Concord Dawn
Above the Planet


The twelve fighters dropped silently out of hyperspace. No signal picked them up, no scanners registered their presence. Even to the eye it appeared as though nothing were there. That was the beauty of the SS TIE Phantom.

The fighters quickly set up a perimeter and began scanning. When they felt it was safe, a quick message was sent back towards Echbatahn, where their commander awaited word.


Echbatahn
In Orbit


"Sir, message from Commander Thrahn."

Colonel Wesley Vos started awake. He rubbed his eyes to clear away the sleep, then said, "Darn it, Jag, how many times do I have to tell you not to kriffing do that to me?"

The lieutenant who had interrupted his colonel's rest stood like a ramrod in the doorway. "I'm sorry, Sir, but you asked to be awakened when Commander Thrahn reported in."

Wes rolled his neck, then stood up. "That I did, Lieutenant. And the report?"

"All is ready, Sir. The area is secure."

"Alright, then. Head back to the bridge, have them get ready to head to hyperspace. I'll be there in a minute."

The lieutenant saluted, then turned smartly and headed off. Wes shook his head and grabbed his officer's jacket. Wouldn't do to talk to the government of Concord Dawn looking like crap.


Concord Dawn
Planetside


The two Journeyman Protectors strode down the street as though they owned the place. Which in a manner of speaking, they did. The world was sparsely populated, and the humans ruled. Though a number of Devaronians had recently begun protesting this rule, using terror tactics and other such nefarious means of warfare, the relatives of the Mandalorians were holding their own. Still, the attacks had become annoying.

The planet had had rough times before, but this was not one of them. Actually, with the Coalition at war on two sides, the planet was thriving. Food grown on the planet was being sold to the GC refugees at slightly inflated prices. Mercenaries were being hired covertly by both sides, and by the Empire. The planet's economy was booming.

Which made these two particular Journeymen wonder why the Devaronians were so angry. Certainly it wasn't because of poverty. Perhaps they didn't like the human rule. But they were immagrants, and they were far inferior to the humans if it came to a fight. So they would have to learn to deal with it.

At least, that was the thought of these two Journeymen. It would be the last thing they would think. For at that moment, an explosion echoed through the building directly next to them. The wall collapsed, stones crushing the Journeymen despite their armor. The rest of the building followed, burying the two soldiers as effectively as a grave detail.

Head Journeyman's Office

"Kriff!"

The office was a mess. The Head Journeyman, in full battle armor minus his helmet, slammed his gloved hands down on the desk. The others in the room stared at him. They hadn't seen this loss of control from their leader in a while.

The Journeymen had been in charge of Concord Dawn for several years now. There was that time when Mandalore Pike had been in control, but he had left the planet. Many of the Journeymen still remained loyal to him, but he was a non-present entity at the moment and had no actual control over the planet. Hence he was of no help in the current crisis.

At this point, only the Head Journeyman and a few of his higher officers actually bore the rank of Journeyman, but the name had stuck with the security officials. All wore Mandalorian battle armor - in fact, it was from them that the Mandalorian armor had sprung - and, with Pike's absence, to the Journeymen the the Head Journeyman was Mandalore's substitute.

At present, though, the Head Journeyman was concerned. Well, concerned was not really the word for it. Angered, incensed, was more like it. "The kriffing Devaronians have gone too far this time!" he yelled. The others in the room straightened and waited for him to continue. "Did we catch the perpetrators?"

A Journeyman lieutenant stepped forward. "No, Sir. It was remotely detonated. By the time we got there the Devaronians were long gone."

The Head Journeyman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I want them dead. D'ya hear me?" he yelled. "Dead! I want their families dead! I want their houses burned to the ground! Find them! Wipe them out!"

At that moment, another lieutenant burst in. "Sir, we have a bigger problem."


Concord Dawn
Above the Planet


The Imperial fleet dropped out of hyperspace. At its head was the Astrus Star Destroyer Tyrant, following were the Daemon's Fury and the Reign of Fire, both Eternal-class. Other various cruisers and frigates fell into formation behind them. Wesley Vos, wide awake by now, stood on the bridge of the Tyrant, viewing the planet below him. It was from here that many of his new commando recruits would come, assuming the Journeymen agreed to work with him.

"Lieutenant, patch me through to the surface. I want to talk to the Head Journeyman."

The lieutenant chuckled. "I'm sure he wants to talk to you, too, Colonel. You know, these Journeymen are even more sensitive than the Mandalorians. They may just want to fight you."

On any other Imperial warship, those comments would have elicited a removal of rank, position, and possibly life. Not on the Tyrant. Wes had developed somewhat of a familiarity with the men by now. They all knew the price of disobedience, but each one would die for him as well.

Wes smiled. "Just patch me through, Lieutenant. I'll take care of that part."

StarForge Station


Around them, as if within the womb of some great, ethereal manifestation, the fabric of space itself pulsated with a radiance painted in hues of the deepest azure streaked with deviant orbs of brilliant cerulean in clusters so tight in their proximity to seem as a single luminous being drifting through a pervasive haze of pure lumens.

This was the StarForge Nebulae.

And it was home to a certain nefarious breed; bounty hunters.

Long quiet now, their establishment reclusive, they watch the galaxy with the eyes of a dozen species spread throughout the galaxy bidding their time, plying their trade. Though they have seemed to slumber their ruse is just that, against the pretense that in a galaxy of increasing stability, their kind few, their ranks thin.

At their nexus resides a creature, and like the nucleus of the nebula in which they had made their home, he connects them all, unites them under one banner. His name is Beff Pike, and he is president of the Bounty Hunters Guild.

And he is displeased…



Concord Dawn


They were called Mandalorians and their story was one of contradictions, plot holes and a lack of continuity. From nothingness they had emerged as one of the least prevalent but most intriguing elements of society because of men of conviction, men like Jorel Fett.

Planet plunderers, warriors of unparalleled ability and the penultimate bounty hunters…

… pawns to be abused time and again by the powers that be, pawns to be made notorious, infamous not of their own volition but rather those ambitions exemplified outside of themselves. So rare was it that they, the warrior breed, worked together of their own accord – but rather theirs seemed to be a fate inexorably tied to the power players; to the men and women who throughout history would attempt to conquer or liberate the galaxy.

They joked that it had all began with Boba Fett, and his cameo like appearances on the galactic scene. The truth was that it had all started long before the Fett lineage. Fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor regarding these things. Ironic, the tides of time, that two such forces should be brought together; the Mandalorians and their complicated past and Beff Pike of Anzat…

“They call it retconning,” said the young boy by way of being helpful. In his youth the lad had no preclusions. He folded back the pages of his flimy ‘comic’ book and proffered it to his guardian, “It’s where the authors decide to change something. Like here, it says he’s from Polotonax and was only born on Concord Dawn…”

“Mmm?”

Jorel Fett was half asleep. The jostling motion of the hyper-train had a soothing effect on the man, it reminded him of the old days, of riding to war in the belly of great drop ships strapped in to his Basilisk war-droid. Irony prevailed.

“Nothing,” quipped the boy. “It’s not important.”

As if on cue, the Mandalorian blinking sleep from his eyes, the public address system ‘binged’ before the voice of a man came over the speakers informing them, “Next Stop, Coopersville.”

“We’re almost there,” said Fett aloud to no one in particular. They were alone in their booth aboard the train, an expensive amenity but one absolutely vital for their needs. He gestured to the boy, “Get your stuff together.”



Fett Homestead, Concord Dawn


Across the dusty plain blew an arid wind that scoured the fields clean. This was drought.

Jorel Fett stood upon the precipice of his ancestral home, now a ramshackle dwelling the victim of the ravages of time, and looked out across the vast territory that was his inheritance should he ever rise up to claim it. He sighed.

He was here incognito – traveling under an assumed name he and the boy had gained easy access to the planet in the guise of peasant migrants, refugees of the Empires expansion, the Coalitions collapse. There was a parcel, a huge affair in boxed steel, that had been delivered only days earlier.

“How does it look?”

From within the five meter cube came a young boyish voice, “Almost…”

With a popping noise from somewhere inside the crate the boy managed to release the hyper-clamps holding it shut. Hissing compressed air, it popped open.

“There!”

Jorel nodded approvingly. “Good. Turn it on and get it inside the barn. The satellites will pass this way in forty mikes. Let’s hustle.”

It had been a trick sneaking on the planet. Getting the package, however; was miraculous. To blow it all now would simply not do.

“Will do boss,” replied the boy, his dull red skin and small, jutting horns a strange contrast against the alien back drop.

Fett watched the Devaronian youth go about his business for another moment before disappearing inside the house himself.

They had work to do.



Concord Dawn, the Devils Haunt


The people of Concord Dawn, a population composed largely of humans, were of hearty stock. Like their brothers and sisters of Mandalore, had endured, had overcome. Life to them moved in cycles of violence and hardship, glory and forced peace. To them there was always a balance. To them the scales tipped only in times of great change.

“The first great fallacy of mankind is to believe we live in times of great change,” the Devaronian mocked. Reading from a human novel in digital format he was having trouble sounding out the words. “Hah!”

In the bowels of the Devils Haunt, a Devaronian raiding vessel, the crew was on down time. If they weren’t making life hard for the locals, they were on down time – which usually implied; very, very drunk. They were a rowdy bunch.

And they were not alone.

The Devaronians had, it seemed, fixed their eyes on Concord Dawn, and were doing their best to make the Concordia peoples intimately aware of this fact. Why? No one knew exactly. What they did know, however; was that the Journeymen Protectors were at a loss to quell it. The citizenry of Concord Dawn was growing uneasy and, as in the words of that same novella, the people of Concord Dawn did not believe they lived in times of great change… just great violence. And soon they would react in kind.

“Kriff!” A Devaronian cursed, “What’s that?”

On his ships sensors, through an inebriated haze, he watched as the ships systems tracked an inbound object moving at great velocity. “They’re shooting back?”

He did not live long enough to get a response, however; as moments later the vessel, in low orbit, was struck with a missile, a very potent missile. In a moment the hundred meter freighter and its crew were reduced to so much debris.

They never saw it coming.



Concord Dawn, High Orbit


From the bridge of the Mandalore, a stealth ship of the same classification, General Skurge looked out on the debris field that had, moments earlier, been a Devaronian raiding vessel. His own ship was cloaked, so hidden from the prying eyes of the galaxy as to be within their own pocket dimension, which in effect they were.

The Gen’Dai monster grinned, though the act was impossible to perceive on a human level.

“Recall the Phantoms. We’re done here.”

Unparalleled hunters of men, the Guild had long prized its ability to maintain stealth on any level at any time. They had, for decades, been masters of the elusive.

Groundside
1600 hours


The Head Journeyman stood in front of the holographic projector as the face of Wesley Vos, head of the SS, materialized. The Journeyman's helmet was locked in place, presentint only the expressionless visage of a Mandalorian warrior and revealing no clues about the man's emotions. Even his voice was obscured by the modulator in his helmet.

"Colonel Vos, you have no business in this sector of space. I must ask you to leave this area without delay."

The image of Vos smiled. It was a sick sort of smile, almost like a smirk. "Sir, we have received reports of disturbances among the native alien population. We simply wish to help you fix the problem."

The Journeyman's helmet remained stock still as the man spoke. "Colonel Vos, recently there was a large explosion in space. You may have noticed it. Or you may have been too preoccupied with your plans to rule this planet. We believe that the Devaronians behind these terrorists attacks were destroyed in that explosion. So you have no further reason to be here."

Vos's face hardened. "Sir, you do not know that. We offer our help, and it is refused. Know that this will not be received kindly by the Empire."

The screen went black. The Journeyman stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to his desk. One of his lieutenants approached him. "Sir, do you think that was wise? Turning them away like that? They are the Empire."

The Head Journeymand whirled. "And we are Mandalorians!" he shouted. "We do not bow to anyone, nor do we give up our rights so easily! If they want to conquer us, they'll have to kill us first."


Groundside
2100 hours


The four Devaronians sneaked through the town, staying off the main roads as much as possible. Darkness had fallen and covered their movements from prying eyes. Journeymen patrolled the streets, but with the destruction of the Devaronian ship in orbit, they believed the problem was solved. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

No one really knew when Devaronians had first settled the planet, but settle they had, millenia ago. For years they had lived peacefully with the Mandalorians, but the words that had recently ignited their spirits did not fade even with the passing of the speaker. He was a martyr now, a saint in their eyes, and they would continue his work. Cells were set up all over Concord Dawn, ready to strike in a specified order with the purpose of simply causing terror.

It took thirty minutes for them to accomplish their mission. They slinked back through town to their temporary hideout and waited.


Groundside
2300 hours


The Head Journeyman stepped out of the building. He was a bit early, as he usually did not head home until 2330, but today had been a long day, and he needed his rest. Locking the door behind him, he stepped into the street...

And was thrown forward by a massive blast coming from behind him. His armor clanked when he hit the wall on the other side of the street and as he fell to the ground, stunned. Pieces of stone, duracrete, and durasteel rained down around him as he tried to clear his head.

Dragging himself to his feet, he turned and saw that his office was no more. Apparently someone had placed a large explosive underground, directly under what used to be his desk, and detonated it. Had he not left thirty minutes early, he would already be dead. Backup would be on its way, but with the limited numbers, he knew they would never catch the perpetrators.

Perhaps the Empire's offer wasn't so bad after all...

Concord Dawn, Planetside


The Devaronians people on Concord Dawn, as with any society driven to fanaticism, were a paranoid bunch. At war with a culture diametrically opposed to their own they had adopted a policy that not only supported, but encouraged conduct unbecoming. They were, at their core, terrorists.

They organized themselves in to cells and conducted black-bag raids against non-military targets. They did not identify themselves openly, masked their presence among an innocent civilian populace. Theirs were not the actions of a legal body, or one inclined towards civility. Theirs were the actions of a people willing to do whatever it took to accomplish their goals.

This mentality, this sociopath behavior was not easily come by. For the Devaronians of Concord Dawn it was a way of life. They grew up believing themselves the chosen people, their right to rule divined of the gods perhaps, but compelled by a deeply ingrained belief. It had to be developed young, a creature raised with liberty and freedom could not be easily convinced of the hopelessness of life without sacrifice. Men willing to strap themselves with high explosives and wander in to a tapcafe filled with bystanders and detonate were not easily come by. Children were.

The children of such fanatical cultures, historically, have borne the brunt of their parents madness.

Born in to a family possessed, they were raised to believe their enemies the infidel, a plague to be cleansed from their planet. And this depraved sensibility proliferated behind closed doors, in the slums and down-trodden parts of their shared society. It proliferated to the point that men, women and even children were willing to throw their lives away for an impossible dream…

Jorel Fett and his young charge had come to prey upon that sickness, to turn it to their advantage and expose these bravado-filled mercenaries as the cowards they were.

Watching from the window of his hotel room, a run down tramp-shack on the east side of town, Jorel Fett sipped his beverage while tracking the movements of those below. This was a dominantly Devaronian neighborhood, although slum seemed to better describe it. The room he had rented was in a ply-board establishment and was easily the tallest building in the area at four stories. It boasted two brick walls and a solid foundation. The same could not be said of the shops and homes that abutted it and spread along the muddy, narrow, meandering thoroughfare.

It was a sty.

Fett adjusted the microphone hooked over his ear, moving the microphone nearer his lips.

“Everything ok?” He spoke in to the unit.

Two clicks repeated back.

Somewhere, on the other side of the street, the boy, the Devaronian which had traveled with him, was in deep conversation with one of the street-side, soap-box prophets spewing hate and intolerance. Through the microphone connected to the boy, Fett could just listen in.

“… our planet by right,” the mad-man was saying. “It is our duty, our responsibility to cleanse this planet and claim it in the name of our people.”

“The men and women, humans all, who have lived here so long sully the soil and offend the stars themselves. They are inferior and we have come to see them removed. In the fight against these infidel we have the strength of a thousand men, our skin cannot be pierced nor burn or torn…”

And it went on, and on.

Fett had heard it a thousand times on a hundred different planets throughout his career and over the years, had grown numb to its effect. The boy, however; conditioned though he was, would be swayed. This was his plan, his intention, because within the youth was a conflict… a confusion of loyalties. He did not expect the war of morals would last long, soon the boy would be one of theirs – a convert. But, before that happened he would give Fett the keys he needed.

Smiling, Fett stood and fetched his ruck-sack. “I’m stepping out. Give me a long tone if you’re in trouble. I’ll be right there.”

With that he removed the microphone and tucked it in his pocket leaving the neigh invisible receiver plugged in to his ear. Cabs did not run in to this part of town, but Jorel Fett had his own way of getting around.

Bag on shoulder, he stepped out the door.



Concord Dawn, High Orbit


General Skurge studied the display at length. Reading and re-reading the communication beamed from the surface, he balked. He could nary believe his eyes. Even the signature, Fett’s mark, failed to immediately convince him.

“He’s flipped,” mocked the behemoth. “Blown a fuse, he can’t be serious…”

The Mandalorian at his side, however; had no doubts. “He is.”

“They’re not our friends,” snipped Skurge needlessly. “Don’t see why we should help them…”

From behind the bucket-shaped helmet came a simple reassurance, a few words of wisdom. It said, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Skurge seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding.

“Very well, drop the beacon.” Skurge stalked towards the rear of the bridge, the senior officers ready-lounge, pausing only to add, “Maybe it’ll open up new revenue opportunities… Good hunting…”



Concord Dawn, Low Orbit


The beacon, a small black ovoid perhaps a half meter in diameter, pulsed. Broadcasting on a low-end frequency, it was barely visible. Only those with the most discerning sensors could hope to detect it, only those with the funds, the raw abilities, of the Empire.

Brandishing the brand of the Bounty Hunters Guild, it contained a package, an information packet. Though simple, revealing little, it contained just enough. A short message, heavily encrypted, directed to one Colonel Wesley Vos.

It read, “We are here and prepared to assist. We share a common demon. Alleviation of this instability could be of mutual advantage to our two parties. If a shared venture is of interest reply in kind, we will be watching.”

At the bottom, once decrypted, was a name.

The name was, “Beff Pike, President of the Bounty Hunters Guild.”



Concord Dawn, Fett Homestead


Jorel relaxed in his chair, a rickety wooden affair, and switched off his subspace transceiver. Successfully sent and received, the extraction and assistance team would soon deploy the message as requested by Fett. Doubtlessly they would chew it over briefly, but as the man on the ground this was his mission and, as such, there would be little choice but to comply.

Of course, the Mandalorians crewing the vessel would encourage compliance.

“That’s done,” he said to himself as much as the boy listening on the other end. It was a careful game, keeping his trust and feeding him the information he would need to save his life when, inevitably, the boy enacted his betrayal. “Heading back to town.”

During the hours of travel the boy had insinuated himself with a group of his peers, a band of upstart kids well on the road to becoming suicide bombers, or mastermind terrorists if they were smart enough to muddle through the ranks. During the hours it would take to return, he’d be neck deep in the shit and by the time he returned to their room, disguise and all, there would be a process of detoxification in an effort to stave off his conversion utterly.

Fett disliked the head-games, disliked using psychological warefare against such an innocent being as this, but…

… he had done far worse.

This was just another walk in the park.

Wesley Vos sat back, puzzled, as the holoprojector powered down. He had noticed the explosion, but how in the Nine Corellian Hells did that idiotic Journeyman think that he got all of the rebels? Or insurgents, rather. Or terrorists. Whichever name was used, they all fit. The last one was probably the most descriptive, though the second was indicative of their organization. The Devaronians, though an alien race, were not stupid. They knew better than to congregate all in one place. And what of the native population? Surely the man didn't think that none of them were involved.

But of course, such was the natural reaction to the appearance of an Imperial warfleet above one's head, even if they appear in order to offer assistance. Wes shook his head. Well, he didn't plan on leaving the system entirely. He had a contingency plan, though he didn't want to use it unless he absolutely had to. Still, it would be best to get out of sight.

Turning to Captain Typton, Wes said, "Well, Captain, it would seem we're not wanted here. I want the fleet to execute a microjump, one light-year away from the planet. Let them think that we're leaving."

The Captain nodded, and the fleet turned. Minutes later, the white stars elongated into streaks, and the Imperial SS fleet disappeared.


Six hours later
One light year away from Concord Dawn


The green lieutenant had only been added to the crew a week before, a replacement for a sick communications officer. He was a transfer from one of the ships in the Echtabahn defense fleet, recently graduated from the Academy. And now he was sitting on board the largest ship in the SS fleet, sitting at the communications station. No, in charge of the communications station. It was an honor, a great responsibility. And it was freaking him out.

One might think that such fears were eliminated from young officers by the rigors of the Carida Academy, but such was not always the case. There were those who were not meant to be officers that managed to pass under the radar, managed to keep their grades high enough and pass the physical tests to squeak through. The lieutenant was one of these. So when the heavily-encrypted communication came through, he nearly jumped out of his seat.

Now what am I supposed to do? he thought. All his training had fled his mind at the time when he would need it most. His mind went blank, and he forgot even the simplest of things; when in doubt, go to your superior. But he didn't, at least not right away. He sat in his seat, staring at the encryption for several minutes, before his mind began to work again.

Finally, ten minutes later, he managed to clamber to his feet and pull himself together enough to approach the bridge officer on duty, Lieutenant Babbington. "Sir," he managed to get out, "a message from the direction of Concord Dawn. Heavily encrypted, Sir."

Babbington stared at the green lieutenant for a moment. He was a small man, Babbington, standing only at 1.7 meters and weighing no more than 64 kilograms, but he was well-toned, and his face gave the impression of hardness. Very Tarkinish, in fact, with the high cheekbones and cold eyes. A younger version of Tarkin, maybe, since Tarkin had gone gray by the time of his fame and Babbington still retained his blonde hair.

The young lieutenant considered all this while Babbington thought. Then the bridge commander spoke. "Alright. Send this down to decoding, see if they can crack it. It's not standard Imperial code, certainly, though I seem to recall having seen it before. Sent to us?" The lieutenant nodded in reply. "Hm. Strange. Yes, run this down to decoding." As the lieutenant saluted and departed, Babbington muttered to himself, "And I need to go see Vos."


Fifteen minutes later


"Sir, my guess is it's a message from the Devaronians, or perhaps from some third-party interest." Having concluded his report, Babbington fell silent and waited for the Colonel's response.

Wes sat back in his chair. "A message from the planet, eh? Encrypted heavily, but not Imperial encryption. Hm." A long pause. "Too crafty for the Devaronians. They may be smart, but the reports from our team there indicate that they're not that advanced. With the destruction of that ship, or what we think is the ship, they lost nearly all their advanced technology. But a third-party interest...that's possible." He paused again, then stood. "Lieutenant Babbington, have them decode the message as soon as possible and get it up to me on the bridge."

In less than thirty minutes, Wes had finished reading the decoded and decrypted message, and he was smiling. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the Kommando squadron leaders assembled behind him, "it would appear we have our ally."

Selere was the first to express himself. "A bounty hunter, Sir? Are you sure this is wise? The dregs of society, these hunters. Why would we align ourselves with them?"

Lomax picked up where Selere stopped. "And shouldn't you clear this through High Command? I mean, doesn't what we do here affect the rest of the Empire?"

Vos smiled. "Commander Selere, we align ourselves with them because they are there and willing to help. Commander Lomax, what High Command doesn't know won't hurt them. In a situation where we perform such dirty work as we do here, the enemy of our enemy is most certainly our friend. No, I have - at least technically - the authority to forge an alliance with those who would willingly help us. Besides, don't you know your history? The terms of a bargain can always be altered, given the right circumstances, and a large force to back you up.

"No, send a message back to Mr. Pike. Tell him we are most grateful for his offer and will accept any and all aid he is willing to provide. Tell him to travel to these coordinates, and we will meet him there to discuss the terms of an agreement...no, make that a business arrangement...yes, business arrangement. Sign it, Colonel Wesley Vos."

Concord Dawn, Deep Space


It had been a gamble, using Pikes name and title to catch the eyes of the Imperial commander, but it worked and it worked smashingly. In less time then Fett had anticipated the Imperials had made their reply which implied, among other things, that the Guilds estimation of Imperial prowess was sadly outmoded. More over it implied, insinuated a desire to collaborate. This, in Fetts estimation, was a good thing.

The first week had been busy as a result. Very busy indeed…

Fett had been occupied relaying status reports by way of the Mandalorian-class ship in orbit, via their stationary relay drone, to the Imperial squadron as they streamed in, day by day and hour by hour, from his contact inside the Devaronian death cults. On four separate occasions he had been forced to relocate housing as a result. The boy, though talented, was no spy. Too often, in their own paranoid observations, the Devaronians had come close to discovering the secret behind the youth. At one point he had actually suspected betrayal given the intensity of their attempts to track Fett, but slowly came to dismiss that after long talks with the kid. He was, at the time, on the hedge and Fett knew he would have to act swiftly, but for the time remained loyal to the Guild.

Of course, in the worst case, the boy could not give them much. Formally he had no inclination, no idea that it was the Guild who had captured his parents… rescued from slavery and bought in to bondage, but he knew someone had them and that, to see them again, and he would have to play along. As things degenerated Fett suspected the boy would eventually dismiss the memory of his parents in favor of the easier path, the path being offered him daily by his own people; hate.

Maybe, best case scenario, the boy played the game through to the end. Maybe then Fett would be able to take him home, back to his kin, and hopefully they would be able to restore his faith or bolster what little would remain at mission complete. But he doubted it.

They were well in now, ninth inning stretch, and Fett was beginning to suspect the boy had slipped.

He contemplated this, at length, gazing out the starboard side portal of the Imperial shuttle at the distant, blinking stars. His helmet, a marvel of technology unto itself, magnified the distant stars and filtered out any offensive or harmful rays. It also had the uncanny ability to make everyone around him nervous. At least, most of the time, but not today.

The Imperial SS was something new to Fett and if the reports were to be trusted, new to the Empire. A vestigial arm given new life by its commander, Wesley Vos. And while the Guild did it’s best to maintain accurate, up to date files on Imperial goings-on, the recent inactivity within their borders, turning away all non-sanctioned hunters, had conspired to limit their information. What they did know, however; was that the SS was almost singular within the New Order, practically parallel to the Imperial Guard.

This, Fett believed.

Having planned a rendezvous with the Imperial Colonel, Fett anticipated the Imperial would request a surface meeting somewhere safe, where he could be assured of the upper hand. Such was typical of the spineless, bureaucratic types that tended to climb the ladder of power in the old days. So it had come as something of a shock, two weeks in to the operation, when Vos had replied inviting the Mandalorian aboard his personal starship for a face-to-face, so to speak.

Naturally, Fett suspected that the Colonel would plan a coup, take Fett in to custody and bleed him for everything he was worth. Even then, however; it wouldn’t garner the Imperial much. They did not come much harder then Jorel Fett who, on many occasions, had been on the receiving end of various torture techniques. A master at inflicting such pain, his mind was hardened against physical pain.

Of course, there were always drugs…

Regardless Fett bargained on the side of prosperity hoping the Colonel would have been suitably impressed with his abilities thus far, and wise enough to know the perils of messing with one of the Guilds’ own. A day later, with the next packet delivery, Fett had confirmed.

Three days later, the boy verging on a break down, Fett had stolen the boy away from town and vanished in to the forests hiking well in to the wilds, down a sloping valley, to the prearranged coordinates. There, waiting patiently, was a shuttle and escort of heavily armed soldiers. The boy, upon seeing their Imperial uniforms, wanted to bolt and it had taken quick action on his part, with the help of a hypodermic filled with sleeping toxins, to bring him under control.

And there they were, in the passenger compartment of the Imperial shuttle, surrounded by SS troops, when Fett had taken the time to appreciate their discipline. They hardly blinked when he looked their way, the baleful, penetrating stare of his bucket-helm cast upon them. And when he looked away the concentrated only on keeping their weapons trained. No one, not one of them, spoke.

Fett had his own mystique to protect and, likewise, remained silent.

Out there, somewhere, the stealth-ship was shadowing them under high cloak. On the bridge General Skurge would be watching vigilant for the first sign of trouble, finger on the trigger, and ready to vaporize Fett, his charge and the Imperials at a moments notice.

Not that it proved necessary. They were almost there and the flight had proven uneventful.



Imperial Vessel, Deep Space


“Welcome aboard,” spoke the Imperial officer. A short, hard man, he was sizing Fett up. “Do you require assistance?”

He motioned to the unconscious form of the Devaronian youth slung awkwardly over a chair aboard the shuttle. He and another officer, this one more the soldier, less the sailor, had joined Fett at the bottom of the boarding ramp along with a cadre of what Fett suspected were their crack troops, all armed and armored for full combat.

Fett nodded, “Be gentle. Where is your commander, Colonel Vos?”

Both men seemed amused by this presumption, one, the soldier even said, “All in good time.”

It was Fett’s turn to be amused. “Good time is not something we have. War is about to break out on that planet back there. You want in or not?”

Fett shrugged and squared his shoulders towards the shuttle, “If not you can just drop us off…”

“No,” snapped one. “This way.”

A short journey through the halls of the Imperial war ship later, giving Fett further time to appreciate the order of this New Order versus the shambling beast of an Empire he recalled. There was a new breed in the Empire, clearly, and they were outliving the stogy old turn-coats. This impressed Fett and restored his faith that perhaps one day the Guild and the Empire could again cooperate. Lucrative contracts no doubt were still common among the planets of the Empire.

A conference chamber had been cleared for them and as they moved through the doors, Fett between a cohort of pointed rifles, Colonel Wesley Vos rose to greet them. He moved as a man confident in his surroundings would, but also with the caution of man wise enough to know the odds, though in his favor, could change.

“Jorel Fett,” the Colonel greeted him, “so glad to finally meet, face to face as it were. Won’t you have a seat?”

Disarmingly calm, Fett was unsure what to make of the man at first and had he not been disarmed before hand, would have let his fingers drift towards the blasters slung at his sides. He felt naked now without them and realized it was Vos eliciting this response in him. It made him uncomfortable.

The Mandalorian shook his helmeted head, “We don’t have time.”

Vos studied him with a raised brow, “Eh?”

“Before your men picked us up I put in action a plan that will see the planet descend in to chaos. It should be happening right now.” He motioned to the boy, “he has all the information you will need to burn the Devaronians out and I suspect that the Concordians will be much more willing to accept your help now.”

“What’s it going to be?”



Concord Dawn, Planetside


The beast, a machine possessed, lifted the Journeyman Protector in to the air with its massive claws before rending him in twine. It hissed mechanically as the blood of its prey blossomed in to the air. Moving forward, shrugging off the laser blasts that collided with its armored hide, it leveled its own cannons and unleashed fiery death.

It had, only seconds ago, burst through the fortified walls of the Protectorate barracks before cutting a swath through the off duty soldiers present. Were any of them old enough, or wise enough, they would have recognized their attacker for what it was, but these were not the Mandalorian Deathwatch of old, these were men who were but a shell of what they could have, should have been.

Just the same, they were brothers in arms and so Fett had programmed the beast to be quick in its work and let none suffer long. The basilisk war-droid was only too happy to comply. Within a matter of minuets, even before the alarm could be raised, it had obliterated, to a man, the regiment housed here and then, as quickly as it had come, was gone.

Half an hour later, looking up the carnage and seeing what he chose, rather then the bloody truth, the Head Journeyman declared open war on the Devaronians, all of them.

An hour later, about the same time Fett was meeting with Vos elsewhere, the planet was at war with itself…

… and looking for salvation.

The next few hours consisted of a flurry of activity aboard the Tyrant. Vos and his men, as prepared as they were for conflict, were not prepared for it to come this quickly or quite in this manner. Nevertheless they were experts at adapting to situations, and adapt they did. Troops were quickly loaded on to dropships, an entire division being ready to land on the planet within two hours. Selere and his Kommandos moved more quickly, sending Gray and Green Squadrons planetside in order to harass and otherwise hinder Deveronian operations.



Vos, for his part, reestablished contact with the Head Journeyman, who was now much more willing to talk. Having watched half of his men obliterated by what seem to be a Deveronian sabotage, the Empire's help was much appreciated, despite the necessary obligations that were required afterward. A standard treaty agreement was quickly signed, surprisingly lenient toward the Journeymen. It allowed them autonomous government, only requiring certain Mandalorians to serve in the ranks of the SS before returning to serve as Journeymen at home. Of course, a small tax was required as well, but it was much smaller than the amount the Empire usually collected.



On the ground the Deveronians were quickly and efficiently eliminated or rounded up and... disappeared. Few individuals outside the high command of the SS knew what had happened to them. Except, of course, for those running factories on other planets, where the aliens were transported for slave labor. This was not prejudice against aliens so much as it was condemnation for traitors. For that is what the Deveronian's were deemed -- and in a farce of a court, General Vos and the Head Journeyman quickly and efficiently passed sentence. The few Deveronian's who remained on planet either went into hiding or were sold as slaves to the Journeymen in order to pay for the damages they caused. It was generally thought that a few hundred years of servitude might begin to repay the cost.



After the conclusion of the battle, which had itself concluded the war, the SS essentially left the planet alone. They had no direct dealings with the Journeymen other than to recruit them for the SS and, in return the Journeymen received the right to produce certain goods for the SS and were graced with several Imperial corporations, who established factories on the planet, greatly enriching the Journeymen and those who supported them. In truth, it was a win-win situation.



And what did Jorel Fett get out of this? Several things, actually. First, the SS trained young Journeymen, who would later either protect the planet or join the Bounty Hunters' Guild. Secondly, the Empire contacted the Guild on occasion for several important... operations. Of course, these operations were of a delicate nature, and the Empire did not want such activities traced back to them. Finally, the Guild gained several important contacts within the Imperial ranks, and made an important friend in General Wesley Vos.



The operations on Concord Dawn drew to a close. Little blood had been shed -- Imperial blood at least. That was all that really mattered, at least to Vos. But a lot of Deveronians had died. It was dirty work, but it needed to be done. Gloria Imperium. And Wes added his own little phrase to the end -- Gloria Schutzstaffel.