YT-1210-class Transport Wanderlust, Deep Space
The light freighter surged through hyperspace, the ethereal light of the passing stars suffusing its dilapidated hull in vibrant colors which would have drove any straight-laced man mad. While the ship’s outside shone with borrowed glory, the interior of the craft blantantly exposed its dingy past; dirty footprints sprawled across the decks; walls and bulkheads not washed in years; and everywhere, the acrid smell of cigarra smoke. First mate O’Connor rested his boots on the flight console of the freighter, watching an old holo rerun as much as the ship’s flight path. The man pulled out a can of beer and took a swig, sizing up the holographic woman. A crooked smile swept across his face, cracking open enough to reveal teeth stained by years of alcoholism.
“Hell yes.”
The ship groaned and rumbled, knocking O’Connor off the pilots chair to make a hard landing on the deck. He cursed virulently, scrambling back onto his feet.
“Piece of junk,” muttered the man, already checking the ship’s diagnostic report for the frequent hyperdrive failure, “but what the frell? Don’t tell me the diagnostic program has gone all screwy…that will more time at the repair yard than I can afford to pay for.”
The console pinged sporadically, beckoning the man to glance at the sensor screen. He stared it, shaking his head in disbelief. O’Connor spewed out a series of oaths and swears that would have made many experienced spacers blush. Wanderlust rocked again, this time accompanied by brilliant sparks and circuits across the ship frying into charred wisps of hair. The mate stared at the various diagnostics programs which showed systems as increasing going offline, unresponsive, or severely damaged. He vigorously shook his head.
“I am so f-“
Belarus-class Cruiser Cougar
A brown-haired woman stood at the Cougar’s viewport, watching the stars flash by the cruising warship. On the far port side, she should just make out a gray blur which she knew was the Mansk-class Escort Frigate Farside: the first of a small group of ragtag ships led by the Cougar. Some were recently procured civilian vessels, others were military vessels crewed by those loyal to the Cougar’s commander: Victoria Pyre. She smoothed out the light gray uniform which she had worn with the New Republic Navy, and then the Durren Planetary Defence Fleet. A dark-haired man walked up the command walkway and gently tapped on her shoulder.
“The target has been disabled ma’am. I don’t know what to expect of her, ma’am.”
“Why do you say that, Lieutenant?”
“Her appearance and sensor scans. She’s not in remotely good repair. It’s unlikely to be running high-end goods, if it was, I’d imagine she’d be in better shape.”
Pyre icily smiled. “You are making some assumptions. Tell me, do you know much about planetary accountants?”
“Well…no ma’am. Why?”
The brown-haired woman moved her fingers to form a steeple. “My mother was accountant. We had money, especially combined with my father’s position as the town mayor. The mayors of the surrounding towns drove hover-limos. Do you know what drove? A beat-up SoroSuub X-35.”
The Lieutenant frowned. “But why? Surely your status and money could get you something better.”
She nodded. “But of course. But my mother, oh, my mother. My mother said that a flashy landspeeder wasn’t a good investment because they don’t have high resale values. It wouldn’t be a sound investment unless it was being used as a collectible. Now our used speeder, on the other hand, was less costly, less flashy, but it certainly could get us from point A to B.”
“Musn’t have been fun to ride.”
She lightly laughed. “On the contrary, it was always an adventure. It was so loud and stuttery that I half expected our repulsorlifts to fail every other trip. This freighter captain could be like my mother.”
“He could,” admitted the crewman, “but I have a feeling about this one.”
“We’ll see. Prepare the boarders. The Wanderlust at least will make a nice grab bag to go with our other goodies.”
NDIS Headquarters, Bagsho, Nim Drovis
The two intelligence officers hovered over the conference table, picking up the various datapads containing the reports of tens of NDIS operatives stationed across the sector; each one with a different take on the same story. And despite the massive flux of knowledge about the events, three days of continual analysis, and nearly thirty gallons of hot caf, they were still none the wiser. Colonel Elleshar, the leader of the group, blankly stared at the datapads. He glanced expectedly at a figure standing in the room’s doorway, who exasperatedly threw up his hands.
“You think I have a frakking clue? I’m just as lost as you are.”
Colonel Elleshar wrinkled up his calico-tanned face. “I was asking because this normally is your area of expertise.”
“It is,” affirmed Larek,”but this one…whoever is staging all of these is good. That’s assuming it’s all the same gang.”
“Explain yourself.”
Larek licked his lower lip. “Well, we’ve kept a pretty good database on the local pirates of the area. We’ve even managed to catch some, by luck or their sheer stupidity in being overly predictable. But this one isn’t remotely predictable. He’s not preying on the commerce of a single system. There have been similar hits across the sector, all with the same signs: the new buoys, the missing ships, and the bodies in cold vacuum. The ships never appear again in any of civilized space; even my best black market man couldn’t find a trace of them. It’s like he’s a ghost.”
Elleshar leaned forward. “Almost like a ghost ship. Has there been any evidence or anything we have on the pirates?”
The other man nodded. “Yes….well…maybe. We did find the scrap remains of a pair of X-wings at one site. Most of it had heavy carbon scoring, even on areas which shouldn’t been touched if it was simple space combat. It is almost like they disassembled the ships, threw the parts into space, and used that as target practice.”
The Colonel cocked his head to the side. “Well, that’s certainly intriguing, but what does that tell us? X-wings use to be quite common, and heck, they still are in some parts of the galaxy. Do we know who used them?”
“That’s the thing,” stated Larek, “There haven’t been any reports of missing X-wings or their pilots, on any of the local planetary networks. So I don’t think their users were up to anything legitimate.”
The superior nodded. “Seems reasonable. So what do you make of it then?”
“Well…” hesitated Larek, “there are two plausible options. The first is that the X-wings were part of some mercenaries or other criminal group that got caught by our mysterious attackers. The second is that the X-wings were part of our mysterious attackers. One of the victims fought back and managed to badly damage those fighters beyond repair. So they bombarded the debris, trying to destroy all evidence.”
Elleshar muttered. “Theories. We have theories. And that doesn’t help us in the big picture.”
“Oh?”
“Every system within three parsecs is going into a lock-down mode. Armed forces are all being activated, and we’re having routine navy patrols stopping everyone within sight, and still, we have nothing. Nothing. And until these attackers are caught, we’re not going to have merchants wanting to travel and trade. If interplanetary trade stops, the economies plummet, and we all become more isolationistic than before. Frak us. Frak us.”
“I don’t know sir, there’s still hope.”
“Oh?”
“The Durren Navy is organizing a massive hunt across the sector for the attackers. Every ship it has is sweeping the area in coordinated search grids. They’re stopping and searching any suspicious-looking ship. There are some planets cooperating with them too. Just give it time.”
“I’m aware of that, Larek,” informed the Colonel, “I suggested that our customs force join in the efforts to help further the search; to lend a hand to help ourselves. The Prime Minister shot it down, saying that we need the ships to protect ourselves in case the attackers show up here.”
“What do you think we do?”
“What can we do? All I know is that we’re in a mess, and there is certainly no clear-cut way out of this.”
Endurance Mk II-class Fleet Carrier Whitestone, in orbit via Budpock
The small crew lounge of the fleet carrier was as lively as any Coruscanti nightclub. Music broadcasted by the local subspace transceiver station softly droned across the ship’s intercom system. Sailors and pilots casually strutted across the marble white floors to the small bar and circular tables, exchanging coarse jokes along with rumours and tales wilder than the beasts of Onderon. For the less talkatively inclined, there were a dozen heated card and holo games, which dominated the entire portside section of the room. Several men burst out into laughter as a petty office aptly described his misadventures with a date on Soraya.
The frivolity which pervaded the room was in stark contrast to the rest of the warship, whose vast hangars contained dozens of starfighters and pilots already prepared for combat; in less than a minute, the Whitestone could launch two to three squadrons out of its starboard and portside hangar bays. Confederation discipline and regulations ruled most of the ship, but here in the lounge, every man was free from those shackles.
“Hey Kerry, a moment of your time?”
The ship’s captain lazily turned to face the petty officer. “Yes Barnes?”
The other man grinned broadly. “I was hoping you could tell the boys about your early days at RWU, back when you a different person. You know, when you led the protests.”
Kerry squinted his eyes in mock anger. “What you are talking about, idiot? I’m the same person. Oh frak, am I a clone of the real Kerry Brown? No? I don’t know either. Better order those tests Barnes, now.”
Several of the men smiled back; their commander’s antics were well-known not only within the ship, but within the Confederation’s Sector Fleet, especially within incorporated elements of the Reaper’s World Navy. He generated a lively levity that it was said could only be matched by Lucerne’s properness. Brown shook his head.
“Sorry Barnes, now is not the time. I’m just grabbing a glass of Lomin ale before I head back up to the bridge.”
Barnes’ smile grew larger. “Just Lomin Ale?”
“Frak you Barnes. For once I’m being dead serious. We’re making a jump within the hour, escorting another convoy of poor and misguided civies.”
Barnes waved a hand. “That’s nothing new.”
“Very true my good man. But the difference is that there’s a possibility of action. Some pirates have been rampaging around the Sector, blowing up satellites and shit. Oh, and a good number of ships are mysteriously disappearing…oohh…doesn’t that make you feel scared out of your boots Barnes?”
Barne performed an exaggerated nod.
“Naturally,” remarked the petty officer sarcastically, “That’s no small accomplishment. The only other time I’ve been so scared is when you showed me a holo of your girlfriend.”
“Frak you Barnes. If this were anywhere else but the lounge, I’d have charged with your slander of an officer and sentenced you to thirty days in the brig.”
“Really?”
“Nah, just messing with you. See you around Barnes.”
The light freighter surged through hyperspace, the ethereal light of the passing stars suffusing its dilapidated hull in vibrant colors which would have drove any straight-laced man mad. While the ship’s outside shone with borrowed glory, the interior of the craft blantantly exposed its dingy past; dirty footprints sprawled across the decks; walls and bulkheads not washed in years; and everywhere, the acrid smell of cigarra smoke. First mate O’Connor rested his boots on the flight console of the freighter, watching an old holo rerun as much as the ship’s flight path. The man pulled out a can of beer and took a swig, sizing up the holographic woman. A crooked smile swept across his face, cracking open enough to reveal teeth stained by years of alcoholism.
“Hell yes.”
The ship groaned and rumbled, knocking O’Connor off the pilots chair to make a hard landing on the deck. He cursed virulently, scrambling back onto his feet.
“Piece of junk,” muttered the man, already checking the ship’s diagnostic report for the frequent hyperdrive failure, “but what the frell? Don’t tell me the diagnostic program has gone all screwy…that will more time at the repair yard than I can afford to pay for.”
The console pinged sporadically, beckoning the man to glance at the sensor screen. He stared it, shaking his head in disbelief. O’Connor spewed out a series of oaths and swears that would have made many experienced spacers blush. Wanderlust rocked again, this time accompanied by brilliant sparks and circuits across the ship frying into charred wisps of hair. The mate stared at the various diagnostics programs which showed systems as increasing going offline, unresponsive, or severely damaged. He vigorously shook his head.
“I am so f-“
***
Belarus-class Cruiser Cougar
A brown-haired woman stood at the Cougar’s viewport, watching the stars flash by the cruising warship. On the far port side, she should just make out a gray blur which she knew was the Mansk-class Escort Frigate Farside: the first of a small group of ragtag ships led by the Cougar. Some were recently procured civilian vessels, others were military vessels crewed by those loyal to the Cougar’s commander: Victoria Pyre. She smoothed out the light gray uniform which she had worn with the New Republic Navy, and then the Durren Planetary Defence Fleet. A dark-haired man walked up the command walkway and gently tapped on her shoulder.
“The target has been disabled ma’am. I don’t know what to expect of her, ma’am.”
“Why do you say that, Lieutenant?”
“Her appearance and sensor scans. She’s not in remotely good repair. It’s unlikely to be running high-end goods, if it was, I’d imagine she’d be in better shape.”
Pyre icily smiled. “You are making some assumptions. Tell me, do you know much about planetary accountants?”
“Well…no ma’am. Why?”
The brown-haired woman moved her fingers to form a steeple. “My mother was accountant. We had money, especially combined with my father’s position as the town mayor. The mayors of the surrounding towns drove hover-limos. Do you know what drove? A beat-up SoroSuub X-35.”
The Lieutenant frowned. “But why? Surely your status and money could get you something better.”
She nodded. “But of course. But my mother, oh, my mother. My mother said that a flashy landspeeder wasn’t a good investment because they don’t have high resale values. It wouldn’t be a sound investment unless it was being used as a collectible. Now our used speeder, on the other hand, was less costly, less flashy, but it certainly could get us from point A to B.”
“Musn’t have been fun to ride.”
She lightly laughed. “On the contrary, it was always an adventure. It was so loud and stuttery that I half expected our repulsorlifts to fail every other trip. This freighter captain could be like my mother.”
“He could,” admitted the crewman, “but I have a feeling about this one.”
“We’ll see. Prepare the boarders. The Wanderlust at least will make a nice grab bag to go with our other goodies.”
***
NDIS Headquarters, Bagsho, Nim Drovis
The two intelligence officers hovered over the conference table, picking up the various datapads containing the reports of tens of NDIS operatives stationed across the sector; each one with a different take on the same story. And despite the massive flux of knowledge about the events, three days of continual analysis, and nearly thirty gallons of hot caf, they were still none the wiser. Colonel Elleshar, the leader of the group, blankly stared at the datapads. He glanced expectedly at a figure standing in the room’s doorway, who exasperatedly threw up his hands.
“You think I have a frakking clue? I’m just as lost as you are.”
Colonel Elleshar wrinkled up his calico-tanned face. “I was asking because this normally is your area of expertise.”
“It is,” affirmed Larek,”but this one…whoever is staging all of these is good. That’s assuming it’s all the same gang.”
“Explain yourself.”
Larek licked his lower lip. “Well, we’ve kept a pretty good database on the local pirates of the area. We’ve even managed to catch some, by luck or their sheer stupidity in being overly predictable. But this one isn’t remotely predictable. He’s not preying on the commerce of a single system. There have been similar hits across the sector, all with the same signs: the new buoys, the missing ships, and the bodies in cold vacuum. The ships never appear again in any of civilized space; even my best black market man couldn’t find a trace of them. It’s like he’s a ghost.”
Elleshar leaned forward. “Almost like a ghost ship. Has there been any evidence or anything we have on the pirates?”
The other man nodded. “Yes….well…maybe. We did find the scrap remains of a pair of X-wings at one site. Most of it had heavy carbon scoring, even on areas which shouldn’t been touched if it was simple space combat. It is almost like they disassembled the ships, threw the parts into space, and used that as target practice.”
The Colonel cocked his head to the side. “Well, that’s certainly intriguing, but what does that tell us? X-wings use to be quite common, and heck, they still are in some parts of the galaxy. Do we know who used them?”
“That’s the thing,” stated Larek, “There haven’t been any reports of missing X-wings or their pilots, on any of the local planetary networks. So I don’t think their users were up to anything legitimate.”
The superior nodded. “Seems reasonable. So what do you make of it then?”
“Well…” hesitated Larek, “there are two plausible options. The first is that the X-wings were part of some mercenaries or other criminal group that got caught by our mysterious attackers. The second is that the X-wings were part of our mysterious attackers. One of the victims fought back and managed to badly damage those fighters beyond repair. So they bombarded the debris, trying to destroy all evidence.”
Elleshar muttered. “Theories. We have theories. And that doesn’t help us in the big picture.”
“Oh?”
“Every system within three parsecs is going into a lock-down mode. Armed forces are all being activated, and we’re having routine navy patrols stopping everyone within sight, and still, we have nothing. Nothing. And until these attackers are caught, we’re not going to have merchants wanting to travel and trade. If interplanetary trade stops, the economies plummet, and we all become more isolationistic than before. Frak us. Frak us.”
“I don’t know sir, there’s still hope.”
“Oh?”
“The Durren Navy is organizing a massive hunt across the sector for the attackers. Every ship it has is sweeping the area in coordinated search grids. They’re stopping and searching any suspicious-looking ship. There are some planets cooperating with them too. Just give it time.”
“I’m aware of that, Larek,” informed the Colonel, “I suggested that our customs force join in the efforts to help further the search; to lend a hand to help ourselves. The Prime Minister shot it down, saying that we need the ships to protect ourselves in case the attackers show up here.”
“What do you think we do?”
“What can we do? All I know is that we’re in a mess, and there is certainly no clear-cut way out of this.”
***
Endurance Mk II-class Fleet Carrier Whitestone, in orbit via Budpock
The small crew lounge of the fleet carrier was as lively as any Coruscanti nightclub. Music broadcasted by the local subspace transceiver station softly droned across the ship’s intercom system. Sailors and pilots casually strutted across the marble white floors to the small bar and circular tables, exchanging coarse jokes along with rumours and tales wilder than the beasts of Onderon. For the less talkatively inclined, there were a dozen heated card and holo games, which dominated the entire portside section of the room. Several men burst out into laughter as a petty office aptly described his misadventures with a date on Soraya.
The frivolity which pervaded the room was in stark contrast to the rest of the warship, whose vast hangars contained dozens of starfighters and pilots already prepared for combat; in less than a minute, the Whitestone could launch two to three squadrons out of its starboard and portside hangar bays. Confederation discipline and regulations ruled most of the ship, but here in the lounge, every man was free from those shackles.
“Hey Kerry, a moment of your time?”
The ship’s captain lazily turned to face the petty officer. “Yes Barnes?”
The other man grinned broadly. “I was hoping you could tell the boys about your early days at RWU, back when you a different person. You know, when you led the protests.”
Kerry squinted his eyes in mock anger. “What you are talking about, idiot? I’m the same person. Oh frak, am I a clone of the real Kerry Brown? No? I don’t know either. Better order those tests Barnes, now.”
Several of the men smiled back; their commander’s antics were well-known not only within the ship, but within the Confederation’s Sector Fleet, especially within incorporated elements of the Reaper’s World Navy. He generated a lively levity that it was said could only be matched by Lucerne’s properness. Brown shook his head.
“Sorry Barnes, now is not the time. I’m just grabbing a glass of Lomin ale before I head back up to the bridge.”
Barnes’ smile grew larger. “Just Lomin Ale?”
“Frak you Barnes. For once I’m being dead serious. We’re making a jump within the hour, escorting another convoy of poor and misguided civies.”
Barnes waved a hand. “That’s nothing new.”
“Very true my good man. But the difference is that there’s a possibility of action. Some pirates have been rampaging around the Sector, blowing up satellites and shit. Oh, and a good number of ships are mysteriously disappearing…oohh…doesn’t that make you feel scared out of your boots Barnes?”
Barne performed an exaggerated nod.
“Naturally,” remarked the petty officer sarcastically, “That’s no small accomplishment. The only other time I’ve been so scared is when you showed me a holo of your girlfriend.”
“Frak you Barnes. If this were anywhere else but the lounge, I’d have charged with your slander of an officer and sentenced you to thirty days in the brig.”
“Really?”
“Nah, just messing with you. See you around Barnes.”