Bothan Assault Cruiser Excalibur, in orbit via Inferno

“Hard to imagine that anyone would ever want to establish anything there,” muttered Sei’lar, smoothing out the folds of his tunic.

Kre’fey nodded, staring through the ship’s ceraglass viewports at the molten planet. Engulfing clouds of ash floated across the landscape, obscuring any visual contact of the surface. Ash that would continue to be cover the world for millennia, at least according to the Alliance’s geologist contact. For the actual surface of the planet was dotted with active volcanoes, fiery lava flows, and endless plains of dark ash over a meter thick. The few habitual parts of the body had a regular temperature of a hellish 80 degrees. To a crew use to the controlled climate of the Excalibur, it was a living hell. Sei’lar dubbed the planet Inferno. Not even ten minutes later, the crew had adopted the name as well. Rumors abounded throughout the ship that it had been a prison world for those damned by Emperor Palpatine; that the Excalibur was there on a rescue mission. Others argued that it was a prison planet for those Imperials captured by the Alliance. Both rumors were false, but Kre’fey preferred that continue to circulate; for the time being. For the truth of the planet’s nature was far too precious to Kre’fey to discern to loose-talking sailors. Bandor stroked his furry, left arm.

“It is,” acknowledged the Bothan Admiral, “but someone did. Someone very smart.”

Sei’lar’s fur rippled. “Who?”

“Not now,” replied Kre’fey quickly, “who established anything here isn’t important. What matters right now is security. We need to scout the rest of the system to make sure the rest of is uninhabited.”

Sei’lar’s head quickly jerked backward. “You are planning to put something down there?”

“No, I’m planning on us not getting ambushed.”

“We’re going to be here awhile?”

Kre’fey’s lip twitched. “We’ll see. I’m right now concerned about the Excalibur’s condition. We need to make some repairs, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

“What? A planet dotted in volcanoes and lava? That is a place to repair a ship?”

Bandor shook his head. “Of course not. Open space like this. Here we are, on the borders of civilized space, far away from prying eyes, of any chance of being discovered by the Imps. No, I’m thinking of having those durasteel plates get finally welded on the Portside engine block.”

“Where those micrometeorites hit us?”

Kre’fey nodded. “Exactly. There are a few other places where we need to patch the hull more, and when we start doing that, we’ll probably discover more areas that need outside repair. Stuff that is best accomplished in vacuum.”

Sei’lar’s eyes narrowed. “I see. And anything on Inferno’s surface is purely coincidental?”

“Not exactly,” admitted the bothan, “but I can’t disclose that you to you now. Orders are orders. But what I can tell you is that I’ll be taking two of our transports down there for a survey.”

The other bothan frowned. “Which ones and with whom?”

“One of Lambdas and the YT,” revealed Kre’fey, “marines on the Lambda, some of our specialists and their equipment on the freighter.”

“What are you doing?”

“A little dig,” deflected Bandor, “while I’m gone, you’re in charge. I trust you can keep order within the ship and make sure the repairs get adequately done. I’d recommend having that human Giesman oversee the repairs. He knows what he’s doing.”



Half-hour later…

Lambda-class Shuttle Red One, Inferno

Red One, followed by a battered Corellian freighter, flew over an endless sea of lava. Smoke drearily rose from the molten rocks as ash fell down, obscuring the ships’ flight path, forcing the Alliance pilots to fly purely by sensor readings from their full-spectrum transceivers and weather sensors. Red One’s pilot grumbled.

“No disrespect sir,” commented the pilot, “but what the frak are we doing on this hellhole?”

“Going for a dig,” countered the Admiral coolly.

“What?”

“You’ll see Ensign,” replied Kre’fey, “right now, focus on your flying to the coordinates I’ve provided. I’d rather not have our shuttle be pummeled by the pumice rocks being shot out of the air by those volcanoes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’ll be in the cabin with the groundpounders for a bit. You know the drill.”

The pilot nodded. “Yes sir.”

The Bothan spared a glance out the cockpit at the desolate terrain. Shrugging, the alien stepped through the threshold, slamming the door behind him. Ahead of him, three squads of battle-hardened Alliance marines rigidly sat down on chairs like pompous statues. They were not regular soldiers, but former elements of New Republic SpaceOps, better known as SpecForce Marines. Clad in glossy black battle armor which vaguely resembled stormcommando armor, these were the men that fearlessly boarded and fought through enemy ships. A variety of weapons from blasters to grenades and vibroblades hung orderly from their holsters. A fearsome force for not so fierce mission. Kre’fey sharply saluted the soldiers.

“Welcome gentlemen,” greeted the Admiral, “doubtlessly, you are wondering what the hell we’re going to be doing here. You may have heard rumours that this is a prison planet. Guess what? It isn’t. There are neither Alliance or Imperial personnel on this planet at all, as far as we know. In fact, there shouldn’t be anyone else living here at all.”

A sergeant raised his hand. “Sir, then why are we here?”

Kre’fey quickly bit his feline lip. “Sergeant, what are you and your men trained to do?”

“Board and capture enemy ships, fighting in close quarters?”

“Exactly. Fighting in close quarters. That is why you are here?”

“But sir,” questioned another marine, “you aren’t expecting anyone else here to fight.”

“No,” answered another SpecForce soldier, “he’s expecting automated defences of some sort. Battle droids, laser traps, something like that.”

“Right you are, Forman,” smiled the Bothan, “when you get back on the Excalibur, remind me to buy you a drink.”

“Yes sir.”

“So what will you be up against,” stated Bandor, “will not be high-tech. Will not be modern, but you may have seen stuff like it before on old holos or even in some of your training. Clone Wars tech gentlemen. Deadly to the inexperienced or careless, but nothing that elite troops like yourself shouldn’t be able to deal with. And do it well, because some us like myself and the specialists, contrary to belief, are idiots that will walk into those traps if you don’t clear them out ahead time.”

Several of the men chuckled. Another marine raised his hand. Kre’fey nodded at the man.

“Yes soldier?”

“What exactly are you and the specialists doing?”

“I’m supervising,” delineated the officer, “and the specialists, well, what they do depends on what we find. They’ll be behind you during the exploration, for the most part, unless we encounter some sort of obstacle. The engineers will probably have to take care of that. And yes, I’d prefer you don’t blow anything up that you don’t absolutely have to…”

Bandor tugged at his breath mask’s band, pressing the mask against the Bothan’s snout. Inferno’s atmosphere was barely breathable, and he and his crew weren’t going to be taking any chances; for all they knew, there could be a poisonous trace gas produced by the sulfuric fumes of the lava. He whipped out his well-worn Merr-Sonn Power 5 from its holster and tapped a switch; setting it on kill. The Bothan turned around to survey the Alliance’s landing site. Each transport stood side-by-side, their landing struts partially sunk into the volcanic ash. Around the starships, specialists and marines unloaded equipment off of the diplidated freighter to rest on the dark gray cinders. The Bothan jumped off the shuttle’s landing ramp to land on the ground, if it could be called that, in a crouch. Kre’fey’s lipped twitch in annoyance. Hell. We can’t even walk here. We have to frakking wade. Wonderful. I suppose that’s partially how they kept this site a secret. Anyone setting foot here wouldn’t even think about doing anything here; especially with all of the prerequisites for life missing. No water. No food. No shelter. Maybe not even air. Bandor frowned and began to stagger his way through the ash over to their freighter. He curtly nodded at the mission’s chief engineer.

“How are things preceding, Bro’len?”

“Like hell,” spat out the other Bothan, hefting a crate, “moving things around here is going to be mess. And I hate to say it sir, and while our marines may have little difficulty moving around here, we do. We engineers haven’t exactly been keeping in shape through rigorous training.”

“I understand,” accepted the Admiral, “I can’t say that I’m in much better shape. This terrain impedes our movement quite a lot, which is why we’re going to be moving inside, shortly.”

“Back into the ships?”

“Nope. Into the facility.”

“I don’t see any building around here. How far away is it?”

“Forty meters directly in front of you.”

“I don’t see anything, sir,” stated the frowning engineer, “are you sure we’re in the right place?”

The Admiral nodded. “I am. We can’t see it because the entrance has been buried over the years by layers of successive ash, Brolen. That’s why I have you here.”

“Sir?”

“You do have the Soni-optics equipment with you, right?”

“Yes. And we can pinpoint the location, but how are we going to get to it? We don’t exactly have any digging equipment except for a few shovels.”

“Once you find it,” explained Kre’fey, “we are going to burn our way through the ash. It will take a bit, but the shuttle’s laser cannons should be able to burn through it in several minutes.”



80 years ago…

New Barlok

“Atten-hut!”

Four dozen soldiers, clad in the utility grays of the Mining Guild, snapped to attention on the basalt floor. Each of their faces impassively stared across the volcanic plain. Their eyes shined with the hard resolve from years of experience on the battlefield. A single man stepped through their ranks, wearing a black and white striped suit, the current vogue within the galaxy. A lieutenant, differentiated from the rest of his men by the more elaborate insignia, stepped forward to meet the man.

“Welcome to New Barlok, Guildmaster Gilfrome.”

“Thank you Lieutenant,” muttered the businessman, “you may dismiss your men. I imagine it’s a little uncomfortable around here.”

“Nothing that my elites can’t handle, sir.”

“Naturally.”

What a pompous fool Tucker was. Wasting elites to guard an unknown planet on a hidden base. We could actually use them on Barlok, guarding the Elders. The Brothfi haven’t ceased to cause trouble since the new trade compact came out. He shrugged the thought away. He turned to face the professional soldier.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly sir. Anything I can do to help the new manager.”

Gilfrome mustered a polite smile. “Is there any reason why your men that you know of that you got you this assignment?”

“May I ask why you are asking, sir?”

“Call it curiousity. In my experience, the defences we use tell as much about ourselves as our foes. Both of whom I need to know about for my position.”

“Well, sir, I’m not entirely sure,” replied the man cautiously, “Mr. Tucker had my unit moved here, as you may well know. Now that you mention it, I remember him vaguely mentioning why. It was because he trusted us.”

Gilfrome snorted. “Trust. Trust is essential in any working relationship.”

“It is,” acknowledged the officer, “but he wanted men absolutely loyal to him. He was worried about some of the miners here; they had questionable loyalty. And he proved right, several of them were infiltrators from the Excargan Mining Authority. They attempted to sabotage one of the shafts. We caught them in the act. Tucker had them executed.”

He nodded. “With a firing squad?”

“Sir no sir. He had them shackled and tossed into a lava flow.”

“I hadn’t realized that Tucker was that sadistic.”

“He wasn’t, normally. But he was fairly livid; the facility could have been discovered. No, it was to set an example to the other miners. Tucker was efficient like that; always trying to kill two birds with one stone. You should see some of his innovations in the production facilities, sir.”

The two approached a recessed blast door which lay parallel to the surface. The Lieutenant tapped a button on his comlink. A muted beep emanated from behind the door. Either door creakily edged open to reveal a ramp which led to a dark corridor whose outline was eerily illuminated by a set of glowlights. Gilfrome sighed, and entered the hallway, the Lieutenant following closely behind him.

“So tell me,” questioned Gilfrome, “what exactly do we produce here at New Barlok?”

Lieutenant Abren’s face recoiled in surpise, “You don’t know? I’m surprised the elders did not inform you before shipping you out?”

The manager nodded. “It surprised me at first too. But it’s fairly clear that security is exceptionally tight in this facility. Your elite men, the concealed subterranean base, the very nature of the planet and its location. Someone went through a lot of effort to establish this and keep it secret, and for what?”

Abren broadly smiled, “Despite being here for a little over a year, even I can’t tell you much about this base’s origins. But I can tell you that we primarily mine Tydirium. We also harvest some heavier elements found in the lava too.”

The two men reached the blast door at the end of the tunnel. Abren pulled out his identification card and swiped it through a concealed card reader. Chagrined, Gilfrome fished in his suit for his own ID. Several frustrating seconds later, the man slipped the card, and the two Mining Guild personnel entered into a cavernous room. It was apparent that at one time, it had been an exceptionally large lava vent. Now, it had been completely refinished to meet the needs of the Guild. Duracrete had been poured in to make a flat industrial floor and several lower walls. Simple, industrial furniture dotted the floor, forming a network of work stations for the office personnel. Scaffolding had been set up to other smaller lava-formed tunnels, making it the veritable concord of the facility. Gilfrome’s dark eyes glanced up at the ceiling, spotting several blaster cannon turrets quietly sweeping their barrels from entrance to entrance. Gilfrome blinked. Security here is very serious. Tydirium might be a valuable ore, but it’s certainly not enough to explain the autocannon’s presence here. No, there is something valuable going on in the office, or perhaps going through the office. No matter, I will know soon enough. Gilfrome politely smiled as an olive-skinned Twi’lek female approached him.

“Welcome to New Barlok, Guildmaster Gilfrome. I am Dor’aven; I will be serving as your administrator’s assistant here.”

Gilfrome stretched out his hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss. Could you kindly show me to the administrator’s office? I would be much obliged.”

“Certainly,” replied the woman, grasping the man’s hand.

“Sir?” questioned Abren.

“Of course. Sorry Lieutenant, you are free to go.”

Gilfrome watched the other man marched off to one of the upper access tubes. Shrugging, he turned to face Dor’aven, who promptly led him across the large room towards a stairwell. Gilfrome spared glances at several of the workstations as the couple passed them. Accounting. Typical. Oh, look, another record-keeper. What? Oh, lava vent monitoring and controls. Makes sense. What? He abruptly stopped for a second, looking at one significantly perplexed. Dor’aven tugged on his arm, leading him past the last of the stations and up the staircase.

“You know this isn’t a simple mining facility,” stated the Twi’lek plainly.

“No, it certainly doesn’t appear to be that way. What else are we doing here?”

“Building weapons,” stated the alien dryly, “and I don’t mean the typical blaster rifle or replicas of archaic weapons. We have a laboratory currently working on refining large energy weapons for use on warships. Most of what we have been doing is reverse-engineering technology. But I think we can expect great developments during your tenure.”

Gilfrome noticeably frowned. Weapons? Weapons? This is incredulous. The Republic has all but outlawed this technology. Heck, there are but maybe four corporations that I know off offhand that they allow to manufacture the stuff for Sector Security Forces. So we’ve entered illegal territory. He blinked. What kind of assignment is this?

78 Years ago from the Present...

Administrator’s Office, New Barlok

“Welcome to New Barlok, Viceroy Gunray,” bowed Guildmaster Gilfrome, “I am pleased to say that everything is on schedule and to your specifications.”

The Neimoidian ignored the administrator’s welcome.

“If this facility is as prosperous as the Mining Guild normally is, I am sure things will turn to out to be profitable for both of us.”

Gilfrome blinked. Well, that was pleasant. Nice to meet you too, Viceroy. But then again, I really shouldn’t be surprised. Those Feddies are always concerned about one thing: money. I guess their stereotype is justified. The man shrugged.

“Of course,” deferred the Guildmaster, “we do have lots 23-28 fully ready.”

“I am less concerned about the metal,” announced the Neimoidian, “and more concerned about the status of our weapon’s order.”

The man set his jaw. Straight to the point. Well, this is going to be awkward. Heck, this is going to be painful. Gilfrome fidgeted in his seat, and leaned forward to the Trade Federation Representative. He spared at a glance at the rest of his pristine office; decorated with the mementos from his years of service to the Mining Guild. And it could all be taken away in a flash.

“We do have the Quad Laser cannons that you wanted developed fully operational, and ready.”

“According to Tyranus’ specifications?”

“According to the specifications you sent to us.”

“And the Turbolaser cannons?” questioned the alien.

“I am afraid we were unable to get them to meet your exact requirements. We were unable to engineer them to attain that sort of range with the same power. I did, however, take the liberty of producing a set of copies of the original design that we acquired. Enough to fulfill your order.”

“Unacceptable.”

“With all due respect, Viceroy, this is a relatively new facility. We’re just starting to get underway, and it will be some time before we are fully capable of modifying and reverse-engineering everything. Those processes take time.”

The Neimoidian smiled greedily. “Really, I do not blame your facilities lack of progress. I am admire that you were able to get the escort quad laser cannons ready. But you see, when I contacted the Mining Guild as our most loyal supplier, I had very specific reasons for this order, and they must be met at time with the most absolute secrecy. The fact that the Mining Guild did not give you adequate resources means you were destined to fail. And consequently, this will doom your whole facility. My order was the only reason it was even constructed.”

Gilfrome’s jaw dropped. “But the Tydirium?”

“Inconsequential. We both know that it can be found in a myriad of other places. The fact that it did exist here made manufacturing here more profitable for the Mining Guild in the long-run. But it matters now not. I have some messages pre-signed by the Elders in case of this facility’s failure to meet the order.”

The man frowned as he grasped them. “What do these do?”

The alien smiled. “They order you to immediately give us reparations in the form of credits from your vault for the failure to make the demands of the order in time. After doing so, you are hereby ordered to immediately transfer all personnel and their associated items which are not associated with New Barlok itself to the Mining Guild’s headquarters, where they will be further transferred to other units as the Elders see fit.”

Gilfrome’s jaw dropped. “How much time do I have?”

“Everything is to be moved as quickly as possible. You have one week.”

“As for this facility?” questioned the man, sinking into his chair.

“Is to be left abandoned and full good order for possible use in the future. You know, it’s not as if anyone is ever going to find the place that doesn’t exist in any records...”



Present Time…

“Ten, there’s an autocannon, watch your flank!”

The Alliance marine smartly dove forward. Blaster bolts filled the area where he once stood. The same marine hefted his carbine, snapping off several shots autocannon’s sensors. The first two shots missed while the latter ones connected with the sensors, knocking them offline. More bolts haphazardly sputtered from the emplacement, scarring the floor with carbon scouring. Several precise shots from another SpecForce hit the cannon itself, chewing through the casing to destroy the weapon itself.

“Security measures in this area neutralized,” reported the first Forman via his comlink, “we’re proceeding to entry shaft one.”

An hour ago, the specialists had found the entrance, a horizontal blast door buried under three meters of volcanic ash. The Lambda-class Shuttle had rose from the ensnaring ash, oriented its nose towards the entrance, and unleashed the full power of its armament. Eight laser cannons fired, their crimson bolts slamming into the dusty ground, gradually vaporizing levels of dust. Ten minutes later, the energy bolts had found the metal blast door. The away team had quickly stumbled through the ash to blast door. Determining that the electronics which operated the door had long since burned out, the engineers fetched a demolition pack from the freighter and set it up at the door. Minutes later, the ten proton charges went off, knocking down the door in a concussion shockwave. Soldiers stormed through the door, down the ramp and through the hallway, the others cautiously following behind the former SpecForce men. Since then, the marines had fanned out, exploring and neutralizing the security elements of its former owners, most of which consisted of autoguns located near the entrances to key elements of the facility.

Bandor entered the main room of the New Barlok facility, drawing his Power 5 out of its holster, ready for any threat. But there were none. SpecForces troops had already neutralized the autoguns, and an entire squad was continuing to patrol the room as the specialists went to work diagnosing the condition of equipment and repairing it when possible. The Bothan nodded to no-one in particular and occupied one of the abandoned desks. He pulled out a battered datapad and set in to the desk. He glanced at the fading label: The Diary of Guildmaster Gilfrome.

Two weeks later…

“Atten-hut!” bellowed a soldier.

The armored boot heels of the former SpecForces clicked together in a dull thud. Bandor walked down their ranks, inspecting them fastidiously. Formerly, their full encompassing battle armor was dark, midnight blue in the shades of the Old Republic’s Senatorial Guard. Argent Alliance crests adorned the plates on their elbows and knees, even one on the rise of their foreheads. That had changed rather quickly with the reopening of the facility. The dark blue had been replaced by hellish reds, a byproduct of being coated with a byproduct of phrik production for added durability and energy protection. To Bandor, they could have passed as a variant of the Imperial Royal Guards if not in appearance than in training. The main differentiator between them and any Imperial unit were the Alliance crests; now a dark, ash gray. The Bothan quietly gritted his teeth. And so we lose more ties to our past, to our true allegiance: the Alliance. Now we dawn disguised armor. Now we no longer are part of the Alliance, officially. The first of Inferno Fleet. The first of the Inferno Marines. Now we shall wage our righteous war. The Empire will pay for their crimes. Or will they?. He gave a brief smirk. And what have we started? Is it bravery or foolishness? Kre’fey stepped up to Sei’lar, now in a uniform stained crimson by the same byproduct utilized on the Inferno Marine’s armor. The other alien offered a brief smile before performing a stiff salute.

“Sir,” acknowledged Sei’lar, “May I present you with the first Regiment of the Inferno Marines?”

Bandor barked a laugh, “Introducing them to me after I’ve inspected them?”

The other one grinned sheepishly, “I suppose sir. It just felt, like, well, it needed to be said.”

The pair of Bothans slowly marched out of the main room. As soon as they were out of earshot of the troops, the Admiral slowly nodded. He stared into Sei’lar’s hazel eyes.

“It did need to be said,” acknowledged Bandor, “we are moving to the future, leaving our old selves behind. Tell me, who am I?”

“Admiral Bandor Kre’fey, commanding officer of the Rebel Alliance ship Excalibur.”

“No,” stated the officer, shaking his head, “Admiral Kre’fey is no longer among the living. I am Supreme Commodore Kolir Dza’tey of the Inferno Independent Space Force. See, here is my identification card to prove it.”

The other Bothan reservedly grasped the base’s identification card. “Tell me this is a joke.”

Kolir stared steadily at Sei’lar, and shook his head.

“Sometimes to achieve the things you love, you must sacrifice much. What are we sacrificing? A shred of our personal identity. Much has to be given to accomplish much.”

Sei’lar shook his head. “That’s a dangerous philosophy. What happens when we’d give so much that even once the Empire is thrown, we do not recognize ourselves or what we once were? What happens when we become so focused on defeating the Empire at any cost that we become the very thing that we detest?”

“That’s a risk we will have to take,” said Kolir calmly, “you may remember Colonel Celchu from one of the dinner parties during the height of the Republic’s reign. Do you remember how he talked about philosophy like that? He said the solution to that sort of thinking is to remember who we are. Tell me, who are we?”

“Bothans?”

“Failures,” corrected Dza’tey, “we let the Republic fall. If we are to redeem ourselves, we must change. We must change our ways so that we win. We can try to still be ourselves, and we have. Look at what that has gotten us? An aging ship that hasn’t seen serious combat in over five years and a nice databank of Imperial shipping. Sure, that useful, but it hasn’t accomplished much. We must be ready to move forward. To look at the goal, and run for it.”

Sei’lar sighed, “What has Faulkner said about this?”

“Not much. I think that he thinks that it’s necessary to begin combating this evil at once. It is time to purge that. And to do that. We will need a military that can strike without fear of harming others. And that is precisely what we will do.”

“We did not need to establish this base here then,” frowned Sei’lar, just to do that, “there are other Alliance worlds close to the Imperials. Worlds with people and resources to make a military.”

“But,” added the Commodore, “they could not support a military that is continually fighting the Empire. They are known planets with civilians. Civilians that the Empire would target. Civilians that at the very best will come under harsh Imperial law or be enslaved or even more likely, killed. From here, we can do just that. We can strike the Empire, build a military, and not get innocents caught in the crossfire. You already know it, the preparations are already underway. The transports are being converted as we speak in the underground hangar.”

Sei’lar frowned. “I thought they were just bringing equipment and food supplies.”

“They were,” agreed the other Bothan, “but they shall leave as warships crewed with men intent on breaking the back of the Empire.”

“Converting freighters to make some hodge-podge fleet won’t beat a navy with thousands of high-tech warships.”

“No, they won’t. But it is a start.”

Commodore Dha’tey glanced around his office, formerly that of Guildmaster Gilfrome some eighty years ago. The alabaster white walls were unadorned; the shelves unoccupied. There were a stack of boxes stacked up in the corner taken off his quarters on the Excalibur, now renamed Armageddon’s Hammer. The Bothan Assault Cruiser had undergone the same paint job as the Inferno Marines, becoming a fiery red.

Dha’tey waded through the sea of boxes to reach a half-buried holo-projector. He tapped a button, activating the display device. It flared to life, revealing the spinning logo of the Mining Guild. Kolir’s lip curled. I suppose I should get that replaced with something more fitting. Using the attached control panel, he switched the projector to view the live security feed of Inferno Base. Dha’tey punched another button, unleashing a flurry of images across the base, from the control to the marine’s barracks to the refineries and manufacturing areas of the base. It finally stopped on a single, live feed. At point, it clearly had been a vast lava tube. The Mining Guild had refitted it to become an underground hangar as sanctuary for its ships when they were transferring raw materials and finished products by adding glow lights and covering the rough basalt floor with smooth duracrete. A pair of massive, concealed doors was added to access the outside world. For a covert fleet, it was a grand facility. The Commodore estimated that it could hold up to two star destroyer’s worth of volume if necessary. But at the moment, only a half-dozen freighters rested on the floor, undergoing the transfer of goods and materials from their holds. Each one was of the venerable CEC Action series of Bulk Freighters, common throughout the galaxy as corporate cargo craft. Crews of mechanics clambered across the hulls of the craft, added by magnetic boots. Occasionally, one would remove a hull plate and toss it down to the hangar floor. One of the distant figures pointed to stack of durasteel boxes. A binary load lifter dutifully retrieved it for the crew. When the container was opened, it revealed a pristine weapon with the Mining Guild’s stamp on it; the weapons made long ago for Viceroy Gunray and his Trade Federation. Dha’tey toothily smiled.

“Tell me Sei’lar,” questioned Kolir, “was food the only thing they were bringing? Sometimes the carrier is just as important as its products. Qui non est hodie cras minus aptus erit…”