On gossamer wings thrumming against low atmospheric turbulence, a small vessel vaguely inscectoid in shape, descended towards an open, grassy plain. The slender shape of the sky-skiff vanished against a sky dominated by the vibrant glow of a not-too distant primary only to reappear on the distant horizon.

Hovering along behind, keeping just close enough to observe the vessel in flight, followed an open deck land-craft. A group had gathered to watch. Despite their well-appointed transport, the group standing with eyes skyward was simply too well dressed to blend with the landscape.

“Remarkable,” commented one of the lookers on. “This is going to change everything.”

A sonic boom echoed across the open plain. Moments later the vessel erupted from the clouds banking low towards the hovercraft. Closing at well beyond four multiples, the light fighter, its shape far more evident at this distance, passed within two hundred meters before lifting its nose toward the sky. As quickly as it had come, the craft disappeared into the distance.

“Simply remarkable,” repeated an older gentleman wrapped from head to toe in a thick shawl. He was shivering in spite of the garment. “This will change everything.”

“I’m glad you like it,” replied the man immediately to his left. Young and strikingly handsome, his orange jumper clearly identified him as a technician. “It will do everything you asked and more.”

High above, inverted with weapons bay open, the fighter made another pass.

“There,” indicated the technician with a pointed finger. “Those are the secondary bays.”

A smile stretched the older mans already thin lips. “Were not stuck in this blasted chair I would jump for joy. You’ve done marvelous work, Mr. Shipwright.”

“Please,” the technician smiled. “Just call me Lance.”

“Well Lance, it looks like your work on Sati is done. You’re a very rich man now, Mr. Shipwright.”

Lance redoubled his polite, but non-committal, smile.




“Blast!” Lance cursed.

His rich auburn skin flushed deeply. Running a hand through his grease-matted hair he was reminded of just how long he had been going without sleep. Or a shower.

Incessantly beeping, incessantly demanding, he stared at the dismal results of his latest test displayed as holographic three-dimensional renderings. Emergency indicators highlighted areas of unstable pitch and yaw further complicated by the necessary aerodynamic calculations. Areas of marginal success appeared in a greenish hue where failures glowed in bright yellows.

The sickly saffron illumination turned his skin tone and unhealthy green.

“Enough for now,” he began shutting down his instruments. Navigating the laboratory was like something out of a Holo-adventure. He had, up until a month ago, retained a sizable staff of assistants but as the project neared its end Lance found he was working alone. The need for secrecy was quiet real.

“Two-Bee, get those project stacks uploaded.”

The android, built on a bipedal platform, unfolded itself from a tangle of wires and hoses. Its hydraulics hissed aggressively to prevent its own weight from damaging its limber frame on the three-meter drop from the underside of the prototype hull.

“Affirmative,” droned its monosyllabic vocalization unit. “Uploading project pack; X-105 Aero fighter. Estimate ten minuets upload time.”

With the loss of his auxiliary staff Lance, as project leader, had been forced to find other sources of skilled labor. Two-Bee, originally a limited military issue android had been brought in to take up some of the slack. The ‘droid had undergone significant processor upgrades and personality expansion. Two-Bee now featured a software package sufficient to prevent further delays, unfortunately; given the limited nature of its initial design Two-Bee was often forced to sacrifice one function for another.

“Take your time, old man.” He though the moniker particularly well suited the ‘droid.

The droid did not respond. As Lance had expected.

Acting fast, he plucked a long, slender sensor device from one of the many pockets that filled out his cover-all. With a few quick scans of the immediate area he confirmed ‘all-eyes-shut’ before seating himself before a subspace transceiver.

“There is no such thing as a monopoly,” declared Lance Shipwright.




Lance sighed.

He fingered the duffle slung under his left arm while kneading his thigh with his other hand. He’d be sitting for too long, waiting, and his leg had gone numb.

Four transports had come and gone in the time he had been waiting, patiently.

As spaceports go, this one was not the most entertaining. Backwater worlds like this one usually featured ports-of-call rowdy enough to turn a full-blooded Barabel back. A quiet observer could sit for hours in a place like that, just listening and watching, without ever seeing the same thing twice.

In total Lance had counted only a dozen aliens among the well-behaved human populace. No one loitered about for too long, except for Lance. Eye contact seemed non-existent as far as he had observed.

Eight months on this backwater world and he had not once bothered to mingle with the locals. Not once. He found, more often then not, that keeping a certain level of detachment from the people he worked for.

Three years as a private contractor on the outer-rim had afforded Lance some rather unique life-experience. Outside of the Empire, outside of the galactic regimes, it took time and effort to establish a name and a reputation particularly if one did not want to end up relegated to one planet or sector for the rest of their career.

Three years as a private contractor had also afforded the young designer quiet a resume. He had designed and consulted on a number of projects across the Rim; projects both nefarious and noble. Employers of varied description had come away happy while Lance had came away more and more wealthy.

Scrapes were part of it too, he had learned. On Coruscant, at the Imperial Design Academy, his instructors had been both professors and superior officers. They had instilled in him a fierce sense of self along with all the skills a young officer would need to survive life on the Rim.

And through it all, from Tatooine to Coruscant to the edges of civilization he had never forgotten his father; Lance Shipwright senior. Never would he allow himself to forget.




“Injustice is not always unjust.”

Lance junior kneeled beside his father. Keep deep in the guts of a YT-series transport, only his legs and his voice escaped the entangling mess of hydraulic tubes and electrical wiring.

“The evil we perceive is not always the evil we feel in our bones.” A spanner sputtered out from under the starship. “Pass me a 2/5 torque-spanner.”

The gnarled hand of a mechanic protruded from the engine compartment, waiting. Even as a young boy Lance had an affinity for starships. He fetched the tool.

“I can teach you how to repair a busted motivator. I can show you how it works. I can,” the rest was lost to a powerful release of pressure build up in the aft injector. “But I can only do so much. That’s why you’ll go to Coruscant one day. To the Design Academy.”

Dreams of impossible ships danced through the dreams of a young Lance Shipwright often manifesting themselves in his drawings, in his art. At eight year old his teachers had declared him a genius. It seemed that no one, save for his father, could keep up with the rapidly developing youth.

“I don’t believe in the Empire.” Lance stated matter-of-factly. “They’re evil. All the holodramas…”

“Boy,” snapped the senior Shipwright. “Everything you see is relevant to where you are. The Empire is the bad guy out here, out this far. But that may well change with time. On Core-Worlds it is the Alliance who is evil. Though to you they seem as heroes fighting for freedom, to the people of the Core they are terrorists. Rabble looking for a fight.”

“But,” began the child.

“But nothing. Life will change you. All I can hope to do is to prepare you for what you will learn.”

And then Lance senior was embracing the boy saying, “In the eye of every child there is a new hope.”

And then they were wrestling, tussling about on the shop floor and laughing for the entire world.

"What does it... do?" said Regrad, as he looked down on the smoking wreck.

"What doesn't it do?" replied the technician. He was covered in grease, dirt, and smoke stains. "I mean, this stuff is lightyears ahead of ours - we can break it, obviously, but it's just... I mean, it's a close-run thing."

Regrad ooked out into the converted hangar, where a battered Black Dragon warship had been mostly taken apart. Called the "Ghost", it had even been hard to break open for the technicians to look at - the armour had absorbed the energy of their cutters, and it had taken an hour before the'd figured out the energy was being siphoned to batteries inside the ship.

"Did the crew inflict any damage?" said Regrad, who remained facing the window.

"Not much, sir, it appears the shot that crippled their life support ended up killing most before they could do anything to sabotage the ship's systems. The troop compliment was later lost to a hull-breach that got out of hand - you see the gash in the armour from tip to tip? A Projector shot tore straight under it. It was in the best condition of any of the wrecks we got from Teth's orbit, most were broken in half or flattened." The technician adjusted his goggles back over his eyes, and headed for the stairs "I can probably show you better than I can explain, so if you could come this way?"

Regrad turned back to see the technician heading down the stairs, and followed in his wake. They came down the stairs and out into the hangar, which was just as Regrad had seen it from above, only now the loud sounds of saws, drills, sparks, and assorted tinkering could be heard.

"The armour was just the first surprise." continued the technician as he walked past a plate of it being tested by a chemist. "Then we started trying to fiddle with some of the ship's componants - get this, they heal themselves."

Regrad's brow furrowed. "What?"

The technician took a pair of plyers from his belt, and grabbed a wire at random from a bunch that bulged out of a crack in the armour. He snipped it, and held the two ends apart. Before Regrad's eyes, the wires stretched out, hooked back up, and 'healed' over.

"That's not the least of it." said the technician. "Our first team spent half an hour trapped inside when it 'sensed' intruders and grew a wall, cutting them off. We found a way to disable its' sensors, then we cut all power to keep it from doing that again. Worst of all was these." he said, and with that held up a vial filled with a silvery powder.

"What are they?" said Regrad, who took the vial and examined it closely.

"Disassemblers. They're like termites for spaceships, they would have turned the whole thing to a stack of atoms if their containment unit hadn't been hit during the fighting and an electrical short hadn't fried them."

Regrad looked grim "Terrible weapons indeed. But I trust you can handle them?"

The technician put up his hands, with a sigh, saying "We're all doing our best, but I have to be honest here - this is all out of our league. This science is way ahead of us, much of it we're just lucking into. Unless someone bridges the gap between their design and ours, there isn't much we can do."

Regrad bowed, and said "All I ask is that you try. Thank you for your report, Lucas, I'll be leaving shortly."

The technician nodded, and the Prime Minister went on his way, with much to think about. Technology was not his strong suit. Regrad respected its' importance, and what it could do for people, but when it came to actually developing it and ensuring it was successful in practice, he lacked the understanding necessary. This weakness was turning into a serious problem for the Coalition, as the wrecks recovered from the battle of Teth revealed - the Dragons simply had more effective technology, and it was going to start costing them.

Regrad got aboard his shuttle, which quickly departed the hangar and made for the horizon. If there was no one on Teth that could solve the scientific riddle of the Dragons, he'd have to look elsewhere.

Resolved, he took a comlink from his belt, and punched in the code for the CIB's head office. If there was no one in the Coalition up to the task, he had just the men to look elsewhere.



"Now I haven't got much time to spend briefing you on this case." said Ferguson, in the dimly light conference room. "The information and suggested contacts are in the mission dossier - and remember this above all else. The reason we're not hiring people face to face is security. The whole point of sending you out is so that no one else will know we're expanding our research department. If the Empire hears we're snapping up promising scientists, they'll think arms race. If the Black Dragons hear, they'll know we're on to them. There's also a good chance in either case they'd just kill whoever we'd try to hire. After all, weapons are a life-and-death field."

"Bad pun, Ferguson." said Karen, as she slid the dossier across the table to the figures seated in the shadows. "Here's everything you'll need to get started. It includes our contact information to negotiate a contract with any of the researchers you encounter, as well as the appropriate codenames to use. When you're outside the Coalition, even if you're on the rim, being an Azguard stands out. That'll help you, and that'll hinder you, so be ready to use misdirection and take your time if someone's on to you."

"J-team is due to report in soon, so get going." said Ferguson. In silence, the figures in the back evaporated into the shadows, and were gone. Ferguson shuddered. "Even for spies, they creep me out. Why do we send them to hire people, anyways? When we sent them to get Viryn Quell they almost scared him to death and ended up having to chase him to the top of a skyscraper."

"They're not exactly charismatic, but they get the job done." said Karen "If anything, that they found Viryn Quell when no one else could should show they have a knack for this."

"Yeah, yeah. I just wish they'd talk a little more. Let me see that list of potential recruits again."

"I don't think you call scientists recruits, Ferguson."

"Why not? We're going recruiting, aren't we? If it matters that much I'll look up the proper word later. Let me see the list, now."

Karen passed him the list, and the aging spymaster looked closely. "Hm... so you say this list was definetly approved by the Minister of Ethics and the PM? I wouldn't want to be any of these guys when the Azguards come round." he looked carefully at the name at the top of the list. "Let's see how this Lance Shipwright can handle himself..."

“Is that necessary?”

Lance motioned towards the pistols leveled at his chest. The alien behind the weapon offered no reply save to flick its blaster in the direction of an open shuttle door.

“You guys seem to have the advantage, even without the guns.”

He turned his gaze away from the unusually long barrel moving up the height of his kidnapper-apparent. The alien was not of a species familiar to Lance. Estimating its height at above three meters weighing more then twice himself, Lance immediately dismissed any notion of physical evasion. Having worked for many a warlord in his short, but highly esteemed career he was also intimately familiar with the look and stance of a trained soldier.

“Look, I’m sure we can talk this over. If it’s about a job…”

The barrel of another weapon, more likely a rifle given the girth of it, prodded at his lower back. Another poke with the weapon had Lance moving ahead, albeit slowly. They had not removed him of his possessions or indicated that, perhaps, he might like to raise his arms above his head.

Lance fingered the edge of his duffle.

“What’s in there,” he asked with a nod towards the shuttle. “Or rather, who?”

When his escort failed to offer up an explanation, regarding him rather indifferently and rather without dignity, Lance made his move. Beneath the flap of his duffle was hidden a button which, when depressed, emitted a wide area stun-beam.

The weapon did not make distinctions. It could not discriminate.

A charge of ionized energy exploded from the mouth of the duffle turning the air blue while leaving a tang of atmosphere in the air. Grounded against the charge; Lance himself remained the only being insulated against the charge. It tore open the edge of his duffle, leaving a trail of acrid smoke drifting away from the concealed weapon.

Lance felt a tingle. The aliens felt nothing at all… if only because their nervous systems had been so swiftly overloaded the only thing they could do was to succumb. As one the aliens fell uncomfortably against the duracrete.

Not one to waste time, particularly the precious sort; Lance fled the scene at a sprint.

Ten minutes later the blood in his veins turned to acid. Fighting for breath he pushed on at a full sprint fueled by adrenaline; adrenaline he was swiftly burning through.

Lance had tried to keep in shape but the life of a design technician; like any engineer, did not often lend itself towards physical exercise. He tried, mind you. Hours would past swiftly, in the long hours between projects, spent pedaling towards an impossible goal on a foldout exercise bike. With a few additional trips to the gym and visits to the health food stores Lance managed to keep himself fairly fit…

Fairly fit, unfortunately, has never compared to the peak fitness level of a trained soldier.

Imagining himself halfway across town he had begun to slow his pace when, from the darkness behind, he picked up the footfalls behind. And though he would have thought it impossible, the very same aliens from the star port were soon within sight.

Maybe it had been the stun that had fouled their mood, or perhaps it was the running. Either way, Lance couldn’t fault their logic when, abruptly, a cold and painful pinch struck him high between the shoulder blades.

Suddenly he found himself unable to make his legs work. In the next moment he was upside down and tumbling across the sidewalk. Slowly, as darkness began to settle in at the edges of his vision Lance found himself outraged and thinking; they shot me!

Hours, or possibly days, later… Rousing from his narcotic induce slumber Lance woke to find himself laying supine across a some sort of bed laid out with a fine silk duvet cover. The pleasant smell of fresh flowers slowly filled his senses. Though his eyes still refused to focus a blurry amber glow filtered through his sleep-encrusted eyes. Bathed in sunlight he felt the warmth through to his core.

A voice, firm and accented, made it known upon his still groggy consciousness.

“Please, relax.”

Lance tried to speak but his swollen tongue and chapped lips reduced his words to a guttural sort of acknowledgement.

“I must apologize for the way you were brought here, but these are uncertain times. We could not, unfortunately, contact you through your booking agent. I’ll excuse myself now, feel free to freshen up, as you like. Your things are on the table. Someone will be just outside when you are ready.”

The voice, while firm, seemed to be generally concerned with Lances’ well being. Though this might have struck others as odd, in his career the young genius had been conducted from one job to under the most bizarre circumstances as one might expect in the industry of weapons design. Though he enjoyed the assurances of an open and civil contract he had little trouble exchanging some personal dignity for the financial rewards that those jobs generally offered… though their point of contact techniques left much to be desired.

Slowly, too slowly, the drug began to abate. In a haze, eyes still foggy, he fought his way unsteadily towards the table upon which his possessions had been neatly folded. At about this point Lance became aware of his own nakedness.

Dressing himself took more dexterity then he could muster. Struggling through allowed him a few woozy moments to study his surroundings. Soft green walls stared back at him. Overhead, open to the warm breeze, a window hung open allowing the sunlight to pour into the room which seemed to be the only source of illumination.

Some time later Lance emerged from, what for lack of a better term; he had dubbed the “sun cell”. Clearly his guests were more hospitable then they had first let on. Dubiously questioning himself; Lance wondered just what might have happened had he not run.

“Sir,” boomed the alien stationed nearby. “If you will follow me…”

Shocked by the boisterousness of the aliens voice Lance nearly tumbled backwards.

Clearly this job would prove to be an adventure…




“The Jedi bend to the Force the way the sands blow with the wind.”

Lance had adored tales of the Jedi when he was a child. They were mysterious warriors and guardians of justice too few in the galaxy. Once protectors, with the fall of the Republic and the rise of the first Galactic Empire, the Jedi had all but vanished.

The galaxy he would be destined to grow up in, however; would be a different story all toegther.

With the adoring eyes of a son he watched his father negotiate another sale. Buisness was good for the Shipwrights.

“You have to learn to be like the Jedi. Don’t resist, redirect. Find your center.”

One day, young Lance dreamed, he would make his father proud.

As Lance was lead to the meeting room, X-4 and X-5 fiddled with the wiring of a crudely assembled communications device. All that was entirely recognizable was the screen, that stood out in a mass of haphazard electronics.

The Azguards wore grey, and had solid black eyes. They were serious, and moved with a calm, emotionless control. Over it all presided X-1, his passive expression revealing nothing. X-2 entered, their 'guest' trailing behind.

He'd been brought into what appeared to be an entirely unremarkable hotel room. Or motel room. Or apartment building. It could have been anywhere in the galaxy, it could have been a model constructed in the heart of an Azguard military base. It was in fact just four blocks away of where they'd first picked him up - budget was an issue right now.

Without a word, the Azguards seated themselves to one side, gesturing for Lance to sit in a chair just in front of the screen. X-1 took a booklet from his pocket, and lifted a speaker out from the mass of wires behind the screen. "Red admiral to blue bottle, red admiral to blue bottle. We have made an acquaintance. Dam is open."

A crackly voice could be faintly heard replying "Roger that, red admiral. Big cheese on line one."

With that, X-1 flicked a red switch over the screen, that turned green as he did so, and sat down with his compatriots.

The screen buzzed and clicked for a second, before a clear picture emerged. It was a man in his late middle age, his hair greying and balding at the same time, and a slight amount of weight turning gradually into a larger amount. "I'm sorry how extreme our measures were, but I'm afraid we can't use official channels. In our defence, if we hadn't taken such precautions you could well have been killed by now - no, relax, all will be explained shortly. I apologize - we haven't made any introductions. You are..."

The man took a leaflet from offscreen, and examined it. "...Lance Shipwright. Graduate of the Imperial Design Academy, an independant contractor by trade, you've built a stellar reputation as a boy-genius of the design and engineering world while staying out of reach of all the major galactic regimes. You have a small fortune in known accounts - I think we have your pin number somewhere here, but we'll look to that later - and a long career ahead of you." He put down the sheet, and turned to face Lance again. "I apologize once again, I haven't introduced myself, or my associates.

"I am Ferguson Mumphs, Chief of the Coalition Intelligence Bureau. On the couch over there is a team of Azguards - you might not have heard of them. Suffice to say that they won't hurt you, no matter how ridiculously threatening they might appear. They're not ones for good first impressions, but as I said, the nature of the job we have to offer you is such that official channels would see you dead in a week." There was nothing quite like throwing around warnins about impending death without clarification - it tested someone's character.

"Now we're getting to why we took so much trouble to speak to you. I am here to offer you a job. As I've said, you're one of the brightest stars in your field, so you must have suspected you'd attract major-league attention eventually. This job pays well, but I won't lie, it will contain some degree of danger. I could give you the 'fight the good fight' line, and to join the Coalition for the memory of this or that massacare, but I'll spare you that for now - if you accept the job, you'll get an earful of it.

"Yes, yes, the job, I'm getting there. If you've been keeping up with galactic news, the Black Dragon Empire and the New Galactic Coalition have gone to war after the invasion of Teth. What isn't so widely discussed is the recovery of wrecked starships from that battle, made from technology far above galactic standard. Some of the best experts and technicians from across the Coalition have been stumped, so we're looking out into the galaxy for a fresh perspective.

"In return for a hefty paycheck, all the resources you'll need, and access to technology only dreamed of, we want you to help us break down what we found, help our guys understand how it works, how it doesn't work, weaknesses, strengths, and help bridge the gap between us and them. Not only that, we can promise a lifetime's supply of government red tape, Dragon assassins, and alien coworkers that don't speak basic and are trying to explain why the red shiny light is about to explode - I hear that's a real problem down in the labs. I wouldn't know, I had that wall reinforced."

The old man smile slyly and said "A hard job, lots of danger, and the unknown. On the other hand, a chance to become a scientific legend, as much resources as you need, and an opportunity to upgrade that fortune of yours from small to intermediate. If my deal sounds to be a little too much for your tastes, we'll just erase your memory of this conversation and send you on your way.

"What'll it be, Lance Shipwright? A chance to make history, or will you go back to building mechanical bugs for bunches of old men?"

Mechanical bugs for bunched of old men…

Lance did not laugh.

Like most brilliant men he thrived on the depth of his own ego.

Arms crossed across his chest, the young engineer deigned to look petulant. Through striving to intone an impression of detached amusement Lance managed appeared totally out of his element.

During the discourse Lance had attempted to direct and focus his attention throughout the room. Unparalleled in his ability to multitask he found himself paying particular attention Mumphs projected image. He was also particularly amused by what the Coalition intelligence officer did not say.

For a handful of tenuous minutes Lance said nothing.

“Matters of fact,” stated the designer unfolding his arms to count off points of fact with the fingers of his left hand.

“One; this is a kidnapping. There is no other perspective from which to examine this event other then from the prevue of the victim et al; me.”

Lance casually reclined in his seat crossing his legs at the knees.

“A manifestation of this magnitude indicates that you are operating without the authorization of your superiors; a so called black-bag op. The Coalition does not kidnap citizens.”

He hoped his host had no anticipated this reaction. However; acknowledging his own fallibility Lance had to anticipate a superior adversary. Wisely, he switched his approach vector.

“Of course I must admit my own knowledge of Coalition policy could be found lacking as I have been far removed from galactic events, as you say, conducting private contracts along the Rim territories. So it is entirely possible that there have been developments within the regime that I am not aware of. Regardless…”

The best defense is a strong offence.

“I have been kidnapped and brought here against my will. I am going to assume then that exposing this fact will grant me a certain amount of operational, and contractual, freedom.”

Pausing for a moment, tactfully biding his time, Lance waited to see if his opponent would bite.

Silence.

A weaker strategist would have folded.

“Two,” he continued, “I am not a citizen of the Galactic Coalition. My civilian status was revoked shortly after the censure of my tenure at the Imperial Design Academy. Were you aware of the catalyst that ended me as an Imperial citizen I would be inclined to request you not mention those events over insecure communication channels.”

With the second trap laid and baited he pressed on. Discovering the distance that separated him from his rival would doubtless prove invaluable.

“Taking into account my independent status along with what you have likely termed a ‘lack of familial connections’ I have to imagine that you have little intention of letting me walk away from this unfettered. I am not an idiot; I know you cannot wipe my memories without what I would classify as mystical measures. And unless the Coalition has fallen so far as to affiliate with the Sith, you will not be endeavoring to see that measure through.”

“For that reason,” he frowned visibly, “I can fairly consider my previously mentioned advantage void.”

“Three; I am a man of science not a man of morality or spirituality. I have to assume that you have documented me as such. There for I can, I feel, safely assume that the project you have for me is, perhaps, politically compromised.”

Like the blade above the table he allowed the last point to linger like aromatic cheese.

“And four,” he grinned outright. “I have no objections to any of these facts.”

“So, I suppose the best maneuver, at this point, would be to decide whether we need to continue with this verbal parley, which I must admit I feel I would rather enjoy, or dispense with pretense all together and, as they say, move on to the meat and potatoes of the thing.”

Lance winked.




“You’ll never know until you loose, boy.”

Dust storm on the horizon, clad from head to toe in sand-gear, a young Lance Shipwright stood beside his father high on the open desert staring into the sun burnt wastelands. They had hiked out from town three days ago. His father had called it a pilgrimage but in truth, he had explained, it was an exercise in humility.

“What do you see?”

Though deep, resonant and booming, his fathers’ voice was almost lost to the rising storm. They would need to find shelter soon.

“Nothing,” replied a childish voice from within the draped layers of insulating fabrics. “Just sand.”

“And when you look at the night sky?”

Lance beamed, though it was lost beneath his heavy goggles and rebreather.

“Stars, I see millions of stars. Everything is in the stars, right? This is just some roasted rock in the middle of no where.”

“Interesting,” his father sounded despondent. “The storm will be here in moments. Pull your hood down.”

Sandstorms were known killers. Travellers caught unprepared usually faced death within minutes; starved of air and drowned by sand. Rumors spoke of storms so large that when they passed only the bones of its victims would be left behind, buried beneath feet of ever shifting sand.

Lance was not afraid, he was never afraid with his father nearby. He had seen the man move mountains and in the deepest sense; his father had become his super-hero.

And then the storm was upon them. His father braced him against the storm and it seemed as though the worst of it broke around them.

“You have to learn to lose, Lance. I’ll always be proud of you.”

And then he was gone.

And then the storm became real and his fear became real.

Mechanical bugs for bunched of old men…

Lance did not laugh.

Like most brilliant men he thrived on the depth of his own ego.

Arms crossed across his chest, the young engineer deigned to look petulant. Through striving to intone an impression of detached amusement Lance managed appeared totally out of his element.

During the discourse Lance had attempted to direct and focus his attention throughout the room. Unparalleled in his ability to multitask he found himself paying particular attention Mumphs projected image. He was also particularly amused by what the Coalition intelligence officer did not say.

For a handful of tenuous minutes Lance said nothing.

“Matters of fact,” stated the designer unfolding his arms to count off points of fact with the fingers of his left hand.

“One; this is a kidnapping. There is no other perspective from which to examine this event other then from the prevue of the victim et al; me.”

Lance casually reclined in his seat crossing his legs at the knees.

“A manifestation of this magnitude indicates that you are operating without the authorization of your superiors; a so called black-bag op. The Coalition does not kidnap citizens.”

He hoped his host had no anticipated this reaction. However; acknowledging his own fallibility Lance had to anticipate a superior adversary. Wisely, he switched his approach vector.

“Of course I must admit my own knowledge of Coalition policy could be found lacking as I have been far removed from galactic events, as you say, conducting private contracts along the Rim territories. So it is entirely possible that there have been developments within the regime that I am not aware of. Regardless…”

The best defense is a strong offence.

“I have been kidnapped and brought here against my will. I am going to assume then that exposing this fact will grant me a certain amount of operational, and contractual, freedom.”

Pausing for a moment, tactfully biding his time, Lance waited to see if his opponent would bite.

Silence.

A weaker strategist would have folded.

“Two,” he continued, “I am not a citizen of the Galactic Coalition. My civilian status was revoked shortly after the censure of my tenure at the Imperial Design Academy. Were you aware of the catalyst that ended me as an Imperial citizen I would be inclined to request you not mention those events over insecure communication channels.”

With the second trap laid and baited he pressed on. Discovering the distance that separated him from his rival would doubtless prove invaluable.

“Taking into account my independent status along with what you have likely termed a ‘lack of familial connections’ I have to imagine that you have little intention of letting me walk away from this unfettered. I am not an idiot; I know you cannot wipe my memories without what I would classify as mystical measures. And unless the Coalition has fallen so far as to affiliate with the Sith, you will not be endeavoring to see that measure through.”

“For that reason,” he frowned visibly, “I can fairly consider my previously mentioned advantage void.”

“Three; I am a man of science not a man of morality or spirituality. I have to assume that you have documented me as such. There for I can, I feel, safely assume that the project you have for me is, perhaps, politically compromised.”

Like the blade above the table he allowed the last point to linger like aromatic cheese.

“And four,” he grinned outright. “I have no objections to any of these facts.”

“So, I suppose the best maneuver, at this point, would be to decide whether we need to continue with this verbal parley, which I must admit I feel I would rather enjoy, or dispense with pretense all together and, as they say, move on to the meat and potatoes of the thing.”

Lance winked.




“You’ll never know until you loose, boy.”

Dust storm on the horizon, clad from head to toe in sand-gear, a young Lance Shipwright stood beside his father high on the open desert staring into the sun burnt wastelands. They had hiked out from town three days ago. His father had called it a pilgrimage but in truth, he had explained, it was an exercise in humility.

“What do you see?”

Though deep, resonant and booming, his fathers’ voice was almost lost to the rising storm. They would need to find shelter soon.

“Nothing,” replied a childish voice from within the draped layers of insulating fabrics. “Just sand.”

“And when you look at the night sky?”

Lance beamed, though it was lost beneath his heavy goggles and rebreather.

“Stars, I see millions of stars. Everything is in the stars, right? This is just some roasted rock in the middle of no where.”

“Interesting,” his father sounded despondent. “The storm will be here in moments. Pull your hood down.”

Sandstorms were known killers. Travellers caught unprepared usually faced death within minutes; starved of air and drowned by sand. Rumors spoke of storms so large that when they passed only the bones of its victims would be left behind, buried beneath feet of ever shifting sand.

Lance was not afraid, he was never afraid with his father nearby. He had seen the man move mountains and in the deepest sense; his father had become his super-hero.

And then the storm was upon them. His father braced him against the storm and it seemed as though the worst of it broke around them.

“You have to learn to lose, Lance. I’ll always be proud of you.”

And then he was gone.

And then the storm became real and his fear became real.

Ferguson was smiling - maybe this guy had what it took to withstand working with the Coalition after all? "All right! Time for me to break it down for you.

"A ship is leaving in six hours time, and we've taken the liberty of securing you a ticket - it's even a window seat, I'm told. The flight will get you as far as Bimmisari, where my associates will meet up with you again. Azguards can walk the streets of Bimmisari without causing an international incident, but from when you leave this room to when you arrive it isn't safe for you to be seen in their presence.

"Once there, they'll put you in contact with a project-leader on Kubindi - we've recently lost contact with that base, so if contact has not been reestablished we'll just skip ahead to going to the lab in Bimmisari's orbit, and rely on the team there to fill you in instead. They're a good lot, although I should warn you that most of 'em are only about up to your waist, so... yeah, be forewarned.

"When you reach Bimmisari, you'll be home free in that we can entirely recognize you, give you a direct-payment account, and generally mention your name publically without much fear of assassination. The money will be forwarded to your account on a task-by-task basis, negotiated before each research project. We're willing to give you some freedom within our perameters - we are hiring you for a more or less specific purpose, after all - but the first task lined up for you is a necessity. Call it a... test. Even on this line it isn't safe to say what it is, but suffice it to say it's the chance of a lifetime.

"Are we showing too much trust, perhaps? A little too raring to go?" Ferguson chomped on a crumpled cigar from his shirt pocket. "Don't worry about our reasons, war can make anyone hurry up."

X-1 rose from his seat, and handed a paper envelope to Lance. Ferguson removed the cigar to gesture at the envelope "That there's your ticket, and an I.D. pass in case you get lost. The connection won't last much longer, so hopefully the next time we speak will see you at Bimmisari. If you change your mind, that's more or less your last chance - once you lock in to the project, we'll need to have you sign a contract not to release your findings or abandone your projects until completion.

"Aurevoir, Mr. Shipwright. I leave you in X-1's capable, skull-crushing hands." The screen went blank.

The Azguards rose in unison, giving eerily steady stares to Lance. X-1 seemed to understand that this was incorrect social policy, and gestured for his team to busy themselves. "We move at your command, master Shipwright, until you are securely aboard the target vessel or absolve yourself of command."

It all seemed so standard.

Every clue Lance discovered fit together neatly with its counterpart.

Too tidy, he thought.

Lance propped his chin into his palm and stared into hyperspace. His quarters, hastily acquired, were just for of steerage and, though cramped, his Azguardian escort had endeavored to make his stay as comfortable as possible.

Aboard a hyperspace transport the Azguardians had been able blend with a plethora of alien species and subspecies. They had taken the nearest available rooms to his.

X-1 had a berth directly opposite his own.

Bored, Lance checked the time.

“Only six more days to go and six days in,” he commented aloud.

As if in reply there came a knock at his door; three knocks and two short taps.

“Come in.”

One of the aliens, he had not yet determined how one might tell them apart, strode into the room. The Azguardian was bent nearly at the waist and almost totally incapable of maneuvering in such a tight space. Doing well despite its vertical handicap the grey skinned creature pushed the portal closed behind it.

“X-1?” Lance ventured based on the fact that, as senior officer, X-1 had done most of the alien’s talking… which was not much.

The alien nodded.

Lance stifled a smirk at how ridiculous the gesture made the alien look. He contrived to look bored, stretched full out on his bunk with a data-pad on his chest.

“What can I do for you?” Irony did not seem to faze his stoic kidnappers turned employers. “I don’t suppose there is anything palatable on this vessel to eat?”

In past week Lance had developed a sort of rapport with the aliens that he expected they had come to think of as typical of humans. Aloof and arrogant but not unreasonably so it had been a simple matter to establish his general governance over the Azguardian escort.

X-1 smiled (or so Lance imagined).

A man of machines he found comfort in blueprints and design schematics, not exobiology or social structures. Though he had identified a number of facial expressions commonly employed by the aliens Lance remained mostly ignorant of what their sidelong glances actually meant. Almost arbitrarily he had assigned intentions of his own.

“I really can’t stomach another Klatoonian pasta. It will be too soon if I never see Bith garish-pudding again. Ever!”

Although unsure of the Azguardian ability or desire to laugh Lance had decided that whatever it was must have been laughter given the timing.

X-1 gestured meaningfully to Lances rucksack.

“We leaving?”

The alien gestured again though with more emphasis.

“Time to go.”

Lance hopped off of his bunk and quickly gathered up his things. It took about two minutes and when the pair stepped out into the corridor they found themselves suddenly face to face with a trio of armed soldiers (or, in the case of X1, face to chest). Unfamiliar with their uniforms he quickly determined that there was a certain Imperial air about the trio.

X-1 threw himself forward. Between its thrusting limbs and amazing size the alien filled the narrow hall between berths almost completely.

A pair of blaster bolts shot past Lance and, like a stunned mule, he stood awestruck with a stupid look pasted across his face.

“Hurry,” commanded the alien.

In a daze Lance found his feet moving forward of their own accord. He stepped uneasily over the three dead soldiers, humans, sprawled along the corridor. “Yeah,” he said. “We should probably be going.”

The others joined up with Lance and X-1 in short order. On the upper decks, designed to accommodate many an alien frame, the Azguardians were able to move about with far more grace and certainty.

They had all but abandoned their disguises.

Lance watched with detached amusement as the aliens dispatched another quartet of armed soldiers. Oddly he did not have any recollection of seeing their ilk before, not in his six days aboard the transport vessel.

Recovering from the near miss in the corridor Lance determined to be of some use.

“Left,” he shouted at the lead Azguardian who had been thus far running along in the point position brandishing a deadly looking fire arm. The alien did not immediately stop. “This is a Gallor-class vessel. Follow the keel.”

X-1 cast a blank stare at Lance.

“I assume we’re heading for the shuttle bay? That is the fastest way.” Lance kept any hit of smugness out of his voice. Escape seemed to be top priority.

X-1 waved a finger at the point-guard. The alien broke left.

Blaster fire erupted all around them.

Lance did not freeze. He did take cover.

“Thank you,” he shouted, above the roar of blazing guns, his thanks to the power-droid that had been innocently making its rounds from station to station.

Designed with only the most simplistic programming and lacking the subroutines to properly respond to the situation at hand the droid did what any other droid would have done; it shut down.

Ionized bolts of coherent green beams shot through the air, peppering the exposed side of the droid. Lance cursed, for good measure, and began rooting about in his bags.

X-1 and the others had also found cover and, returning fire, managed to suppress the enemy advance. This struck Lance as odd but he excused the poorly planned ambush. It did not immediately occur to him how the enemy had anticipated their apparent deviation in course; unless someone had anticipated Lances’ suggestion.

His fingers closed around the cold durasteel canister tucked in the bottom of his duffle bag. Triumphant, Lance with drew the 25 centimeter tube from his bag, smacked one end against the deck plating and hurled it over his head towards the enemy position. This was made easier given that the firefight occurred in an access corridor.

The tube did not hit the ground; it just exploded.

A self-sustained charge of ionized plasma quickly bloomed three meters out and away from the explosions epicenter. White hot tendrils of static discharge instantly accumulated against the exposed metal surfaces the effect made all the more intense by the closed quarter’s detonation. Flames of superheated gas followed fractions of a second later.

Two things happened to the enemy.

First, rendered immobile, the blast of ionic discharge overloaded their physiology; quickly burning every nerve in the body. Unable to shelter themselves against the second stage release they were, more or less, instantly immolated. The two fed off one another and, in tight spaces, the effect was magnified.

“I’ve been waiting months to test that,” said Lance from behind the smoldering power-droid. “We’ll have to find another way around.”

A cascade of melted steel blocked their way.

“I should really collect some of this data.”

He didn’t get the chance.

“You are wounded,” observed X-1 while pointing towards the humans abdomen.

“Oh,” Lance replied before tumbling, limp to the deck.

He faded in and out of conciousness. The aliens defeated another ambush and then they were in the shuttle bay. He wondered, distantly, how severe the wound to his belly had been but, before he could investigate the matter, he was on a shuttle. Lance and the Azguardians escaped into space.

When he awoke, days later, Lance was on Bimmisari in Coalition space.



Three days later, recovered but wearing a bacta patch over the scarred flesh of his belly, Lance was introduced to the Bith. He found them immediately worthwhile, a special sort of people with an indisputable mental capacity.

Six days later, still in awe of his new place, Lance was informed that the Coalition would soon require he depart the planet.

Ferguson, it was indicated, would be introducing Lance Shipwright to his newest project.