Styria-class Galleon Providence, in orbit via Budpock

“Not me,” adamantly stated one of the soldiers, “last time I was near Tobias, he was glaring at me.”

The others glanced around at each other. A habit easily encouraged as much by the roundness of the ship’s Communication Center as by the demeanor of their captain. Finally, a younger looking crewmember, with a single blue square on his uniform, stepped forward: Ensign Jelter. He gazed across the room’s occupants.

“I’ll go tell him. But next time, it’s not going to be me.”

Several murmured approvals or heartfelt appreciations. The crew went back about their normal business as Jelter exited the room into the gleeming corridors of the Providence. They all dread Tobias so much. He’s stringent and demanding, that’s true. But he’s a good man that cares about his crew. His lip slightly wrinkled. At least I think he is. Crashdown might not agree with me on that…

Clad in his naval blacks, Ensign Jelter of the Confederation Merchant Marine paced through the hallways of his ship, the Providence. The difference between the Merchant Marine and the regular navy was obvious; the Navy defended, the Merchant Marine traded and transported. But visual and actual difference between the personnel was non-existent. The military operated them both. Similiarly dressed sailors and crewmen walked around the man, leaving the galleon’s bridge. Jelter stepped up to the bridge doors and inserted his rank cylinder into the appropriate socket. Brief sensor scans confirmed the physical identity of the man with the information stored in the code cylinder and the ship’s databanks. The doors quickly whisked open, revealing the sparsely populated deck. A tall figure, leaning against the ship’s command chair, staring idly into space. There he is. Jelter purposely strode up to the convoy’s tall, imposing commander: Captain Ingham Tobias.

Not only was Tobias tall, but he was lean and gaunt, prompting many to comment that he resembled a younger Tarkin. His serious and authoritative manner further enhanced the comparison. But Jelter knew better. He has been through so much. It’s little wonder why he acts the way he does. Less than a decade ago, Ingham owned Tobias Lines, a modest, but successful, shipping company which ferried freight and passengers all across the Meridian Sector. The company’s several bulk freighters was the man’s pride, and his downfall. With the fall of the New Republic, a wave of lawlessness swept over the sector. The ever-present criminal elements grew to such strength that they became the authorities of many planets; including Budpock. When the said planet fell to the piratical forces, his property was confiscated and divided up among the looters. The company and fleet owned by Ingham’s father and built up for decades under the man was taken away from him in less than an hour. Tobias was a ruined man. Bereft of his wealth and pride, the man exchanged his sizeable house for an apartment in Demmit Station. Bitter and depressed, he eeked out an existence in the capitol by running odd jobs; a serious blow to a man so proud of his previous achievements. With the fall of Budpock to Confederate and Commonwealth forces, order and fairness had been restored. The corrupt, piratical bureaucracy was replaced with a democratic government, and lives began to become closer to normal, like the days before the criminal rule. Rather than start his business anew, with the possibility that it could be completely disbanded like before, Tobias decided to help ensure that such an event couldn’t happen again; at least to Budpock and himself. A week after the change of government, the Budpock native presented his credentials and experience to the Confederate Government, which promptly placed him in his current command of the Styria Convoy.

“Sir?”

Tobias spun around on his heel and stared at the ensign. “Yes ensign?”

“The Endeavor has finished its starfighter transfer. Its internal bays are now filled with the Drone Fighters, just like the Blackwall and Adventure.”

“Very well,” clipped the commanding officer, turning to his communciation’s officer, “We are leaving port now. All ships to the nav point for the first jump.”

“Aye sir.”

Ingham glared at the Ensign. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get to your station.”

Jelter blushed and about faced back to the hold of the ship. Ingham shook his head as the rest of the bridge crew quickly moved to take their stations. The Budpock native quietly sat down in the command chair, steadily tapping his foot. A voice rang out from the recessed crew pit.

“All ships ready and accounted for.”

“Very good,” nodded Ingham, “Make the jump.”

The dozen Confederate galleons, formed in a lozenge formation, began to accelerate from the mining planet and flashed into hyperspace.

***

Captain’s Quarters, Styria-class Galleon Providence, en route to Meridian

The door swung open into the darkness. A shaft of light slowly pushed the darkness away as Ingham expressionlessly marched in. Like clockwork, he precisely pivoted on his heel and pushed the blast door against the doorframe. It hit with a dull thud and locked. Tobias stared up at the ceiling, letting out a deep exhale. Completely in the dark, he loosened his tunic’s buttons starting from the collar. And he let out a weary, toothy smile. Ingham tapped a button on the side of the walls, letting glow panels illuminate the room in a pale light.

The rectangular room and accompanying furniture was a dark gray; the same utilitarian stock furniture was used by lower-ranking officers across the Confederation. As the master of the vessel, he had access to more deluxe and artistic furnishings, but it was intentionally sparse. The few mementos of his former life lay neatly arranged on his desk. A testament to his now-dead accomplishments. He rarely looked at any of them, save for a single holo of a woman: the one he was staring out now. Through good times and bad. Yet you never got to see me quite like this. For Better or worse.

Tobias sighed and retrieved a flask from under his bed. He turned the cap open and took a whiff of the smell. That amazing smell of a Twister. Raising the vessel to his mouth, the man gulped down the mixed drink, whose ingredients included brandy and a few fruit extracts. He wiped his lips. That one’s a decent mix. Ingham glanced at the holo of his wife. Not quite as good as she could make it. My Lara. He ripped his eyes from her smiling visage. Tobias’ pale face tightened as the first tear formed under his eyelid. The flask clattered down to the floor. And so I am alone yet again.

The two men sat down at a table in the Providence’s small lounge. Most off-duty personnel rotated into the bar at least once during their break. Some to get enjoy the more fun oriented atmosphere of the room, others to get a drink or meal. Ensign Jeltins and a Confederate pilot drank with each other. Because of the possibility of the ship being jumped by hostile forces, only nonalcoholic beverages were available, much to the displeasure of some of the crew. As a result, Jelter had a Fruit Fizz while his friend, Crashdown, enjoyed a glass of Aitha, a protein drink commonly used by spacers on long runs.

“Are you really surprised?” questioned Crashdown, taking a sip of Aitha, “you’ve been onboard long enough to know his reputation…”

Jelter shrugged. “Hearing it is one thing. Seeing it is another. Besides, you’ve heard what he’s been through.”

“I don’t give a f***,” replied the pilot, “Yes, I have heard his story a couple of times. Yes, it has to have sucked, but it doesn’t mean he should take it out on us. We weren’t the ones who ruined his life or business. It’s time for him move on.”

Jelters stared at his reddish drink. “I don’t know, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Still, he-”

“He’s all that!”

The two turned to face the newcomer: Corporal Varga. The Confederate marine grinned as he took a seat with his own drink. Jelter raised an eyebrow while Crashdown let out an amused grin. The soldier leaned forward.

“What were we talking about?”

“Captain Tobias,” stated Crashdown evenly, “I was just explaining my viewpoint on the man. How many times have we all heard his story.”

Varga shrugged. “Which one? His life story, or the time he stopped by Bimmisari?”

“Bimmisari?” asked Jelter, turning to Crashdown, “What’s that about?’

“I don’t know. I have fifteen minutes till break time is over. Tell us about Varga.”

Varga smiled. “This is before the time his life became craptastic. He was visiting Bimmisari with one of his bulk freighters, doing some trading or something like that. Anyways, the ship lands at the local starport and he gets out. The natives, the Bimm, have this tradition of welcoming visitors with a procession. They like to welcome visitors by tapping them on the head, shoulder, or back as they pass through this line. So he starts walking through this procession line. The first Bimm he walks by taps him on the shoulder. He turns around to his right, and a Bimm on his left taps his other shoulder. So he about faces to face both of them, and the Bimms behind him tap his shoulder and back. So he just starts turning around in circles completely confused about what the hell is going on. His XO had to explain to him the tradition. It must of took him a couple of minutes to get it.”

Crashdown just shook his head. “And now he is commanding a bunch of larger, armed ships owned by the government. What does that tell you?”

The infantryman shook his head. “That they hire shrewd men. I didn’t finish the story. Anyways, apparently he made out like a bandit on that run. Just did some very nice negiotations and persuasion. He made something like a million credits in profit during that voyage. If he can pull that out with what, twenty times as much cargo, the Confederation isn’t stupid. The Confederation is making some good dough. Just my two cents.”

Crashdown looked at his chrono and cursed. “I forgot. I am going to do a little inspection on my babe before the launch at the next nav point. I’ll see you guys later. Do you guys have port leave at Meridan?”

Jelter nodded, but Vargas shook his head.

“I have the security detail while you are all carousing,” stated the marine, “but I do get the next stop off.”

“Wonderful,” stated the pilot, “I’ll see you all later.”

As the pilot exited the doors, the two others stood looking at Crashdown’s drink.

“Should we run out and give it to him?” asked Jelter.

Vargas shook his head, grabbed the Aithas, and gulped it down. He looked at the glass in annoyance.

“Why we would we do that? It’s empty,” stated Vargas, “now we have to do the hard work of throwing this cup down the trash receptor.”

Bridge, Styria-class Galleon Providence, en route to Meridian

Tobias reclined in his command chair, staring out the bridge viewport in boredom. Jelters looked at the man. He yawned and grabbed a glass of caf. The Budpock native happily drank it up and lazily smiled. He is actually smiling for once. That’s a first. I wonder what happened to him. He was only in his cabin for a half hour. Other Providence crewmen looked at their leader with a variety of emotions; from amazement to disgust to bemusement. And they all quietly whispered and talked. While the actual dialogue and points varied, there was one common theme: this was an entirely different man than their old officer, at least in demeanor. The ensign leaned back in his chair. I could get use to the new him, especially after earlier today.

The ship jerked and rumbled.

What the hell?

“Sir,” shouted an officer, “we’re being prematurely pulled out of hyperspace by a gravity well.”

Ingham nodded and smiled. “That’s nice.”

The crew looked at each other incredously, wondering if their captain was sane. In most cases, if a ship was pulled out of hyperspace by an unmapped gravity well, it meant only thing: they were being attacked. The twelve galleons stuttered out of hyperspace to soar into realspace. Across the hybrid vessels, crews went to red alert and manned their battle stations.

“Captain, the gravity well is an asteroid. Nothing we can’t maneuver around. But there are unidentified ships between us and the exit point. They have no transponder codes.”

Captain Ingham exasperatedly nodded, and tapped several buttons on his screen. On his console, the various visual sensors oriented themselves on the closest of the unidentified ship. Tobias’ eyes narrowed as his mouth curled into a feral snarl. He rose violently.

“What have they done to my ship!”

An officer frowned and pulled up the visage of the vessel. It was an older bulk transport, doubtless having seen much wear, and by the DER readouts, not enough maintenance. But the close up of the bow of the vessel showed the fainted words: Tobias Trader.

***

Blood Fury, ex-Tobias Trader, deep space

“Got’em Red,” hollered one of the ruffian men that occupied the ship’s bridge, “twelve of them. Bulk freighter sized. Best pickings this week.”

The captain referred to Red Jack by his crew, simply nodded. “Class?”

“Unknown. But their shape they look like freighters. And they’re moving pretty slow.”

Red frowned, suspicion clawing at his hear. “But they aren’t running. They can’t be helpless. If they were, why would they be closing on us.”

“Two options,” said the first man, “they’re either very stupid, or they still think we’re common merchant men because we’re using old freighters.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. Launch the fighters.”

“Aye.”

“We’re getting a transmission from their lead vessel.”

Jack waved hand. “Put it through.”

Making a whining noise, the projector slowly lit up to reveal an aging man clad in a mostly black uniform. Aside from being somewhat tall and gaunt, his phyiscue seemed average. Jack would have guessed that he was just a common merchant, save for his posture. Not only was the man leading exceptionally close to the holo-recorder on his ship, but his jaw was tensed up, his eyes glaring. The other man spoke first.

“I’ll f***ing kill you for all this, you worthless, piece-of-crap, no-good-”

“Do I know you?” questioned Jack, somewhat amused, “because if I were you, I’d be thinking about surrendering, or maybe running. Perhaps you haven’t heard, we’re the dreaded Hssiss Space Force, I’m-”

“I’m sure you’ll die for what you’ve done to me and my ship-”

Red’s face became puzzled. “What in blazes are you talking about? We haven’t touched your-”

“No, you standing in it right now. Perhaps you don’t remember Jack,” stated the Budpock native, “who you got your ship from. Don’t remember me? Don’t you remember Ingham Tobias from Tobias Lines? You know, the company who seems to be providing all of your fleet’s ships.”

Recognition and amusement sparked up in Jack’s eyes. “I certainly do now. And it will be a pleasure to do it again…”

Styria-class Galleon Providence, Deep Space

Tobias stared out of the viewport at the approaching vessels; his face contorted in steely anger. He quickly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, after which he placed his hands on his hips. A single voice called out from his side.

“We’ve identified Tracks 1-26. Enemy starfighters, mostly Z-95s, some X-wings.”

Ingham turned about. “Very good, order the Blackwall, Endeavor, and Adventure to launch their drones now. Order the Deathsabers to make some close inspection runs on their cap ships. I want to know every minute detail about their status. Any modifications, cargo, crew numbers, just as if it was a recon flight.”

“Sir, that might take some time-”

“No,” snapped the commander, “it shouldn’t take that long. Not with twelve squadrons of Deathsabers. In fact, belay my order. Have two-thirds of them decimate those SOBs. The other third can do the inspections.”

The twelve ovoid galleons cruised forward towards the piratical fleet. Acting as forward observers and targeting craft, the Deathsabers silently glided among their foes, feeding target directly to the Providence and her sister ships. The frigates opened fire, releasing a fire of ionic tags into the criminal foes ships with startling accuracy. As the projectiles slammed into the hulls of the Confederation’s enemies, each tag generated its ionic field, disabling external systems and blowing out circuits. Under this blistering fire, the three escort carriers launched swarms of the Piranha Drone Fighters.

The oddly shaped droid ships dispersed into hundreds of flight pairs. Some of them charged forward to meet the enemy formation head-on, some of them circled around the galleons, waiting to make a deadly counterstrike or relieve the first wave of droid fighters. One Piranha wiggled its wings as passed by the Providence. Its advanced processor immediately picked out the lead X-wing and designated it as its targets. The positronic processor immediately sorted out possible sets of actions between the two opposing craft within several seconds. The automated pilot quickly chose the attack approach with the highest survivability rate. Piranha PRO234274X began its heads-on approach, making random swerving, side-to-side motions. As the two starships entered firing range, the four blaster cannons of the Confederate fighter spewed out emerald bolts towards the X-wing. Other Piranhas coordinated their attack with PRO234274X via tightbeam transmissions, hitting the X-wing from all areas. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers, the X-wing hopelessly picked out a PRO234274X and fired its own laser cannons. The side-slipping of the small fighter combined with its decoy beam threw off the pirate’s accuracy considerably. Several of the ruby darts grazed the fuselage of the droid fighter, whose Quadnanium Carbide armor dissipated most of the attack. The X-wing was not as lucky, blaster bolts from all directions chewed down its shields and drilled into its hull. It exploded violently into a fireball, hurling debris in all directions.

The lead pirate freighter found itself beset by the maneuverable droids. Coordinated missile and torpedo volleys from the Confederate droids lanced out at the modified medium freighter. A series of blossoms of fireballs enveloped the ship, whose shields briefly glowed an intense white before disintegrating under the intense energy of the Confederate assault. Sprouts of fire briefly popped across the now unshielded freighter. Continued fire from the droid starfighters picked off bits and pieces, chewing the ship into nothingness.

CR-90 Beserker, Hssiss Space Force

The corvette shuddered under the impact of warheads launched by the ubiqtuous droid starfighters. Captain Netbers growled. A quartet of the Piranha fighters screamed in front of the bridge viewport, bright flashes of red following them. The turbolaser cannons can’t effectively track anything that small or maneuverable. Wonderful.

“Captain, we’ve lost several of dorsal weapons.”

“Frak. What hit them?”

“That odd ion weapon their freighters are using.”

Netbers sighed. The same weapon that knocked out our communication’s system. Blast. We haven’t been able to repair no matter how hard we’ve tried to repair it or whatever method we used. Even personal comlinks don’t work in that area. Something’s up.

“We’ll have to try and repair them,” stated Netbers, walking towards the bridge viewport, “if we survive this battle.”

The pirate captain stared out at the swarms of Piranhas. The droid fighters had adopted fighting and pursuing their opponents in packs, like the howlrunners of Kamar. He watched as a pair of packs of Piranhas adeptly hounded a lone Z-95. As the pirate craft evaded the mass fire attack of one group, it ran into the other. Both packs converged on their target at the same time, with several dozen blaster cannons pounding the older design’s shielding, and punching through its hull. The stream of bolts ripped the craft asunder right through the cockpit. Another one bites the dust.

“Sir, the Bloodfury is turning around to retreat. Other ships are following her maneuvers.”

Netbers nodded. “About time he pulled us out of here. Let’s go.”

The Beserker’s decks rocked hard, throwing standing crewmen around like dolls. Netbers felt his feet leave the deck before he slammed into the transparisteel viewport of his vessel. As the lighting flickered, he noticed red dripping from his mouth and a bloody smear where he had hit the transparent material. The lights went out.

“What the hell?” stammered the pirate.

“We’ve lost our main auxiliary power and our engines,” reported a pirate crewer, “I’m running us on auxiliary powercells.”

Netbers stumbled over to his command chair. Frak. I can’t even pull up damage statistics on that area. Must be pretty bad. He shook his head.

“Must have been capital missiles,” stammered the sensor’s officer, “seeing that we’re split in two now.”

“Frak!” shouted the captain, “how could we have not seen that coming! We’re so dead.”

“Sir, the Bloodfury has made the jump into hyperspace, with the rest of our ships that still had operational hyperdrives.”

Netbers relunctantly nodded as he collapsed into his chair. “No surprise. He would leave us here to rot, or die. Wait a minute, why aren’t we getting pounded still?”

“Apparently the enemy doesn’t think that we’re a threat,” stated a pirate, “One of their cargo ships seems to be moving to dock alongside us. Orders?”

Netbers sighed. “We surrender.”

“What?”

“Do it,” ordered Netbers, “otherwise we fight, we die. We have no way of getting of this wreck now. We’ll starve to death if they just leave us stranded like this.”

“Aye.”

The crew of the Beserker reluctantly prepared for their capture. Personal weapons were collected and stockpiled in the captain’s quarters; to ensure that there would be no misunderstandings about the pirate’s stance. Many of the crewmembers broke into the galley and began to drink all of the alcohol they could find; reasoning that not only would the Confederation end up with drinks if the pirates didn’t drink them, but they wouldn’t be drinking for some time once they were in jail. Netbers settled himself in his cabin, among the stockpiled weapons, turned on the holo-projector, and began to watch the copies of old holo shows he had. When the Providence docked with the shattered Berserker, the Paladin IIs and Shock Troopers that boarded the ship found only harmless, if exceptionally drunk, pirates standing by the airlock. Captain Tobias step foot onto the starship and shook his head at the sight.

Captain’s Quarters, Styria-class Galleon Providence

“Sir,” stated an officer, entering the Budpock native’s quarters, “we’ve pulled off all of the data from the Beserker’s surviving computer core. They appear to be operating out of Cybloc XII.”

“Thank you Lieutenant,” stated Ingham, “plot a course for Cybloc XII then. As soon as the recovery operations are finished, we shall go investigate.”

“Yes sir,” bowed the subordinate.

The door clanked behind the ship’s XO, leaving Tobias alone to his thoughts, and the datapad he was typing on. He glanced at the flask of the Twister and he shook his head. I need to concentrate, not get floozy. He typed in a few more words near the end and reread the datapad:

Combat Report:

At 1300 hours, Convoy #14 was prematurely pulled out of hyperspace and ambushed by piratical forces claiming to be the Hssiss Space Force. The ambush appears to have been general for all mercantile vessels in the area, as the enemy forces allocated for the ambush did not immediately recognize our craft or identify our nationality. Additionally, the quantity and quality of their forces was significantly below our own; another reason to think this was not a specifically targeted operation. Piratical forces were engaged by Convoy forces and defeated with minimal starfighter losses to our own side. Half of their fleet was put out of action, the others, led by their flagship Bloodfury, retreated. It is known that many of the ships in the fleet, notably the Bloodfury, ex-Tobias Trader, are former Tobias Trade Line ships. In addition, several ships of their ships were captured and their crews are continuing to undergo interrogation. Skirnatopol has been authorized by the CSIS liaison. Information gathered by such efforts has been attached below.

Captured ships and their prisoners are being to sent to Budpock with Prize crews. One of the prizes, the CR-90 Beserker, was damaged beyond repair. We have moved their crew to other vessels and have destroyed the vessel by bombardment. Based on the gathered information, the convoy is en route to Cybloc XII, the apparent base of the so-called Hssiss Space Force. We will attempt to discover more about their operation, and if our forces are sufficient, will deal with the problem.
Ingham nodded in satisfaction with the report and tapped a button on his desk.

“Lieutenant Orklos?”

“Yes sir?”

“See to it that this Combat Report I’m transmitting now is taken back with the prize vessels. The mainstream navy might send forces to assist us in this operation. Provided they get here in time.”

“Yes sir. It will be done.”

“Good,” stated Tobias, “Tobias out.”

He untapped the button and rose from his durasteel. Stretching and twisting his body, he let a slow yawn escape his mouth. Ingham snatched the flask off the desk and took a quick swig. That can sure wake you up. He smacked his lips. And back to the bridge.



Pirate Base, Cybloc XII

“We’re in a bind,” stated one of the pirate captains.

“No? Really?” sarcastically replied Jack, “I thought that convoy was a gift from the Maker.”

The criminals sat across the hangar, leaning or sitting on whatever happened to be around, including starfighters, crates, and ejections. Red Jack bit his lip as the gang gathered around him. He gazed across them.

“What say you? What do you think we should do?” asked the leader.

“Fight them!”

“Flee!” shouted another.

Jack bit his lip. “Fight them. We saw what happened last time we fought. The outcome isn’t going to be different unless we change one of the factors. Any suggestions?”

None of the men rose or spoke. Jack turned about, continuing to pace. He let out a weak smile.

“Well men, if we can’t fight them, the only option I see is fleeing. They’ve certainly discovered our location from either the ship’s databases or by a simple interrogation. Even if our comrades wanted to be loyal, any number of truth serums would have forced them to reveal the location. Let’s face it, our time here on Cybloc Twelve is over. So now what? I say we pack up as fast as we can and find a new home. There are plenty places across the galaxy for men like us.”

Several murmurs of agreement rose up in the piratical ranks.

“Any protests to that course, men?”

Silence permeated the room. Red nodded. “All right, let’s get packing.”

Styria-class Galleon Providence, Cybloc XII

The empty space around Cybloc XII rippled and warped as twelve ovoid craft blinked into existence. On the bridge, Captain Tobias scanned the space out through viewport. Each galleon came with its crew already at their battlestations, their shields and weapons powered, and starfighters ready to launch. Standard Confederation procedure for entering potentially hostile space.

“Captain,” reported an officer, “there is nothing around here. No ships at least. We do have navigation and communication beacons orbiting the 12th moon of Cybloc though. It doesn’t look like they’ve been used in a while.”

“Probably since before the Death Seed Plague breakout in 13 ABY,” sighed Ingham, “that moon was a major trading base for the New Republic and many other planets of the sector. Criminals and others looted it during the process. I heard talks that there were plans for restoring the trading port; never heard what happened to them.”

“Sir, we’ve detected a single light transport leaving the moon. It is heading right for us.”

The gaunt man raised an eyebrow. “Class and transponder?”

“No transponder, but it appears to be of Corellian make by its FST profile.”

“Apparently someone wants to make their living known,” stated Tobias dryly, “perhaps they could have added a ‘I’m a pirate’ bumperstick to it while they’re at it.”

The crew of the hybrid vessel exchanged glances with each other. Some grinned in amusement while others looked puzzled. Ingham let out an exasperated sigh.

“Come on people, work with me. It’s a joke.”

One of the men spoke up. “Ah, sir, that’s the most remotely funny thing we’ve ever heard say.”

“You’re supposed to laugh.”

None of the bridge crew laughed, instead preferring to stare at their commander with blank faces. Ingham ruefully shook his head. Several of the bridge shrugged and went back to their business. The Budpock native glanced at his command console. Still closing in on us.

“Sir, we’ve identified the freighter as the Starseed; it was present at our last engagement.”

“Perhaps they’ve come to parley,” mused the Confederate officer.

“The Starseed is signaling us with a direct holocomm transmission.”

“Put it through,” stated the captain.

The holo-projector on the Providence’s bridge slowly came to life, forming a life-size image of their contacts. A muscled man with red hair dominated the center of the projection. Red Jack. That takes nerve. Coming with an unescorted freighter to the squadron that defeated your battle fleet. He spotted a feminine figure shrouded in the background. Tobias lipped twitched. Her form seems familiar. Red Jack calmly stared down his nemesis and opened his mouth.

“We just seemed to be caught in this never-ending struggle, you and I. Do you remember when we met, before the Death Seed Plague?”

Tobias frowned and shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” stated Red Jack, “I was an independent spacer, flying the Starseed across the sector doing some random trading. I met you once, on Budpock at the exchange. You were big then, and I was little. No reason for you to have remembered me back then.”

Tobias nodded. “Not that I don’t like reminiscing with my archenemy about times that I don’t remember, but does your coming out here have anything else to accomplish but just that?”

Red Jack leaned in confrontationally so that his face dominated the holo-projection, making his body appear comically smaller.

“Yes,” stated the pirate, beginning to move back to his original position, “It does. Do you recognize this woman?”

Ingham shook his head. “No, is this a reunion party? Perhaps we all shared drinks together that one time you remember meeting me…”

“It is pretty sad when you don’t recognize your own wife.”

“My wife is dead; you know that better than anyone else,” stated the captain, “I am growing tired of your games…”

“It is your wife,” adamantly stated the pirate, bringing up the woman closer to the camera.

Tobias turned to his gunnery officer, “Prepare to blow the Starseed out of space. I’ve had enough of this.”

“Wait!”

Tobias halted. It wasn’t the verbal response that surprised him, rather it was the voice. Lara? He scrutinized the figure more closely. Well, it’s been ten years since we last saw each other. And she does bear a marked resemblance to Lara. In fact, it almost is convincing except for one thing: during the looting, I saw his men shoot her right in my own home when she refused their advances. The woman gazed at him.

“Don’t you recognize me?” pleaded the woman.

Tobias tilted his head. “I recognize who you appear to be. That does not make you so. Just like there are different droids, all of the same model, it doesn’t mean that one of them is all of the others,” stated Tobias, turning to the weapon’s officer, “you are clear to fire cannons on the-”

“You don’t remember the Twisters I made for you every other day, when you were home from your voyages? I always put them in those old Camberian bottles your father left us.”

“I remember my wife doing that. She’s dead, shot by one of your thugs. Your men were sick and perverted enough to make off with her body.”

“She was stunned,” bluntly stated Jack, “I’ve been keeping here at the base for some time. If you’ll kindly stand down for a few hours, we will reunite you too. You can have dinner together on your ship, in your cabin.”

Tobias stared at his wife and shook his head.

“Two things against you Jack. One, as a Confederation officer, I put all personal matters behind my duties. My duty is to apprehend you for being the violent criminal that you are. Two, and I’ve just realized this, but Lara and I were only married two years before you separated us. You’ve been with her longer. She’s more like a stranger to me, and I’ve moved on.”

Jack frowned. “As a high and mighty, noble whatever Confederate junk you types seem to value, would you seriously kill or endanger an innocent person’s life?”

Ingham stared blankly at the visage. “My crew appear to have doubts firing on your vessel, Jack. But I do not.”

The Budpock native tapped a button on his command console, and the batteries of the Providence opened fire. As the holo-comm. transmission became garbled because of the damage rendered by the galleon, Ingham stared at the vestiges of a weeping woman and her bewildered captor. The transmission completely broke into static. Ingham shrugged.

Styria-class Galleon Providence, Cybloc XII

It was a brilliant, if deadly light show. The twelve galleons slowly lowered down into the moon’s atmosphere towards the pirate’s base, their batteries picking off fleeing criminal freighters and shuttles. Tiny fireballs occasionally blossomed around the periphery of the Providence. Confederation starfighters, both Piranhas and Deathsabers, harried and destroyed that which the Styrias could not disable because of size, speed, or agility. Few deadly enemies remained for the lightside naval forces to engage, with the bulk of their fleet destroyed or undergoing repairs from the last engagement. Swarms of droid starfighters began to strafe surface, their blasters chewing through the vegetation to hit concealed emplacements and hideouts. Captain Tobias watched the clouds break upon his ship. Every second we get closer. Closer to total victory.

“Captain, we’ve secured the prisoners in the brig,” reported an officer.

Ingham nodded. “Very good. Have all the marines taken their position?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” stated the Budpock native, “We’ll need every last one of them to pull this off.”

“That’s still over a thousand armed troops. They can’t put up that much resistance against that force, especially since they’ve lost air superiority” commented the XO.

“Desperate men are dangerous,” commented Ingham, “never forget that. They will fight with their teeth and fingernails if backed against a wall. Which means more losses for us; at least potentially.”

The Providence and her sister craft slowed to a halt, hovering a couple dozen meters above the landing strips for the old commercial starport. Piranha Drones coalesced swept down en masse, obliterating any possible opposition nearby. Under this weathering fire, fibre-steel ropes fell from the galleons. The rope slightly wiggled before becoming taught as the figures of Confederate infantry expediently slid down them to the earth below. They hit ground and immediately began running, blasters drawn, towards the occupied hangars. Tobias watched as several Confederate soldiers fired emerald bursts into the far reaches of the hangar. Some mutli-coloured fire came back, wildly off-target. An officer came up from behind him.

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“We’re receiving a message from their comm. center. They wish to surrender.”

Tobias nodded. “I will accept their unconditional surrender, nothing else.”

Several seconds passed as the Merchant Marine captain watched more Confederate marines rush into the bay.

“Sir, they have agreed to unconditional surrender. All their forces are standing down.”

“Very good,” nodded Ingham, “secure the area and round up the prisoners.”

“Yes sir.”

Tobias hesitated. “Have my wife released from the brig and escorted to my cabin. It’s time we talked again…”