Sturm subjugated the giddy instinct inside of him to run. Instead, he briskly strode the corridors with his carbine drawn. Various other beings moved around him, their own weapons drawn, and most of them shouting or insulting other people. Sturm saw more than a few punches thrown, more than a few bloodied bodies, and more than a few T’surr security guards trying to break fights up. A cauldron of emotions simmered all around him, threatening to boil over into a flown-blown war. Passing through a security foyer, a T’surr snarled at him.

“Don’t try anything funny. I will smash you.”

“What have I done?” questioned Sturm, discreetly pointing the blaster at him.

The creature snarled. “Nothing yet. You want to try?”

“Not in particular. You’d probably give me a datachip cut,” caustically replied Sturm.

Bellowing, the alien sprinted full speed at him…and promptly fell onto the floor, a smoking hole in the Tsurr’s back. Sturm blinked in confusion. Lieutenant Roscoe strode towards Sturm along with several other Thalassian slavers. The man spit on the prone creature.

“The things have gone all mad at all of us,” muttered Roscoe, “as if we’re the ones to blame for the murders.”

Sturm raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Roscoe shook his head, “The T’surrs are going crazy on all of us. Rumor has it that they’re gonna try and take away all our guns, and confiscate some of our merchandise as payment for this trouble.”

“You’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?”

Roscoe shook his head. “No. I don’t have control of all our ships; the group’s been really split by the Prince’s death. Everyone wants a cut; everyone’s an opportunist, trying to hoard power for themselves. No-one ever seems to want to think of what the Prince himself wanted. And he wanted me to take charge, I was his protégé.”

“I can see that,” agreed Sturm, “that’s why he called for you, isn’t it? You’re the only one he trusted.”

“Yeah, we were blood brothers; you get it kid,” nodded Roscoe, “but it looks like more than a few of the others don’t get it yet. I’m going to have eliminate their competition, and exact revenge on the Zygerrians or whoever killed our Prince.”

“He certainly was noble,” said Sturm, “is there anything I can do for you? You just saved my life.”

“No, I just saved you from some hassle, you could have handled him,” smirked the slaver.

“I still owe you one…”

“You tried to protect the Prince, even against the wishes of your employers. You are an honorable man, and I respect that. But you can’t get that involved with this, unless you want to be marked for death by the Zygerrians…”

Sturm considered. “Could I perhaps guard something of yours, or protect Christa? It is my profession, after all. Call it a return of a professional favor…”

Roscoe barked a laugh, “Take care of Christa kid? You couldn’t handle Christa. Hell, I’m not sure if I even could. I think she might have eliminated more than a few Zygerrians already. We’ll all have hell to pay for that, but we’ll deal with it when we get to it…You know what kid, there is something you can do. The T’surrs want our merchandise, but you can protect it. You have the security droid to help you, and that’s something we don’t have, but we weren’t expecting this; they’re suppose to have done that...”

Sturm nodded. “Where?”

Roscoe pointed at a guy behind him, “That’s Michael; you can go with him to the Bright Dawn; help him prevent anyone from getting onboard, for now.”

The group split up from the scene of the crime, and Sturm found himself trotting after Michael: an ex-mercenary who was quieter than sound in the vacuum of space. Sturm had yet to here him say a word yet. And judging by the man’s use of gestures, he never would. Several corridors and turbolift later, Sturm found himself standing at the airlock of the Bright Dawn: a bulky Y164 slave transport that looked ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. Michael tapped his shoulder.

“I will stand guard at the other airlock. You stay here. Clear?”

Sturm nodded. “Yes.”

The other man walked off and unslung a massive heavy repeater from his back. Sturm winced. Now that’s something I’d rather not deal with. He tapped a button on his headset comlink.

“Crafty, give me a sitrep.”

“Well, there’s sporadic fighting going on within the station between, well, everyone.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, for a little bit. Several T’surr warships are docking with the station to unload soldiers to restore order. But it’s not going to work.”

“Why do you say that?”

Crafty snorted. “The slavers on both sides outnumber the T’surrs. It looks like it’s going to be a three-way-”

“That’s what she said.”

“As I was saying, it looks like it’s going to be a bloody mess.”

“What can you tell me about the ship Bright Dawn?”

“Umm….Thalassian slaveship carrying roughly ten thousand slaves, has a fifteen man crew, over half of whom are on shore leave right now.”

“Who’s still onboard?”

Crafty began to hum. “Well…let’s see…there we go. Captain Xen and his co-pilot, the navigator, and the two gunners.”

Sturm frowned, “Well, who isn’t?”

“The slave handlers or security guards as they are listed. They’re probably busy brawling with the others in the station…”

“Wonderful, can you get them all to the ship’s bridge.”

Crafty snorted. “I’d be willing to bet that everyone but the gunners is there. You figure out a way to take care of the gunners…I’ve got to go..helping out Whisper take care of his own ship.”

“I hear you, good luck.”

“There’s nothing to do with luck,” retorted Crafty, “only my amazing skills which could rival those of a Jedi. In the cyber world, that is.”

“Right,” replied Sturm, “later.”

“Later.”

Sturm pulled out his datapad, instructing his SpyEye to stand watch just inside the ship’s airlock and alert him if anyone got within fifty meters of the door. Sturm set foot within the Dawn with a minute metallic clang. His eyes scanned the cramped corridor. That’s just creepy. Rows of semi-tinted transparisteel walls lined the hallway. Beings of all sizes and shapes huddled within their cells, unaware of the man that walked mere centimeters away from them. Sturm glanced at one cell of some gigantic blob-like beings, and felt no pity for them, which disturbed him: how could he not feel pity for a person, even inhuman, that had had its most basic rights stripped from it? The next, full of children in rags, purely disturbed him.

“Stop. Who are you?”

Sturm turned to the voice, and felt rage whell up within him. A man in a somewhat torn Imperial uniform stood in his way, brandishing a hydrospanner. Imperial navy fatigues. This guy looks like he use to be one of them; probably is, and the worst sort. A specist. Probably helped enslave some people before, like the wookies. Sturm’s blood boiled; his face contorted into indescribable shapes.

“Identify yourself,” demanded the man, reaching for his comlink.

Before he realized it, Sturm pulled the trigger of his carbine, spraying the man with blaster bolts. The last whine of the bolt echoed through the hallway as the man’s body hit the floor with a thud. Sturm kicked the gray and crimson mottled body. It didn’t move. Well, he’s gone now. Sturm heard shouts coming from within the ship. Crap. He flipped the switch of his blaster, and a handful of the Dawn’s other crewmen turned a corner into the hallway. Sturm trained his blaster on the group.

“Nobody moves,” stated Sturm, “put your hands on your head, now. And n otricks, if you doo, you’ll end up like this guy. Got it? Which one of you is Captain Xen?”

“I am,” said a balding man, “what do you want? Are you from the Zygerrians? You are, aren’t you?”

“Take me to your bridge,” ordered Sturm.

Whisper had gone comm silent for quite some time, until that was, he heard the battles breaking out. It was time to come out.

"Crafty, you online? Yeah I thought so. Alright, heres the plan...." He detailed out the long winded plan he had to slip between the cracks, ultimately stealing a Zygerrian ship.

"Wait a sec..." he whispered. Crafty could hear a semiquiet sound of a Zygerrian groaning from a dart to the neck, and a light thud as Whisper caught him and dragged him into the darkness. Whisper packed his own clothes into the satchel he carried with him and put on the Zygerrians uniform.

"Alright, I'm back. I caught up with one of the Zyg Lieutenants, stupid bantha head was travelling alone. From what i understand, these guys barely pay attention to their Human officers, but i look similar to him anyway. Ah, theres a name. Excellent. A Lieutenant on a ship called "Dawn Treader." What the frell? Sounds like something out of a childrens novel. Anyways. From the datapad in his pocket it looks like we've hit gold."

"Crafty, get me the crew numbers will you?"

“Get into the chair,” demanded Sturm, leveling his blaster at the man..

Xen reluctantly eased himself into the captain’s chair. Sturm spared a quick glance across the bridge. Everyone is still in their station; that’s good…except for the gunner…he might not like that escape pod, but oh well; he isn’t useful to me. The captain glowered at Sturm.

“Now what?”

“It is time to go,” replied Sturm, “you will take us all away from the station to a nav point that should be receiving soon. Do you have it?”

“Sir,” reported the co-pilot, “I do have new coordinates from Sancrosanct Spaceport Control. Is…is that what you’re talking about?”

Sturm stared the man down. “Yes. Put them in.”

“Belay that,” said Xen, “Not one of us is moving until you tell me what’s going to happen to us.”

Sturm snorted. To hell with you. Sturm pulled the trigger of his carbine, emitting a blue pulse which knocked Xen back into his chair. Lowering his blaster, Sturm made eye contact with the rest of the bridge crew. He cleared his throat.

“Stun bolts typically aren’t that terrifying, but you see, I don’t intend to kill Captain Xen here. I intend to make life not worth living. How long do you think he’ll last with his berth with your merchandise? Or perhaps I should say, how do you think he will enjoy his stay?”

The navigator merely winced. “Not terribly well.”

Sturm nodded. “It’ll be worse than death, I bet. Cooperate with me, and you will not be harmed. Are we clear?”

Most of the crew glumly nodded.

“Good, now take us out of here.”

“Yes sir.”

The Bright Dawn completed its departure checklist, and shot away from the chaos which enveloped Sacrosanct Pitstop. The slaveship jetted pass the system’s warships, made a jump into hyperspace, and reverted in the midst of a small fleet of Alliance warships.

Whisper slipped aboard the Dawn Treader, wandering its halls. These men seemed much more laid back. As it were, there were only humans on the ship for the moment, the aliens must have been off dealing with the conflict.

He stopped to salute a young man with a private ranking, who thought it best to salute any superior officer apparently. Whisper then carried on, moving forward into the hatch.

"Gentlemen, this is not a drill. We have new orders. The Captain has been relieved of command, and I will be taking charge as per the Charter of this ship. We will make our leave of this place. Now."

Those simple words, were unquestioned. Whispers military training saw to that. They knew to look in his eyes that it was not a time to question his authority, something he relished.

"Helm, on my order you will set course and deploy. We must confirm with our second ship, and then we will leap out together. Wait one."

He stepped back, and tapped into the communications device, signalling Crafty, who took their ship back, and Stormy, on the other ship.

"Coordinates?"

Coordinates (229,146,311).

The slaver reverted into realspace in the midst of a small patrol of Warrior II Corvettes, under the command of Captain Tite. The Halberdier immediately jetted towards the slave ship to board it with Alliance marines; the slavers grumbled. One of the men slowly rose up from his chair; Sturm immediately trained his carbine on the man.

"Perhaps you would like to join your captain in one of those cells."

"Ah sir..." replied the navigator, "I know you're not a man to be crossed. But I really have to use the refresher, really, really bad."

His hands raised, the navigator slowly tread to circumvent around the Alliance soldier. Sturm spared a glance at the others on the bridge. You want to stay, you look ready to spring up on me...Sturm pulled the trigger of his carbine, cutting down the navigator in a flurry of stun bolts. The slaver whacked his head on a bulkhead as he collapsed onto the floor. Sturm immediately swung back around and pulled the trigger of his weapon; gunning down the alien before he could fully rise from his seat. He swept the tip of his barrel across the bridge, eying each man carefully. A loud screeching sound reverberated from the corridors and was followed by a crash.

"It's over," said Sturm, "my men are here. Give it up. Your slaving days are over..."

Whisper nodded.

"Helm inlay course 229,146,311."

"Aye sir." came the befuddled response. Man this was almost too easy. Amazingly, he'd come across the one ship filled with enough people that knew it was simpler to not to question orders.

A short hyperspace jump later, the Lieutenant, Whisper was in his quarters, and He received a call from his helmsman.

"Um sir, we were just pulled out of hyperspace, and there is a significant fleet of ships sitting in front of us, what the hell should we do?"

"Put your hands in the air, up! NOW!"

For once, Sturm wasn't the one giving the orders. Some rather jumpy Alliance marine sergeant with his boarding team was rounding up the slavers and handcuffing them one by one. Sturm stood next to Captain Xen, recently (and barely) recovered from one of the slave cells. He snorted. Doesn't look so good. Probably will have to spend some time in the med bay on the Halberdier. If he's lucky. Maybe we'll just end up marooning him on Dagobah or some other ridiculously remote planet. Let him and his pals take care of themselves. A red-haired man wearing an officer's uniform strode up to Sturm, and offered him a hand.

"I'm Captain Tite. You are Julius Gavin, right?"

Sturm shook his head. "No sir."

"Excellent. Sorry, we had to make sure you weren't replaced, Stormy."

"I see sir."

That makes sense. If some slaver had taken my spot, they would have just tried to get by using my cover papers. But my cover papers won't work in this situation; Tite obviously knows enough to know my codename. Tite gestured him to leave the other captain's company and follow him through the corridors of the ship.

"We'll have a prize crew put aboard pretty soon, and they'll take it from here" informed Tite, "but in the mean time, Command wants you to take one of the Halberdier's conference rooms for your team's debriefing."

Sturm raised an eyebrow, "And what is their status?"

"Crafty came back on the freighter which took him there, along with a bunch of drone barges he hacked. I'd imagine that Whisper is onboard the other slaver ship that just appeared in the area. Don't worry, we'll have the ship soon enough if we don't have it already. It's not like the slaver can take on a bunch of our newest gunships."

"I see sir."

The duo passed through the airlock into the Halberdier's interior, and into a different world. Whereas the slaveship had been purely functional design barely kept in a worn condition, the Halberdier was ridiculously well-fitted with luxurious accomodations more fitting to some diplomat's yacht, just like the rest of Rendili's Warrior IIs covertly produced for the Alliance. Tite gestured to a door to their right.

"Here's one of the rooms, you can just take it, and I'll have my people redirect the others to join you when they get onboard."

"Thank you sir."

"Pleasure meeting you," replied Tite, taking his leave of the resistance fighter.

Sturm into the conference room and plopped down into a seat, waiting for the others to arrive.

"We're receiving a transmission. It says, Surrender and be prepared to be boarded. We're not actually going to listen to that, are we Sir?" the young helmsan asked.

"Well, Sargeant, what do you think? Those are much larger and more armed ships. Stand down."

"You can't be serious sir. They'll arrest all of us!"


"Thats a chance I'm willing to take."

Warrior II-class Corvette Halberdier, Deep Space

The door whisked open to the conference room, admitting the slicer known as Crafty. Somehow, the guy seemed to ooze confidence. Sturm slightly cocked his head.

"Well, someone's looking very happy with themselves. What did you manage to do this time? You got that long elusive date finally?"

A huge grin broke across Crafty's face, "Nah, I just hi-jacked a dozen drone barges on the way out. And guess what they were carrying?"

Sturm blinked. What would a bunch of drone barges be carrying at a slave trade center? Good maker, people? They couldn't be that insane, could they? Alex shook his head.

"Waste. I stole their garbage ships. Can you imagine the mess that's going to make for the station? It's going to have to go inoperable if they can't even keep the most basic systems working."

"That's really great," said Sturm, "now what are we going to do with someone else's trash?"

"Umm...I don't know...but hey, we got some support ships out of it."

"That's true," admitted Sturm, "and the maker knows how badly we need garbage scows. Do you see how filthy this ship is?"

"Yeah, what the hell is up with this decor? Is our navy getting all the funding now?"

"I don't know, but I'm not complaing," said the fighter, "we get to enjoy the luxury until we get back to base."

"Where's Ghost?"

"I don't know. He's suppose to be here shortly though. This Captain Tite guy said that they had just boarded his ship to take control of it. Once he's here though, we can get on to debriefing and what not."

He took a few moments, changed his uniform back to his original clothes, and folded the stolen uniform and kept it. He took time to comb his hair and freshen up for a few moments, before he entered.

Whisper walked through the door, several minutes later, having faux surrendered his "ship" to the Alliance Forces, and had them take it over, leading him out as a "prisoner". He felt it was important to keep up the guise, in the off chance he'd ever be needed to operate with the slavers again, the cover would be necessary.

"Miss me?"