It was a cigarra of high quality. Supposedly of the brand Seth Vinda, a known cigarra cuisenaire, smoked. The thing was sturdy, had a decent weight to it, and appeared by all outwardly appearances to be of the highest quality, just as he had been informed. Smoking was a habit his doctor and security personnel frowned at, but at the same time, was something most 'addicts' seemed to enjoy. "Relieves the stress of a long day," said one college. "Lets you calm shaken nerves when you don't have time for a walk or a moment of contemplation," another had said. Truly, he didn't know what to think of the habit. Health concerns were minimized with proper treatment, yet killing ones lungs one breath at a time was surly something not good for you, no matter how you adored the buzz you got. Isjhe rolled the cigarra in his hand again, before setting it down on his desk. Maybe later. The reports on his desk required his attention at the moment.

The first letter he picked up was dated several weeks ago. It was a security report, and by the wear on the creases, it had been read many a time.

<blockquote>President Kaant
10.2203.300.33

Mr. Kaant,
The attached dossier contains the economic analysis you requested, based off of the interrogation of Meung Mon-Sol.

Jonathan Bennet</blockquote>


To the left of this letter lay a thin dossier, labeled "Economic Analysis, Top Secret". The security level was most certainly far above that of Top Secret, but somehow the intelligence community thought it made politicians feel special to see those bold, red words stamped on the manila envelopes they received. Picking the dossier up with his left hand, Isjhe opened it with his right in a careful, thoughtful manner. The reports inside were mostly mundane things, it was really a compilation of all the rumors and tales the security department had gathered on the subject over the years. Only one page held Isjhe's interest, that of a personalized letter from Jonathan Bennet himself. The man knew how to display the data in a somewhat clear and concise fashion.

<blockquote>...Based off of the information Meung Mon-Sol gave us, as well as the data we have gathered over the last two years, I can safely conclude that the long hidden bounty hunting group dubbed "BHG" is slowly loosing funding. Mon-Sol was positive the group would be bankrupt within a year, incapable of maintaining the standard of living they have moved up to, and thus resulting in the mass desertion of troopers and citizens to other governments and territories. Such a mass desertion would lead to the discovery of the hidden planet these people live on, and ultimately, the demise of the group itself...</blockquote>

Isjhe set the report back into the dossier, and leaned back with his lips pursed in thought. The rumors about the viscosity of the "Bounty Hunters Guild" were great. In the last decade almost any bounty put out had been filled within weeks. If you were a political of the lower levels, without the money to afford personal bodyguards, you didn't look to make enemies. Every intelligence agency in the galaxy had a dossier a mile thick on the group, but few had hard evidence that the group even existed. One or two hunters had been captured, but they refused to budge. Even when one cracked, he was incapable of giving the location of the group away. Information was on a need to know basis, and the grunts didn't need to know.

And now, the group was coming to financial ruin. It was a seemingly fitting retribution to such a government. Yet, Isjhe could not help but admire the tenacity and tact of the group. Able to hold a notoriously every-man-for-himself group of people together for any span of time was an accomplishment worth admiring. And the technology they had developed...

Leaning his chair back into an upright position, Isjhe snagged another dossier off the table. This one was labeled, "Project Stalker", and was quite thick. There was no label of "Top Secret" on this envelope, to even get within sniping distance of the thing you had to have god clearance. The first page was clean and crisp, as if hardly read at all. It was labeled as "Page 156", the last page in the folder moved to the front for easy viewing.

<blockquote>... In summary, the Stalker is in incredible ship. Having put it through extensive tests and trials, I can safely say that the designers and manufacturers of this ship are men above and beyond their time. Their cloak is decades in front of ours, utilizing the same crystals that the Infiltrator uses. We will be capable of reproducing the ship immediately, but had you come to us and asked us to design such a thing we would have said impossible...</blockquote>

So not only had the bounty hunters held together in a cohesive group, but they had managed to recruited some brilliant men to design a ship light-years ahead of anything else available. A superhuman achievement indeed. Setting that dossier down on the table, Isjhe picked up the last folder. It was quite thin, only holding one piece of paper. Titled "Sienar Corp," it too was from Jonathan. The last paragraph read...

<blockquote>...Isjhe, there is no doubt that Sienar-corp is going down the tubes, and going down the tubes fast. The Empire has seemingly left it by the roadside, opting instead to design and develop its own technology. My opinion is to act, and act as quickly as possible. This is probably the best chance we'll have at gaining a technological edge in the arms race. With Sienar's experience and previous designs, our own development department will obtain the needed boost it's been wanting...</blockquote>

Isjhe dropped the paper on his now disarrayed desk, and retrieved the cigarra from the table. He rolled the cylindrical object between his palms for a few moments, contemplating the blur of the end as it rotated. The finest tobacco was stuffed inside this thing, ready for the smoking man to light up enjoy. But he wasn't a smoking man, was he?

And he wasn't a greedy man, was he? Or ... was he.

Before him on the desk lay two decisions to make, four choices to choose from, four futures to deal with. For a moment he contemplated, pretending to himself that he might actually need to think this over. Then, he hit the intercom.

Mandalore...

On this wild world, a group of bounty hunters, mercenaries, assassins and various other criminals once, long ago, took an interest in developing their own, free, society. In short, they wished a haven for all manner of rogues and outlanders, a port of call for pirates and raiders, also the one place where no lawman would dare set foot.

The dream was realized in a small, green, long forgotten planet with its own rich history. Lost to time, it then existed on the rarest and most ancient starmaps, little more then an unnamed gravity shadow not far from a main trade route. Called Mandalore, the very planet chosen to host their society was once home to some of the most notable warrior races ever to touch the galaxy, ironic that it would again host a most savage and yet civilized culture. A great warlord for whom the planet was named once faught alongside the rogue Jedi Exar Kun and Ulic Qel-Droma, first marking the Mandalorians in history. Years after the Mandalorian Warriors and even the Death Watch would make their home on Concord Dawn (the planets historical name), and then further spread the name of Mandalore.

Years passed and the small guild quickly grew into its own Empire. From across the galaxy it drew in the most eleet criminals of countless varied species who, with their families and friends, moved to Mandalore to make a new home and life for themselves. Contracts came in like water through a broken dam, quickly swelling the pockets of the hunters who operated from the jungle planet. In exchange for their services, these tradesmen brought in all the needed goods that were demanded to keep the planet hospitable.

At this time the guild was still dependant on imported goods and supplies to survive the hardships of life on the planet, also to keep their members supplied and working effectively. Realizing this, the population was forced to rethink their strategy.

Some fifteen years after inititally settling on Mandalore the nature and operation of the Bounty Hunters Guild changed immeasurably. The answer came soon enough. No longer could the members of the faction continue to operate like some second-rate criminal syndicate, they would have to expand, and expand quickly. What followed has been called on of the swiftest most ferocious rises to power in recent galactic history.

Some one million beings of countless species currently made a home on Mandalore and swore loyalty to their Guild, some one million beings who suddenly attacked the galaxy from the shadows. Small colonies fell to criminal squads, opposing criminal organizations crumbled as their key members started dropping off while even diplomats and senators began to recognize the authority and independence of the emerging guild. Operations carried out all around their chosen territory soon solidified the complete and total independence of Mandalore.

Assets needed to maintain a quality of life suitable to the guild members were obtained from out-laying colonies, supplies for agriculture, construction and even weather control. Numerous organizations found themselves paying outlandish tributes to the hidden sect as politicians did likewise, neither knowing exactly why, how, or where their funds were going... but too scared to look.

In total secrecy, the planet Mandalore found itself quickly moving up to meet the galactic standard. Guildstowne, the single large city on the planets surface, seemed to grow overnight as still more beings moved from their home-worlds to the promise of Mandalore. A great star-port was built in the very core of Guildstowne while everything else just seemed to expand outward. Wall after wall was built to mark and protect the perimeter of the great city, then passed right over as the population continue to swell. Starship construction was next to arrive, a series of high-technology shipyards appearing in the sky as the years of their boom rolled on.

Half a century would pass. The guild would develop further into a galactic power, fully space-faring and trading with the galaxy at large, its population growing still until some 9 billion beings were making their lives under the protection of the guild. The citizens of the Guild, varied among numerous species, formed a rich culture based on the heritage of Mandalore which incorporated the ways of the Mandalorian Warriors, the Death Watch and countless other noble warrior scets; tempered by influences of criminal and merchant groups like Black Sun and the Trade Federation. Great developments ushered the guild into galactic-politics while the less reputable aspects of the galaxy searched out the guild in the hopes of an alliance. Though to no avail, for even through all the years of its existence, not one outsider would gain any insight into the location of Mandalore or the head-quarters of the Bounty Hunters Guild.

Through-out all of the years of the guild development, only one thing would remain constant and unchanged; Beff Pike.

A creature with the dream, a creator of great new things, and President of the Bounty Hunters Guild. A being about who very little is certain, and all is uncertain. Only one being exists who knows the secrets of Beff Pike, and that being is Beff Pike himself.

He is a true rarity, so much that few could even understand. He is the Anzati, he has lived for years beyond counting and done more then any could imagine. He is changed beyond his natural anatomy, altered to further his exitance... his abilities. Countless aliases surround his personality, able to alter his appearance at a moments notice; never has his actual identity been confirmed. Genetic alterations mark his make-up while cybernetic devices hide beneath his unassuming visage. He has lived more life-times then easily recalled, been from the dark-side of the force to the light, lived as a royal, as a peasant, as a somebody and a nobody. He has seen the farthest corners of the galaxy, explored the deepest nooks of the core, and seen everything in between. He has done it all and through it all, he has remained the elusive predator, feeding on the luck of his prey while leaving no trace as to his comings or his goings.

He raised an empire, and now, it seemed, he would watch it's collapse.







Cool breeze wandered through the spacious hallways of the Spire, some thousand meters above the soil of Mandalore, home to the Bounty Hunters Guild and their grand city of Guildstowne while two men, heads of the guild, sat quietly discussing the fate of their empire in a high stately office.

"How bad is it," inquired the feathered form of Vinder, Guild Inquisitor and among President Pikes most trusted advisors, "are we talking collapse?"

Seated in a high-back chair upholstered in nek-hide, the President of the Bounty Hunters Guild steepled his fingers over his chest with eyes half shut and gave the avian advisor a subtle, but all too noticeable, nod. A nod which the Inquisitor could easily read, having long been in the company of his accepted employer.

Even the thick red velvet of Vinders chair seemed to grow stiff at the thought, stealing what little comfort the diminutive creature enjoyed. Ruffling his feathers in annoyance, the Inquisitor plunged on, "You knew?"

Still, the President remained silent, a twitch of his left eye the only indication that he even heard the question. Slowly, and at length, the shadowy form of Beff Pike heaved a sigh and turned gaze evenly towards the avian.

This was enough warning for Vinder, always the astute observer, and he knew not to push the topic... at least in that direction. Rather, he opted for a different tact, "How long... do we have?"

Beff chuckled, amused by his Inquisitor presumption. Just talking with the alien was like walking on egg-shells, he was exactly the sort of thing Beff enjoyed when sorting his thoughts. After all, if one could remain on ones game at a time like this..."Five, maybe six months, assuming we have no hostilities to deal with. Two, if we do."

Cringing noticeably, the avian gave a momentary look of shock at the concept, though quickly stifled it with an arrogant scoff. Always the tactician, Vinder asked carefully, barely above a whisper, "Outside support?"

Normally, just the mention would earn any guild member a solid thumping about the head, but these were not normal circumstances. Ever since achieving independence outside influence has been avoided at all costs, save for a very limited exception made for the reptilian Swarm. The fight to become independent was the very core of guild dogma, vital to each of its members was a reliance upon the guild and only the guild.

So naturally, Beff's response to the query was enough to shake the poor little avian alien right to his bones.

"Who, Vinder, do you think is pressing our collapse. It's external... all of it."

Having spoken it with such a casual grace, Vinder could hardly bring himself to believe the words of his employer spoke but, there they were and Beff was no one to joke about such things. From his demeanor alone, Vinder was beginning to wonder if... "How much?"

Perhaps too vague for most, Beff understood perfectly. Eyes drifting slowly towards the cealing, he spoke in a low tone, "Everything. All of it."

"Okay, we need a buyer." The avian was catching up quickly, everything starting to come in stride. He hardly missed a beat in his reply.

The President slowly turned his eyes back down to the Inquisitor, a clear no-nonsense look in his eyes. It was clear he was interested in what Vinder had to say. With little more then a subtle twisting of his lips in the corners, he urged the avian on and began a discussion which would last until late in the next day and introduce their one hope for salvation.

A lone cigarette, reduced to cinders, slowly burned away in the basin of a marble ashtray. . . untouched by its owner.


"How can this be?" Came the words of a man hunched over his desk, facing downward into a pile of paperwork. Between his left hand and the desk was a wedged blue folder, emblazoned with the Imperial crest which read in raised, bold lettering, Termination of Buisness.

The man brought his hand smashing back down onto the folder with a frustrated clatter.

"Anacron!" Came another voice, hidden in the darkness of the smoke-shrouded room.

"Why? Why did they have to do this now!?"

His hands slid back of the desk yet still clutching the blue folder and he slumped back into the brown chair, letting its soft upholstery relieve a measure of tension.

"Over a century down the drain, and because of what? A little war-induced downturn in the economy,"mumbled Anacron.

To his left, the smoke began to part and his assistant, Dargrove interjected. "Excuse me, Mr Sienar?" he said softly?

"So, we lost a few thousand . . .billion credits. SO what? It wasn't our fault. That's no need to go and terminate all our future design contracts.

"Mr Sienar!" Snapped Dargrove, grabbing Anacron from his rambling daze.

"Huh?" The peeved secretary strolled over to the edge of his desk and tossed a rather substantial brown envelope into the sea of papers that swamped his table.

"It came for you this morning." Said Dargrove, nodding his head toward the letter.

Anacron lofted a brow with intrigue and leaned up from his deep chair and perched himself tentatively on the brim. His hands drifted up and into the smokey spotlight that was cast onto the table by the small lamp, illuminating the lone envelope that sat in the centre of the circle of limelight.

He stretched his fingers, hearing each knuckle crack in turn made Dargrove's spine tingle so he beat a hasty retreat into the corridor outside. Anacron chuckled under his breath, his knuckle trick notoriously annoyed Dargrove, it was an easy method for getting his rather inquisitive assistant to take his leave.

Gathering his thoughts toward the task at hand, he narrowed his eyes and stared for a good few seconds at the letter lying on the desk. His eyes prowled the bevels and contours of the letter, mulling over its purpose in his mind. Hmm, a letter that thin surely can't be anything important . . .then again, how much junk mail do you see come in such a large envelope? Brushing his qualms and questions aside he leant forward and grabbed the letter with his hands. The perspiration from his palms made ugly moist prints onto the dry brown paper, he sneered in disgust at himself and dropped the letter to dry his hands with a towel.

Grabbing a letter opener from the desk drawer, he hacked into the top and opened it up, messily spilling it's contents onto the desk.

From the lips of the envelope drifted one single sheet of crisp paper that floated down on the smokey air currents and settled on the desk.

Feeling short-changed he shook the envelope a few times in the hope that there was something more. There was not.

Mildly disappointed he picked up the letter and began to mumble its contents aloud.

"Dear mr Sienar,yadda yadda yadda." The beginning of the letter was rather boring, surely a bad sign. "We," who's we? "have a proposition and will be sending a team to discuss buisness matters in seven days." Realising the matter the letter presented, the volume of his tone soared up a notch, "You have a week clean out your desk and prepare for our arrival. Signed, Anthos corporate guild."

Anacron stammered and dropped the letter. His hands, clouded once again with sweat ran up the sides of his head and held clasped over his crown.

"Clean out my desk?" He murmured, dropping back into the chair. "I'm fired?!" He yelled


"I'm . . .fired."

It was the last item on the agenda. Of things the congress was to look at for this day, this was the only proposal from President Kaant himself. It had been a long day for the small congress, composed of only twenty beings, and sweet thoughts of food and pleasant company were prompting more than one member to daydream. The true congressional building had not yet been completed, resulting in a temporary abode in Clakor's local senate. Thirty-two beings were present, all seated around a very large table. Twenty of the beings were actual senators, the other twelve slots were taken by Isjhe, his assistant, and assistants for other senatorial members. The room was relatively large, and fortunately the air circulation system was good.

Several members were reading their copy of the proposal, their eyes widening slightly as they got past the first lines. More than one elbowed the fellow next to him, and in a few moments all were reading.

<blockquote>... in short, the research and development section of our fledgling government is pitifully understaffed and under skilled. We have too few talented people doing too many jobs, and too many untalented people shirking their duties. The outlined action above will not only solve our problems, but also create new avenues. With Sienar Corporation doing our basic research and development, our more talented scientists can be sectioned off to their own promising pet projects.

As outlined above, the current financial state of the Sienar Corporation is a virtual mess. Not only has the company made several high-up blunders, but their latest designs are simple repetitions of previous successes. Inside information also confirms that the Empire has terminated their contract with the company, and has centralized their design projects into other independent and dependent agencies.

If we take the opportune moment, not only will we obtain a reputable business, but also we will obtain the experience of the people who have produced some of the more famed designs of the galaxy.

This is why I am asking the congress to allot the amount of ...</blockquote>

Isjhe watched their reactions with interest. As they read the proposal, each member moved his face a certain way, some were absolute deadpan others seemed to read the letter aloud to themselves, and still others animated their faces into grotesque contortions, a seeming tic of some sort. After several minutes, when all appeared to have read it at least once, Isjhe stood. Placing his hands on the shiny oaken surface before him, he asked the obvious question.

"Any Questions?"

There were a few moments of polite silence; this congress had not yet gotten to the point of immediately ridiculing anything put before it, as the old Republic had in its later days. Then, one of the representatives from Dorthal spoke up.

"Mr. Kaant," she said, "Won't the Empire be a bit peevish if we begin manufacturing previously secret and exclusive designs?"

"Probably," replied Isjhe in a curt manner. "We simply have to assume that they knew someone would perhaps be interested in purchasing the company, and that they decided the risk was low enough to ignore it."

A Representative from Trogan raised his hand, and when acknowledged, cleared his throat.

"A little risky assumption, don't you think?"

Isjhe shrugged slightly in response. "The Empire must have their reasons, unless everyone in the development administration department is brain dead, this decision by them was well thought out. Sienar has become an expensive liability for them, and most of the secret designs have already been stolen or copied over t the galaxy. We would simply be obtaining the original source..."

"Do you believe Sienar to be capable of coming out of their slump?" asked a Bith Clakor representative.

"Yes, I do," replied Isjhe. "They have many brilliant men, I believe a little funding and job security will do them well. If they do not come out of the slump as a corporation, we can always dissolve that and absorb the good people into other departments."

"A brilliant idea, to be sure," continued the Bith, "but how do we know that Sienar will be interested in our offer?"

"Simple," replied Kaant. "Over the last several years, Sienar has dumped several billion credits down the intergalactic waste-hole. They're quite bankrupt. The termination of Imperial support means one thing, true bankruptcy. And ... we have a few incentives for the lead designers."

Isjhe was beginning to feel as if this was some sort of interview, instead of a true discussion. He had a slight inclining that it was his presence that caused it to be such, standing at the head of the table, as well as the thought of food but minutes away.

"As it is such a late hour," he said, and watched the faces of some of the younger members seemingly perk up, "I move that this motion be voted on immediately, so we can all go home and enjoy our suppers."

There was a chorus of Ayes, with no Nays, and the motion carried. It wasn't a paltry sum of money, but at the same time it was dwarfed by a few of the motions the congress had voted on earlier. As everyone gathered their papers and belongings, Isjhe and his assistant exited the room via a small door to the south. Everyone else would exit through the main door to the north.

"Think they'll buy it?" asked his assistant.
"I would wonder if they didn't," replied the diplomat.


*


"It's quite the idea, quite the idea indeed."

Four men stood around a holo-projection of a rather large craft, appearing like an upside-down turtle. By the scale underneath it, it was near the size of an Imperator-class Star Destroyer.

"Think that launch system is even remotely plausible?" asked one of the men, as he read a specs sheet.

"It's plausible, but effective is the key here. It'll take a lot of hard thinken and experimenting to make it work effectively. I wouldn't be supprised if a lot of pilots resisted the idea too."

"Yeah, you'd have to go through a lot of training to cope with something like that, heck, simply being amongst so many of your own would be stressful enough!"

They laughed at that comment.

"So I hear you're going to be on the proposal crew?" said one of the other men, speaking to the third.

"Yeah, taking this over to Sienar to get a second opinion."

"Eh, good choice. Sienar sure knows their snitz.

"Yeah, well, they used to. I don't know about now though."

"Why? Something happen?"

"Sheesh, man, don't you watch the holo anymore? Sienar's almost bankrupt."

There was a long pause at that revelation, for obviously a few of the men present had opted to burry their heads in work, rather than the holo-feeds.

"Still, they know their snitz," insisted one of the men. "I mean, heck, who in the galaxy hasn't heard of a TIE?"

The senate room was cool, spacious and relaxed, factors which helped put Klint Maynar at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. The air was crisp, being imported from the evergreen gardens outside the building by a state-of-the-art ventilation system. The high-set, spotlessly clean windows provided ample light to see by, as well as giving a cheery, sunny feel to the room. Despite this the seating was intimate, with so few people present as to not require a grandiose arrangement. Klint liked the room, and was slightly disappointed that it was only a temporary occurrence.

He leaned forward in his chair as the President pushed the motion, brushing his straggly beard out of the way with one of his four arms whilst listening intently and trying to pick up on the small hesitancies that would mark Mr. Kaant’s speech if the President himself didn’t fully believe in the motion. It pleased Klint to find none. Either Mr. Kaant fully believed in acquiring Sienar and was willing to work hard to make this into a profit for Anthos, or he had a hidden motive but was such a smooth operator that he could slip it past Klint’s nets. Either way, it didn’t matter. As long as Kaant kept his focus outwards, looking at galactic expansion and not turning his devious mind to home politics, Klint was confident Anthos would survive.

As for the motion itself, he had already decided to support it. So when it came to the vote, and it turned out unanimous, he was not surprised. Klint often found himself slipping slightly when he got too comfortable, falling in and out of other peoples train of thought, sometimes even before they’d got there themselves.

Congress broke up and the various congressmen, assistants and aids made for the door, all looking forward to a relaxing afternoon in the waning sun after a strenuous day dictating the lives of others. As he was passing through the door Klint found himself next to another man, who he knew only vaguely as Mr. Vehlek. He remembered then that Vehlek had been sitting next to the Bith from Clak’dor, talking in hushed whispers just before the alien had made his opinion known on the planned acquisition. Had he been wrongly focussing his attention on the President, when it would have been put to better use directed at Vehlek? Possibly.

Klint had a strange feeling when he passed Vehlek by, but he could not rightly say what it was. And then the other man was gone, before Klint could get a proper reading on him. Where did he go? Klint didn’t know.



**


“How did they take it?” Fischel asked, dropping the datapad on the workbench as Vehlek walked into the room. He took a steaming mug of caf over and offered it to Vehlek but the other declined, instead seating himself at the table and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“Good,” he said, as he slipped out of the garment and folded it over the back of the chair. “They were sceptical at first, but Kaant managed to sway them to our point of view. Congratulate him for me when you see him, won’t you.” Vehlek took off his undershirt as Fischel came around the table, a frown suddenly creasing his forehead.

“You’re not staying?” he asked, the note in his voice slightly concerned but mostly annoyed.

“No, I have a meeting with our contact on Belashra. The situation there is getting... complicated.” Vehlek stood up, bare-chested, and began almost absent-mindedly picking at a small scar over his left breast.

“Complicated? Do you need any help?” Now the concern in Fischel’s voice ramped up, and the annoyance subsided. He didn’t know much about the Belashra operation, and if being slightly sympathetic to Vehlek was what it took to get any further information, then he would be.

“Don’t be so blatant,” Vehlek said. Fischel sighed, and gave up. Blood from a stone.

“You’ve still got to give your report,” Fischel said, after a moment more. The annoyance was back, as it always was with Vehlek. Fischel didn’t know why, but the other man just rubbed him the wrong way.

“No time. Here,” Vehlek had now completely peeled the scar off his chest, leaving nothing behind. “I started recording a little earlier than planned; I was talking to Senator Chin. You might like to hear what he had to say about the outburst on Berchest last week.”

“So you’re not staying?” Fischel asked, taking the discarded scar from Vehlek and placing it in a box with similarly inconspicuous objects.

“No time, my flight leaves in an hour.” Vehlek already had his shirt back on, and was buttoning up the front. And without a further word, he left.

“Arrogant prick,” Fischel said, when he was sure Vehlek was out the door and a considerable distance up the stairs. In the distance he could faintly make out the sound of a hovercar, and amused himself for a moment with the notion of blowing it up while Vehlek was still in it. “Highly treasonous thoughts, there... hah! Highly treasonous my arse. The galaxy would be better off without people like him.”

What Fischel didn’t say was that the galaxy would be better off without people like him, too. Although he certainly thought it.

Sighing, he picked up the box and went back over to the workbench. He delicately plucked the scar out and, under the glare of a high-powered work light, peeled off the surrounding skin to reveal a thin strip of wire, which he fed into the computer sitting under the bench.

Then he picked up the datapad he had been studying before Vehlek came in, and went back to sit down at the table. He pulled the untouched cup of caf towards him and took a sip, glaring thoughtfully at the datapad in the harsh light. Disgruntled, he thought of how nice it would be to have a base of operations that wasn’t hidden deep underground in some damp, disused cellar that never got any fresh air or light. Unfortunately the agency wasn’t big on pomp or luxury spending, unlike some of the other government departments.

Snorting, and taking a sip of caf, Fischel went back to reading the datapad.

“Now where were we,” he said, thumbing down the page. “Ah, there. Page one-hundred, fifty-six...”

Between them, each member of the Presidents personal staff had come to the same conclusion; a conclusion that merited immediate action and, perhaps stranger yet, also brought each and every member of the senior board to agree on the same topic. A feat not accomplished in some time.

The issue at hand was one which had been pestering the group for some time. It rotated solely around Meung Mon-Sol and his apparent defection to the Anthos Republic. Normally, Meung himself would not warrant such immediate action but coupled with the loss of a Stalker Corvette, captured by the Anthosains and Meungs part in the initial development of the project, everyone involved had to concede the obvious.

Some time ago, Meung had been reported en route to the planet Clakor, information which had only recently been made public to the members of the committee. Hours later, President Pike was seated at the head of a long projector-table, around which were seated the most senior the inner members of his most personal staff, listening to a situation advisory being given by his Chief of Naval Operations (CNO).

The speaker was tall and lithe, even for his species. Clad in onyx dress uniform, with red piping, his pale white skin contrasted strongly against the fabric. The near-human Nagai had come to Concord Dawn in the early days of the Guild with droves of his people in tow hoping to make a new home for the displaced members of his species. Since that time, the some-odd thousand Nagai had become invaluable members and friends to the Guild.

His name was Jhang Jsu, and since leading his kin to Mandalore he had found a valuable place on Beff's multi-species staff. When Jhang spoke, he was listened to, intently.

"Thanks to the fast action of our President, we have been constantly tracking the position and vital signs of one Meung Mon-Sol." Jhang paused, tilting a nod of thanks to his Commander-in-Chief before going on. "When it became clear that exile was going to be the only acceptable solution to the problem, I was instructed to have a sub-dermal tracking unit placed on Meung without his consent... or awareness for that matter."

"Journeymen Tokken Mon-Sol, Meungs father, is similarly aware of the situation and, as you all know, has been working very closely with President Pike himself in finding a resolution. Mr Tokken is fully aware of the situation but has been asked to refrain from attending this meeting for very obvious personal reasons. Rest assured though gentlemen, Tokken is fully prepared to accept whatever descicions we make regarding his son" Jhang did not bother adding, 'Never-mind that it was his fathers weak will which let Meung get this far in the first place. Never-mind that the only reason Meung is still alive is because of his fathers influence and never-mind what this clean-up-job is going to require of my men.'

Jhang pressed on, "The President and I have discussed a number of tactical solutions to the problem and, should it come to direct action, I feel confident that we will be fully able to remove the target."

"You all have dossiers in front of you which contain all the vital information, but what I am asking of you today is this..." But Jhang was unable to finish before the President interrupted, rising from his seat at the head of the table and smoothing the front of his vest.

"What I am asking of you, all of you... I want your thoughts." A solid, unwavering look of determination passed over his features. "If hostilities can be avoided and we can garner the safe return of Meung, I would be most pleased. If, however; you all feel that direct action is required, I am fully prepared to authorize that course of action."

A wave of silence passed across the table, filling the large well equipped room which had been converted into a tactical center for this very sort of thing. It was Vinder, the Fosh and personal advisor to the President who first broke the silence.

"A trade is out of the question. We cannot risk having the Republicans knowing or discovering just how important the young Meung is to us. Perhaps we could peruse a legal return of citizenry." The Fosh stood from his seat, beginning to pace around the table as was common for the feathery avian when addressing the advisory commitee. It earned a kind of respect-in-motion and required the staffers to turn not just their eyes but their whole bodies to follow the bird-like alien. In this way, Vinder was able to tell who was paying attention and, often, why.

"If we could convince the Anthosains that Meung was in fact a criminal, on the lam from justice, we may be able to conduct some sort of extradition. It would be difficult, however. Especially if Meung has already given them something to bite into. If so..."

Here the small Fosh paused to glance at President Pike, an unspoken question in his eyes. A question Beff easily answered with a subtle, "Hmm?"

"If so, we only have two options, both of which spell the end for young Meung."

The Trandoshan minister of internal security interjected next, cutting the Fosh off, "Two? I sssee only one, we ssssend in a sssstrike team and asssassssinate the target before he leakssss anymore."

"Yes," began the Fosh, utterly non-plaused, "that certainly is one option, though a latter resort, I hope. While I am certain we can get an agent, or agents in and silence Meung, there is an easier way... A considerably easier way."

"I would ask President Pike to continue from here." And with that the small Fosh bowed to the President and re-took his seat beside Beff Pike. Almost disinterested, Vinder turned inwards, seemingly more interested in preening his feathers.

Chuckling at the avian subtle power-tactics, even if being used against the wrong people, Beff Pike started. "The unit I had implanted on Meung was rather more then just a tracker. I requested Jhang use a more advanced device... the sort equipped with a Vital Inhibitor."

Jhang nodded, glad to be relieved of the burden finally.

"We can," added President Pike, "at anytime, finalize Meung. Unfortunately, there is no way we can keep this secret from the Anthosains. They will easily detect the signs and know what happened. The results of which, I am unsure."

Jhang was next. "What about using an agent? I am sure the Mandalore's or the Watch have someone perfect for the task?" His question was half-way addressed to an armored figure seated well back from the table, draped in darkness.

When the figure spoke, it was in a low metallic tone that seeped from a specially designed helmet with the customary T-shaped visor of the Mandalore Warriors. Very little was known about the man Beff Pike had selected as representative for the truest warriors, among the elite of the Guild. "It can be done, though not easily. Much assets will be demanded, much assets. Also, we must use one. One who is expendable."

Unsatisfied, Jhang wanted more. "How do you mean, expendable? Why?"

The Warrior nodded, used to the ways of the navy. "Because, it will certainly not return. Any Journeymen Protector sent, will be lost."

President Pike nodded, "As we have known for some time. Thank you my friend." At this Beff turned to address his whole counsel.

"So there you have it. You know the costs either way, we have exactly 2 hours active time in which to act, the remaining up-time on the implant." Glancing at the wall chronometer, he continued, "I must meet with Tokken Mon-Sol. When I return in exactly half an hour, at which time, I plan to move ahead."

Mummers of acknowldgement came from around the table before the President rose from his chair, offered a final nod to his executive staff, and stepped out of the room.

**
*

"Are you ready Lieutenant?"

The small Verpine computer-tech nodded, antenae pressed back against his head. Behind him stood the obscure shape of his commanding officer, as well as a cloaked figure he fancied had feathers.

"Very well then," spoke the smaller figure, draped in its cloak with a voice like bird-song, "Initiate procedure."

Without hesitating, the tech did as he was told, activating the release procedure of Meungs implant, half a galaxy away. Watching as small red bars on his screen, the indicators of Meungs vital signs suddenly took a abrupt drop, indicating that the primary poison had been released. Then, a moment later, the bars ceased entirely, signaling the detonation of the implant which had been placed so gently aside the heart of one Meung Mon-Sol, deceased.

"Done." Reported the tech.

"Thank you commander, lieutenant... Now remember, none of what you saw here today ever happened. Good day."

It was morning, breakfast had just been cleared from the table, and the Presidential family was leaving the dining room. In a few moments the directors of various departments would arrive to brief the President on various topics, informing him of the goings on in the galaxy, and which governmental leader had his panties in a bunch over what galactic disgrace. This was the time that Isjhe usually spent with is wife at the window, discussing family matters, making plans for the evening…

Not so today. Isjhe's com rang, the emergency signal.

"Yes?" he replied, slightly annoyed.

"Sir… you remember the defector, Meung?"





"Just up and died then, eh?" asked Isjhe, as he stood with his bodyguards in the Clakor military detention ward. The body of Meung was being wheeled out, a white cloth covering it from head to toe.

"Yes, from the tape it appears to be heart failure. We'll have a more detailed synopsis in a few hours, after the autopsy, but our first impressions make us guess it wasn't natural."

"Artificially induced, by… poison?" asked Isjhe.

"That's probable, but unlikely. We've kept a close watch on him, standard procedures.

"Terminated from a distance? Some sort of bodily implant? Was he 'roid?" asked Isjhe, curious. The man hadn't looked like an augmented being, but then with the way internal implants and augmentations were moving these days, one never knew.

"Our first scans on his body when he was brought here detected only a heart device, used to help keep the blood flow steady when in a zero-g environment. Nothing else."

"Hmm…" muttered the president. It was unfortunate, most unfortunate. Meung had been a virtual rainbow-gem mine of information about the Bounty Hunters Guild, as the outlaw group called themselves. He had been under almost constant interrogation, allowing only for the minimal amount of sleep needed. Unfortunately, with his death, the mine had now collapsed.

"Any chance you can still get a dump of his memories?"

"No, sorry. We would have had to have known, and done it minutees after death."

"That's alright, just a thought. Well, send me the autopsy reports as soon as you get them finalized."





"Obviously, this means these Bounty Hunters are intent upon keeping their secret, a secret."

Four men were gathered in the President's office, three of them Directors of different security departments, the fourth the President himself. Only one other man outside this room knew of Meung (besides the prison staff), he was home with the flu. Meung's death had most certainly not been a natural occurrence, as the autopsy had shown. A poison released by an implant original thought to be there to aid in zero-g blood flow had killed the man. Moments afterward, the implant had detonated, liquidating the man's heart. Equipped with a micro subspace transceiver, the device had been initiated remotely, undetected. The poison had killed Meung quickly, but there was no doubt he had known something was wrong. The surveillance tapes showed him waking up suddenly, and clutching his heart. A wild look of dismay had spread across his face, and he had run to the cell door and begun screaming. Then, he collapsed. A moment later, his body had 'jumped' slightly.

"Yes, but one has to wonder," commented the Director of External Intelligence, as he rolled himself a cigarra from the President's available supply of tabac. "Do they implant all their members with such a device? It would be rather inconvenient to do so... Either they implant all their members with the device, or he was a spy and the device a fail-safe of his superiors. highly unlikely that." He lit the cigarra with a match, struck across the bottom his shoe, and watched in dismay as the ensemble promptly disintegrated all over the carpeting, leaving only a scrap of paper hanging from his lips.

"Lick the paper, before you roll it up, like glue," suggested the Director of External Military Forces. He continued, "I would think that according to the profile we've assembled on this group, implanting a tracking device on all their major members wouldn't be completely out of the question. Meung didn't bother telling us about the trinket, so I think it's pretty safe to assume that he had no knowledge about it."

"Yes," replied the DEI, once again trying to roll a cigarra, his rather short fingers cramming a considerable amount of the expensive tabac onto a rather small piece of paper. "Implanting all their senior executives, not too improbable. Must be only people with outside access, they wouldn't need to bother about the civilians, unless they had access to a hyperdrive equipped ship they wouldn't be cause for concern." The DEI's emphases on they made it obvious who he was talking about. He enjoyed being in command.

The DEI licked the paper, snagging a large clot of loose tabac on the end of his tongue in the process (making his tongue look like a fuzzy furball), and attempted to roll the monstrosity he had created. For a few fleeting seconds his eyes brightened as it held, and he glanced up at the DEMF. The other man didn't change his expression or meet his gaze, but looked at the ceiling, seemingly ignoring the DEI. The DEI frowned slightly, and looked back at his cigarra. It was still holding together, somewhat. One end had split a bit. Sticking the split end in his mouth, the DEI once again tried to light the cigarra. The match moved close to the paper tube, and he inhaled deeply, sucking the flame into the object. Once again, it promptly split apart, resulting in another cascade of tabac to the carpeting. With an exasperated sigh the DEI gave up, and slumped back into his chair. He was one of the people who considered tobacco a pleasurable hobby, but only if it came in a usable form. He pulled out his handkerchief, and began attempting to quietly spit the loose pieces of tabac into the cloth.

"Any input Sre?" asked Isjhe, after watching the whole cigarra fiasco.

"Selective insertion of the device is more probable," replied the Bith in a slightly melodious tone. The Bith were renowned for being musical, and it showed. Though Sre claimed not to have a 'musical bone in his body', his voice told a different story. "I would surmise that it was indeed inserted when the subject was asleep, or otherwise incapacitated, and I will also surmise that only those members of the guild who were under suspicion or perhaps assigned to external duty had the device implanted. It is highly unlikely that the device could last forever in the body of a man, there must be a time limit."

"Actually," interrupted Isjhe, "there was a note here from the technical supervisor about a time limit. Let me see if I can find it..." He rummaged for a moment through the reef of papers on his desk, before locating the proper page. "Yes, here, device had a time limit, perhaps two weeks, a month at most. Energy cell not large enough for longer. Didn't you get this?" He looked questioningly at his directors. They looked back, and shook their heads. Frowning, Isjhe checked the date on the document.

"Oh, sorry, this was delivered a few minutes before you arrived. Your copies are probably lying on your desks now."

"So, a time limit, meaning implanted only on people with questionable activities who have access to a hyperdrive powered ship, or like Meung, an escape pod on a hyperdrive equipped ship. Good thinking Sre," commented the DEI, finally completing his oral purge.

Sre nodded in reply, and stayed his normally quiet self. A few more items were brought up and addressed, the DEMF wanted some extra Vigil's for Dorthal, the Director of Internal Security wanted permission to set up a monitoring group on a senator's maid. In less than ten minutes the President's office was cleared, and the President left with a relatively empty desk and, for once, nothing to do. Staring at the scatterings of tabac on the carpeting Isjhe decided that the 'roll your own cigarra' idea had not originated from one of his most inspired moments. He closed the tabac box, and placed into his desk, replacing it with the original cigarra humidifier. Although he didn't smoke personally, most of the Directors did, as well as Senators. It had paid off several times, having a box of expensive cigarra's open for the taking.

Leaning back in his chair, Isjhe contemplated. The death of Meung complicated the plans he had set in motion, to a slight degree. The Stalker was unlocked, and was already being reproduced in a secret faculty far, far away. The databank aboard the Stalker would prove useful, he was sure. Early reports said that the 'cords to Mandalore had indeed been on board, as well as many other very intriguing items. Without Meung, however, they would be going in half blind...

Perhaps he should take up smoking.

The manor was set high in the hills out-laying the great walls of Guildstowne. It was the single greatest structure within view of the city herself, an estate spanning some hundred odd kilometers set on easily ten times that much land. Everything below, even the town, seemed to be dominated and watched over by the palace in the sky, as it often appeared on days of low laying cloud. Aptly named Mandalore Manor, this was the home of President Beff Pike and self proclaimed Mandalore of Concord Dawn.

Countless varieties of architecture could be seen in its design, from all reaches of the galaxy, combined into a chaotic collage of buttresses, domes, pillars, eves and, crafted statues. The over-all impression of the estate, all its buildings included, was that here was something so ugly and so beautiful, as to make oneself both ill and delighted all at once.

As awe inspiring as the place was, like some lunatics dream, it was failing to have any visable affect on its most recent visitor, if any affect what-so-ever. The figure stood stock still in one of the court-yards, patiently waiting while gazing into a small trickling pond set in the center of the courtyard.

Unmoving, large coal-black eyes locked on the pond, even when his host finally arrived, slipping into the yard quietly through an unseen passage. In fact, he hardly twicthed a muscle until the other, the one called Mandalore, was only feet away.

Mandalore, known by few other names, stood fully two heads taller then his guest and was easily twice the girth and weight of the diminutive Bith he had summoned to his palace. Where Mandalore was dressed an expansive flowing robe, the Bith was clad simply in a black jump-suit a tad too large for its frame. As a result, the vac-capable suit hung listlessly from the small shape.

For a very long moment both remained silent, standing as still as storks in the wind. It was Mandalore who broke the silence, his voice low, like the grinding of continents against one another.

"Option, on." Muttered the warrior.

And, for the first time, the Bith figure shook its head, cleared foggy eyes and turned around to take in his surroundings. It was like watching a newborn vek open its eyes to the first light of a great red sun, learning things in instants that would take lesser entities a lifetime to accumulate. Like the vek, this Bith was a natural born killer.

After a time, the Bith standing before its master finally seemed to come to some general internal understanding. Upon reaching that decision, it turned to fully towards Mandalore, bowed its head and spoke.

In a whimsical voice, the female Bith asked, "I am a synthetic?"

This was the first of many questions, to all of which Mandalore was more then willing to provide answers.

For many hours, the two wandered the halls of the estates western development, pausing at occasional rooms for various purposes... None of which would have seemed to be any more then just two friends taking a casual tour within labrynthian halls of some great old museum. They spoke of many things, of galactic polotics, of family life among the Bith, of music and of art. When, after long hours of strolling, the two finally found themselves back in the courtyard, they both noted that the sun had long ago rolled behind the horizon and the night air smelled of rain.

Perhaps at some inside joke, the large warrior Mandalore gave a low chuckle and turned towards the young lady Bith, who had somewhere along the way mentioned her name was Esyl, which Mandalore took to be a good sign.

With a questioning look upon her sublimely smooth features, Esyl looked up at the warrior and realized for the first time since she had first blinked her eyes open to the sight of the pond and its koi-like fish, the very one she found herself before now, just who she was. With an excited squeak she exclaimed, "Oh no! The Band!"

*

Tired fingers played lightly over a tired touch-board, still deftly striking the right notes as if it were some ingrained ability. While equally tired, the other members of the all Bith Band, "Esyl and the Pinks" still managed to belt out one last song before finally calling it a night.

Performing without Esyl was always a trick for the group. She was their glue and their battery, and the crowd had known it. For the past three quarters of an hour they had been playing to an empty house.

It was not until the host, a nasty looking Whippid came around and told them in kind words to; "Pack the void up" that the music finally stopped. And with it, each member of the band seemed to grow ten fold more weary then before.

With a sigh, Eryl, the trump-sax blower, slumped to the floor and commented, "Not the same w'out Esyl. N'the same."

In turn the five other Bith nodded or spoke their agreement, generally upset with the way this whole tour had been turning out. Always the mouth of the rag-tag bunch, Ebyl piped up, "As if it was not bad enough of them to keep us unawares of just where the gig was, they go and steal Esyl from us... Without her, we can not play, I said... Did they listen, certainly not."

Scoffing in kind, Evyl, synthflutist, added, "No, no. Just onto the ship with us. No kind thank yous. Nothing. Just onto the ship. Two darn weeks for five shows. Hardly worth the time. Not to mention playing without Esyl for half of those."

And it was true, none of them could argue against it, the offer had been too perfect. There they had been, stranded on some desolate rock with no ride back to civilization and no where to play, funds running very short, when all of a sudden Esyl found herself in negotiations with a shady Quarren.

"Come, I have a good place for you to play. Large crowds, lots of venues and best of all, great pay." The Quarren had been all charms, treating the motley crew to dinner, drinks and a room. Though each in his or her own right was worried about what sort of thing they might just be getting in to, none could deny that it was the only offer they were likely to get that far out on the rim.

"Concord Dawn," was the name the Quarren had given, and only hours later had the group managed to piece together that Concord Dawn was a planet... Which, quite obviously, not one of rat-pack had ever heard of.

Late in the night, after many rounds of strong drink, much tall talk and what seemed to be good honest companionship, Esyl had signed the contracts, patted the Quarren on the back and tumbled off to bed with the Band, leaving the parting words, "Can.. Canna... Canna wait ta see yer boss."

Before the planets primary had even dared to consider peeking its giant eye of the rim of the horizon, the Bith band were being rustled out of bed, rushed into their clothes and marched along in a little line towards a waiting shuttle, their instruments clutched to their breasts. Still groggy from the fun indulged in the night prior, not one of the little Bith had managed a coherent thought until they were well underway away from the planet...

But, though thoughts were soon enough soothed with piles of credits, food and, drink.

Arriving on the planet of Concord Dawn some days later, Esyl had been negotiated away from the rest on the pretsene of meeting the President and his staff as a private ball in her honor, to which the rest of the Band had not been invited because, as the Quarren had put it; "The people are anxious to see your show. Esyl will return in two nights... she sends a holo."

Indeed, the holo was of Esyl, kindly asking the Band to do their "little thing" without her for the next day or two. She had spoken of recording contracts, publication on the Holo Net..."Everything we have ever wanted guys, I just need to be gone a few days."

Frowning, Eryl glanced at the rest of his fellows, their instruments packed and, in a disparaged little voice said, "I miss Esyl."

*

"Esyl!"

As one, the Band leapt to their feet, dashing towards their heart, soul and, perhaps most notably, sister Esyl Ey, who spread her arms wide and threw herself towards her brothers. "Oh, by the beat how I have missed you all!"

"Ha!" replied Eryl, "I bet you hardly thought of us."

With a good natured poke, Ebyl added, "Not that we didn't think of you. Playin' without you, Esyl... It just is not the same."

"Aww, that's sweet fellahs, but do I ever have some good news for you..."

Esyl smiled as she watched her brothers grow anxious for her news, biting her words until one broke. It was, of course, Eryl.

"C'mon sister, out with it!"

Then, in a song, she sung, "We are going home! We are going home rich and with a record!"

The little office, comparable to something one would come across at a Doctor's surgery or dental clinic, was small and humble. The stale smell of pine-fresh spray hung in the air and mixed horridly with the pong that erupted from the haggered fake leather seating. It was like nasal rape.

In the centre of the room there sat a three foot long glass table. Built so that it sat just under a foot off the ground, designed to destroy the ankles of any wayward walkers clumsy enough to ruffle through the two to three year old collection of magazines that adorned the table top, one of which read in bold red type, Fearson's: Bloodthirsty Tyrant or Misunderstood humanitarian?, old news, even then.

Mouldy ashtray's sat on the small coffee tables that encroached on either side of the old sofa, each illuminated by an annoyingly buzzing lamp. A buzzing that was only dampened by the constantly flicker-sizzle of the neon light strip on the ceiling.

The only real difference between this waiting lounge and a those found in doctor's offices and dental surgeries, was that this one had a window . . .and beyond that a view that could put to rest every abominable stink and every flickering bulb in the room.

Across the room, on the other side was an enormous bay window, its curvature bending out and into the beyond. Past the layer of plexiglass sat the massive superstructure of a planetary construction yard. It's massive building arms arcing downwards as if grasping out at the stars, only to have them slip through the gaps in its fingers. Only the true jewels of the galaxy failed to make it through its grasp, the only things Asakawa lived for.

Starships.

Since boyhood, he had become enchanted with ships, their physiology, their mythology and their integral part in the galaxy in which he lived.

Bracing his left arm on the headrest, and his right arm down between his legs, on the seat, he pried his body out of the smelly clutches of the old couch and stood up, catching his ankles on the glass table as he did so.

Not the most gracious of elevations.

He stumbled backward into the chair, and resorted to muttering swear words and rubbing his poor ankles.

A door to his left hissed open, creaking a little as it went, showing up the true age of the space station for what it really was. The hulking mass, dwarfed in comparison by the shipyards next to where it sat, would probably be classed as a fossil, by today’s standards. Especially with these prehistoric waiting rooms.

Smelly rooms aside, the station itself had an archaic mystique that surrounded it with the power of a planetary shield. It filled Asakawa with a great sense of nostalgia, filling his mind with thoughts of the past, harkening back to when times where simpler, and ships were crude, and built with functionality in mind, not battle or luxury. Times when travelling between a star system meant saying good bye to one’s family, one’s life in order to go fourth a make contact with a new.

“Mr Tyko, we’ve finished the preparations, the construction crews are assembled and ready for your address whenever you’re ready.” The secretarial monotony of the young woman’s voice broke Asakawa from his dreaming.

“Indeed, my Address. Good good.” He struggled momentarily to wrestle himself from the chair before offering his hand out to the assistant.

“Would you mind, miss?”

She sighed, and grasped his hand with an freakishly strong grip, pulling him straight to his feet in a flash.

“Thank you.” He said, making a sharp exit.





........................



The shipyards that Asakawa visited had been building an initial prototype carrier for several months, however more recently, Sienar Corp. had run into several monetary problems and as one might have expected, there had been a cut in funding to the project. Enter Asakawa, the directing officer of construction and technology at Sienar 99 per cent of the time, however, today, his job in this instance was to play the role of motivational speaker to the thousands of workers who plied their trade in the shipyards under his command . . .a workforce who’s jobs were seemingly in jeopardy. Mr Tyko, man of many a false promise and easy pleasing statement, was to make a speech to the workers in an effort to keep working, for the sake of the buisness.

This time however, Asakawa was genuinely desperate for this projects completion. The carrier itself, in theory was state of the art and if completed, a successful prototype could irk innumerable buyer’s attentions.


An exceedingly oversized ball room played host to Asakawa’s address. He would enter the room, spin some of his most gratuitous manipulations, and be on his way. However the crowd that awaited was far from a reserved upper class audience. The ballroom was ready to burst at the brim with irked ire, bounced cheques and generally unhappy people.

Asakawa had to be cautious.


He stepped onto the pulpit to a mixed chorus of jeers and few cheers and a barrage of unwelcome questions.

Stretching his arms wide across the masses, like some insane religious leader, he began to speak.


“Trusted Employees!!! Valued Workers . . .my friends! I’m here before you today to say that we will not close this project down! We will head forward.” Asakawa continued for several minutes . . .pandering to the crowd as he went.



“What’d he say now?”


“Nuthin”


“If he tells me I ain’t gettin’ my money, I’ll go right up there and whoop his sorry ass. That’s what i’ll do.”


”Yup.”


“Maybe for once, he might try flyin’ a eighteen tonne plasma welder in zero-g conditions for 35 hours straight. Dog’gone boy’s got it easy I tell ya.”


”Yup.”


“Prob’ly be a waste o’ma time goin’ up there. He prob’ly got all them fancy security people with big guns and sticks and stuff. I wouldn’t wanna’ go up and have to whoop all their sorry asses.”

”Yup.”

“I need to take a leek . . .”

The first of the stolen Stalkers rolled off of Clakor's shipyards that morning, with no one but the construction droids around to see them. They were quickly staffed with volunteers from the military, specifically rejected applicants for the Infiltrator program. Having less than a dozen available Infiltrators, each taking six crewmen, meant most of the applicants who applied for "Special Duty" had been turned down.

Today was their lucky day. Each received a private notice, a private courier, or a private letter, indicating that they should report to Navy headquarters by 0200 hours, brushed, cleaned, and ready for a trip. For some of them, they had had less than an hour to prepare. From Navy headquarters each man was summoned into a private chamber, where he was informed in vague terms of what he would be getting himself into. The briefing men left little doubt in the minds of the sailors that it was a solitary job, with probably a seven month commitment to begin with. Only seven declined.

Three Stalker-corvettes lept into hyperspace, their band new crews taking everything in. It was so firmilliar, yet so different at the same time. The ship was modeled after a marauder corvette, yet it was far more advanced than the aging marauder design. The very idea of having a cloak gave most of the men shudders, it was going to be just like the ancient mariner battles on the sea. Stalkers of the deep had ruled, and fought in without any recognition at all. They had terrorized the largest surface ships with their deadly torpedoes, and incredible recon capabilities.

In hyperspace, all the crewmen received tutelage from a single instructor. There was only one instructor per ship, as the man himself explained, "These ships are very new to the fleet, once you have completed your tour of duty here you yourselves will become instructors, and so on."

The instructor had continued his instruction, during mess. However, here he briefed the men in a more specific manner than their superiors on Clakor had in what, exactly, they were doing, and what exactly this ship was. "These ships, these Stalkers as they are called, are primarily reconnasance vessels. As the gunners have probably already noticed, there are very few weapon systems on this ship when you consider its length. It is not meant to enter into direct combat, but rather, to feed combat information to the main fleet. In addition to battle recon duties, we will also be doing deep space exploration, amongst other various missions. Right now, we are making a ... delivery of sorts.

The Stalker is a remarkable ship. Because you will be serving aboard this specific ship for the next six or seven months, your superiors feel it necessary that you are briefed on exactly how this ship came about. This is not, as you may have assumed, a project of the Anthos Republic. It is actually a stolen design. Oh, don't act so shocked. Theft on the galactic level occurs with mind-numbing regularity, no matter what the buracrats say. Take the Victory-class Star Destroyer. Once an Empire-specific design, it's now employed by almost all major governments, legitimate or not. To continue on topic, the Stalker is a design of a very shady group. You'll be briefed on them in a few days. We came into possession of a Stalker but a few months ago, when it, and two companion ships and compliment attacked a convoy in the Chagal Rift. You may have heard rumors of it, or even been on the rescue party that flew out to render aid. Whatever you've heard of the conflict, you can forget it all. It's not true. What really happened scared the skin off of every military man who heard of it, and caused every scientist to immediately begin salivating."

The man paused for a moment, and looked his audience over. On a bit of inspiration, he walked up to a younger man and put his arm around his shoulder. "You sir, tell me, what did you hear happened in the Rift?"

"Ah..." replied the man, instantly nervous. Superiors didn't often act this chummy. "Well..." he stumbled over his tongue for a moment. "I heard the Ssi Ruuvi attacked it."

There was laughter from all the men present.

"No, no, the Si didn't attack," chuckled the Instructor. He moved back to the head of the group, still chuckling. "I had not heard that version myself. No, what really happened was rather remarkable. Three capital class ships, approxamatly fourteen blastboat-class fighter/bombers and an unknown number of fighters attacked the convoy, and every single ship was capable of cloaking. Not just a sensor cloak, but a total visual cloak. If not for the very Rift that has plagued our pilots for decades, the convoy would have gone under. The cloaked craft left a visual trail, allowing our fighter pilots the chance to target and severely cripple the enemy. For, despite their cloaking abilities, it has been deduced that their hull and shield strength was lacking. One ship was captured, that being a Stalker. Brought to a top-secret research facility, it was dissected, and re-assembled. And now, we have these..."

The instructor waved his hand in a broad movement.

"Any questions?"

Immediately many sets of hands went up, and the instructor chose one.

"So, this ship is capable of a full visual and scanner cloak?" asked a young cadet, the sonar man for the ship.

"Yes. We will be demonstrating the capabilities later today, once we are far enough out into the open."

The instructor chose another hand, this man a gunner.

"Is this ship brittle?"

"Yes, in a way. It can take a bit of a beating, but again, it's not meant for direct combat. This ship is optimized for stealth, avoiding all kinds of detection systems. How truly tough it is has yet to be tested. Yes, you are the first, you are the pioneers. At least, for us. Remember, this ship is already in production for another group of people."

"What's our mission?" asked another young man, the first officer of the ship. Once the instructor left, he would be captain.

"Right now, firmilrization. In a few days we will be receiving orders as to the real mission, of which even I am unaware. Any more questions?"

There were none, for now. The instructor knew there would be many private questions, but that was what he was here for.

"Dismissed," he said, and the crewmen scattered out to their various posts, eager to adjust each console and control setup to their own personal preferences. Only one man remained behind, and that was the young first officer.

"You have a private question, Michael?" asked the instructor, walking over.

"Yes, sir, if you do not mind."

"Certainly not. What is it?"

"Well, sir, my dad's a scientists, as you know, with a particular facination toward scanning systems..."

"Ah, that's right, you're Johnson's boy."

"Yes, sir."

"No harm in telling you, I suppose, your Dad worked on the Stalker."

"That's what I assumed sir. Um... well, do you mind if I ask how he did? I mean, I hope he did well, he doesn't like to fail. But... if he did well, that would mean this ship isn't really as big as you say it is..."

The instructor laughed, and clapped the boy on the back.

"Don't worry Michael, your dad did reasonable well. He got one reading off the ship, and faint at that. He's working on improving it, naturally. However, I doubt you're in much danger. This ship has legs like you've never seen, and the stealth capabilities will keep you safe. After awhile you'll fall in love."