In terms of galactic scope there are planets, civilized and settled planets none the less, which go almost totally unnoticed.
23 Mere was one such planet.
The Holo-Net had this to say about it; “23 Mere is an Inner Rim colony world between Darepp and Motexx.”
Not a remarkable start. But it was something.
And sometimes something was just enough to… get something going.
Dauntless Dreamer – Deep Space, Mid-Rim
The ship was abuzz with activity.
No, that is not entirely accurate. In the metaphor the ship is compared to a bee hive which, buzzing with efforts of the bees there-in, was often remarked to be ‘abuzz with activity.’ But to work, bees were required. Or in the case of the Dreamer; a crew.
To be correct, the Dreamer was perhaps comparatively abuzz, at least to that which it had been previously inclined.
John-James Jamison had his hands gripped in front of him and he was wringing them. This was unusual for the disciplined human, an officer to the end. His feelings were shared.
He wanted to say it was not right, what they were doing but instead said nothing. It was not his place.
The bothan to his immediate right had his ears pressed flat, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he monitored his tactical display. His fingers moved deftly over the control panel tracking and designating contacts as quickly as they appeared. It was not hard, given he had only one object to chart but he took the opportunity to showcase his skills.
If what they were doing made him uncomfortable, the sight of his commander hunched over an ensigns duty station made him additionally uneasy. The bothan was too busy to notice his friends discomfort and yet they shared enough of a bond that he was inspired to remark off hand, “It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”
This caused Jamison to chuckle alongside the rest of the bridge crew.
Their prey was a sluggish ship.
A month ago the cargo vessel would not have presented an obstacle. Of course a month ago they would not have been here, about to do this. But such was the nature of their effort. Rebellions were never cheap.
Freshly staffed and equipped, the Dreamer had been ready to charge in to battle but the call had not come yet. Until it was, Jamison had signed much of their raw manpower over to other branches of the Rebellion while they established cells and enclaves elsewhere. They would be back, however. Their fresh new combat fighters and crew…
Functioning at just over skeleton capacity, the Dreamer carried only a fraction of her compliment of star-fighters.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Six minutes to contact,” said the bothan, Matko Ko’Vic, before rising from the post and returning it to its proper operator. “Tell the alert fighters.”
Jamison relayed the orders before turning towards his commander, leaning close and asking quietly, “I need to speak with you… alone.”
A moment later the pair were alone in the officers ready, adjoining the bridge. Jamison, as always, remained standing while Ko’Vic reclined in one of the chairs comfortably. They had minuets to spare before contact.
“This isn’t right,” Jamison said. “I do not like what we are about to do and neither do…”
He trailed off.
“The humans,” finished Ko’Vic. “This is becoming a problem.”
The crew of the Dauntless Dreamer was a mixed bag, humans and bothans. And while both groups were dedicated to the same cause, the racial divisions were present despite generations of attempts to root out such dissention under the Old Republic, sadly the rise of the Empire had changed that.
“They are subjects of the Empire,” Ko’Vic spoke of their target, ever closing on its position. “And we need supplies.”
“They are civilians,” countered Jamison. “And they are human.”
“Ah ha,” Ko’Vic met. “The crux of the matter, is it?”
“No, it’s not. But we are crossing a line here.”
Jamison continued, “These are not military assets we are attacking. This is not a raid, sir. This is piracy.”
Ko’Vic nodded, conceding the fact. “Yes, it is.”
“So?”
“So what?” the bothan Admiral looked nonplused.
“This is a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Marin has not been informed, nor has the rest of the table. You’re going too far here and the repercussions are going to get us all in trouble.” Jamison was calm, they had been here before. “Give me a week and I will come up with an alternative.”
Ko’Vic twitched an ear, weighing his choices.
After a long few moments of contemplation he nodded, once more. “Agreed. Stand the ship down. You have one week.”
23 Mere, the city of Apexus
“It was not to your strength,” said the man. His face was scruffy and dark. Upon his head rested a turban and his body was draped in lengths of ragged fabric. Jamison was an expert of disguise, and it did not show. “This is where we belong.”
The creature to his right was black as the void, so deep was its furry coat it seemed to absorb the light around it. It displayed its fur proudly, wearing only a sash, bandolier and loin-cloth. Matko Ko’Vic looked totally unlike himself.
“Yes,” hissed the would-be defel, acting totally unlike a bothan with its hunched pose and sharp looks. “You were right. This feels better.”
Standing at a cross-roads, the colony city fanning out in three directions around them, the pair were utterly unremarkable amidst the multi-specie throngs that milled about the square on merchants day.
“Let’s get to work,” suggested the human, also known as Durga’mhet. His accent was flawless. “Keep in touch.”
The people of 23 Mere were not primitive. They were not technologically challenged or sociologically stunted. Though the tide and turn of the galaxy had chosen to overlook them, they had not been stymied by it. Quite the contrary, the people of 23 Mere were well established.
They were the product of a colonization that had been seven generations in the making. Originally terraformed by a now defunct development firm, ownership of the planet had passed to another and since defunct branch which had, during its brief ownership, subcontracted to various other firms. Due to a legal loophole however; the first generation settlers, discontent with the mismanagement of the various bodies working to generate and direct the planets economy for their own ends, were able to claim 23 Mere for themselves, establishing the Confederation of 23 Mere. The road paved for them, the people of 23 Mere were able to direct their own fate.
Demographically composed of a mixture of species, most of which hailed from the inner or mid rims, the people were quick to establish a democracy. Over the four hundred years of occupation the people of 23 Mere enjoyed a moderate, but comfortable economy. A steady population growth settled at just over 20 million all of whom lived under a single banner. The nations of 23 Mere were comprised of city-states each with their own local governments united as a single planetary whole. Though small by planetary standards, the ultra-dense core of the planet provided a standard gravity and its two continents, one in the western hemisphere another in the southern, boasted considerable mineral wealth. Inter-planetary trade was handled by a branch of the government responsible for the ascertaining and dispensation of goods and services which could not be produced or handled by the people of 23 Mere.
By all standards 23 Mere was a completely normal, completely average member of the galactic unknowns.
The rise of the Empire had affected the peoples of 23 Mere only in so far as the constant shifts in the Old Republic, and as a fairly self-sustained populace without much to offer a galactic regime of any description, they had remained under the radar.
The history of 23 Mere was something Vice-Minister Hubbins Smith was very proud of. Proud enough in fact that he had spent his entire life in service to his people, his nation, his planet and that dedication had served him in return; allowing him to achieve the office of Vice-Minister, and to be the youngest man to do so. Second to the Prime Minister, who in turn was above the President of 23 Mere Incorporated, he was a man of considerable power.
Government was handled very seriously by people of 23 Mere.
Each city-state, of which there were seventy five spread over two continents, had its own governing body which was in turn structured to accommodate the needs of that given group. At twenty-five years old Hubbins Smith had won a seat in the House of the Electrets, winning in his hometown of Apexus Grand. That had been an feat in and of itself for Apexus Grand was unquestionably the largest and most powerful of the city-states.
Three years later, running alongside the current Prime Minister, his party had won making him Vice-Minister to the Prime Minister. In one more he planned to run for the Prime Ministry.
But that would be as far as he could hope to go. Thirty-one years old and a hopeful for the most prominent seat of power any native of 23 Mere could hope to achieve. This was because, unique to their system of governance, the office of the President was a hired position.
Every three years, with national elections, the new Prime Minister, and elected position, was tasked with, among his other responsibilities, hiring a CEO for 23 Mere Incorporated which was the business holding that was the nation of 23 Mere united.
The current President, a near-human by the name of Kolhaninberg-Juan Steinbeck, was responsible for handling the galactic affairs of the planets business interests and to act according to the will of the House of Electrets, represented by Prime Minister Ku’beck, a sixth generation sullustan Mere native. However, relations between President Steinbeck and Prime Minister Ku’beck had become strained and there was word that the office of the Prime Minister would move to have him replaced.
A week previous events came to a head when the President openly defied the voice of the House on a free-trade bill with nearby Darepp. In spite of his ambitions, Smith had been trying to close the rift, content to win his victory in the years to come when, quite unexpectedly, he had been contacted. A week ago a man, a gardener attending his lawn, had managed to slip past security and confront the Vice-Minister alone in the bath, the bath of all places.
Now, a week later, here he was again… in the bath.
And there he was.
“Your man checks out,” confirmed Smith from his tub of frothy bubbles. “A week ago I never would have considered it, you know.”
The dark skinned spy nodded, “Yes.”
“I mean, I know politics. The party likes me because I’m young, I’m pretty and I appeal to the young vote. But I know what’s going on, my dad may have done some of the work for me on the road up, I know what it takes though.” Smith was a resolute man, he honestly believed what he was saying. “I’ve seen the dirt and corruption.”
Again, the dark skinned man nodded, his draped turban bobbing, “Yes.”
“Prime Minister, at my age… My dad would have been so proud,” Smith winced visually. The loss was still fresh and had played a large part in his coercion. “There ain’t no turning back.”
Once more, the dark man nodded. He nodded, moving to depart saying only, “No, there is not.”
23 Mere was one such planet.
The Holo-Net had this to say about it; “23 Mere is an Inner Rim colony world between Darepp and Motexx.”
Not a remarkable start. But it was something.
And sometimes something was just enough to… get something going.
Dauntless Dreamer – Deep Space, Mid-Rim
The ship was abuzz with activity.
No, that is not entirely accurate. In the metaphor the ship is compared to a bee hive which, buzzing with efforts of the bees there-in, was often remarked to be ‘abuzz with activity.’ But to work, bees were required. Or in the case of the Dreamer; a crew.
To be correct, the Dreamer was perhaps comparatively abuzz, at least to that which it had been previously inclined.
John-James Jamison had his hands gripped in front of him and he was wringing them. This was unusual for the disciplined human, an officer to the end. His feelings were shared.
He wanted to say it was not right, what they were doing but instead said nothing. It was not his place.
The bothan to his immediate right had his ears pressed flat, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he monitored his tactical display. His fingers moved deftly over the control panel tracking and designating contacts as quickly as they appeared. It was not hard, given he had only one object to chart but he took the opportunity to showcase his skills.
If what they were doing made him uncomfortable, the sight of his commander hunched over an ensigns duty station made him additionally uneasy. The bothan was too busy to notice his friends discomfort and yet they shared enough of a bond that he was inspired to remark off hand, “It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”
This caused Jamison to chuckle alongside the rest of the bridge crew.
Their prey was a sluggish ship.
A month ago the cargo vessel would not have presented an obstacle. Of course a month ago they would not have been here, about to do this. But such was the nature of their effort. Rebellions were never cheap.
Freshly staffed and equipped, the Dreamer had been ready to charge in to battle but the call had not come yet. Until it was, Jamison had signed much of their raw manpower over to other branches of the Rebellion while they established cells and enclaves elsewhere. They would be back, however. Their fresh new combat fighters and crew…
Functioning at just over skeleton capacity, the Dreamer carried only a fraction of her compliment of star-fighters.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Six minutes to contact,” said the bothan, Matko Ko’Vic, before rising from the post and returning it to its proper operator. “Tell the alert fighters.”
Jamison relayed the orders before turning towards his commander, leaning close and asking quietly, “I need to speak with you… alone.”
A moment later the pair were alone in the officers ready, adjoining the bridge. Jamison, as always, remained standing while Ko’Vic reclined in one of the chairs comfortably. They had minuets to spare before contact.
“This isn’t right,” Jamison said. “I do not like what we are about to do and neither do…”
He trailed off.
“The humans,” finished Ko’Vic. “This is becoming a problem.”
The crew of the Dauntless Dreamer was a mixed bag, humans and bothans. And while both groups were dedicated to the same cause, the racial divisions were present despite generations of attempts to root out such dissention under the Old Republic, sadly the rise of the Empire had changed that.
“They are subjects of the Empire,” Ko’Vic spoke of their target, ever closing on its position. “And we need supplies.”
“They are civilians,” countered Jamison. “And they are human.”
“Ah ha,” Ko’Vic met. “The crux of the matter, is it?”
“No, it’s not. But we are crossing a line here.”
Jamison continued, “These are not military assets we are attacking. This is not a raid, sir. This is piracy.”
Ko’Vic nodded, conceding the fact. “Yes, it is.”
“So?”
“So what?” the bothan Admiral looked nonplused.
“This is a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Marin has not been informed, nor has the rest of the table. You’re going too far here and the repercussions are going to get us all in trouble.” Jamison was calm, they had been here before. “Give me a week and I will come up with an alternative.”
Ko’Vic twitched an ear, weighing his choices.
After a long few moments of contemplation he nodded, once more. “Agreed. Stand the ship down. You have one week.”
23 Mere, the city of Apexus
“It was not to your strength,” said the man. His face was scruffy and dark. Upon his head rested a turban and his body was draped in lengths of ragged fabric. Jamison was an expert of disguise, and it did not show. “This is where we belong.”
The creature to his right was black as the void, so deep was its furry coat it seemed to absorb the light around it. It displayed its fur proudly, wearing only a sash, bandolier and loin-cloth. Matko Ko’Vic looked totally unlike himself.
“Yes,” hissed the would-be defel, acting totally unlike a bothan with its hunched pose and sharp looks. “You were right. This feels better.”
Standing at a cross-roads, the colony city fanning out in three directions around them, the pair were utterly unremarkable amidst the multi-specie throngs that milled about the square on merchants day.
“Let’s get to work,” suggested the human, also known as Durga’mhet. His accent was flawless. “Keep in touch.”
The people of 23 Mere were not primitive. They were not technologically challenged or sociologically stunted. Though the tide and turn of the galaxy had chosen to overlook them, they had not been stymied by it. Quite the contrary, the people of 23 Mere were well established.
They were the product of a colonization that had been seven generations in the making. Originally terraformed by a now defunct development firm, ownership of the planet had passed to another and since defunct branch which had, during its brief ownership, subcontracted to various other firms. Due to a legal loophole however; the first generation settlers, discontent with the mismanagement of the various bodies working to generate and direct the planets economy for their own ends, were able to claim 23 Mere for themselves, establishing the Confederation of 23 Mere. The road paved for them, the people of 23 Mere were able to direct their own fate.
Demographically composed of a mixture of species, most of which hailed from the inner or mid rims, the people were quick to establish a democracy. Over the four hundred years of occupation the people of 23 Mere enjoyed a moderate, but comfortable economy. A steady population growth settled at just over 20 million all of whom lived under a single banner. The nations of 23 Mere were comprised of city-states each with their own local governments united as a single planetary whole. Though small by planetary standards, the ultra-dense core of the planet provided a standard gravity and its two continents, one in the western hemisphere another in the southern, boasted considerable mineral wealth. Inter-planetary trade was handled by a branch of the government responsible for the ascertaining and dispensation of goods and services which could not be produced or handled by the people of 23 Mere.
By all standards 23 Mere was a completely normal, completely average member of the galactic unknowns.
The rise of the Empire had affected the peoples of 23 Mere only in so far as the constant shifts in the Old Republic, and as a fairly self-sustained populace without much to offer a galactic regime of any description, they had remained under the radar.
The history of 23 Mere was something Vice-Minister Hubbins Smith was very proud of. Proud enough in fact that he had spent his entire life in service to his people, his nation, his planet and that dedication had served him in return; allowing him to achieve the office of Vice-Minister, and to be the youngest man to do so. Second to the Prime Minister, who in turn was above the President of 23 Mere Incorporated, he was a man of considerable power.
Government was handled very seriously by people of 23 Mere.
Each city-state, of which there were seventy five spread over two continents, had its own governing body which was in turn structured to accommodate the needs of that given group. At twenty-five years old Hubbins Smith had won a seat in the House of the Electrets, winning in his hometown of Apexus Grand. That had been an feat in and of itself for Apexus Grand was unquestionably the largest and most powerful of the city-states.
Three years later, running alongside the current Prime Minister, his party had won making him Vice-Minister to the Prime Minister. In one more he planned to run for the Prime Ministry.
But that would be as far as he could hope to go. Thirty-one years old and a hopeful for the most prominent seat of power any native of 23 Mere could hope to achieve. This was because, unique to their system of governance, the office of the President was a hired position.
Every three years, with national elections, the new Prime Minister, and elected position, was tasked with, among his other responsibilities, hiring a CEO for 23 Mere Incorporated which was the business holding that was the nation of 23 Mere united.
The current President, a near-human by the name of Kolhaninberg-Juan Steinbeck, was responsible for handling the galactic affairs of the planets business interests and to act according to the will of the House of Electrets, represented by Prime Minister Ku’beck, a sixth generation sullustan Mere native. However, relations between President Steinbeck and Prime Minister Ku’beck had become strained and there was word that the office of the Prime Minister would move to have him replaced.
A week previous events came to a head when the President openly defied the voice of the House on a free-trade bill with nearby Darepp. In spite of his ambitions, Smith had been trying to close the rift, content to win his victory in the years to come when, quite unexpectedly, he had been contacted. A week ago a man, a gardener attending his lawn, had managed to slip past security and confront the Vice-Minister alone in the bath, the bath of all places.
Now, a week later, here he was again… in the bath.
And there he was.
“Your man checks out,” confirmed Smith from his tub of frothy bubbles. “A week ago I never would have considered it, you know.”
The dark skinned spy nodded, “Yes.”
“I mean, I know politics. The party likes me because I’m young, I’m pretty and I appeal to the young vote. But I know what’s going on, my dad may have done some of the work for me on the road up, I know what it takes though.” Smith was a resolute man, he honestly believed what he was saying. “I’ve seen the dirt and corruption.”
Again, the dark skinned man nodded, his draped turban bobbing, “Yes.”
“Prime Minister, at my age… My dad would have been so proud,” Smith winced visually. The loss was still fresh and had played a large part in his coercion. “There ain’t no turning back.”
Once more, the dark man nodded. He nodded, moving to depart saying only, “No, there is not.”