The nightlife of Coruscant was something to be seen by just about anyone. Every level of the city had its own way of relaxing after a long week either in dirty cantinas in the lower levels or at the expensive restaurants on the surface. This world was a massive combination of wealth and poverty of which few ever cared to notice unless they looked close enough at the differences between the elite citizenry who whiled away their time with fancy dinners and dancing while the poor wretches guzzled bad alcohol and listened to ugly music. Trachta had no real care for either situation because he had no ability to taste anything anymore. His body was so heavily cybernetic a ion weapon probably could kill him which was why he had to be careful about what he was up to or dealing with. He looked around the apartment he was in with, even without lighting he could see perfectly fine, an advantage to having photoreceptors for eyes perhaps, but not worth the pain that forced him to have them.

It was a well furnished and lavish apartment, perfect for the man who lived here, the very man Trachta wished to see... if he survived that was. If he didn't then he would have been a waste of time to speak to anyways. What was required to be spoken about tonight was very important for Trachta's own operations and perhaps just as much for the Imperial Inquisition whose leader Trachta was now calmly waiting on. While he waited he watched Galactic City as the millions of speeders out there buzzed about on the planet that never slept. It could almost have been hypnotic to the human eye, instead Trachta saw the world as a droid might and he loathed every moment of it. It was that silent self loathing to had created the man who had revived the Imperial Security Bureau. It was that same self loathing that for some reason kept him going, made him cruel and paranoid to be useful enough to serve in the Empire's intelligence community in one form or another and was now Deputy Director under Ysanne Isard.

I loathe her even more than I loathe myself...

Trachta's gloved hand tightened slightly in frustration at having to be put under the command of the head of what used to be a rival agency. Now he was simply a part of it, one of the bigger cogs in the great machine of the Empire's bureaucracies rather than carrying out his own twisted loyalist agenda with the ISB. Now here he was, forced to seek aid in a new scheme, a new program to aid in the Empire's efforts on the more covert side of things even as the military marched around in their shiny medals and glory seeking ways. Trachta didn't care about glory, all he wanted was power and to him, knowledge over others was the ultimate power, especially now.

Ah yes, here he comes now...

Trachta watched as an array of speeders arrived at a lower level of the building where the entrance to this apartment was accessed from. He could see a man and woman getting out from the middle speeder and heading inside. Trachta took this moment to take his seat now and wait even as he heard the couple enter into the main antechamer below. Their meeting would very shortly begin.

She was barely twenty five, with golden hair that would have made a smith envious and eyes that sparkled even in the darkness of night. Of course, in such a fast paced age of cosmetics and physical alterating surgeries that could be performed for a modest fee, the girl could have been thirty or even thirty five. One thing was certain, regardless of age, she was attractive by any man's standards; her outfit did not fit that was to say she was wearing something intentionally tight. Little was left to the imagination.


To be completely honest, however, the man standing next to her and all but holding her up, cared nothing of cosmetics or even age. The woman was attractive, attracted to him - or his position, but again, he didn't care - and most importantly, available. Whether he smiled to himself or outwardly, the man could not immediately discern - both he and his partner had consumed more than their fair share of liquor in the dance club seventy levels down.


" Here we are," he mumbled, spreading his arms outward to encompass the antechamber that spread out from the opening doors of his private lift. Even in darkness the room was impressive, the walls holding art and the tables holding ornaments from worlds some could not pronounce - all valuable. A staircase wound lazily up one wall to an open second level then back down to the polished imitation-stone finish floor. He might have taken a moment to enjoy the view of his own quarters another time, but he had quickly to redeploy his hands to the faltering for of his intoxicated guest. " This way."


More of a pull and drag maneuver than anything even remotely romantic, the tall man with his jet black hair and thin face escorted the beauty up the steps. Darkness reigned on the second floor as well, punctuated only by strands of light leaking in from broad windows here and there. A quandry struck immediately - the man could not remember which way to turn. Ahead was his parlor and study, that he remembered, but there was a bedroom to the left and right. One was the master bedroom - his - and the other a guest room rarely occupied for more than a few hours at a time. Where to go...


A snap-crack sound barked out in the silence, a sound the man was not familiar with at all. Reflexively, he slipped to his left by almost a meter - one full stride for a man of his size. He looked back to his previous position and saw the voluptuous entrant strangely erect given her stupor. In the span of a second or two at most, the man's system filtered out the remaining alcohol allowing his brain to work, unimpeded.


" Lights."


The voice did not belong to the man; he squinted into the corridor to see its origin. There was an intruder, no doubt, but who? Who would be brazen enough to disturb him? - him! He was a man who made and unmade kings with the snap of his fingers; to defile the sanctity of residence the intruder was obviously two things: brazen and clever. Obscenely so.


Illumination came to full, the droid-brain panel muttering something about energy conversation it did everytime it was activated. Quickly, his eyes adjusted and he saw the intruder. He was, of course, a familiar figure but not one he had expected to see. The man's eyes focused solely on this unwanted guest and ignored the vixen he had brought with him, held morbidly still by a pair of spikes driven through her chest attached to the arms of a droid with no visible receptors or head or brain-box.


The man used his left hand to pull down the hem of his blood-red uniform jacket, straightening out the wrinkle that scarred it from his side-step. In his right hand he held a disruptor pistol, aimed directly at the intruder and the chair he sat in, motionless. Seemingly apathetic to the scene on his right, the man looked at the man-machine hybrid occupying a hand-assembled chair dating back two hundred years.


" Director Trachta, was that really neccessary?"

"In a way, yes. Though it was amusing as well..."

Trachta remained seated very calmly as he eyed the weapon the man carried. A disruptor pistol was something very dangerous indeed which just lent to the fact this man was one of the few individuals allowed to even touch disruptors since the weapons were heavily banned due to their extremely lethal nature. Without much motion he raised the hand gripping the control box to the droid and clicked it. The machine removed itself from its victim and fell inactive though Trachta held the control box in a very meaningful fashion that stated he had no intention of being blasted by a disruptor without making the droid kill the owner of the weapon.

"I have no intention of making the droid go for you, Viscount. Though it will if you feel the urge to pull the trigger on that ghastly weapon you carry with you that you proved so skilled to pull so fast."

Trachta shifted some in his seat, obviously getting more comfortable as he stared down the Viscount.

"If you don't mind my visit I do have a propostion that could be beneficial to both your organization and mine, considering that all intelligence agencies need new resources every now and again."

Trachta seemed to look around the room, considering if there was any chance there were listening devices. Then again who in their right mind would risk their life trying to bug the Viscount was beyond Trachta. You'd be better off getting a droid to do it since no one living was crazy enough to try stuff like that, save for what Trachta had just managed and it had taken him time to even manage this.

"Are you interested?"

The headless R-unit, its black painted carapace gloomy and ominous in and of itself, withdrew its talons from the Viscount's female caller. The woman slumped to floor with a staccato thud, blood still pouring from the two gaping holes on her back and chest. For the short moment he took to observe the unit, del Forza realized this must not have been its first performance - its talons rotated on swivel mounts, angling the points to the floor; blood dripped off and into the carpet, clashing horribly with the cream-coloured rug. Now I shall have to have that replaced. This is why I try to keep business out of my home.


Grand Inquisitor del Forza returned his attention to the real guest of the evening, a man many said looked like Darth Vader sans helmet. It was a guess of the people as no one alive had ever seen him without the black mask that hid his cybernetic form from the world: if Deputy Director Trachta had been augmented in the same way, it was little wonder that mask never came off. It was cold and horrifying to even a brave man, and the black-suited bureaucrat doubtless liked it that way.


"I have no intention of making the droid go for you, Viscount. Though it will if you feel the urge to pull the trigger on that ghastly weapon you carry with you that you proved so skilled to pull so fast. I f you don't mind my visit I do have a propostion that could be beneficial to both your organization and mine, considering that all intelligence agencies need new resources every now and again."


Spoken words were normally driven by passion, spoke from the soul with the mouth only a vessel of delivery. Trachta was the exception, for his words had no substance. They were the mechanical recreation of what his brain was telling vocal cords no longer inside his body, the synthesizer in its place intentionally primitive and devoid of humanity.


" Please, Director, this way."


Del Forza holstered his disruptor casually, and even went so far as to unclasp his belt and the weapon thereupon, laying it on a table near a rather tall window - he didn't need that one, for another horrific device rested inside his tunic. The inhuman humanoid followed into the parlor, a large room with art on the three walls without windows and four elegant chairs situated round a table bathed in moonlight, shimmering in the reflection of light through a bottle of vodka. The Inquisitoriate commander took one chair, the Intelligence deputy chief another. Del Forza poured himself a glass and crossed his legs, knowing full well his counterpart would decline and therefore didn't bother offering.


" Now, you have my attention. But I must admit to being confused - Intelligence is far larger than the Inquisition; I almost fail to see what I might do for you that you could not do yourself. Or is it you wish more autonomy than Isard's strings allow you to dance?"

Trachta followed the Grand Inquisitor into the room sitting aside the droid's control box as well since it seemed there would be no need for them to resort to using overt hostility tonight. Trachta sat across from his host and listened calmly as the man stated one of the obvious truths as to just why this meeting was occuring in the first place.

" Now, you have my attention. But I must admit to being confused - Intelligence is far larger than the Inquisition; I almost fail to see what I might do for you that you could not do yourself. Or is it you wish more autonomy than Isard's strings allow you to dance?"

"Imperial Intelligence is rather well funded, but sadly my portion of it is not. Director Isard downsized my funding after I commissioned my new base of operations. Combine that with the fact that I do wish to carry out this project without her knowledge, more for my own benefit, and you see why I am here. The Inquisitorate needs materials occasionally that are not of the most ethical design at times and so does Imperial Intelligence."

Trachta paused, letting that sink in as he calmly checked the hidden blade up his sleeve more for his own reassurance then actually feeling any sense of danger. Both men were predators in their own right and predators tended to be at ease in the presence of one another as long as they knew neither was going to be food for the other.

"What I need is a facility for the production of such matierals, unfortunately I can only paritally fund it. I need, what you might call, a business partner who would also benefit from the existence of such a facility and also endeavour to keep it just as secret as I would."

Trachta moved his hand in a rather slow and casual manner, removing a datapad from his pocket and passing it on to the Grand Inquisitor. On it was a number of materials and items with costs split squarely down the middle, but noticeably from what looked to be companies rather than Imperial finances. Trachta had already gone to great lengths constructing shell companies to funnel the funds through for the project. All that was obviously required was the agreement and the credits to be poured in to bgin any real work on it.

"As you can see, I've already taken the liberty to establish legitimate means of our funding such a plan without tying the Empire to it. The last thing we need is for messy, unnecessary things like that to happen, wouldn't you agree?"

" Of course, Director. Secrecy is essential and where better to hide something in plain sight."


" Lucky for us people are stupid." The Director straightened the glove on his left hand, a motion which revealed a series of circuits through which ran one or two organic nerves alone in a box of steel. Another might have been disturbed at the sight, but del Forza just took another sip of his liquid intoxicant. Such a configuration would have definite advantages, but for more a soldier or assassin than administrator. To be a bureaucrat and bionic, powerful but devoid of pleasure and satisfaction. I could not do it. His drive must power him, and his drive alone for what else can he have left to live for?


" People are stupid, Trachta; a man is smart. Taken together a group is given to panic and to the whims of anyone who speaks first. We must avoid any and all people, lest someone get too close. I'm rather certain you can furnish this enterprise with an appropriately concealed location to which I can provide a network of security and secrecy."


Though it was minute, hidden by the rotation of his head to the right, the Viscount saw a metal muscle veiled by a layer of pale skin under Trachta's red photoreceptor contract and expand. The notion of Inquisition power had stirred a nostalgic response, even if the Director did not realize it: the Internal Security Bureau was a shadow of its former self, its assets mostly disolved into the Red Menace and the remainder into Intelligence-proper. The bureau that had made him the force he was today had all but ceased to exist, now only a few rooms and desks at the larger complex of Isard's lair.


Del Forza changed the topic, atune to his guest's reaction. If their partnership was to be a fruitful one, respect - which was already present - needed to be maintained. And so the pair talked long into the night, plotting and planning and forging the goals of their new found cooperation, all the while, bare meters away, the blood of a slain girl still poured from ruptured veins.

Five weeks later (Present time)



The column moved forward in eerie silence, watched only by clouds of gas and mounds of dust that Time would one day smashed together over and over to form the planets and moons of the future. Six ships' running lights blinked here and there, a disjointed pattern of flashes and dots that bravely yet futily tried to illuminate the darkness of deep space. Captain Hurus looked aft and ignored the following ships, watching the red and green flashes from the rear of the drive section. The movement of his face let his eyes catch the relfection of his face in the glass, showing the scar he bore from left eye to ear, but he ignored that as well. He tried to ignore the impatient foot tapping of his executive officer, but failed.


" Mr. Waldson, if you're trying to irritate me you're doing a magnificent job."


" Sir, I'm a little uncomfortable here. We should have jumped to hyperspace ten minutes ago." The civilian freightor officer had a furrowed brow when the Captain turned to face him; of course, the younger freightor officer straightened up but still looked perturbed. He had every reason to be considering the fact that command of the ship and the convoy would have been his had ArminCorp not assigned a replacement immediately before departure.


" Relax Mr. Waldson. I do not like waiting here either but we're being paid to do what we're told. We're to meet the escort here and here we shall wait."


Grek Waldson sighed, exasperated, and turned away. He did not know the new captain well and already he did not like him. Since arriving he had been a martinet and corporate poster-child all at the same time, leaving not one of the ninety-four crewmen aboard un-allienated. He remained stoic through a warp storm that had tossed the convoy into disarray in hyperspace and now remained emotionless while his command drifted in an area all-too-well known to be frequented by pirates.


" What did he say?" asked the helmsman, looking up at the executive officer from his reclined jumpseat.


" Nothing we didn't expect him to say. He had to have been Fleet at some time, I mean look at him. You just don't stand like that if you're not military." Waldson and the helmsman looked over towards the Captain, his two meter frame obscuring part of a viewport, his hands clased firmly behind his back.


" Mr. Waldson," called a voice from nearby, drawing the XO from his angry glower at the Captain to the sensor station where four blips were registering on the screen. The blips were approaching all too fast for his comfort and before he could yell, alarms triggered by perimeter scanners began blaring. The Captain turned his gaze, the approaching blips visible by sight now, and slammed his hand onto the railing. " Pirates!"


The ships swooped in, two above and two below, firing as they went laser cannon of varying colors and potencies. Hits registered on every vessel, most in drive sections or where reactor-power conduits ran under the thinnest coating of steel plating safety standards would allow. Running lights had stopped blinking, obscured by fires that lit the stars in a way they never could. The four ships completed their run and formed up ahead of the convoy, their guns silent but pointed menacingly at the helpless and unarmed transports.


" ArminCorp ships, you were no doubt expecting two Customs ships to guide you to Zaravat but I must tell you they won't be coming. Instead you may be guided by me to a destination of my chosing. Do this and you may live, do it not and you will die here and I will tractor away what goods I find of value. Your decision I await - you have thirty seconds."


The message blared over communications circuits in all six of the convoy ships, giving rise to quick discussions over options and chances. The answer to both was zero. The lead ship's captain answered for them all, looking at his executive officer without emotion or care. " I'm not being paid to die, nor are you." - he turned to the communications technician - " signal our surrender."


* * *


Slave-rigged to the corvette, the Unasnader had no control over attitude or pitch or speed, moving along at the whim of its captor. Their navigational controls were being retro-actively erased every other second, leaving the crew in ignorance and darkness. Uncertainty overshadowed all.


Their destination was finally in view as the group rounded a moon near the reversion point. It was a world of vibrant colours, covered by scant few clouds of swirling white and grey hiding lush vegitation and growth the likes of which many would never imagine let alone see. Many marveled but only two recognized it. " Felucia," said Exeuctive Officer Waldson just loud enough so only the Captain heard. He commented not, only nodding in affirmation.


Soon enough a shuttle latched itself to the hull into which the crew greedily climbed. Soon enough most were off, only the few that could not fit remaining behind for the next. But the next was not empty - the pirates came to board their prize.


Into the bowels of the ship the armed men went in a variety of uniforms, none of which any could recognize. Last to exit was a bearded man of just below average height wearing a gold and black sash that was as gaudy as it was genuine Filorric cotton with golden filigry. He and the Captain stood toe to toe, the emotionless face of the latter betraying none of the fear Waldson felt rush to every part of his body.


The XO's eyes went wide - the Captain extended his hand! The pirate leader laughed loudly and shook wildly, patting the other man of the back. There was a flash of red from the Captain's sleeve, a red he recognized from holomovies, the kind of holomovies one watched to be scared or terrified. No, it wasn't possible? There it was though, the colour so red, so blood like that only force of any government company or military in the whole of the galaxy employed it, a colour all but banned on many worlds for its horrific connotations.


No...


The Captain smiled, his first display since the convoy left port. He turned to Waldson and drew a pistol from where could not be seen - and pointed it at the ship's executive officer. He sucked in air threw up his hands and the last sound to greet his ears was the sound of plasma being focused through a crystal lead and rocketing off towards its target...

1 Month Later

In the jungles of Felucia sat a squat building that looked like the entry hatch to a bunker. The strange little structure sat in front of a cleared area deceptively painted to hide the fact its was a landing pad. This was only given evidence as a small seemingly normal YT-1300 landed on the platform, lowering its ramp. This arrival seemed to be cause for activity as the bunker door opened with black clad security guards marching out to form a line as a man in a white lab coat walked halfway to greet the new arrival.

The scientist's name was Benton Uru, an expert in biology who was technically dead. He was a criminal, tried for unethical medical expermients and sentenced to death, executed by firing squad. Well at least someone who looked like him was. The man stepping off the YT had seen to it that someone so useful should be kept alive and put to better used. That thought though also made Uru very nervous because the man approaching him was not a man, but a cyborg, a shell of a a man. His name was Trachta and that's all anyone ever knew about the malevolent cyborg, all they needed to know.

"Uh, Mister Athcart, its a pleasure to see you here for your first inspection of the Bunker. I hope your trip was well..."

"My trip has nothing to do with this facility," Trachta replied in a dismissive manner, walking past the scientist who quickly turned to follow and lead the way.

They stepped into the entrance which began to decline like a ramp , taking them deeper underground where no plant lift would be disturbed by the construction of a facility beneath them. They passed through a heavily armed security checkpoint before going deeper into the facility. The black clad guards moved more with Trachta than with the scientist as it was obvious who was in charge here.

"What progress do you have to report?" Trachta, Mr. Athcart, asked in a curious tone, or at least as possible with a artificial voice.

"Well, Biolab One is having fantastic success with the bacterial cultures we've been cultivating from the local flora on this world. We feel there would be a great deal to be gained if we pursue it. Techlab Four is providing some interesting developments in the droid brains you gave us to experiment with though so far all we've managed to do is burn them out rather than make any real progress..."

"Show me."

Uru blinked but quickly nodded and led the way on this inspection. He had no idea why this thing since he really couldn't call him a man had set up such a facility or where the funding was precisely coming from. Yet he also knew he had very little choice in the matter since otherwise he'd be facing off with a firing squad rather than developing projects for this man and whoever else was funneling in funding. That was the most curious thing, this seemed to be practically a private venture, being payed for by a pair of companies yet those black dressed guards that ran security gave off the vibe of top level training.

Uru was of course correct as most of the guards were former ISB, practically jobless after the organization imploded without Trachta's driving force behind it. Ysanne Isard had dismantled it and so rather than let good, loyal men go to waste, Trachta now maintained a massive personal retinue of ex-ISB men. They were all very loyal and loathed what had happened, their failure caused by internal power struggles. But from that failure came a personal force of reliable men that Trachta was putting to use now.

For now though, all that mattered was that the facility was fully operational...

Lota felt sick, dizzy even. His skin was a light grey though it hadn't been before they'd injected him with whatever that damn substance was in the needle. He didn't know why he was here, nor why they were doing this to him; using him as a guniea pig. He had just been in the lower city of Coruscant, spraying graffitti onto a wall when he got caught by a patrol of stormtroopers making their usual rounds. He should have known better than to chance his luck when the patrols were out in force.

And now I'm here, not even sure I'm on Coruscant anymore. Those people out there don't give a damn about me, just whatever is in me...

Lota groaned and turned, looking at the mirror which he new he was being observed from. He could feel their gazes. He felt like a caged animal. A very sick one as his stomach gurgled and he knew what was coming.

God, must make it to the toilet...

Lota fell from his cot to the floor, crawling on blistered hands. He felt so weak he wasn't sure he was going to make it till his head touched the bowl and he pulled himself up, vomitting into it.

"How controllabe is it?" Trachta asked calmly as he watched the young man vomit his guts out into the toilet. It appeared to be green which he new from his time with the ISB's shady departments isn't usually what human vomit looked like.

"Uhhh... I'm afraid it would cause an epidemic if it got out into a population center," Uru muttered, eyeing a stern looking assistant Trachta had brought with him. He looked more cut from military cloth but he hung on Trachta's words and wrote down everything, even the conversation. What was his name? Ripan?

"And is it curable?" Trachta continued to watch the young man who now layed on the floor gasping for breath next to the toilet. He didn't seemed disturbed by what he was watching at all which disturbed Uru a little.

"Uh... only if you understood its structure, which we do. Sadly the incubation period is very long. This young man has been here since we started and has yet to die from it though its weakening him constantly..."

"He's dead," Trachta stated flatly.

Uru looked up in surprise to see the young man's chest had in stopped moving just as the medical monitors started going off, indicating his vital signs had ceased.

"How did you know that..." Uru looked at Trachta, a bit spooked by such an observation.

"I've seen enough people die to know when its coming. A morbid talent perhaps, but it helped in my work before I moved on to other things. Are you getting everything, Ripan?" Trachta asked turning to his the Inquisition agent assigned to aid him in this project whom Trachta had taken on as somewhat of an apprentice.

"Yes, Mister Athcart, everything so far. Marking time of death now," Ripan replied politely, his hand moving quickly as he recorded important notes for later.

Medical assistants in biohazard suits stepped into the room and carried off the young man for autopsy so they could find out more about what had happened to his body. It was a gruesome method of doing things but it was also the most efficient to use live sentient subjects. Trachta turned and Uru knew to lead on to the next section. So far they had seen this along with several other biological projects, including agricultural warfare.

"We're making some fine progress but we need time to develop the sort of things your company is interested in producing, Mister Athcart," Uru stated, wondering if that was the cyborg's real name.

The tour continued, looking into other divisions besides the Biolabs. The pair of men and the escort kept a close eye on this, Athcart and Ripan constantly asking questions about what they saw. Their interest was fascinating but at the same time it was annoying to have some sort of overseers dropping in for these sort on inspections when they obviously didn't fully grasp the sciences involved though Athcart obviously had knowledge of cybernetics considering he looked more machine than man with his pale skin.

It was a pity that within the following weeks it wouldn't matter as things would get horribly out of control.

The tour had continued and Trachta had found the projects being worked on very satisfactory, glad it was being well funded even if through careful means so at to prevent any trace of evidence linking it to anyone. When its usefulness had run up he would just go about liquidating everyone involved there whether or not the Viscount cared though he likely wouldn't. Trachta survived by his paranoia because it was one of the few things he still had left that made him human, though he was sure most considered him a monster.

All that mattered right now was returning to Imperial Center through the long route from his apparent inspections so as to not seem suspicious to anyone. The last thing he needed was someone higher up asking too many questions, epecially Ysanne Isard. He would destroy her for tearing apart the ISB but for now all he could do was focus on the task at hand as he spoke with Ripan, his wouldbe apprentice he had taken on as a favor to the Viscount to let the Inquisitor have eyes and ears in this. It was nice though, having someone of Ripan's level of intellect to have around all the same as Trachta did seem to be training the young man though for who knows what. He was obviously from military training considering he had a strong build and the fact that Trachta knew every last little detail he could about this man under his command.

Ripan came from a military family but had shown he thought to much to make a simple soldier, being drawn into the cluthes of the Viscount and his Inquisitorate. Trachta knew enough that he could probably try to break the young man in one of his rooms aboard the Pariah but he had no intention to, for now. Ripan proved very able in mind and body to do as he was told, going so far as to kill a recruited scientist when the man proved to incompetant to rely upon. Since then Trachta had made him his personal aide while he quietly distributed his former ISB comrades into other areas of the Empire as new Intelligence operatives but also as his peronal network of informants, making sure to slip several under Grand Admiral Desaria whom he had some distaste for due to his views on society and privilege.

"So do you think they'll make much progress, sir?" Ripan asked as he looked over at his wouldbe mentor.

"Oh yes, those men are all damned anyways. They know the only way to survive is to give us results. They were all criminals for breaking ethical codes even the Emprie enforces. Technically they're already dead, marked as executed in the record and they know it too. They have nowhere to go, no way to escape. The bunker itself is built out in the wilderness of Felucia where the flora and fauna could very well kill them," Trachta added with a dark chuckle.

"True, but what about the guards? Are they reliable?" Ripan asked having noted the guards obeyed Trachta rarther fervently.

"Very, all former ISB, no thanks to that aging hag in control of Intel. They served under me, were men I could count on. Patriots in their own form," Trachta noted proudly.

"But they do know what they're guarding, don't they. Won't they have some battle of morality?" Ripan asked with concern.

Trachta answered with mechanical, derisive laughter from his vocabulator which took Ripan off guard. Trachta had never burst out laughing like that in his presence before but it was enough to make him feel that he had asked a very stupid question.

"Do you realize what I did in the ISB? I ran a massive counter-intelligence agency which became notorious for disappearing anyone viewed as disloyal. Most of these men tortured people for me; for a living. This is nothing compared to the blood they spilled in their original service to me," Trachta said in an off-hand manner.

Ripan merely nodded and felt a little overwhelmed by Trachta's obvious lack of care for the lives of others. He had read the reports of how vicious the ISB had become under his rule and the conflict it had caused with the military in some areas since black suited ISB officers were cropping up all over the place. Personally he understood that perspective and realized it was practically needed to operate in a field like this where things had to be rather nasty at times. Trachta was a monster, but he was one the Empire had made use of, funneling his vicious and sadistic methods into a field where they aided him.

The return trip to Coruscant went on with little besides converation of application of the projects they had viewd though it was all only speculation. What was gained from it was insight for Ripan into the mind of one of the true bastards of the Empire who clawed his way from the bottom as a mere naval officer to now high up in the Intel heirarchy. Trachta's mind was a warped thing, dedicated to his own pursuit for power while simultaneously serving the Empire. His ambition was almost terrifying when Ripan first took notice of it, realizing that if he could, Trachta would try to become a major power player in the Empire. It was unsettling but the Empire did need people like him, the ones willing to do the dark things in the shadows. Perhaps Ripan himself would need to become like that, willing to be the man in the shadows...

The young man contemplated this as they returned to the offices Trachta had under his control for Imperial Intelligence as a Deputy Director. It was quietly buzzing with activity as usual as Trachta entered his office and brought up his display before noticing a message waiting for him. The cyborg froze slightly as he looked at the screen and Ripan walked around to see. He felt a slight chill as well as he read the message.

[font=Courier New]Crisis. Containment Failed.[/font]