Wanderer's Home had become just that to the Wandering Ones, so much so that a second deepdock, the Wanderer's Haven had been procured for the elements of the organization that were still operating in Hutt Space. Still keeping up appearances, Jarvis thought. The truth was: Jarvis kept elements of his force operating in Hutt Space to hide how large the Wandering Ones were becoming; to disguise the fact that they were assembling more and more ships and crews with each passing month.

With their assistance from the Alliance secured and the Kathol Alliance having grown large enough to sustain itself, Jarvis had begun focusing on military buildup; pure, uncompromised hurting power. The vast majority of the Wandering Ones' combat capacity was still found in light warships, starfighters, and converted bulk freighters, but the number of these vessels were growing at an alarming rate.

The dual Imperial/Hutt actions within Hutt Space served to conceal the Wandering Ones' total combat actions somewhat, as neither group was keen on working with the other against Jarvis or his subordinates, but still the majority of these new Wandering Ones vessels and crews were being flown out to deep space where they would run drills, learn strategy, and mostly just wait.

Of greatest advantage was Jarvis' capacity to rotate out damaged vessels for fresh, standby replacements, maintaining an almost-constant appearance of an invincible combat force. Transponders were even traded to this effect, and with two operational deepdocks serving as repair yards, damaged ships were back to combat-ready status in a flash.

As it stood, the Wandering Ones had reached a state of equilibrium, where total profits from "commandeered" Hutt and Imperial goods (plus what assistance the Alliance proper was able to spare) just barely kept the organization maintained. Jarvis could dispatch more of his fighting force to raiding and piracy duties in an effort to bring in more goods for use, barter, and sale; but that would tip his hand and show the Empire and the Hutts just how powerful he was becoming. That was a fact he wasn't ready for his enemies to know, yet.

And with new friends around every corner (thanks to the Alliance), the problem of equilibrium would soon be solved, and Jarvis' greatest asset could be fully exploited: belief.

It was strange, but Jarvis Ragnar and the Wandering Ones had built something of a following within the underworld. It was a story out of fantasy for many of them: an abused and betrayed Ryn striking back at the behemoths which had wronged him, fighting against all reason and by whatever means to punish those whom justice had turned a blind eye to.

It drew a certain sort of lowlife, a particular kind of battered and weary soul. These people had lost their faith, had lost their hope for a brighter future; Jarvis gave them the best substitute their broken psyches could ask for. He gave them vengeance.

They thanked him for it.

But most surprising were the origins of these people who came to call themselves “Wandering Ones.” More and more Jarvis looked to the faces of his subordinates and saw images all too familiar: they were Vodran, Nikto, Klatooinian, and Nimbanels . . . even some Toydarians here and there. They were Hutt slave species, hailing from worlds who had spent centuries or even millenia under the indomitable grip of the Hutt Empire. They were people who knew why Jarvis fought, because they too had seen what evils he had seen.

But Jarvis Ragnar had not slipped silently into the night. He had not embraced fate. He had not welcomed death. He had not bowed to their superior might. Jarvis Ragnar had challenged the Hutt demon, the Imperial fiend, the Slaver filth of “civilization”. He was not a just man, but he was a right man; always his unbounded wrath fell upon the deserving. And in that they all found strength.

Before his voice, however, they cowered in fear. “What are you looking at, worm!” Jarvis grabbed the Vodran by his chin horns, jerking his head uncomfortably. His voice dropped to a whisper, his piercing gaze drawing the recruit's eyes even as he tried to look away. “Do you realize what a terrible mistake you have made? I bought you with the blood of my best men, and you sold yourself back to me for nothing. You knew your worth by what I paid for your freedom; why did you ask nothing for me to own it again?”

The Vodran gasped in fear, his eyes drawn wide at the anger on Jarvis' face, only centimeters away.

Jarvis released him and walked away, surveying the others casually. He used to meet every batch of new recruits personally, but duties in the Kathol and the growth of the organization made that impossible now; it was good to get back to old habits, even if for only a while. He would always give them a different version of the same speech, but every now and then something unexpected would happen. Every now and then one of these newcomers would get to him.

Most of this group was freed slaves, captured before the Hutts could get them to market. An Imperial patrol had interfered this time; the squadron of Wandering Ones corvettes left the burning hulls of the Imperial ships as a marker of its defiance, but the Imp bastards had cut a hole through the raiding force before finally being put down.

These people knew what awaited them, they had seen it from between the bars of their pens. And still they lined up, signed on, and marched to Jarvis Ragnar's tune.

“I do not ask you to be as good as the men you replace. You need not be as fast, or as clever, or as well-learned. I demand, however, that you give me no less devotion than they. If you do not―if you cannot―then you will not survive to fight your enemy.” He stopped his pacing, turned to regard them directly. “Freedom is an illusion that we will no longer bother ourselves with. You belong to the Wandering Ones; the Wandering Ones belong to me.” I belong to the Alliance. “From this day forward you eat, you breathe, and you die by my word.” He walked back to the Vodran, eying him sceptically. “Stay alive until I find a death worth your cost.”

And to Jarvis' surprise, the Vodran nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Every now and then, one of these newcomers would get to him.







“I have to admit: this is highly unusual.”

The Bothan snarled in frustration, his fur rippling with the obvious signs of fear. He made no attempt to struggle against his restraints, instead staring intently into the darkness which enveloped the remainder of the room.

His new master studied him within that ring of light, that precisely calibrated circle which separated the captor from the captive. “It's not every day we get a Bothan knocking at our door.”

“I have . . . information, for Jarvis Ragnar,” The Bothan said, obviously uncomfortable at revealing this to an unknown entity.

“That is a dangerous name, Bothan. Be careful when you use it.”

The Bothan's neck twitched nervously, his fur rippling again. “I am Lieutenant Ziv Bar'akai of the Bothan Defense Fleet. I have been commissioned by the Bothan Spynet to serve as liaison with Jarvis Ragnar's Wandering Ones.”

“Why not send one of their own operatives?”

The Bothan turned toward the source of his captor's voice, narrowed eyes stabbing through the darkness and directly at the unseen man. “Because they don't trust you with one of their operatives.”

Jarvis Ragnar stepped into the ring of light, tilting his head downward to talk to the restrained Bothan. “You're unimportant enough to throw away, but trusted enough to use. Why is that?”

“Because my family was on Bothawui?”

Jarvis didn't buy it, and made that clear.

“Because my uncle owns your first target,” Ziv said more firmly.

That sounds more like Spynet thinking. “Go on.”

“The clans of Sennatt have historically been very influential within the Bothan Council; their manufacturing capacity secures them debts against every element of the Bothan bureaucracy. With the loss of Bothawui and no official declaration of a new First Secretary, they've become the centerpoint of governance for an entire subsector of Bothan Space.”

“Whoever your uncle is, he doesn't lead a planet's worth of clans,” Jarvis said, his misgivings clear.

“No, but he owns the company that employs them all.”

Jarvis mulled it over for a moment, trying to trace out the forces at work here. He had been reading the reports, familiarizing himself with the new Bothan political structure―or perhaps more accurately, the lack of one. Bothans were tricky; it was hard for outsiders to figure out what exactly would make them dance. But in this new galaxy, where so much is uncertain: when the man running the show tells you something is a good idea, you play along, no questions asked.

“We get your uncle, we get Publictechnic. We get Publictechnic, we get Sennatt. We get Sennatt, we get a dozen worlds.”

Ziv nodded. “Pretty much.”

Publictechnic was the largest manufacturer on Sennatt. At first glance, one might not see the connection between such disparate production sectors as Publictechnic's heavy industrial droid production and the military production factories which dotted the world, but a closer inspection revealed Sennatt to be a world inextricably bound to Publictechnic's fate . . . and its will. There was an industrial hierarchy on the world, and when Publictechnic called, everyone answered.

Jarvis smiled deviously and nodded to himself. The rest of the room washed with light, and Jarvis Ragnar strode toward the door. “Thank you, Ziv.”

Ziv struggled to turn around and look at Jarvis. “What? Wait, what happens now?”

Jarvis paused at the door. “I'm sorry, but now you have to die.”

Ziv Bar'akai blinked several times at the image on the datapad. “Who was he?”

“He was you.”

“No. Who was he really?”

“A Bothan came to see me, and a Bothan left . . . in a body bag. That's all that matters.”

“I don't understand.”

Jarvis leaned across the table separating himself from Ziv Bar'akai. “I need you to take a message to your boss, and I don't need anyone else knowing about it.”

“My uncle?” Ziv asked.

“Your Spynet handler,” Jarvis clarified.

“But what about my uncle?” Ziv persisted. Like a good little soldier he remembered his mission, and his mission was to make Jarvis Ragnar and Rolk Bar'akai very good friends.

Jarvis stood up straight, nodding in approval after a moment of careful study. Yeah, this kid will do. “I'll worry about your uncle; you just deliver that message.”

Ziv cleared his throat, meeting Jarvis' gaze unsteadily. “What would you have me say?”







With the door sealed and the sweep finished, Jarvis waited for a sign to proceed. Slippy, the blue-furred Squib that handled the space station's day-to-day affairs, nodded to signal the room was clear.

“I've asked the Bothan Spynet to help me weed out any spies we're sure to have picked up.”

Zyras Lunewell stirred at the statement, uncomfortable with what Jarvis was saying. “Boss, you don't really think . . .”

Jarvis turned to him. “There was a time when we were four crews three days away from total annihilation; when we had less than five hundred heads to account for, and every one of them was known personally by one of us. I've got fifty 'captains' now, twice as many 'commanders'. We've got two thousand dedicated 'home base' personnel per deepdock. We have subdivisions of our organization. We have our own 'Cargo Fleet,' a 'maintenance division,' a 'communications network' . . .”

“We have fifty Captains now?” Lejo asked, his lekku twitching at the thought of his position being so . . . mundane.

“Close enough,” Slippy said, her perfect memory of the whole organization's total resources the only reason the more militant-minded of Jarvis' “inner circle” put up with her.

Jarvis' cold stare was all that was needed to get the meeting back on-track. “There's no doubt in my mind that we've got spies aboard. Why do you think I pulled Hojim from ground command?”

“I figured you didn't trust him,” The Duros, Kaana Eronos, admitted.

“He's working on internal security for me.”

Zyras perked up again. “So he's not here . . .”

“Because I don't want you knowing what he knows.”

“But he knows what we know?” Slippy asked, hurt.

Jarvis nodded.

“Have you considered the possibility that the Bothans have spies of their own in our midst?” Zyras asked.

“Of course I have; I'm counting on it. But the Bothans understand that if I catch a spy on one of my ships, I'm killing them, no questions asked. Spynet, Alliance Intel, Hutt henchman . . . doesn't matter to me; they're all just as dead.”

Kaana glanced at Zyras, making sure he was done. “What about the lieutenant from the Bothan navy?”

Jarvis sighed. “I faked his death so nobody would suspect I'm getting help from the Spynet. Don't want them getting jumpy before it's time for the culling. The deal is, once they've helped me get rid of my rodent problem, he can come back and play his part as 'liaison'. Until then, if he shows his face around here, I'm going to have to kill him for real.”

“What's our new mission?” The Gand asked, a sign that he was ready to get down to business.

“Zyras, Lejo, and Gand are heading back to Hutt Space for business as usual. I'm taking Kaana with me because these Bothans are going to need some convincing that we aren't your average merc band. Slippy, you're going to have to take a break from 'Home Cleaning' in case I need a comprehensive list of our assets.”

“Aww, but if I get behind, it takes twice as long to catch up, and then there's all the new stuff that comes in, and if I'm not careful, things'll just keep piling up until―”

“Slippy!”

Slippy sighed, defeated. “Well, it was worth a try.”

Jarvis rose to his feet, one last look at this core group of followers, these vital few who didn't have the vision, but didn't need to, because their Boss did. “We're stepping into a whole new arena. This isn't business as usual anymore; we aren't dealing with underworld contacts and turncoat Imperials. We're winning over a species. We're rebuilding a nation. I know it's not what I promised you, and I know its not what you're ready for, but we're it. It won't be an easy sell, but we've graduated from fear tactics and bomb threats; if we want to see the Combined Clans rise up against the Empire, then we're going to have to stop being terrorists and start being Rebels.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ragnar?”

Without a glance at the immaculately groomed Bothan on the other side of the thick greel wood desk, Jarvis pulled a large rectangular object from the handbag he had set at his feet, depositing it heavily on the desk.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rolk Bar'Akai gasped, his every feature betraying his thought: The Spynet sent this alien to kill me.

Jarvis read the terror easily, suppressed a smile. When he removed his hand from the edge of the metallic block standing between them, it opened of its own accord, the protective shell falling away to either side. “I'm inducting you into Alliance High Command.”

“What?”

Jarvis Ragnar flashed a toothy grin as the translucent hologram composed itself above the device. “I'm probably not supposed to see this, but hey: what do I care about the rules?”

“What's the meaning of this?”

“Just watch.”

As the preset program ran its course; Rolk Bar'Akai, Chairman and CEO of Publictechnic, and Jarvis Ragnar, terrorist-turned-Rebel, gave the device their total attention, each of them aware that they may never see this information again.

It showed the ongoing conflict within the Trax Sector, secret base of operations for the Alliance-aligned Inferno Fleet. It showed the growing Alliance influence in the Kathol Sector and its resident Republic. It told of the growing Coynite rebellion and the work to turn their neighbors to the cause.

Images of Yavin IV and Yavin VIII, estimated fleet strengths and the vaguest hint at Alliance Intelligence's reach. It dragged on and on, reciting statistics and explaining inter-dependencies.

Jarvis felt realization dawning on his pair of companions as first Kaana, and then Slippy realized the why Jarvis had really brought them along. They were here to see the true face of the Alliance, to know what Jarvis knew. They were here, because he trusted them to do more than kill Imperials; he trusted these two to build a Republic.

The show ended abruptly, the hologram vanishing and a faint trail of smoke rising only a second later.

“What? What's it doing?” Rolk backed away, suspicious of the smoke.

Jarvis grabbed the case and stood it back up around the device, squeezing the corner that had activated it initially. “Nothing to worry about; security measures. It'll be little more than disassociated metal fragments before long.” Finally managing to snap the cover back together, he added: “No reason in messing up the furniture, though,” and tucked the box―now issuing a faint hissing noise―back into his bag.

“So!” He exclaimed, slapping his hands on the table, “now you know what we've got. Your turn.”

Rolk shook his head, the faint rustling of his fur sign of his shock. “I . . . I don't . . .”

“Look,” Jarvis said firmly, interlacing his fingers atop the desk, “I know you're the guy, the one to make this all happen. You know what I've got now, so tell me how much of it you need.”

“Mr. Ragnar―”

“Jarvis.”

“Mr. Ragnar,” He started again, the businessman in him finally finding something to grab on to. “Whatever you have been told, I am a simple private citizen. I have had the good fortune of inheriting my father's business savvy―”

“And connections,” Kaana interjected.

“―but I am nothing more than what you see before me.” Smiling, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his arms, palms up, as if showing he had nothing to hide.

This very response was why Jarvis' bag had a second compartment. From it he tossed a folder onto the desk, the force causing its contents to slide partway out. Flimsi, for when you want to make an impression. “You should know better than to trust friends in the Spynet, Mr. Bar'Akai.”

Rolk stiffened as he opened the folder and saw the first page. “I . . .”

“My name is Jarvis Ragnar, and my face is the face of vengeance. The contents of that folder mark you as an enemy of my enemy, and the enemy of my enemy I do not shoot . . . yet.” He chuckled as Rolk's eyes snapped to measure him after that last word. “Now I know a certain frozen wasteland with two hundred thousand Bothans chanting 'ar'krai' across its surface, and I'm wondering why the man who gave them their heavy industry droids to dig out a complex beneath the ice would sit not two meters away from me and lie to my face about it?

“Why would a man do a thing like that, Slippy?”

The Squib perked up at hearing her name; Slippy always liked to feel important. “Because half of his clan lived on Bothawui?”

“Because half his clan lived on Bothawui,” Jarvis affirmed. “But he's too much of a coward to tell anybody.”

Rolk was growing indignant. “Mr. Ragnar, I will not―”

“I think you will, coward; I think you will.” The Ryn terrorist and the Bothan businessman spent a long moment staring daggers at one another, and while Rolk made no move, Jarvis was glad to see that he didn't back down, either. “We all have our regrets that brought us here, Mr. Bar'Akai; what are you going to do with yours?”

“I will do what I can to help you fight the Empire, Mr. Ragnar, but I have a responsibility to protect those under my care. The Imperial action―the atrocity―of Bothawui is most unfortunate―”

“Unfortunate!? They burned your home to ash, with your family still inside!”

Rolk's features soured, and finally he broke from Jarvis' stare. “My wife and children are safe, here; I will do all I can to ensure they remain that way. But Bothawui . . . the Empire: I cannot fight that battle.”

Jarvis rose from his seat, his eyes never wavering from the disturbed Bothan. When Rolk refused to look at him, Jarvis leaned over the desk, his lips curling to form unfamiliar sounds: “Cor'ju vith'nah taz op frey.”

He turned and left without another word, his faithful following close behind.

With the door shut and only the sound of six feet echoing through the corridor, Slippy asked the inevitable question: “What'd you say in there, Boss?”

It was only then that she noted his stern features, his total detachment from the world he was now walking through. She bowed her head a little and fell a few steps behind, knowing Jarvis was best left alone in these moments.

But Kaana knew that this time, Slippy deserved an answer. “'The enemy shall become dust or we shall.'”

Slippy gasped, even the little Squib recognizing the definition of Ar'krai, that word first written of in the ancient Bothan tome: The Way.

To speak those words in their original language was the most binding oath in Bothan culture.

Publictechnic had extensive ties throughout Sennatt's vast industrial infrastructure. There was a whole network of smaller manufacturing companies that were not owned by the massive droid production company, but produced components exclusively for it.

Of greater interest to Jarvis Ragnar, however, were the more diversified companies. Because they make guns, too. More specifically, they made warship components for the Bothan Navy.

“As I was saying, many of our largest 'droids' are basically automated starships.” Rolk smiled at the sight, the skeletal monstrosity framed in the viewport. “Exterior starport repair droids, superfreighter tenders, remote deep-space relay maintenance . . . we've got a whole line designed for the unique difficulties of asteroid outposts.”

Of course, Jarvis wasn't listening to Rolk. He was too busy taking in the sights. “You Bothans don't play around.”

“We learned long ago that centralized military infrastructure is the surest path to destruction. The Empire took the shipyards at Bothawui, but they didn't take the Bothawui Shipyards.”

“How long?”

Rolk considered the question for a moment, the military shipyard growing closer with each second. “I cut my deal with the Spynet and Military Intelligence two years ago. In all this nonsense, they're the only organizations that have maintained any sort of cohesion.”

“And they're why your mini-empire here has been so stable all this time?”

Rolk's features darkened at that. “Don't ever use that word to talk about us.”

Jarvis had hit a nerve; he liked knowing what could push his counterparts over the edge. “I'm sorry.”

Rolk shrugged it off, content with the apology. “Publictechnic has had a lot of clout in local affairs for a long time, long before I was here. When things started falling apart, people turned to whatever was left standing. Publictechnic was left standing.”

“You really want me to believe the Spynet's not helping you out?”

The Bothan's fur rippled at Jarvis' accusatory tone. “We are pursuing mutual interests. Resource sharing is to be expected.”

What a very Bothan thing to say. “And your 'mutual interests' are?”

“A free and stable Bothan Space.”

“And if you just so happen to be at the top when Bothan Space become free and stable . . .”

Rolk turned away from the view of the Bothan Assault Cruisers nearing completion, suppressing a smile as best he could. “Why, Mr. Ragnar, I have no idea what you're talking about.

“You're in, then?” Jarvis asked, completely serious.

Any hint of humor vanished from Rolk Bar'Akai as he met Jarvis' eyes. He pointed to the ships outside. “We are pursuing mutual interests, Jarvis. Resource sharing is to be expected.”

“I want your name on a charter.”

Rolk turned away, unable to hide his anger. “You will have it when I have the head of the man who razed my homeworld.”

Jarvis reached out and put his hand on the Bothan's shoulder; Rolk watched him from the corner of his eye. “Then let's go get it.”







The Governor's Palace on Sennatt was almost as large as Rolk's personal estate; the leader of the largest droid manufacturing company in Bothan Space didn't like to flaunt his wealth. In the lowest levels of this governmental complex was a room its proprietor believed even the Spynet couldn't infiltrate . . . except for when one of its members was physically present, such as this very moment.

The seven beings seated themselves about a round table, a healthy distance maintained between the four Bothans and the three outsiders.

There was a reluctance to be the first to speak. There was a question of authority that no one wanted to face. Jarvis had no problem stepping outside of the rules of decorum, but he was hoping Rolk would use this moment to begin asserting his influence.

And finally, he did. “War.”

Governor Mir'an, political leader of Sennatt, stirred in her seat, Rolk's tone more unsettling than the word it spoke. “Why now? Why after all this time?”

“Us,” Jarvis answered.

“And who are you?” Said a Bothan in navy uniform, his insignia marking him as a vice-admiral.

Jarvis turned to the man. “I'm the Alliance to Restore the Republic.”

That shocked the military man to silence. Of course, he already knew who Jarvis Ragnar was, just as Jarvis already knew that he was Vice Admiral Alt'aior, commander of Sennatt's defenses and the highest ranking navy officer within a dozen systems.

But the governor and her military counterpart had had no idea what Jarvis Ragnar was: a member of the Rebel Alliance. “It's true,” Rolk affirmed.

The last man at the table, the man from the Spynet, nodded to confirm the claim.

“Why?” The governor asked, but it was the vice admiral who answered.

“Because alone Jarvis Ragnar is a madman that our people fancy, but as a member of the Alliance he is a leader who can move a nation.”

“I'm moving it to Ar'krai,” Jarvis said solemnly, no attempt at deception or subversion.

The governor stiffened. “That is a sacred Bothan pact, to be taken only in the threat of annihilation from an alien species―

“I am a warrior,” Alt'aior cut her off, turning from Jarvis to the governor. “And I know when a thing threatens our existence. Whatever form this Imperial enemy takes, ar'krai is the only response a Bothan can make. The Empire seeks to erase us from existence. We must erase them first.” He returned his attention to Jarvis. “Will your Alliance help us?”

Jarvis cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. “The Alliance will help you fight the government of Empire. I will help you fight the evil of Empire.”

“There is no longer any neutrality for our people,” The governor admitted. “Our fate is either extinction or victory. To claim anything else is self-deception.” It was a self-defeating moment, where she had to abandon the assumption of being right and admit her failure. It was an uncommon thing to see a Bothan do, but the survival of her species was at stake.

Rolk sighed, the weight of the moment pressing upon him. “Then it is settled: we will drive the Bothan people to ar'krai.”

Vice admiral Alt'aior shook his head. “The Empire has already driven us there. We need now only a voice to lead us against it.”

The Bothan from the Spynet finally spoke up. “Our only hope is in reuniting the Combined Clans. One voice to lead all Bothans to victory.”

Jarvis stood. “Not that I get a vote, but I have given my oath to Rolk Bar'akai. So long as he will fight, I will fight alongside him. Lead, and I will follow.”

Alt'aior nodded. “Rolk Bar'akai.”

Governor Mir'an's fur fluttered with her disappointment, but she, too, pledged to follow. “For all of our people.”

The Spynet man said nothing, but everyone present knew that they already had an arrangement with Rolk.

With his power secured in this tiny but critical circle, Rolk forged ahead. “We will have to coordinate our military actions with the remainder of the Alliance. When we strike at the Empire, we must ensure that our blow is precisely weighted, and precisely aimed.

“The Spynet has assured me that we will be able to establish secure communications with Alliance High Command,” The Spynet officer nodded in affirmation, “and it is my intention to devote our resources to whatever method is most capable of harming the Empire, a sentiment I am sure Mr. Ragnar can appreciate.”

Jarvis smiled bitterly at the comment, but in truth it was exactly what he wanted to hear.

The meeting carried on for hours, the four Bothans discussing the various technical challenges to reassembling the Combined Clans and establishing a new seat of government. Throught this Jarvis and his pair had little to contribute, but the fact that they were even permitted to remain spoke volumes to the Bothans' desire for Alliance partnership.

It was all politics, Jarvis knew. But strangely enough, he had become a part of it.







From: Hopes and Dreams

“Bothans," he raised his voice, "Bothuwai is once again yours!"

The cheering of the Trems could be heard throughout the city. Others joined them, either in fear of the Empire or in the hopes that they could restore order to and unify the divided clans. There were those, though, that did not cheer. These would form the base of a rebellion that would stretch far into the future, having implications that even they did not yet realize. It was with them that the true hopes and dreams of the Bothan people lay.

The hopes and dreams of the Bothan people lay with the disassociated atoms of two and a half billion Bothans in and around Bothawui. But this much was undeniable: Bothawui was once again theirs. No other being would set foot on its surface for quite some time.

What did that leave the rest of their species with? It left them with ar'krai, built upon those deaths. It left them with no concept of ceasefire.


Rolk Bar'Akai ascended a stage set high above the hundreds of thousands gathered to see him. Holodroids buzzed through the air, sending live feed across the whole of Bothan Space. The HoloNet was bursting with media chatter, speculation on this unexpected press conference.

But on the ground and in their homes, the Bothan people had no illusions about what was beginning. The new fleet of Bothan Assault Cruisers and Ar'krai-class Heavy Battle Cruisers in orbit marked a sure sign of these times. The rows of Bothan troopers parading through the nearby streets were no small betrayal of what today would bring.

But all of these things aside, the new production orders issued across the entirety of the industrial hub of Bothan Space spoke to the true nature of the beast. And then Rolk Bar'Akai spoke, and set the truth in stone.

“I am no great orator, but I need not be. Today, I have a very simple truth to share, one which can only be clouded by an excess of words. The moment of action is at hand; the day of judgment has dawned.

“A year ago our brothers rose up and cast off their chains. The sons and daughters of Bothawui stood as one against a master undeserving of their service. They declared with one voice, 'We will not be pacified!' And for their defiance, Bothawui was razed to ash.

“The New Order of the Galactic Empire sought to break our spirit and crush our will, that we would be ripe and ready for the culling. Grievous was the wound inflicted upon us by their hand, and though they destroyed our home and dismantled our ancestral seat of governance, they made one fatal error: they left some of us breathing.

“And with the breath bought by the blood of my clansmen, I now proclaim: 'We will not be exterminated!' Follow me in The Way, brethren. Follow me in Ar'krai! Follow me against the enemy of our species!”

The Combined Clans of the Bothan people were in disarray. The Bothan colonies were isolated and withdrawn. The borders of Bothan Space were open for any would-be predators. But the Empire's mighty blow―the strike which had shattered Bothan society―had set the Bothan spirit aflame.

As the crowd roared their assent, their fear and dread vanishing beneath the guiding light of The Way, one truth resounded throughout Bothan Space:

The enemy shall become dust or we shall.