Drakkenmoor, Uogo’cor

Starlight broke through the dismal world’s clouds; its gentle rays illuminating the surface’s harshness of Uogo’cor to all. What seemed smooth and flowing in the world’s typical shade became rough and jagged. With the light came knowledge, which in turn exposed the harsh reality of the colony. That person that seemed just like you at night in the bar was nothing like you in the day.

You thought you saw eye to eye.

But you didn’t.

For shadow only warped visions of people like the double-blind of an Imperial Cloaking Device.

The “friend” you drunk with last night turned out to be the bounty hunter after you; that lithe alien chick you were hitting on wasn’t one; but rather a guy. That fellow hacker you were talking was a corporate tool; the kind that sat at his console all day, trying to become computer literate.

You were sure the alcohol had to do something with it.

You think; everything seems like a hazy blur suffused with distant scepters of a past.

Alcohols are like shadows: they change the perspective of everything, of everyone.

It was in this state of mind that Gamdif Lonn stumbled about the port’s shadowy corridors; an empty flask in one hand, a blaster in the other; for that friend was more likely an opposite, perhaps an enemy. The dusty air of the spaceport along with the fumes of a half a dozen fuels and solvents assaulted her nostrils; yet she smelt none of it with clothes being imbued with alcohol and bodily perspiration from a late night at what was a poor excuse for a cantina. She stumbled along the path to her docking bay, where some hired help was overseeing a small menagerie of droids and peoples load supplies onto her ship. Open air, open light lashed out at Lonn for her late night debauchery. The celestial rays stung her eyes. She raised her flask to shield her eyes. A voice sharper than the light rung out in the circular enclosure.

“Hey you! No, not there, put in here; now move along!” demanded the guard, waving his blaster carbine around.

Gamdif Lonn deftly waded past the string of laborers towards the sole ship occupying the landing pad. The gruff guard gave her a glance, and then a lecherous grin with his stained teeth. She flashed him an appreciative smile, and strode forward towards her “new” ship: the Wayward Soldier. The craft seemed like overgrown Katarn whose wings had grown flabby. If the Soldier had any paint on it previously, time and the elements had worn it off and burnished raw, metal hull plating; appearing like a massive, discolored mirror; like an expressionist piece of art. But Lonn knew better, the Soldier was a Pacifier, a decidedly deadly scout ship with its powerful armament. Or least so she was told. Uogo’cor’s dim star beat down on the craft, and the Wayward Soldier's hull painfully reflected the harsh rays to the occupants of Docking Bay Thirty Five. She stumbled forward, passing into the shadow of her craft.

“Gamdif Lonn?” questioned a cultured voice.

She blushed and spun about on her heels, her hand reaching towards her holstered blaster. The brunette glanced at the speaker, and nearly instantly regretted her actions. He was a lean, blue-skinned humanoid who appeared to be remarkably human. By his calm, cultured demeanor, she would have guessed that he would have been a Chiss; save that unlike that species, his eyes seemed a dark hazel. No, he was not a Chiss; he was a Wroonian. She managed a nervous smile.

“Ah yes, that’s me; captain of this here ship. And you are, Mister?”

“Mining Foreman Tyunt; I believe your client told you about booking passage on his…your vessel.”

She nodded. “Um…yeah he did; I mean, he has to, since I’m the captain and new owner of the ship.”

“I was under the impression from our employer that there would be another passenger onboard. Another specialist, or so I recall.”

“Ah yes…um, I think his name was Mr. Gatmov; a linguist specialist of sorts.”

“Charming. A scout, a miner, and linguist,” mused Lonn, “where ever could we be going…”

“Well, ‘fraid I don’t know such stuff. I’ve got sets of coordinates, space coordinates, that she wants us to take a look at.”

“She?”

“Um…well…yeah, of course, Mrs. Sabarin,” replied the scout.

“Rather odd. Mr. Sabarin contacted me…”

“Must be a Mom-and-Pop thing then,” suggested Gamdif.

“Perhaps,” considered Tyunt.

“Anyways,” rattled off Lonn, “she was very explicit about her instructions. We’re s’ppose to check out those points, and explore some part, and let you guys do yer job there.”

“Yes, naturally so,” remarked Jiteos.

“Well, do you need to get yer stuff onboard?”

“Thank you no. I already took the liberty of stowing it onboard the cabin designated to me by Sabarin.”

Lonn’s smooth face wrinkled into an angular vehemence, “Don’t do it again. I’m the captain, anything done on this ship must first…um…be asked and gone through me first. After all, it is my ship.”

“It will be, certainly,” answered the Wroonian calmly, “once this mission is completed; those are the terms of agreement on which you will gain ownership of this vessel. But until then, I will view it as a company ship and do as I please.”

“But how?”

“Sabarin told me a bit about the arrangement.”

“Well,” spat out Lonn, “she told me about yers. You’ll just have to hope we find stuff worth mining or you’ll be useless.”

“Not really,” defend Jiteos, “it is just another contract, and one with fixed pay at that. It will not matter to me if we find anything valuable or not. In fact, the odds are that we will not.”

“And just how…um, do you know that?”

“Well clearly, most mining expeditions do not end in success,” explained, “as naturally if they did, there would be a great many deal more of them; with people hoping to emulate those successes.”

“Pardon me, is this the Wayward Soldier?”

The two humanoids abruptly spun about to face the new voice; they found themselves staring at a 3PO droid of sorts; or so they guessed. For the silver droid’s plating was dented and battered through its body. It appeared as if the droid had wandered into a bar of drunk Gamorreans and had partially escaped the ensuing bar fight. Lonn warily looked over the droid.

“It is. What of it?”

“Why, I am Mnrask Tidarr, but you may call me Snacks…” answered the droid.

“Surely not,” interjected Jiteos, “Perhaps the damage has done something to your mind. Are you Mr. Tidarr’s droid?”

“Surely not,” replied the droid, emulating the Wroonian’s voice, “I am a manumitted droid. The Sabarins provided me with this chip to prove my identification for you. I am a linguist specialist, capable of speaking up to-”

“Save it Bantha spit,” interrupted Lonn, “And let’s see that chip.”

“Bantha spit…hm…well, it does have medicinal properties-” pondered the droid.

“I need yer ID chip, now,” demanded the woman.

“Yes, yes, here it is,” acquiesced the droid, handing a small disk to the scout.

“Hm…well, Mr. Tyunt. It appears that Snack here is our specialist,” announced Lonn.

The Wroonian murmured, and immediately shuffled up the ship’s ramp into the shadowy interior. A wry grin flitted across Lonn’s face. After quickly glancing around her, she took began to stride up the ship’s ramp; Snacks slowly waddling after her, making rather oblique comments about the vessel’s lack of interior lights.

Pacifier Wayward Soldier, Wilderness Deep Space

“Well, three points all done, and y’all have been useless to me; I dunno why Sabarin had me drag along ya folk.”

“Do you think that it might be for our educational purposes if we are to be further employed by the Sabarins?” asked the 3PO unit, “I must admit, traveling on a starship is as fantastical and boring as all the holos from Aunt Jimria’s Wandering Freighter and the Heroes of the Empire make it out to be.”

Tyunt wryly shook his head, “I doubt it Mr. Tidarr. I know not about you, but for me. I have but a single mission for the Sabarins according to my contract.”

“Please refer to me as Snacks,” requested the droid, “Tidarr is such a horrid name.”

“Then why di’cha choose it?”

“I most certainly did not,” informed the droid, “it was my programming and registration name from my creator. The official records have that name, and by official documents I am required to keep it. But you are my friends here, you shall call me Snacks.”

“Certainly an unusual nickname,” mused Tyunt, “is there a story behind it?”

“Why most certainly, dear sir! I thought none of you would ask…”

Twenty minutes later…

“…thus my stay on Tqera III was rather short, and yet I am short the credits to fully repair myself. That is why I accepted this job.”

“I see,” automatically replied the Wroonian, staring blankly at a datapad.

“Snacks, yer lucky it was only a pack of Adar that tried to eat ya. Why, I coulda took ya to the Quizzers of Gamorr; they’da rip ya to pieces and use ya as trinkets across their tribe.”

“Dear me. Is that a fun process? Do they reassemble you together eventually?”

“Nawh. Yer shininess fact’r woulda prevent’em from doing that.”

The Wayward Soldier skirted back into realspace with a shudder and moan. Jiteos glanced up from his datapad, staring through the viewport into a field of twinkling stars only contested by the corona of the system’s electric blue star. It took several seconds for the crew to pick out the dwarf planets of the system, none of which seemed particularly interesting or remotely habitable; being little more than barren balls of rock. But the Sarabins wanted more complete information about the system, so the scout and the miner teamed up to take scan and analyze sensor data. As the two humanoids hovered over the Pacifier’s sensor readouts, Snacks meandered off to explore the ship. Several minutes passed before the droid’s articulate voice reverbrated throughout the corridor.

“Oh my. Did you invite your friends for a gathering? Or did the Sabarins hire more help?”

“What the hell ar’ya chittering about, droid?”

“There seem to be several starships headed directly towards us, Miss…Captain…do you prefer to be called Miss or Captain?”

“Snacks...please…not now…be quiet,” advised Tyunt calmly, toggling the screen to view the Full-spectrum transceiver arrays.

Several green blips flashed on their screen; approaching from the Wayward Soldier’s rear. Tyunt clicked on several of them, and then became immediately aware of the ships’ power output, speed, and velocity. Lonn’s bleary hazel eyes sorted through the scrolling data and muttered.

“Claim jumper’s prolly. Don’t look too big to me.”

Tyunt considered. “Possibly. The ships certainly are small enough. I suspect they cannot be any larger than shuttles. But they seem to be too many of them to be mere claim jumpers. I respectfully request that we consider them to be Pirates or criminals until proven otherwise.”

“Corporate claim jumpers,” argued Gamdif, “and Ida’ care to be around when they get to us. Prolly start shoot’in at us whether pirates or jumpers.”

“Oh my! They’re sending fireworks at us,” shouted Snacks gleefully, “nice amber colors. A bit drab and uniform display though…”

Tyunt glanced at the FST again. “We have unknown tracks approaching us at rapid speed. Probably concussion missiles by their size.”

Gamdif frowned. “But there’s nawda a targeting lock on us.”

“Move us out of here…now,” counseled Tyunt, “I am somewhat doubtful that claim jumpers or pirates are going to send fireworks at us as Snack thinks.”

She grumbled, and quickly pulled a few levers; the Wayward Soldier abruptly angled its vector and jumped into lightspeed. Mere seconds later, a dozen dumbfire missiles flooded the area, closely followed up by a ragtag squadron of cobbled up starfighters with two assault freighters. The criminal group briefly circled where the Wayward Soldier had been before also jumping into hyperspace: in the exact same trajectory that the Wayward Soldier had.


“Oh my, that brilliant blending of stars; oh the horror and glory of hyperspace travel-”

The two humanoids spared a glance at each other. Tyunt rolled his eyes; Lonn ruefully shook her head before returning her gaze to the display monitor, which analyzed the flashing star patterns; looking for potential, new hyperspace routes. Jiteo briefly entertained the notion of grabbing the semi-sloshed scout’s blaster and simply shooting ‘Snacks’ into bite-sized pieces. After all, who would miss a manumitted droid? It was not as if it had any family. But Jiteo’s ethics and common sense prevailed against his annoyance.

“Excuse me Snacks, but could you possibly refrain from singing or poetry? Miss Lonn and I are trying to do some work here, and we find your pleasant discourse distracting from our work.”

“Oh, I am dreadfully sorry Mr. Tyunt,” lamented the droid, “Shall I report anything technical to you then?”

Gamdif snorted. “Have ya found anything that useful with ya language skills?”

“Well, no,” admitted the droid, “but my external communication’s package has noted that we are currently transmitting two homing beacons right now…”

“WHAT!” exclaimed the pilot.

“…I really think the Sabarins wished for us to work with those other ships.”

Tyunt winced. “Claim jumpers would not need homing beacons on our ships…”

“Ship-jackers or pirates then,” conceded Gamdif, “Snacks, can ya find the beacons?”

“Why certainly. I know where they are.”

“Well, where are they then?” asked the Wroonian quietly.

“Why, one of them is in this supply crate…as for the other, it is embedded within the ship system itself.”

“The Sabarins must have installed one into the ship then,” suggested Tyunt, “besides the one in the crate; that must have come from Uogo’cor. Maybe from those laborers.”

“I knew they came too cheap,” complained the scout, “but they sure seemed like honest guys in the bar.”

“Snacks,” questioned Tyunt, “can you destroy the tracking beacon in the crate?”

“Why good sir, give me one minute to find it at the very least…ah, here it is. Why? What is this? I am afraid not Mr. Tyunt. It appears to be in the middle of small safe. I am afraid I do not have the necessary implements to get at it.”

“We will have to jettison it then,” sighed Jitou.

“Eas’er said than done; got no working airlock.”

“Well, according to the scanner, we have nearly two dozen ships keeping up with us. They are likely not more than a light year behind us,” grumbled Jitou.

“Well, sur’ an can’t try to trick’em, but ‘can try and outlast’em.”

“Oh, like an endurance race? I have always wanted to try that,” exclaimed Snacks, waddling into cockpit.

“Yes, like an endurance race,” replied the Wroonian, “But I am not so sure that will work out. We can only run for so long, and they can always take a break, pick up on our signal, and come after us again or send fresh ships to continue the chance. We cannot avoid them forever.”

“Fight’in ‘em ain’t really an option, miner,” combated Lonn, “might have the guns an’ weapons, but ya know how to use’em? I don’t know if they ‘ven work.”

“Why not hire someone to fight them off?” questioned Snacks.

“Well, don’t got no money, and no’where to find’em.”

“Perhaps not,” considered Tyunt, “but we may have people who may pay people for us to live. The Sabarins. If they have a tracking device within the ship like you say they do Snacks, could you send a signal to them requesting help?”

“Hm…I may be able to splice a message into the system along with the tracking device. I have never tried such a thing before. This will be fun, I will finally get to use the programming for…”

“Shut yer trap.”

“Yes madame. I will presently be off to the communication’s array to try and solve-”

“Thank you Mr. Snacks,” interrupted Tyunt, “There seem to be more signals coming up from behind us: a second group. They seem like larger ships. I would guess they are roughly a light year behind the first group of pursuers.”

“Can’t fight’em too. And if they’re biggies, they’ll outlast us like ya said. I’m gonna pull us out of hyperspace and try and lose them in the Lights.”

“The Lights?” questioned Tyunt.

“Sure,” replied the scout, “it’s a pretty wild nebula a couple of parsecs away from us. No-ones tried to really explore it; ships disappear there regularly. The shipjackers hafta’ be insane to follow us there.”

The Wroonian winced. “Or we have to be insane to go there. It sounds as if there are some sort of navigational hazards there.”

“Oh sure, mynocks by the hives, and the nebula’s dust itself; can’t hardly see through it to see ya hand. Heck, can’t travel through it in hyperspace ‘ither; it’ll rip ya apart its so dense in spots.”

“Do you not have any other place for us to go? Like a hidden base or planet where we could safely offload the device,” mentioned Tyunt.

“Nawh. Not one nearby.”

“We must be rather desperate then.”

“Or drunk,” suggested Gamdiff.

The Wayward Soldier abruptly flitted into realspace with a sudden jerk. Snacks wailed in surprise from the ship’s hold, and a resounding clash reverberated throughout the ship’s interior. Gamdiff whipped the joystick about, and the Wayward Soldier soon plunged into hyperspace again.

Nearly an hour later, the Pacifier reverted into realspace yet again, this time to a sparkling sea of yellows and reds along with any color in between. It was an amalgation of dust and matter of proto stars: both beautiful and deadly; both bathing everything in celestial light and shrouding it in sanguine shades. The few enterprising beings who had stumbled upon it and left alive had deemed the phenomena Heaven’s Light, for not only its beauty, but its inability to be fathomed or understood. But while Tyunt stared at the nebula with a mixture of fear, admiration, and calculating appraisal, Gamdiff Lonn paid the lights with no heed; slammed the throttle forward. The Wayward Soldier soared among the stars to plow through the nebula’s dust. Mere minutes later, over a dozen craft in garish colors cruised into realspace, and seeing the bright blue exhaust of the Soldier’s ion engines, immediately set after the scout ship like ravenous Howlrunners.

Phlegeton-class Carrier/Destroyer Phlegeton, Deep Space, Unknown Regions

“Signal from the Wayward Soldier is beginning to fade…the Heaven’s Light phenomena appears to be disrupting the transmission. It is like we’re being subjected to low-level jamming, if we can get a little closer to the ship, signal strength will improve.”

“That’s a catch 22 if I’ve ever heard one,” snorted Commander Neel, “our tracking signal will improve as we get closer to the ship.”

“We’re getting dangerously near the nebula…”

“We’ll overshoot the tracking signal in a minute or two…”

“Fine,” sighed the blonde woman, “drop everyone out of hyperspace, now.”

The angular and boxy craft reverted into realspace, with a single Cerberus at its side, and a smattering of Torch gunships trailing in its wake. Glancing over the crimson hull of the Phlegeton, Dtora Neel stared at the warm-hued nebula with its sparkling dust and proto stars; a masterful celestial mosaic. But a single sliver covered in haphazard blues and grays knifed across the face of nebula, ruining the immaculate piece of art. Dtora stared at the ship with a mixture of annoyance and wonder.

“I want to know who that is,” demanded Neel, pointing at the starship, “because that’s certainly not the Wayward Soldier.”

“They’re running with no transponder signals,” reported a sub-lieutenant, “Probably pirates or someone who wants to keep their anonymity.”


The blonde woman shook her head. “Launch the alert fighters, and have them bring in that shuttle.”

Less than a minute later, a squadron of Hunter’s buzzed out of the Phlegeton's front hangar doors. The crimson starfighters surged towards their target like Corellian Sandpanthers. Yet the shuttle made no evasive maneuvers, presented no opposing firepower. Instead, the ship merely coasted along.

“Ah…ma’am…that shuttle has no power, but overhead passes from the Hunters indicate that it does have an atmosphere, and probably some life forms aboard.”

Dtora frowned. “And the ship’s markings?”

“Piratical we think, they seem to match those we got off the Wayward Soldier’s feed…”

“Ma’am, we’ve just lost contact with the Wayward Soldier. It was rather abrupt, like someone had just cut out or ripped the equipment off the ship.”

Dtora frowned. “You simply can’t rip out an entire ship’s worth of equipment. And feed from Snacks? Is he still transmitting?”

“He is,” reported the comm’s officer.

“Well, that rules out that the ship hasn’t been completely destroyed, but…I don’t like this…Detach one of the gunships to recover that shuttle. We’ll go investigate the Soldier.”

“Into the Nebula?” frowned the helmsman.

“Yes.”

The rear-most gunship split off from the formation, and jetted off towards the disabled shuttle. The Torch’s starfighter’s fanned around the craft, a precaution in case the shuttle suddenly became active again. Meanwhile, the rest of the Inferno formation cruised into Heaven’s Light.



MRX-BR Pacifier Wayward Soldier, Heaven’s Light Nebula

“Oh my, what are these things?” questioned droid, gesturing a pinkish blob which covered up half of the ship’s viewport.


Gamdiff snorted. “Ida say Mynocks, but them too big to’be normal.”

“No,” considered Tyunt, “much too big to be normal. I would estimate this one is probably ten times the size of a normal one; probably has the wingspan near that of a X-wing. We should power down, now.”

“Whatcha thinking?”

“I think that the mynock is simply going to drain any energy we use. If everything is turned off, there is no power for it to feast on.”

“But does that not make us more likely for our followers to find us?” asked the droid.

“Have ya felt ‘ny laser bolts hitting us, Snacks?”

“Well…no.”

“I think it is a safe bet that our pursuers have probably met the same mynock swarm that we have,” suggested the Wroonian.

Gamdiff hurriedly punched a bunch of buttons and toggled the ship’s controls, powering down the craft.

“Yer assuming they didn’t blast’em to bits.”

Tyunt nodded. “I bet they tried, but there are simply too many to blast at once, and the nebula hides them rather well until they get close.”

“So, will we be stuck in the middle of this nebula forever, then?” questioned Snacks, “It will be awfully boring after a while, as much as it is beautiful.”

“Look yer eyes here,” gestured Gamdiff, pointing her gloved hand through part of the still visible viewport, “it’s one of them pirate fighters.”

It was as a starfighter.

Or it at least had been one.

The mottled fuselage was mostly covered by the quivering mass of the one of the wings of its attached mynocks. A partially amputated wing of the Z-95 dangled next to the creature’s wings. The little of the fighter that could be seen had extensive holes in it, either from the nebula’s micro-comets, or more likely, from the mynocks. The disabled starfighter loftily floated by the Soldier, haphazardly spinning about its axi in a bizarre dance with its captor. As the minutes passed, several other pirate vessels passed, most with a mynock or two clinging to it. One of the shuttles passed, apparently unharmed; that is, until one of the massive mynocks’ tail was seen swinging from an airlock. The mynock covering the Soldier’s viewport abruptly released itself from their vessel. The trio was then immediately aware of the other mynocks rising en masse from their prey. As they did, fiery red bolts and slugs ripped through them. Tyunt shrugged.

“Well, at least it looks someone found us besides the pirates.”

“Could be oth’r pirates,” suggested Gamdif, “or oth’r unwelcom’d guests.”

A quartet of crimson-colored craft quickly buzzed past their viewport and began to orbit their craft. Snacks began to awkwardly clap in glee at the new spectacle; creating an incessant and discordant clinking sound which reverberated off the bulkheads as if in a grand opera house. Gamdif and Tyunt merely turned towards each other.

“We have to escape,” stated Tyunt, “I have no wishes to visit Inferno Fleet’s brigs or slave pens.”

“They’ve slave pens?” questioned Lonn.

“Well…I have heard rumors that they do. Needless to say, they are not my friends. Are they any of yours?”

“No,” replied Lonn, “Snacks?”

“Who is Inferno Fleet?”

“A group of mercenaries-” started Lonn.

“Pirates,” interjected the Wroonian.

Snacks shrugged. “I have never heard of them before. Do they fly all over the galaxy? I should like to see this sort of flying more often…”

“Power up the ship,” demanded Jiteos, “I think the Mynocks are a non-issue now…”

The ship rumbled and shook, not from Gamdif turning the Soldier’s power on, but rather by being pulled by the Phlegeton’s multiple tractor beam projectors. As if some cyborgean angel, the Wayward Soldier began to loftily fly up through Heaven’s Lights towards the crimson hull of the Inferno Ship. The cruiser-carrier’s massive, armored hangard doors slid open and engulfed the comparatively diminuitive vessel like a sarlacc pulling in its prey.

And then the scouting team only knew darkness.


Phlegeton-class Carrier/Destroyer Phlegeton, Heaven’s Light Nebula

“We’ve released the Wayward Pilot and its crew,” reported the XO, “they all seemed to buy the bluff that the Sarabins have paid a ransom for them, except for the droid, who didn’t know what a ransom was. Naturally, we called it a rescue fee…”

“In either case, they won’t realize that they’ve been actually working for us,” replied Dtora, “how have the pirates been?”

“Not too many survivors, but those we have recovered have agreed to join us as apprentices. It’s preferable to being in prison to them I guess. Their ships…well…only the shuttle outside of the nebula will be easily reparable. Not too great of a catch for all the space we’ve had to trouble, and giant mynocks to fight…”

“Perhaps not, our CAP discovered a nice asteroid belt about a thousand kilometers away from here, but still in the nebula, when we were searching for survivors.”

“You think Dha’tey will have a use for it?”

“Can you think of a better hiding place for the fleet?”



YT-2400 Crimson Flame, Heaven’s Light

“I do not like riddles. Speak plainly with me. What have you done with the belt?”

The Givin raised his hands, “You will see. Let the views demonstrate the calculation, let the sights alone reveal my solution.”

Dha’tey rolled his eyes. So this is what happens when I free an imprisoned scientist to work for me. If this is a trap, Sladru Helrot, you will pay. I have some own things of mine to reveal to you… Sladru pointed of the freighter’s viewport, and Dha’tey was suddenly aware of a dozen mynocks flying with the ship as if in formation. The Bothan’s fur rippled.

“The giant mynocks that attacked everyone before…you have tamed them?”

The ghastly visage managed what Dha’tey thought was a smile.

“Yes and no. We are controlling them through cybernetic implants, but we have provided a haven for them in one of the asteroids, a nest for them, complete with power generators and energy taps to keep them fed. I figure they will do nicely for security…perfect for the initial interception, if you know what I mean.”

Dha’tey considered. “So they will not attack our ships, but others?”

“If the ship is red like the rest of Inferno Fleet’s, they will not attack it. The training and control software is based on their color perception.”

“I see,” replied the Bothan, “aren’t you worried if someone else decides to paint their ships read? Or the implants go inactive for some reason, say, a computer virus? You cannot play God and expect that nothing will go wrong…”

Sladru shrugged. “When I was in the prison on Essowyn, before your men rescued me. Fossk had implants in us all, one which could remotely inject a poison if we tried to rebel…it’s been a common practice among some slavers for decades…”

Dha’tey frowned. “And you have copied them here?”

The givin nodded. “I have. It has been effective for them-”

“It is cruel-”

“They are but animals, with nothing more than primal thoughts and urges Commodore. They will missing nothing, nor lose anything. With us, they are guaranteed not to die of hunger, and to have a safe shelter. They can only gain.”

Dha’tey grunted. “Let us hope they feel the same way. I gave you a free hand in creating Hell’s Anchorage, Sladru as your and your friend’s private workshop for the fleet, but if something goes wrong I will hold you accountable for it. You have my people as your workers, and if they suffer for this, let me assure you; you will suffer much worse.”

“Intimidation will not work on me Commodore,” quipped the alien, “I know you Bothans; you work by bluffing. I have yet to know any time that you have tortured someone, or punished them with anything physically painful. Your threat does not compute. But for your sake, and for the Empire’s fall, I will assure that I have everything under control. And here we are.”

Bandor turned from the alien’s face to the space beyond. But he only say more red dust and lively like from the nebula’s blazing protostars. He squinted, and determined the vague and nebula- shrouded shapes of tumbling asteroids ahead. The Bothan glanced at the sensor screen, which showed no appreciable sensor signature of base. Of course, the nebula is fouling our sensors…if the Wayward Soldier’s sensors were nearly useless in the area, and it was a scoutship with powerful sensor arrays, these things must be crap. The givin’s gravelly voice pulled him back into real time like an interdictor cruiser pulling a ship out of hyperspace.

“I have put most of the base facilities into the asteroids themselves; to provide natural protection against the nebula’s radiation, and moreover, for better concealment.”

“Are the shipyards themselves in asteroids as well?” questioned the Bothan, “I find it hard to believe that you would be capable of fitting the Ventil yards into one.”

“Well, that was difficult because of their size, so rather than putting them into an asteroid, I move parts of the mined out asteroids and encrusted the yard with them. On the sensors, on the best of days, they just appear to be a bunch of jumbling rocks.”

“But if they ever fly over it,” countered the Bothan, “it would look like a shipyard built out of rock, correct?”

The Givin nodded. “Our project there would be rather hard to disguise as well.”

“What project?” interjected Dha’tey, “that yard the largest we’ve managed to take across the sector, whether by buying, stealin, or liberating. Heck, the automated X7 space station factories you wanted were easier to get than this. And now you’re using them in an unauthorized personal project of yours.”

“Yes,” replied the Givin, “the mining ships and drones you brought us I put to use at once, gathering minerals from the belt and other places in the nebula. Since we had already accomplished the build orders given to you, we started on another project. I think you will enjoy it; your old friend Donahue has been in charge of everything for it. In fact, it was his idea, not mine, and the Ventil Yards are technically his, not yours. Do not be angry with me.”

As they spoke, the light freighter flitted throughout the belt, skimming the surfaces of the asteroids. Occasionally, Bandor could make out the running lights of transports, mining ships, moleminers, and a host of automated mining craft scurrying about the clandestine manufacturing bases. The bases themselves were mostly difficult to detect except through their own running lights; the rock was so thick that most sensor scans weren’t capable of piercing through the surface or seeing what was beneath it. That is, unless, they were pointed at an open entrance to the base. But as they flew deeper into the belt, Dha’tey could make out more of the rocky, grid-like structure up ahead; undoubtedly the recently acquired Ventil Yards. As they entered the rocky grid to land, his eyes viewed the expansive vessel within, and he was nearly certain that he was seeing a ghost of distant past.