The Iridium Ibliton streaked out of the upper cloud layers of Korbin’s atmosphere like a blazing shooting star. Screaming down at several thousand kilometers per hour, the ungainly-looking ship muscled its way through the incredible heat of atmospheric entry with resolute determination. Nearing the planet’s surface, the vessel suddenly angled into level flight, passing no more than a hundred meters from the ground. A herd of wild banthas stampeded in terror as the 70 meter long ship swept past them in eerie silence only to be followed moments later by the sonic shockwave trailing in its wake.
Aboard the customized exploration craft, Drake Cromwell barely noticed the passing scenery, his mind focused on his reason for coming to this Pulse-forsaken world. Years of investigation and research had finally paid off with the tip that his quarry made its home on Korbin, one of the most lawless and dangerous places in the galaxy. Compared to Korbin, other notorious trouble spots such as Nar Shaddaa and Andalasa were no more chaotic than any of a dozen serene Core Worlds. Drake hadn’t been the least bit surprised to find out that the parasite he sought had hidden himself here, far from the prying eyes of both is former masters and their enemies.
Speeding across the landscape, the Iridium Ibliton passed over the terminator into the planet’s night side in silence. Minutes crawled past as Drake silently contemplated the upcoming showdown. He was not a vengeful person by nature, but certain acts could not be ignored. Even now, decades later, the memories that drove him on were still fresh in his mind. He could remember every scent and sound of that day as clearly as if it had been an hour ago. Drake had a mission to complete, and then he would finally be free. A voice nagged at the edge of his consciousness asking ‘Free to do what? What will you do when this is done? Where will you go? What will you have to live for?’ Drake’s impassive face twitched slightly in annoyance at his own doubts. ‘I will nuke those bridges when I come to them’, he told himself silently as he pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on the task at hand. He knew he must be at his most alert to face his opponent. As he had grown in power and skill over the years, so too would his opponent have grown in ability. ‘No matter’, he thought to himself, ‘It will merely make defeating him all the more rewarding’.
The lights of the city appeared up ahead. Drake slowed his ship to come in for a landing. He had already arranged for a spot just outside the city where an associate of his was waiting. Activating the comm-suite, Drake spoke aloud “Cromwell to Dask, come in please.” Long seconds of static were finally broken as the response came through “Dask here. ‘Bout damned time you showed up, Drake. This place is an even worse pest-hole than the last time I was here. Hurry your butt down here and take care of this idiot so we can leave!”
Drake smiled at his Barabel friend’s impatience. “Why Kilbar, I thought you liked disreputable pest-holes!” His friend made a rude noise and responded “I do, I just don’t like THIS disreputable pest-hole! You know I hate coming home.”
Drake nodded to himself as he brought his ship into a hover over the landing spot and said “I know, old friend. As soon as this is done, you can leave this armpit of a world behind forever. Firing retros in three, two, one, mark!” The roar of massive fusion rockets could be heard all the way up in the control compartment some twenty meters above as the ship settled slowly to the ground. “Touchdown accomplished, releasing cryogen coolant now. Be sure to stay at least twenty meters away while the landing area is cooling off, you remember what happened last time.” Drake said. Kilbar growled irritably as he responded “Yeah, yeah, just hurry it up. I don’t know why you insist upon using that outdated fusion rocket system instead of good ‘ol repulsors.”
“Because ‘good ‘ol repulsors’ are inefficient and untrustworthy” Drake shot back. He’d never bothered to tell Kilbar that the real reason was because he simply liked the roar of the rockets. The Iridium Ibliton had a perfectly good repulsorlift system fully capable of handling the mass of the ship during landings, but Drake’s love for the older fusion rocket system meant that the ship’s repulsors saw very little use.
“Yeah, yeah” said Kilbar, “Maybe they’re inefficient and untrustworthy on Orlea, but everywhere else they work just fine. Just get down here so we can do this, okay?”
“Coming, dear.” Drake said as he shut down the engines, unlatched himself from the pilot’s chair, and made his way down to the tiny hangar bay. Entering the cramped bay, he made his way to one of the little shuttlecraft he used for low-profile work. Drake paused for a moment to check his weapons and gear, and then slid behind the shuttle’s control console. With the automatic precision of long years of familiarity, he checked the shuttle’s systems and opened the bay doors. Tapping the throttle, the tiny craft shot past its twin sitting a couple meters away and down to where his Barabel friend stood waiting. Drake pulled up beside Kilbar and opened the door. “You coming or staying?” he inquired. “Staying”, said Kilbar as his heavily-scaled face scrunched up in the Barabel equivalent of a grimace. “The target should show up at The Strangled Rodian in a couple hours if he follows his usual routine. He usually holds court with about a dozen or so thugs and other assorted low-lifes. You just comm me when the job’s done so I can get off this mudball, ‘kay?” Drake shrugged and said “Sure thing. See you back on Elshandruu Pica in a week, then?” Kilbar nodded saying “Yeah sounds about right. I may have a job lined up between now and then that’ll keep me late, but I’ll try to send you a message if I think I’ll be a really long time.”
“Fine then, see you at Margath’s!” came Drake’s reply as he closed the door again and pulled away. He hadn’t really expected Kilbar to come with him, but he felt it only polite to ask. Drake’s task was a private matter anyway, and as much as he valued Kilbar’s friendship, this was something he must do alone. Drake tweaked the throttle and went racing off in the night towards the city ahead.
Half a kilometer from the city, a dull ache began to manifest behind Drake’s eyes. He hated Korbin nearly as much as Kilbar did, but for a completely different reason. While Kilbar had been born here, and was as well acquainted with its evils as any Pulse-blind person could be, Drake felt the evil of this world on a far more visceral level. Every moment of every day an atrocity was being committed somewhere on Korbin. While the same could be said of many other worlds in the galaxy, Drake had never been to a world whose Pulse was as uniquely fetid as this cesspool of a planet. He could feel little pulses of pain dotting his consciousness, each pulse a violent death somewhere in the city ahead. He was accustomed to death. He had seen it all his life and had dealt out quite a bit of it himself, but something about this world always managed to make each lost life seem just a little more senseless.
He slowed down as he reached the outskirts of the city. Burning trash and broken-down shelters formed a confusing maze-work which prompted Drake to increase his altitude somewhat to take him over the worst of it. Fortunately he was vaguely acquainted with the layout of the city and was familiar with The Strangled Rodian. He had first met Kilbar there nearly twenty years ago on his first visit to Korbin. Kilbar had been a slave bodyguard to a Bith spice dealer who was responsible for a friend’s death. Drake had come to settle the score and ended up facing Kilbar in the process. It had only taken Drake a moment to realize Kilbar was far from loyal to the Bith criminal, and in a gesture of contempt for the spice dealer, Drake offered the Barabel his freedom, a ship, and a tidy sum with which to begin a new life in exchange for the Bith’s head. Kilbar went him one better and delivered the hapless spice dealer’s head with his spine still attached.
Finally sighting The Strangled Rodian, Drake set his shuttle down a block away. Exiting the vehicle, he took care to engage the craft’s automated defense system to discourage would-be thieves. He then pulled his hood up over his head, pulled his cloak around him, and strode towards the bar. Even covered as he was, Drake was an imposing sight. A genetic giant among his people, he stood two meters tall and nearly a meter and a half wide at the shoulders. Long years of harsh training had honed his body into a solidly-built mountain of muscle, bone, and determination. Coupled with his knowledge of the Pulse, his physical stature and austere demeanor seemed to exude a quiet aura of barely restrained power and ferocity. Drake Cromwell was an authentic bad-ass, and he looked it.
Striding purposefully through the dilapidated streets, Drake deftly avoided the worst of the refuse, both living and inanimate. The only real difference between the city proper and the tent city on the outskirts was that the buildings usually hadn’t collapsed this far into the city. Drake heard the sounds of murder and mayhem in the night air all around him. The whine of blaster fire, the sharp staccato crack of slug-throwers, the occasional dull thump of a grenade all punctuated with roars of victory and anguished cries of defeat swirled about him like a shroud. ‘Must be a slow night’, Drake thought bitterly. The dull ache behind his eyes had steadily grown into sharp pain.
At length Drake arrived at The Strangled Rodian and regarded the squat, ugly building impassively. It was one of the few structures in the city to have defied the perpetual entropy that seemed to grip the entire planet. At one time the building had been a warehouse for seismic charges and similar mining explosives and was probably one of the sturdiest structures on the planet. That there were no obviously repaired holes in the outer walls spoke volumes about the building’s durability in Korbin’s murderous environment. Drake mentally shrugged and stepped over a corpse as he walked inside.
Inside the bar, a heavy pall of smoke hung like a funeral shroud over the cavernous room. The floors inside were only slightly less disgusting than the street outside and a sizable pile of destroyed tables and chairs occupied one corner of the room. A band of golden-eyed, salt-addicted Arconans played listlessly on a stage in another corner behind a grid work of duraplast. The droning music was off-key, out of sync, and likely played more to the individual tunes in their heads than any single cohesive piece of music. As he watched, one of the Arconans silently slipped to the floor and did not stir again. Drake laid even odds that the fallen musician was merely unconscious or dead. The rest of the band failed to even notice their companion’s departure from their company. To call The Strangled Rodian a filthy dive was to seriously insult the reputation of dives across the galaxy.
Drake scanned the room for the spot most likely to be frequented by his quarry. Spying a likely candidate, he mentally flagged it before going over to the bar and on a lark saying “Pink Lizard Thunderbolt, please.” A Whiphid bartender regarded him with an annoyed scowl and responded “Yeah right, whatever THAT is… This ain’t some fancy Core World restaurant, pal. Try again.” Drake rolled his eyes and responded “Right, then. I’ll have a double Meltdown delivered to that table over there.” He pointed to his chosen spot opposite that of his quarry. “That’ll be twenty credits, chum” rumbled the Bartender. Drake felt a surge of irritation at the outrageous price before ruthlessly suppressing it. The pain in his head was wearing on his calm already. He produced a small pouch of credits from beneath his cloak and dropped it onto the bar saying “Keep it all and keep the drinks coming.” The bartender took a moment to peek inside and then looked back to Drake with an incredulous expression. “You can’t seriously expect to drink that much tonight, can ya?” the Whiphid said. “I don’t.” responded Drake. “The rest is for later”. “Later?” asked the bartender, uncomprehending. “Yes, later. For damages” Drake said as he pushed away from the bar to take a seat and forestall any further discussion of the matter. The Whiphid bartender merely shook his massive head and thought to himself ‘Gonna be one of those nights again’.
As he approached his table, Drake noticed to his annoyance that a particularly large human had already planted himself at it. Putting on his best dead-eyed look, he strode up and tapped the man on the shoulder. A cruel-eyed man scowled up at him saying “Yeah, whaddaya want?” Drake locked eyes with him and said “This is my table. Find another.” The human started to say something before catching the deadly look in Drake’s cold gaze. Thinking better of it, he muttered ‘Whatever makes you happy, pal. Drinks here stink anyway.” The human quickly vacated the spot and Drake watched as he scurried out the door. Taking his seat, he waited for his drink and his enemy to arrive. The drink arrived first, and he sipped on it thoughtfully. While he waited, a fight broke out on the other side of the room. A pair of humans decided killing one another would be more amusing than the card game they were cheating over and went at each other with vibro-knives. The bar patrons barely noticed the disturbance which quickly ended with one dead human and the other wounded. The injured man limped for the door but was cut off before reaching it by an Aqualish who sputtered something in his native language. Drake made out the words ‘my friend’ as the angry alien drew his blaster and gunned down the man. As usual, no one noticed.
An hour and a half and three Meltdowns later his quarry arrived. He felt him through the Pulse long before he actually set foot in the bar. When he finally did, the large human Drake had run up from the table was leading the way like an overgrown house pet. His enemy was a tall, well-built human of indeterminate age with an air of cold authority about him. Drake could feel the Pulse of his Life like a bass drum and smiled inwardly. His enemy had indeed grown powerful over the years. This would not be easy. ‘So much the better’, Drake thought to himself. ‘Life is not meant to be easy.’
His enemy eyed him critically then took the spot Drake knew he would. His enemy’s cohorts, some two dozen in all, arrayed themselves around him as the object of his hatred began to recount a tale out of their mutual past. It was a tale of the early days of the Galactic Empire and the suppression of a millennia-old religious order. Drake felt the anger rising in him as the man spewed his lies, inflating his own importance in the events of that dark day. The laughter of his henchman served only to sharpen the hate inside him as he prepared for what he knew must come next. Out of the corner of his eye, Drake noted the silent departure of the bartender and the drawing away of the rest of the bar patrons from his side of the room. A lifetime of the dangers of Korbin had given them all a kind of sixth sense regarding when the really bad fights were about to start and the emotional calm before the coming storm hung in the air like a vast thundercloud.
As his enemy loudly boasted of his personal valor in combat that day, Drake could finally restrain himself no longer. “You lie!” he hissed. A deathly silence came over the entire bar for a moment. Drake felt the stares of dozens of ocular organs upon him as he lifted his head slightly to regard the man at the table across from him. “You lie now as you have always lied, Inquisitor Morgaine.” Drake spat.
Morgaine’s face twisted with a cruel smile as he responded “That’s High Inquisitor Morgaine to you, Outrider.” Drake sneered, “You were never a High Inquisitor, Argus Morgaine. You were merely one of Vader’s lackeys and you never fought us that day. None of you did.
“Ah yes,” said Morgaine in a mock-conversational tone, “I must confess we did not. Your cowardly order had chosen to commit mass suicide rather than face the might of the Empire. Apparently some such as you simply fled in terror before our power.”
“What would you know about it anyway, freshmeat?” cackled the human whose table Drake had taken earlier. “The High Inquisitor here’s told us all about it before. Sounds like you Outrider wimps didn’t even put up a fight!” The human began poking Drake’s shoulder aggressively. “Maybe you shouldn’ta come here tonight, huh? Lookin’ for trouble and stuff. Maybe we gonna have to teach you a lesson, huh?”
“Maybe” poke…
“You” poke…
“Just” poke…
“Came” poke…
“To die” poke…
Only Drake’s eyes followed the movement. Swifter than anyone else could follow, he reached out with one of his upper grasping arms and latched onto the man’s forearm, then twisted. The sickening crunch of a spiral fracture was followed by a wet ripping sound that split the air. The human stared stupidly at what was left of his forearm before howling in agony and collapsing to the floor. Drake still held the other twitching half in his massive four-fingered hand and stared down his enemy. “Your mistake, Inquisitor Morgaine,” Drake said as he slowly stood “was in assuming the Outriders were passive fools like the Jedi, willing to forgo vengeance for the sake of some phantom division in the Pulse of Life.” The human at his feet grabbed his ruined forearm and whimpered. Drake could feel his Pulse ebbing slowly. With deadly accuracy, he flicked his wrist, sending the jagged shard of the man’s forearm flying towards him with deadly force. A wet thud sounded as the bone knifed into the man’s neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly. The Inquisitor was on his feet now, clearly unprepared for this level of ferocity. Their gazes met for a long moment before the Inquisitor spoke two simple words.
“Kill him.”
Then all hell broke loose.
Two dozen men reached for various weapons, but half a dozen died before ever touching them. Drake moved with the preternatural grace and power of one genetically engineered to not only survive but thrive in 2.5 standard gravities. A foot lashed out and sent a Trandoshan’s head flying across the room while Drake’s grasping arms reached out and crushed the skulls of a pair of humans. The stench of death rose like a grave ghoul as two more men died on the short blades his lower arms wielded. A sixth unfortunate stumbled backwards into the debris pile in the corner of the room and impaled himself on a broken table leg.
The high-pitched howl of blaster fire split the air as a dozen poorly-aimed shots whizzed towards Drake. Three connected solidly, but were dispersed by his Outrider armor under his cloak. The rest shot past him impacting the walls or bar patrons who had stupidly decided to stay and watch. Drake ignored the ineffectual attacks and whipped out his meter-long thrustblades. Designed for the unusual grip of his upper arms, the thrust blades were massive triangular blades with a T-shaped grip somewhat like the ancient katar daggers favored by a forgotten human assassin cult. The main change was the drastic difference in size. Drake’s thrustblades were more the size of a broadsword than a dagger. The blue-black blades shimmered in the dim light of the bar, light glinting off the microscopically-thin cutting edges. All four of his blades, the lower pair being sturdy short swords, emitted a low tooth-jarring buzz as their blades vibrated several thousand times per second. Orlean blackblades were some of the deadliest melee weapons in the galaxy, on par with Jedi Lightsabres and Coynite Sat’skars and Drake was a master in their use. The battle was over in mere seconds. The dismembered remains of Inquisitor Morgaine’s thugs littered the ground as Drake stood facing his enemy. Morgaine smiled that cruel smile of his and reached for his lightsabres. A pair of snap-hisses sounded as a meter long glowing red blade and a shorter, half-meter long indigo blade sprang into existence. Drake knew Morgaine was an excellent duelist with his chosen two-blade style and was looking forward to the coming battle.
With a sneer, the Inquisitor lunged forward at Pulse-enhanced speeds, nearly catching Drake off guard. The two combatants spun about the room in a deadly dance, bright energy blades clashing with dark molecularly-bonded black diamond blades. The few remaining patrons scurried for the exit as pieces of tables and chairs were shredded before the onslaught. Only the salt-addled Arconans remained, their fallen companion having apparently recovered and rejoined their droning narcotic-induced melody. While initially taken aback by the Inquisitor’s furious assault, Drake had quickly recovered and was methodically pressing his opponent back towards the wall. Sensing his predicament, Morgaine leapt backwards to open the distance and then reached out with the Pulse. A veritable storm of debris arose and was sent hurtling towards Drake. Expecting this tactic, Drake stood his ground and sliced furiously at the projectiles deflecting some, reducing others to splinters, and taking the rest on his armor. His unprotected face was soon bloodied from various nicks and abrasions he was unable to prevent. Forcing himself forward, he slowly advanced against the onslaught. In desperation, Inquisitor Morgaine extinguished his parrying blade and grabbed a spherical object from his belt. Tearing the pin from the grenade he tossed it towards Drake and dove behind the bar. Unable to stop in time, one of Drake’s swords cleaved the grenade in two, detonating it in the process.
The roar of the concussion was deafening in the confines of the bar, and the blast sent Drake hurtling across the room into the far wall. Stars danced before his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Calling on the Pulse, Drake struggled to shake off the disorientation. He knew he was bleeding internally from the concussion, but would deal with that later. A more immediate threat loomed as Morgaine leapt from behind the bar, raised one hand to point at him, and narrowed his eyes. Drake knew what was coming next. Blue-white energy coursed from the Inquisitor’s hands and slammed into Drake. Every nerve in his body screamed and out of the corner of his consciousness, Drake screamed too. His body convulsed spastically under the Pulse-empowered assault. “You never should have come here, Outrider” snarled the Inquisitor. “You should have remained hidden where you were safe. Now you will die just like the rest of your cowardly order. You will die ON YOUR KNEES!” Morgaine lashed out with redoubled ferocity and Drake could smell his ebony flesh burning under the assault. With an iron will, Drake forced himself to his feet under the furious attack and launched one of his own. Pointing his blades at the Inquisitor, he unleashed four lightning bolts of his own down the length of his weapons. Two missed badly, but the other two caught the surprised Inquisitor squarely in the chest, knocking him backwards. Drake gasped for breath as the pressing attack was finally lifted. His vision swam as he struggled to stay focused. Exerting a lifetime’s training in self-control, he suppressed his pain and zeroed in on his enemy who was also recovering from the surprise assault. They circled one another slowly in the demolished bar. Morgaine reached out with the Pulse and called his fallen parrying blade back to his hand. Suddenly, the Inquisitor seemed to look past Drake and nod towards him. A horrible crunching sound came from behind Drake as a sizable chunk of the bar was ripped from the floor and hurled into him. The impact brought more stars as he fought to free himself from the wreckage. Tearing through the debris with his grasping arms, Drake sprang to his feet in a defensive posture only to find that his opponent was nowhere to be seen. Reaching out with the Pulse, he sought out his adversary, only to find that he had already fled the ruined bar.
Drake fought back bitter tears of frustration as the realization that he had failed dawned upon him. Years of detective work wasted as his foe escaped into the night. Then the pain of his injuries hit and he sank down to his knees. He could tell he would be spending several days in a healing trance after this battle. He mentally took stock of his situation and grimaced to find he had six broken ribs, a shattered abdominal chitin plate, and more minor cuts than he felt like counting. His eardrums were also shattered from the point-blank concussion grenade attack and the human forearm he had torn off just minutes earlier had somehow found its way from its owner’s neck into the back of his left grasping hand. Drake absent-mindedly tore out the wayward limb and tossed it over his shoulder. Staggering slightly, he painfully made his way out of the bar and down the street to his waiting shuttle. Wincing at the pain in his torso, he eased into the pilot’s seat and opened a comlink channel to Kilbar. “Cromwell to Dask” he rasped hoarsely, “Target has evaded. Heavy damage incurred. Returning to my ship to recover. See you at Margath’s. Cromwell out.” Drake didn’t bother waiting for a reply, knowing he couldn’t hear it right now anyway. He powered up the little shuttle and coughed up blood as he piloted it back to his ship in painful silence.
Aboard the customized exploration craft, Drake Cromwell barely noticed the passing scenery, his mind focused on his reason for coming to this Pulse-forsaken world. Years of investigation and research had finally paid off with the tip that his quarry made its home on Korbin, one of the most lawless and dangerous places in the galaxy. Compared to Korbin, other notorious trouble spots such as Nar Shaddaa and Andalasa were no more chaotic than any of a dozen serene Core Worlds. Drake hadn’t been the least bit surprised to find out that the parasite he sought had hidden himself here, far from the prying eyes of both is former masters and their enemies.
Speeding across the landscape, the Iridium Ibliton passed over the terminator into the planet’s night side in silence. Minutes crawled past as Drake silently contemplated the upcoming showdown. He was not a vengeful person by nature, but certain acts could not be ignored. Even now, decades later, the memories that drove him on were still fresh in his mind. He could remember every scent and sound of that day as clearly as if it had been an hour ago. Drake had a mission to complete, and then he would finally be free. A voice nagged at the edge of his consciousness asking ‘Free to do what? What will you do when this is done? Where will you go? What will you have to live for?’ Drake’s impassive face twitched slightly in annoyance at his own doubts. ‘I will nuke those bridges when I come to them’, he told himself silently as he pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on the task at hand. He knew he must be at his most alert to face his opponent. As he had grown in power and skill over the years, so too would his opponent have grown in ability. ‘No matter’, he thought to himself, ‘It will merely make defeating him all the more rewarding’.
The lights of the city appeared up ahead. Drake slowed his ship to come in for a landing. He had already arranged for a spot just outside the city where an associate of his was waiting. Activating the comm-suite, Drake spoke aloud “Cromwell to Dask, come in please.” Long seconds of static were finally broken as the response came through “Dask here. ‘Bout damned time you showed up, Drake. This place is an even worse pest-hole than the last time I was here. Hurry your butt down here and take care of this idiot so we can leave!”
Drake smiled at his Barabel friend’s impatience. “Why Kilbar, I thought you liked disreputable pest-holes!” His friend made a rude noise and responded “I do, I just don’t like THIS disreputable pest-hole! You know I hate coming home.”
Drake nodded to himself as he brought his ship into a hover over the landing spot and said “I know, old friend. As soon as this is done, you can leave this armpit of a world behind forever. Firing retros in three, two, one, mark!” The roar of massive fusion rockets could be heard all the way up in the control compartment some twenty meters above as the ship settled slowly to the ground. “Touchdown accomplished, releasing cryogen coolant now. Be sure to stay at least twenty meters away while the landing area is cooling off, you remember what happened last time.” Drake said. Kilbar growled irritably as he responded “Yeah, yeah, just hurry it up. I don’t know why you insist upon using that outdated fusion rocket system instead of good ‘ol repulsors.”
“Because ‘good ‘ol repulsors’ are inefficient and untrustworthy” Drake shot back. He’d never bothered to tell Kilbar that the real reason was because he simply liked the roar of the rockets. The Iridium Ibliton had a perfectly good repulsorlift system fully capable of handling the mass of the ship during landings, but Drake’s love for the older fusion rocket system meant that the ship’s repulsors saw very little use.
“Yeah, yeah” said Kilbar, “Maybe they’re inefficient and untrustworthy on Orlea, but everywhere else they work just fine. Just get down here so we can do this, okay?”
“Coming, dear.” Drake said as he shut down the engines, unlatched himself from the pilot’s chair, and made his way down to the tiny hangar bay. Entering the cramped bay, he made his way to one of the little shuttlecraft he used for low-profile work. Drake paused for a moment to check his weapons and gear, and then slid behind the shuttle’s control console. With the automatic precision of long years of familiarity, he checked the shuttle’s systems and opened the bay doors. Tapping the throttle, the tiny craft shot past its twin sitting a couple meters away and down to where his Barabel friend stood waiting. Drake pulled up beside Kilbar and opened the door. “You coming or staying?” he inquired. “Staying”, said Kilbar as his heavily-scaled face scrunched up in the Barabel equivalent of a grimace. “The target should show up at The Strangled Rodian in a couple hours if he follows his usual routine. He usually holds court with about a dozen or so thugs and other assorted low-lifes. You just comm me when the job’s done so I can get off this mudball, ‘kay?” Drake shrugged and said “Sure thing. See you back on Elshandruu Pica in a week, then?” Kilbar nodded saying “Yeah sounds about right. I may have a job lined up between now and then that’ll keep me late, but I’ll try to send you a message if I think I’ll be a really long time.”
“Fine then, see you at Margath’s!” came Drake’s reply as he closed the door again and pulled away. He hadn’t really expected Kilbar to come with him, but he felt it only polite to ask. Drake’s task was a private matter anyway, and as much as he valued Kilbar’s friendship, this was something he must do alone. Drake tweaked the throttle and went racing off in the night towards the city ahead.
Half a kilometer from the city, a dull ache began to manifest behind Drake’s eyes. He hated Korbin nearly as much as Kilbar did, but for a completely different reason. While Kilbar had been born here, and was as well acquainted with its evils as any Pulse-blind person could be, Drake felt the evil of this world on a far more visceral level. Every moment of every day an atrocity was being committed somewhere on Korbin. While the same could be said of many other worlds in the galaxy, Drake had never been to a world whose Pulse was as uniquely fetid as this cesspool of a planet. He could feel little pulses of pain dotting his consciousness, each pulse a violent death somewhere in the city ahead. He was accustomed to death. He had seen it all his life and had dealt out quite a bit of it himself, but something about this world always managed to make each lost life seem just a little more senseless.
He slowed down as he reached the outskirts of the city. Burning trash and broken-down shelters formed a confusing maze-work which prompted Drake to increase his altitude somewhat to take him over the worst of it. Fortunately he was vaguely acquainted with the layout of the city and was familiar with The Strangled Rodian. He had first met Kilbar there nearly twenty years ago on his first visit to Korbin. Kilbar had been a slave bodyguard to a Bith spice dealer who was responsible for a friend’s death. Drake had come to settle the score and ended up facing Kilbar in the process. It had only taken Drake a moment to realize Kilbar was far from loyal to the Bith criminal, and in a gesture of contempt for the spice dealer, Drake offered the Barabel his freedom, a ship, and a tidy sum with which to begin a new life in exchange for the Bith’s head. Kilbar went him one better and delivered the hapless spice dealer’s head with his spine still attached.
Finally sighting The Strangled Rodian, Drake set his shuttle down a block away. Exiting the vehicle, he took care to engage the craft’s automated defense system to discourage would-be thieves. He then pulled his hood up over his head, pulled his cloak around him, and strode towards the bar. Even covered as he was, Drake was an imposing sight. A genetic giant among his people, he stood two meters tall and nearly a meter and a half wide at the shoulders. Long years of harsh training had honed his body into a solidly-built mountain of muscle, bone, and determination. Coupled with his knowledge of the Pulse, his physical stature and austere demeanor seemed to exude a quiet aura of barely restrained power and ferocity. Drake Cromwell was an authentic bad-ass, and he looked it.
Striding purposefully through the dilapidated streets, Drake deftly avoided the worst of the refuse, both living and inanimate. The only real difference between the city proper and the tent city on the outskirts was that the buildings usually hadn’t collapsed this far into the city. Drake heard the sounds of murder and mayhem in the night air all around him. The whine of blaster fire, the sharp staccato crack of slug-throwers, the occasional dull thump of a grenade all punctuated with roars of victory and anguished cries of defeat swirled about him like a shroud. ‘Must be a slow night’, Drake thought bitterly. The dull ache behind his eyes had steadily grown into sharp pain.
At length Drake arrived at The Strangled Rodian and regarded the squat, ugly building impassively. It was one of the few structures in the city to have defied the perpetual entropy that seemed to grip the entire planet. At one time the building had been a warehouse for seismic charges and similar mining explosives and was probably one of the sturdiest structures on the planet. That there were no obviously repaired holes in the outer walls spoke volumes about the building’s durability in Korbin’s murderous environment. Drake mentally shrugged and stepped over a corpse as he walked inside.
Inside the bar, a heavy pall of smoke hung like a funeral shroud over the cavernous room. The floors inside were only slightly less disgusting than the street outside and a sizable pile of destroyed tables and chairs occupied one corner of the room. A band of golden-eyed, salt-addicted Arconans played listlessly on a stage in another corner behind a grid work of duraplast. The droning music was off-key, out of sync, and likely played more to the individual tunes in their heads than any single cohesive piece of music. As he watched, one of the Arconans silently slipped to the floor and did not stir again. Drake laid even odds that the fallen musician was merely unconscious or dead. The rest of the band failed to even notice their companion’s departure from their company. To call The Strangled Rodian a filthy dive was to seriously insult the reputation of dives across the galaxy.
Drake scanned the room for the spot most likely to be frequented by his quarry. Spying a likely candidate, he mentally flagged it before going over to the bar and on a lark saying “Pink Lizard Thunderbolt, please.” A Whiphid bartender regarded him with an annoyed scowl and responded “Yeah right, whatever THAT is… This ain’t some fancy Core World restaurant, pal. Try again.” Drake rolled his eyes and responded “Right, then. I’ll have a double Meltdown delivered to that table over there.” He pointed to his chosen spot opposite that of his quarry. “That’ll be twenty credits, chum” rumbled the Bartender. Drake felt a surge of irritation at the outrageous price before ruthlessly suppressing it. The pain in his head was wearing on his calm already. He produced a small pouch of credits from beneath his cloak and dropped it onto the bar saying “Keep it all and keep the drinks coming.” The bartender took a moment to peek inside and then looked back to Drake with an incredulous expression. “You can’t seriously expect to drink that much tonight, can ya?” the Whiphid said. “I don’t.” responded Drake. “The rest is for later”. “Later?” asked the bartender, uncomprehending. “Yes, later. For damages” Drake said as he pushed away from the bar to take a seat and forestall any further discussion of the matter. The Whiphid bartender merely shook his massive head and thought to himself ‘Gonna be one of those nights again’.
As he approached his table, Drake noticed to his annoyance that a particularly large human had already planted himself at it. Putting on his best dead-eyed look, he strode up and tapped the man on the shoulder. A cruel-eyed man scowled up at him saying “Yeah, whaddaya want?” Drake locked eyes with him and said “This is my table. Find another.” The human started to say something before catching the deadly look in Drake’s cold gaze. Thinking better of it, he muttered ‘Whatever makes you happy, pal. Drinks here stink anyway.” The human quickly vacated the spot and Drake watched as he scurried out the door. Taking his seat, he waited for his drink and his enemy to arrive. The drink arrived first, and he sipped on it thoughtfully. While he waited, a fight broke out on the other side of the room. A pair of humans decided killing one another would be more amusing than the card game they were cheating over and went at each other with vibro-knives. The bar patrons barely noticed the disturbance which quickly ended with one dead human and the other wounded. The injured man limped for the door but was cut off before reaching it by an Aqualish who sputtered something in his native language. Drake made out the words ‘my friend’ as the angry alien drew his blaster and gunned down the man. As usual, no one noticed.
An hour and a half and three Meltdowns later his quarry arrived. He felt him through the Pulse long before he actually set foot in the bar. When he finally did, the large human Drake had run up from the table was leading the way like an overgrown house pet. His enemy was a tall, well-built human of indeterminate age with an air of cold authority about him. Drake could feel the Pulse of his Life like a bass drum and smiled inwardly. His enemy had indeed grown powerful over the years. This would not be easy. ‘So much the better’, Drake thought to himself. ‘Life is not meant to be easy.’
His enemy eyed him critically then took the spot Drake knew he would. His enemy’s cohorts, some two dozen in all, arrayed themselves around him as the object of his hatred began to recount a tale out of their mutual past. It was a tale of the early days of the Galactic Empire and the suppression of a millennia-old religious order. Drake felt the anger rising in him as the man spewed his lies, inflating his own importance in the events of that dark day. The laughter of his henchman served only to sharpen the hate inside him as he prepared for what he knew must come next. Out of the corner of his eye, Drake noted the silent departure of the bartender and the drawing away of the rest of the bar patrons from his side of the room. A lifetime of the dangers of Korbin had given them all a kind of sixth sense regarding when the really bad fights were about to start and the emotional calm before the coming storm hung in the air like a vast thundercloud.
As his enemy loudly boasted of his personal valor in combat that day, Drake could finally restrain himself no longer. “You lie!” he hissed. A deathly silence came over the entire bar for a moment. Drake felt the stares of dozens of ocular organs upon him as he lifted his head slightly to regard the man at the table across from him. “You lie now as you have always lied, Inquisitor Morgaine.” Drake spat.
Morgaine’s face twisted with a cruel smile as he responded “That’s High Inquisitor Morgaine to you, Outrider.” Drake sneered, “You were never a High Inquisitor, Argus Morgaine. You were merely one of Vader’s lackeys and you never fought us that day. None of you did.
“Ah yes,” said Morgaine in a mock-conversational tone, “I must confess we did not. Your cowardly order had chosen to commit mass suicide rather than face the might of the Empire. Apparently some such as you simply fled in terror before our power.”
“What would you know about it anyway, freshmeat?” cackled the human whose table Drake had taken earlier. “The High Inquisitor here’s told us all about it before. Sounds like you Outrider wimps didn’t even put up a fight!” The human began poking Drake’s shoulder aggressively. “Maybe you shouldn’ta come here tonight, huh? Lookin’ for trouble and stuff. Maybe we gonna have to teach you a lesson, huh?”
“Maybe” poke…
“You” poke…
“Just” poke…
“Came” poke…
“To die” poke…
Only Drake’s eyes followed the movement. Swifter than anyone else could follow, he reached out with one of his upper grasping arms and latched onto the man’s forearm, then twisted. The sickening crunch of a spiral fracture was followed by a wet ripping sound that split the air. The human stared stupidly at what was left of his forearm before howling in agony and collapsing to the floor. Drake still held the other twitching half in his massive four-fingered hand and stared down his enemy. “Your mistake, Inquisitor Morgaine,” Drake said as he slowly stood “was in assuming the Outriders were passive fools like the Jedi, willing to forgo vengeance for the sake of some phantom division in the Pulse of Life.” The human at his feet grabbed his ruined forearm and whimpered. Drake could feel his Pulse ebbing slowly. With deadly accuracy, he flicked his wrist, sending the jagged shard of the man’s forearm flying towards him with deadly force. A wet thud sounded as the bone knifed into the man’s neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly. The Inquisitor was on his feet now, clearly unprepared for this level of ferocity. Their gazes met for a long moment before the Inquisitor spoke two simple words.
“Kill him.”
Then all hell broke loose.
Two dozen men reached for various weapons, but half a dozen died before ever touching them. Drake moved with the preternatural grace and power of one genetically engineered to not only survive but thrive in 2.5 standard gravities. A foot lashed out and sent a Trandoshan’s head flying across the room while Drake’s grasping arms reached out and crushed the skulls of a pair of humans. The stench of death rose like a grave ghoul as two more men died on the short blades his lower arms wielded. A sixth unfortunate stumbled backwards into the debris pile in the corner of the room and impaled himself on a broken table leg.
The high-pitched howl of blaster fire split the air as a dozen poorly-aimed shots whizzed towards Drake. Three connected solidly, but were dispersed by his Outrider armor under his cloak. The rest shot past him impacting the walls or bar patrons who had stupidly decided to stay and watch. Drake ignored the ineffectual attacks and whipped out his meter-long thrustblades. Designed for the unusual grip of his upper arms, the thrust blades were massive triangular blades with a T-shaped grip somewhat like the ancient katar daggers favored by a forgotten human assassin cult. The main change was the drastic difference in size. Drake’s thrustblades were more the size of a broadsword than a dagger. The blue-black blades shimmered in the dim light of the bar, light glinting off the microscopically-thin cutting edges. All four of his blades, the lower pair being sturdy short swords, emitted a low tooth-jarring buzz as their blades vibrated several thousand times per second. Orlean blackblades were some of the deadliest melee weapons in the galaxy, on par with Jedi Lightsabres and Coynite Sat’skars and Drake was a master in their use. The battle was over in mere seconds. The dismembered remains of Inquisitor Morgaine’s thugs littered the ground as Drake stood facing his enemy. Morgaine smiled that cruel smile of his and reached for his lightsabres. A pair of snap-hisses sounded as a meter long glowing red blade and a shorter, half-meter long indigo blade sprang into existence. Drake knew Morgaine was an excellent duelist with his chosen two-blade style and was looking forward to the coming battle.
With a sneer, the Inquisitor lunged forward at Pulse-enhanced speeds, nearly catching Drake off guard. The two combatants spun about the room in a deadly dance, bright energy blades clashing with dark molecularly-bonded black diamond blades. The few remaining patrons scurried for the exit as pieces of tables and chairs were shredded before the onslaught. Only the salt-addled Arconans remained, their fallen companion having apparently recovered and rejoined their droning narcotic-induced melody. While initially taken aback by the Inquisitor’s furious assault, Drake had quickly recovered and was methodically pressing his opponent back towards the wall. Sensing his predicament, Morgaine leapt backwards to open the distance and then reached out with the Pulse. A veritable storm of debris arose and was sent hurtling towards Drake. Expecting this tactic, Drake stood his ground and sliced furiously at the projectiles deflecting some, reducing others to splinters, and taking the rest on his armor. His unprotected face was soon bloodied from various nicks and abrasions he was unable to prevent. Forcing himself forward, he slowly advanced against the onslaught. In desperation, Inquisitor Morgaine extinguished his parrying blade and grabbed a spherical object from his belt. Tearing the pin from the grenade he tossed it towards Drake and dove behind the bar. Unable to stop in time, one of Drake’s swords cleaved the grenade in two, detonating it in the process.
The roar of the concussion was deafening in the confines of the bar, and the blast sent Drake hurtling across the room into the far wall. Stars danced before his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Calling on the Pulse, Drake struggled to shake off the disorientation. He knew he was bleeding internally from the concussion, but would deal with that later. A more immediate threat loomed as Morgaine leapt from behind the bar, raised one hand to point at him, and narrowed his eyes. Drake knew what was coming next. Blue-white energy coursed from the Inquisitor’s hands and slammed into Drake. Every nerve in his body screamed and out of the corner of his consciousness, Drake screamed too. His body convulsed spastically under the Pulse-empowered assault. “You never should have come here, Outrider” snarled the Inquisitor. “You should have remained hidden where you were safe. Now you will die just like the rest of your cowardly order. You will die ON YOUR KNEES!” Morgaine lashed out with redoubled ferocity and Drake could smell his ebony flesh burning under the assault. With an iron will, Drake forced himself to his feet under the furious attack and launched one of his own. Pointing his blades at the Inquisitor, he unleashed four lightning bolts of his own down the length of his weapons. Two missed badly, but the other two caught the surprised Inquisitor squarely in the chest, knocking him backwards. Drake gasped for breath as the pressing attack was finally lifted. His vision swam as he struggled to stay focused. Exerting a lifetime’s training in self-control, he suppressed his pain and zeroed in on his enemy who was also recovering from the surprise assault. They circled one another slowly in the demolished bar. Morgaine reached out with the Pulse and called his fallen parrying blade back to his hand. Suddenly, the Inquisitor seemed to look past Drake and nod towards him. A horrible crunching sound came from behind Drake as a sizable chunk of the bar was ripped from the floor and hurled into him. The impact brought more stars as he fought to free himself from the wreckage. Tearing through the debris with his grasping arms, Drake sprang to his feet in a defensive posture only to find that his opponent was nowhere to be seen. Reaching out with the Pulse, he sought out his adversary, only to find that he had already fled the ruined bar.
Drake fought back bitter tears of frustration as the realization that he had failed dawned upon him. Years of detective work wasted as his foe escaped into the night. Then the pain of his injuries hit and he sank down to his knees. He could tell he would be spending several days in a healing trance after this battle. He mentally took stock of his situation and grimaced to find he had six broken ribs, a shattered abdominal chitin plate, and more minor cuts than he felt like counting. His eardrums were also shattered from the point-blank concussion grenade attack and the human forearm he had torn off just minutes earlier had somehow found its way from its owner’s neck into the back of his left grasping hand. Drake absent-mindedly tore out the wayward limb and tossed it over his shoulder. Staggering slightly, he painfully made his way out of the bar and down the street to his waiting shuttle. Wincing at the pain in his torso, he eased into the pilot’s seat and opened a comlink channel to Kilbar. “Cromwell to Dask” he rasped hoarsely, “Target has evaded. Heavy damage incurred. Returning to my ship to recover. See you at Margath’s. Cromwell out.” Drake didn’t bother waiting for a reply, knowing he couldn’t hear it right now anyway. He powered up the little shuttle and coughed up blood as he piloted it back to his ship in painful silence.