something of me?”

“No ma’am,” replied the man, emerging near enough to actually see each other face to face, “but he wished to tell you that the Revanche has arrived, and everyone is all safe. Despite the attack.”

“If you can call that it that,” commented Christina, “in either case, it will be cause for investigation. Send my thanks to Harding, and express my thanks for his consideration. Mr. Fallon, I have a few more preparations to make before our guests arrive…”

“Ah, yes ma’am, I should be going myself.”

“Have a good evening, Mr. Fallon,” smiled the politician.

Her smile dimmed as the aide’s footsteps vanished into the tropical night. She let her right hand slide down her gown to the belt, which she fingered gingerly. Within a minute, Pro-consul had a diminutive holdout in her hand. She turned to the guards, both suited in the armor of a Kashan Shock Trooper, though darkened somewhat for night use.

“We have fifteen minutes before the guests arrive on this landing pad,” cautioned the woman, “since they’ll be going through security procedures such as inspection, and lowering the local shield grid and what not. CSIS has their teams in place, but we can’t be sure that none of them will manage to pierce the screen, at least if CSIS is right about the numbers they’re fielding.”

“Ma’am, do you absolutely trust this info? That’s a hella lot of assassins to send…”

She nodded. “I am. CSIS has an exceptionally good internal security unit based here. There’s no reason to think that they’re wrong. Sergeant, your squad, is it in position?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then all we can do is wait.”

Calfan leaned back against the café, putting out his lit cigarra with a firm push into an ash tray. Directly across the street stood Atlas Hall, for all intents and purposes, the capitol building of the Confederation. At a casual glance, the building looked extremely vulnerable to attack. Marble walls and roofing wouldn’t hold up to many missile weapons, or so it seemed, and only a partial marble wall with ferrocarbon palisade stopped anyone from gaining entrance into the garden grounds, and then into the Hall itself. But Calfan knew there was more to it than that. One of his men had managed to sneak in with a trade group visiting the Hall. Internal security was tight, and the Confederates seemed to have placed many hidden sensors, defences, and weapons that would make most assassination attempts nearly futile. A simple attempt at a infiltration and then quietly trying to assassinate a target would fail, particularly in the middle of a party. Instead Calfan had come up with a better plan. Sending in half the men in a blatant attempt to kill the delegates would serve as a distraction and possible, if unlikely method to kill their targets. In the meantime, a more elite group would attempt to sneak in during the resulting chaos and kill the bewildered Durren Council and its figurehead.

“Hey, you got a light on you?”

Calfan lazily turned about to face the feminine voice. He could immediately smell the alcohol on the woman. Looks like someone’s had too much to drink. The assassin stared at the girl more closely, analyzing her as the prospective buyer of a used droid. Roan hair with intricate curling flowed off her head in disheveled locks. Her lips curled up in a coy smile, her steel blue eyes stared back invitingly at the man. At any other time, Calfan would have not only lit her cigarra, but taken her to a bar, and if he was lucky, maybe even a hotel room. Calfan blushed.

“Ah, yeah, sure babe. Let me-”

A bright flash of light flooded his eyelids, and before he realized it, the man hit the duracrete paving unconscious. With the fall of a single man, the fall of a dream.



Yeah, I’d say that’s him. Kitty, currently known to Genon as Jacqui Tamerin, spared a glance of the bar’s window at the man. Dressed in a leather jacket, with utility pants, and with a cocky stroll, most people would have thought he was an avid swoop rider, maybe even part of a notorious gang. On many worlds that would not only ensure people leaving alone for fear of gang retribution, but would have allowed him to blend in the populace of the area. But this was Genon, which was not like most worlds. Swoop gangs didn’t exist, nor did swoops. They had been outlawed over a year ago. And that made the man’s disguise fall apart to the observant eye. The Jensaarai glanced at her drink, a random rail drink which she had never intended to drink. Glancing to see if any of the bar’s inebriated patrons was watching her, the woman dumped the drink across her clothes. She wrinkled her nose at the scent of the alcohol. Laying a few creds on the bar, she walked out and towards the man. She plastered a fake, almost flirtatious, smile onto her face and questioned the man.

“Hey, you got a light on you?”

He turned, and she was certain that this was the man she had seen on the CSIS holo. Their eyes met and then both stared at the ground. He fumbled his hand in his jacket. Not an intelligent one or a rather smitten one, otherwise he would have noticed that I don’t even have a cigarra.

With the grace developed from months of K’tara practice, the woman’s hand silently and deftly surged at the man’s face. By reflex, a small, but bright light emanated from her palm, shining into Calfan’s face. A light brought forth from a connection to the Force; known as Force light. A power which many force-users possessed. But few had the knowledge possessed by the Saarai-kaar, which twisted and manipulated the basic power into weapon which physically blinded an unwary opponent. It was an excellent tool for an infiltrator like herself. Her other arm whipped about so that the side of her hand smashed into the side of the man’s head. Calfan lost conscious, wavered, and collapsed onto the ground. Kitty thumbed her comlink.

“I have their ring leader down, unconscious. Send in a recovery team to take possession of him. I’m moving to intercept some of his cronies.”

Atlas Hall, Brandenburg, Genon

The sounds of the Alderaan Reel and the smells of food and fragrant arcadia wood filled the room. Thorn walked among the banquet’s guests, eying, smiling, and greeting people as they met. Her eyes peered through the marble arches and pillars of the banquet, her eyes glossing over the guests. Most of the Council was in attendance, and all were dressed in suave finery which was only matched by the opulence of the hall itself. The Council and the Prince’s retinue too wore exceptionally fine clothing. She spotted a brown-haired boy straightening an apparently uncomfortable suitcoat. A smile lighted the Pro-Consul’s face. Thankfully, the prince isn’t bedizened with a crown…that might be a bit too odd…maybe too Imperial for the tastes of some. Showing wealth is fine, but how you show it sends messages, for better or worse. Besides, a crown would make him a bit too good of a target for our other guests. She spared a glance at one of the Confederate attendees; a younger blonde man dressed in a dark tuxedo and apparently enjoying a glass of champagne. Their eyes met; he winked, and casually strolled over to another wall, feigningly to observe one of the hall’s paintings better. But Christina knew better; it was to keep within distance of the Prince’s roving retinue. She felt a slight squeeze on her arm and blushed.

“Corise, don’t sneak up on me like that,” demanded the woman, “one of these days, I might accidentally shoot you.”

“With the holdout you’re holding in your hands?” mused the officer, glancing at the pistol.

She frowned, and he shook his head.

“If you really have to have that out, try to conceal it a bit better. Perhaps having it tucked in a sleeve…which you don’t seem to have at the moment…”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on having to be ready to fight any assassins,” countered Thorn, “when I picked out my clothing for today.”

“And you really shouldn’t,” replied the Kashan man, “you’re a terrible shot. Besides, I think Adrian, CSIS, and the military forces being called in can more than deal with the task at hand. Particularly since you seem to have placed Mr. Ravenna in shadowing the Prince…probably a wise idea. But come now, conceal your popgun again and let’s dance, shall we?”

“How can you be so nonchalant? There’s a chance we or our guests could die…”

He shrugged, “Isn’t there always a chance? Cabernet or myself could collapse from a heart attack here and now. Oh sure, the chances are higher than normal now that we know about the assassins…speaking of which, do they know?”

Their arms slipped together into a casual promenade position, with the Rear-Admiral leading her out onto the dance floor. She slightly flourished her gown in sync with the music.

“The Durren Council? Only the Prince’s Advisor and the Prince’s chief minister, Traest Kaal.”

“They take it well?”

“Well enough,” replied the woman, “they seem to be use to this sort of thing for some reason. Apparently this would appear to be one in a long chain of attempts.”

Corise nodded. “Things should be fine. Kitty has captured their ring leader, and the rest of the CSIS team is mopping up the others as we speak.”