Kirana Long patted her foot on the Seraph mk III Red Serpent's bridge floor. Lieutenant Commander Thraken's light-red hair was dipping down the sides of his face as he leaned down, doing whatever it was he did. Kirana decided to repeat herself, he was apparently busy with something.

"Commander Blaise, I assure you what I have to say is more important that what you are doing." Kirana's straight slit of a mouth twisted up slightly. Why was she acting so mean? Things were just getting very stressful for her these days. Her respect was growing, therefore her responsibility was more - she felt her shoulders sag down a bit more as the thought passed.

The Executive Officer quickly stood up, lifting his hand in a quick-shot salute. "Captain! I did not hear you. I apologize for that."

Kirana returned the salute, nodding her head slightly. "Of course. Apology accepted, Commander."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Lieutenant Commander, we have been entrusted with an important job. The Confederation has asked us to make a short trip, just a bit further into the Proper-"

"-to Hast, Captain?"

Kirana blinked. "Yes - to Hast. Its shipyards and position in the Confederation Proper makes it perfect for our forces to control."

"Would you like me to tell the Navigations' officers, Captain?"

Kirana stared - her hard eyes not moving - her jaw relaxing slightly. Maybe it was needed, but Kirana didn't want to hurt anyone. Diplomacy. She had studied it, but did she understand it? She never had weild it. Tactics and capital ships were her talent - not diplomacy. No...

She could make it her talent. Hasta would be her new diplomatic target. "Captain?"

Kirana woke from her day dreams. "Ah yes, plot course for Hast."

"Right away, Captain." Thraken looked over to her with respect in his eyes and turned back to his task-at-hand.

Kirana sat down in her chair, her mind in her own business. Her first planetary-sized mission. Diplomacy... it had better work.

Styria-class Galleon Providence, Confederation Proper

“Commanding Officer on the deck!”

The bridge crew ceremonially snapped to attention. Across the galaxy, across the borders of space, tongue, and culture, naval crews all practiced similar rituals without variation. A show of respect for their leaders. Leaders that held the balance of life and death in their hands through their action. Captain Tobias sternly snapped a salute back at the bridge crew.

“At ease, gentlemen,” ordered the officer. ”Communications, any report from Brandenburg.”

“Sir yes sir,” replied the blonde man crisply,” the ships Red Serpeant, Glasgow, and Leander are en route to Hast for diplomatic talks. They’re under a Captain Kirana Long.”

Tobias frowned. “I haven’t heard of him before.”

“Her,” corrected the man, “Captain Long is fresh on the lines. The Serpeant is also new, one of the newer Seraph Mk IIIs we have.”

“Green crew?”

“Yes sir. Same with the Glasgow and Leander.”

Ingham nodded. “I’ve heard of those ships. Customs vessels, right?”

“Yes sir. Amphion-class frigates.”

Ingham tossed his head back. “Ridiculous. Sending in a green captain, green crew, and green vessels. What will the citizens of Hast think of that? Either we’ll come across as complete amateurs or complete jerks by only allocating the scraps left in the bucket. Neither will do.”

“Sir, I believe someone in High Command has realized that,” reported the officer

“Oh?” questioned the Merchant Fleet captain.

“High Command has just appointed you to be expedition leader,” stated the technician,” High Command is giving you full authority of all Confederation assets in the area, sir. Including the Long’s ships. Reportedly, several other vessels will be reporting their shortly. Larger vessels. It looks like we’re going to try and make an impression on the people of Hast.”

Tobias rocked back on his heels. Interesting. High Command has put a merchant in command of a military fleet…for a diplomatic and economic mission. He rocked forward. But then again, I do have some rather impressive credentials in that matter. Talcorra, Reaper’s World. That has to mean something to even the military. The dark-haired man snorted. Especially compared to a green captain. But those ships. That is a mystery. Warships aren’t bouquets of flowers. Hast could interpret their presence in several ways. The worst would be intimidation or invasion of their space. The second would be that we’re strong. That if we come off overly strong, that’s bad. Same with overly weak with only a few ships. I’ll have to rearrange the flotilla so that it’s not to strong to threaten Hast, nor to weak to be ignored. Ingham stiffly paced over to the ceraglass viewport. The stars stretched across the endless sable expanse, burning brilliantly lightyears away. Around one of those stars circles Hast. A cold smile creased his face. He spun about on his heels to face the waiting bridge crew.

“Ensign, plot a course for Hast. Keep the Blackwell immediately with us…and make sure the droid fighters are ready to deploy at will. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very good,” accepted the Budpock native, “inform me immediately when the astronavigation calculations are complete. I want every intelligence report that we have on Hast. Heck, even basic entries on Hast from an encyclopedia. Oh, and Lieutenant, get Keyes. We have matters to discuss.”

“What should I tell him, sir?”

“That the ambassador needs to know the specifics of the order of metals we’re selling to Hast.”

“Aye sir.”

Hast

Savage opulence surrounded the two. Marble pillars sprouted up across the room in an orderly jungle. Chandeliers hung from the fresco ceilings like tropical fruit. Handsome wooden tables and chairs dotted the floor as densely as any jungle growth. And like a jungle, the restaurant was always about survival of the fittest: for the wealthy and political elite.

“Sir, you do not seem to understand the…issue with these Contegorians,” drawled the man, ”they will be more than a nuisance. Nirama was literally followed across the galaxy by one of their fleets. Our business is not something they don’t tolerate when they find it, but rather, it is their prey. They will actively seek us out, and ultimately destroy us.”

The senator batted his hand, as if swatting a fly. “Brian, you have evaded local authorities for so long, years, that I cannot see you being capable of avoiding these people. What makes them so different than the Hast Security Forces? Sure, they might, might have some new technology, but do you think that our natives don’t know the area and people around Hast better? Do you not think the two advantages cancel each other out?”

Brian leaned over, staring into the man’s dark eyes. “For the short-term, you might perhaps be right. But what happens when Hast Security Forces are equipped with Confederation technology? That’s two strikes against me.”

Senator Pisula leaned closer. “Brian, even supposing that I’m willing to side with you. What am I going to do? The Confederation surrounds us. They already have a fair amount of support on our planet. You’ve heard the TV debates being aired about the possibility. No politician in his sane mind will try to oppose them or rally up people to oppose the Pro-Confederation people. We have no ammunition. We have nothing. What am I suppose to say, that I dislike their way of doing things? And who else is going to side with me within the Senate? I’m sorry, but I can’t help you out on this one. You’re on your own.”

“I’m afraid you do not understand me,” replied Brian slowly, “I understand that you wish to keep your career intact. Could at least filibuster within the Senate? I’ll pay handsomely…”

Pisula shook his head. “Not this, my friend. It would raise more questions than I’d prefer to be asked. Heck, it could eventually turn into a trail that leads right back to you.”

Brian waved over a waiter. “Could you please get us the drinks Rosario prepared for us?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Pisula raised an eyebrow. “Drinks? Rosario?”

Brian smiled. “But of course. Rosario is one of the most talented bartenders on-planet, and this is his shift. I hope you don’t mind, but I already placed the orders for them as part of the dinner arrangements. Audacian Vodka, right?”

The senator dolefully shook his head. “You know me too well. And to hell, I’ll be the one out of free drinks if you ever go out of business.”

Brian forced a tight smile on his face, gesturing to the approaching waiter. “Our drinks.”

Brian grasped a stemmed, crystal glass of dark-coloured Derellium Wine; a relic from before Lianna’s incorporation into the Black Dragon Empire. Pisula gingerly grabbed the shot glass filled with a clear liquid. Brian held up his drink.

“To your success,” toasted the criminal.

The Senator nodded, “And to yours.”

The glasses clanged. Brian took a sip of his wine, completely focusing on the Senator. Pisula took the shot in a single gulp. He winced, set down the glass hardly.

“What is this cra-”

The man collapsed in his seat, writhing in agony. Brian rushed out of his chair to hold the Senator. The politician began to throatily moan. Smiling, the crime lord stuffed a cloth napkin down the unfortunate man’s throat, silencing the man’s voice. Pisula began to flail.

“Too quick to drink, my good man. If you had smelled it, you would have realized it wasn’t Audacian Vodka. You know what it is? Hydrochloric acid. Looks clear, just like Vodka. Not too tasty, but it certainly does have a fine reaction with your body’s chemistry, notably your blood. With this concentration, most of your innards will be dissolved shortly. Stay calm. It only lasts for a little longer.”

The man ceased struggling, his body melting to the chair.

“Waiter,” called the lord, “the senator has had a little bit too much to drink. Could you help me take to my landspeeder? I’m sure he’ll be fine…”

Revanche-class Star Defender Swiftguard, Hast System

“Commodore Broghild, we’ll be reverting in twenty seconds,” reported an officer.

The stony-faced officer nodded, “Very well. You know the drill gentlemen. Shields up, weapon’s powered down, passive sensors powered up to full. Yellow alert.”

The mammalian-styled warship slipped into realspace. Several squadrons of the iconic Deathsabers swarmed around the battleship, forming a weak fighter screen. Several thousand meters directly astern and on either side of the Star Defender, two Nebula-class Star Destroyers provided a suitable rear-guard. Several starfighter squadrons, primarily composed of Deathsabers and Shadowcasters, kept vigilant watch over their home ships. Broghild, the son of a corporate shipping magnate, stumbled up from his chair to walk over to the bridge viewport. He squinted his brown eyes, staring at a set of distant objects.

“Do my eyes deceive me Lieutenant, or are those Mom Cal cruisers between us and Hast?”

“Sir,” replied the sensor operator, from the pit, “there do appear to be cruisers of Mon Calamari origin based on their construction composition and their Full-Transciever Spectrum profiles. In fact, they’re fairly close to what we have listed in our computers as MC-90s, but their power signature isn’t quite right. Like they’ve been heavily modified.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a stretch,” ventured Captain Esses, the ship’s XO, “the yards here are certainly large enough to do any sort of modification to a ship that size.”

Broghild slowly nodded. “And what’s more, this is one of the shipyards that produced MC-90s for the Rebel Alliance, and then the New Republic. But enough history, what do we have to go on right now?”

“Not much, sir,” replied the communication’s officer, “the delegation leader, Captain Tobias, arrived here several hours ago. He’s apparently on-planet but hasn’t reported back yet. At least according to his flagship.”

“What ship?”

“The Providence.”

Broghild wrinkled his nose. “Where is it stationed normally?”

“Its home port is listed as being Budpock.”

He shook his head. “Never heard of it. And where the hell is it? We aren’t fielding any MC-90s that I know of…”

“A little to the left of the Mon Cals. It’s one of those ovoid ships, sir. If I’m not mistaken, those are Styria Galleons.”

Broghild jerked his graying head back. “What?!”

“He’s only a Merchant Fleet Convoy leader, but someone in High Command designated him as the mission leader.”

“But that’s crazy,” complained the Commodore, “that fleet is almost civilian. They don’t know how to use something like the Swift-”

“Sir, we have a priority-”

“Nevermind it. I’ll take-”

The holo-projector flared to life to coalesce into a hazy outline of man. It quickly resolved itself into a thin man wearing the standard duty naval blacks of the Confederation’s Federal Navy. His sapphire blue eyes pierced through the haze to fixate on Commodore Broghild.

“Commodore Broghild.”

“Rear-Admiral sir,” saluted Broghild.

“Am I interrupting something?” questioned Lucerne, leaning closer.

“No sir.”

“I see,” stated Lucerne, noting the other man’s blushed complexion, “I imagine that your crew is efficient as normal, so I’ll cut down right to it. I’ve appointed Captain Ingham Tobias of the Providence as the mission commander because of his experience in dealing with native leaders and customs, and moreover, with diplomacy between them. It is imperative that you follow his orders to the letter. I’ll be keeping an especially keen interest into this mission until is completed. This puts you in a rather odd position, I’m aware, but let me reassure you, I’ve given very exacting instructions to Tobias to not abuse or shall I say…take advantage of this unusual circumstance. If both you and Captain Esses believe he is doing something out of line or an important foreign issue is coming up, inform me immediately. Even if it is two in the morning by Genon standard time. I want no screw-ups. What local authorities may pass a minor screw-up for a corvette won’t pass for the titan that is the Swiftguard. I have only one minor suggestion for you…keep your ship exceptionally clean during your stay at Hast. I imagine that Captain Tobias would like to give several Hastian leaders a tour of your beauty. Do you have any questions, Tim?”

“No sir,” said the man, shaking his head, “but...actually yes. Would you grant me authority to direct all ships within the immediate area if placed in a combat situation, sir? It strikes me as a bad idea to have a merchant commanding a fleet.”

Lucerne leaned back. “Tobias has proven himself in battle, several times in fact. But he is not acquainted in dealing with larger ships than the Providence or the forces of a mainstream navy. Let me say this, you will be independent of his authority if you are attacked by a serious threat, such as the Imperial navy. But…but if it is a small-scale bandit or pirate raid, Tobias may issue orders to you as he pleases. I know it’s a rather hard pill to swallow, but it will help build up the reputation of our chief negotiator during the talks. I’m sorry Tim.”

“Sir, I understand. Will you be informing Tobias of this arrangement?”

The younger Lucerne nodded. “Naturally. Is that everything?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well then,” acknowledged the Rear-Admiral, “Good luck, Commodore…”

Starlight Wayfarer, in orbit via Hast

The Starlight Wayfarer lazily drifted around the green and blue Hast, occasionally letting gravity pull it down and then slingshot it back into orbit. This seemingly chaotic flight path drove the aging Corellian freighter as per its master’s wishes. A door whisked open, and Brian strode onto the bridge of the boxy vessel. The mass of the Confederation Battleship Swiftguard dominated most of the transparisteel viewport. Silence permeated the room. The co-pilot muttered quietly.

“Frak.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Silence,” ordered Brian, “the Swiftguard might be a big ship, but it can’t have good speed, or anything to take accurately hit small ships. For all of our purposes, it’s a mobile space base. The fighters it carries it is more of a threat. Estimates, gentlemen?”

Ferguson furrowed his brow. “Well, linearly, based on the MC-90s, I’d say it’s well over twenty squadrons. Maybe thirty.”

“Can’t be,” disagreed D’Amato, “the Super Star Destroyers only had about a dozen.”

“We really can’t be sure about anything,” muttered Brian, seizing the captain’s chair, “these Confeds do everything their own way in designs. It’ll be impossible to figure it out exactly. But in any case gentlemen, that’s a hornet’s nest to stay away from. Keep your people away from it, and in general, Confed warships. We probably won’t be able to pull the same stunts that we do around those MC-90s. Confed technology tends to be more advanced than the decades old stuff the government has been fielding.”

“Right boss,” acknowledged D’Amato.

Ferguson leaned against a bulkhead. “What about the surface? The cops have been scouring the area. They’re going to find Pisula’s body soon enough. Especially since they already suspect you, since he was last seen with you.”

“Pisula isn’t on the ground, Ferguson,” chided Brian, “do I look like an idiot? Forensics is too advanced groundside to dispose of him. I’ve thought of a better option. He’s currently in our airlock. We’ll jettison him when the Wayfarer jumps to hyperspace. If it doesn’t have a hyperdrive, it doesn’t come out of hyperspace. A human body doesn’t have a hyperdrive, then it can’t come out of hyperspace, even if we get pulled out by an interdictor. It’ll forever be stuck in hyperspace. D’Amato, why don’t you get clearance from Port Authority to make the jump?”

“Righto,” accepted D’Amato, rising from his chair.

“And you,” snapped Brian, “Ferguson, better search our cargo. We don’t want any stowaways onboard.”

“Aye sir.”

The cargo handler hastily propped himself from the bulkhead, moving to exit the bridge door. As he passed Brian, Ferguson palmed a small cylindrical object from his own tunic. Several corridors and doors later, he found himself in the refresher station of the ship. He locked the door. He tapped a button on the comlink.

“Inspector,” whispered the man, “Brian has Pisula’s body onboard. He’s planning to make a jump to hyperspace. I don’t know-”

“That’s all right,” accepted a decidedly mute voice, “we’ll send in the cavalry. Try and stall, or at least prevent them from disposing of Pisula’s body as long as possible.”

“Sir, my cover will be blown. It took us years to get this close.”

“That’s all right. After this, we have all we’ll ever need to put him behind bars…”

Revanche-class Star Defender Swiftguard, in orbit via Hast

"...and this is the bridge," stated Commodore Broghild, his hand sweeping across the expanse of the command deck.

"Very impressive, Commodore," commented Senator Depp, his eyes scanning the room, "I was hoping that you could give us a display of your ship's firepower."

Broghild's flourid face frowned. "Against what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps an asteriod? Even empty space will do. Of course, we'll have to clear an area for the said purpose..."

"I'm sure the Commodore would gladly arrange a display," replied Captain Tobias, "Isn't that so, Commodore?"

"Indeed," acknowledged Broghild, arching an eyebrow, "indeed. I can have the said display ready within a half-hour."

"Why the delay?" questioned the Hastian politician, "Couldn't you have your ship's guns powered up and firing within a few minutes? If not...that reflects rather poorly on your combat readiness, even if you are in a theoritically friendly zone."

"Senator," explained Ingham, "I am sure Commodore Broghild could have the Swiftguard firing within seconds. It is not a matter of combat readiness."

"Indeed," explicated Tim, "it is a matter of safety. Standard Confederation practice has us recaliberate our weapon's power settings to that if a ship does wonder or hyperjump into our firing zone, we won't automatically destroy it. At least as far as salutes and training exercises are concerned."

Depp relunctantly sighed. "I see. Tell me, how long would it take to do that?"

Broghild exhaled. "Thirty minutes for all the guns...about two minutes if you want only a couple of batteries."

The Senator nodded. "I'm going to have say-"

"Sir!" shouted an officer from the crewpit, "we have a problem."

"What?!" bellowed Broghild.

"We have several ships playing tag...and the playground appears to be us."

Broghild's lips curled into a frown. He quickly produced a small remote from his pocket, and tapped it twice. A holo-projector several meters away from the group flashed into existence. The gray bulk of the Swiftguard, as seen from her star destroyer consorts, the Trojan and Royal Griffin, filled the majority of the projection. Around the battleship, a medium freighter flitted to and fro around the battleship's hull, trying to lose its starfighter pursuers among the organic lines and modular hardpoints of the warship.

"I want the transponders of those idiots!" barked the Commodore, marching over to his command chair, with Captain Tobias and Senator Depp in tow.

"Sir, it's a civilian SS-19 freighter, the Starlight Wanderer, and a pair of Hast Defence Force starfighters, both of them X-wings," reported an officer tentatively, "the Wanderer appears to have some engine damage."

"Her hyperdrive must be damaged," commented Tobias dryly, "otherwise, the freighter's captain would at least be somewhat sensible and tried to escape that way. Lieutenant, there aren't any interdictors around here, are there?"

"No sir," replied the sensor's officer, "but the Swiftguard's mass is almost as good as one. There isn't a small ship that could make a jump right next to us. We produce too much gravity-"

"Thank you Lieutenant," cut off Broghild angrily, turning to Tobias, "what do we do?"

"Senator?" questioned Tobias.

The man uneasily shifted around. "This is an internal problem...and I'm sure we can handle it. There will probably be more starfighters here shortly to handle the situation. You know, we do have an adept customs department."

"Sir," commented a bridge officer, "there are several Hastian cruisers approaching, with starfighter consorts."

"ETA," demanded Broghild.

"Thirty minutes."

"What?!"

"They're coming around from the other side of orbit, sir. If their starfighters move to full speed, with all power directed to their engines, they'll be here in roughly ten minutes."

The Confederate Commodore shook his head. "And until then, we have a firefight raging around our ship..."

"Sir," stated Depp, "I am not fond of having a battle raging around me...but what is to be done? Your Swiftguard would be like using a hammer on a pebble..."

"But," countered Tobias, "We could deploy Swiftguard's starfighters, with your permission, Senator. It would shorten the chase. We could even arrange the Wanderer to be disabled, correct Commodore?"

Broghild sullenly nodded.

"Do it," stated Depp, eying the holo, "And so starts our mutual co-operation..."

Several of the panels in the assault fighter’s cockpit glowed in an ethereal cyan. Lieutenant Crux tapped several of them, changing the colour to a subdued emerald green. Full load of ion torpedos, engines are go, lasers are go. Shields and stealth systems are go. I’m good to go. He tapped a small stub near the control yoke, changing his comlink frequency.

“This is Stallion Four, I’m in the green.”

“Stallion Four, you are clear to launch,” reported the Flight Controller, “Happy hunting.”

“Thank you Control.”

He goosed the throttle forward, accelerating his A3 out of the armored hangar bay of the battleship and through the Magcon field. Stallion Four jetted into the gem-studded space accompanied by a pair of Shadowcasters. Crux changed frequencies again.

“Corsair Five, Six, do you see our target? He’s too close to the Swiftguard for my ship’s sensors to pick them up. You’re the men with the eyes.”

A feminine voice growled back, “We’re not all men-”

“I see’em,” replied a Six, “Going aft towards the engines. Wait…I’ll just transmit my sensor feed to you.”

“That’s nice,” admitted Crux, “except that I’m getting it from your vantage point. Try and give me your targeting telemetry. For your warheads, if you have any of them.”

The Lieutenant goosed his stealth bomber in a loop which carried the trio of fighters towards the ensuing fire fight. Bolts of red and green filled the space between the Hast Defence Force fighters and the Starlight Wanderer, impacting shields on both sides. Crux could spot charred sections of hull on the Wanderer’s dorsal side, near the quad laser cannon turrets. One of the X-wings abruptly pulled an Immelmam maneuver, peeling away from the chase and heading back towards Hast. Crux frowned. Shields probably went out…must be under heavy fire…so they probably have a fairly decent gunner and an average weapon. His eyes contracted into tiny, brown squints. If it’s a smuggler, it’s probably a modified weapon. So probably more powerful. It’s a hell of a good thing he can’t see me…yet…

“Four, I’m transmitting. I think I have a lock.”

“I read you Six,” affirmed the Lieutenant, “Here goes nothing.”

He pulled a pair of triggers on the flight yoke with either hand. A series of incandescent blobs of blue surged forward from either side: ion pulse warheads. That’s 8 torps away…let’s see how they like that. Encased in a protective plasma covering, the warheads hurtled themselves towards the Starlight Wanderer. The freighter abruptly veered to go head on with the sole remaining X-wing. Crux frowned. Is he going to try and pull the Corellian slip? His ship is a little large for that, besides…

“Six, keep painting the Wanderer,” ordered Crux.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, the torps might lose their lock on the Wanderer and nail the ‘Wing or the Revan’.”

“I’m on it.”

The torpedoes closed in on the freighter. A pair of the torpedoes smashed into the rear of the SS-19’s engines. Crackles of blue lightning sprawled across the ship’s exterior, the engines temporarily loss power under the ionic assault. It would have been a slight delay, save for the rest of the warhead barrage. Without powered shields or engines, the Wanderer was a sitting duck. Torpedoes haphazardly crashed into Wanderer. Ionic energy surged throughout the ship’s circuits, frying them with milliseconds. Power went down throughout the ship; engines burned off; weapons lost power; lights blinked off, casting the innards of the vessel into darkness. The Wanderer awkwardly drifted forward on its momentum, past the X-wing. A quick sensor scan revealed the freighter had lost all power. Crux smiled.

“Target neutralized, Control.”

“Noted,” acknowledged the naval officer, “we’ll be tractoring them in shortly for interrogation. Keep a watch on them until then.”

Revanche-class Star Defender Swiftguard, Hast

In the tertiary hangar bay of the battleship, an army of Contegorians formed rigid lines arranged into a variety of intricate, geometric patterns: squares of alert black-clad sailors, lines of intimidating Paladin II Assault Droids, and rows of stoic Confederate Marines. Behind these masses of men rested a variety of Confederation military vehicles, from behemoth Ares-class Heavy Tanks to nimble Piranha Drone Fighters. A veritable show of Confederation might, diversity, and unity. The voice of the ship’s master-of-arms bellowed through the hangar via intercom.

“Atten-hut!”

Rows of Confederation personnel snapped to attention, the echo of their boot heels reverberating throughout the hangar. Waves of soldiers systematically parted across the center of the hangar, forming a clean line from the secondary magnetic containment field to the redundant blast doors closer to the ship’s core. A set of men proceeded down the pathway, led by Senator Depp and Captain Tobias. The Hastian man whispered into the Budpock native’s ear.

“Is this really all necessary?”

Tobias forced a tight-lipped smile as they passed through a battalion of Kirkanian Soldiers in their traditional black battle dress uniforms.

“It’s a tradition,” explained Ingham, “carried over from the Old Republic.”

Depp lightly growled. “Perhaps. But it just seems like a waste of manpower, a show of egotism. These men aren’t toys to be displayed and paraded about like a politician’s toys.”

“No,” agreed the merchant quietly , “They are not. It’s a view felt by many of the soldiers. It seems like many politicians think of us as their pet cyborean battle dogs. Tell me, were you ever in the service?”

The older man’s lip slightly curled. “But of course. Every citizen of Hast, whether male and female, has mandatory military service for a few years right after they graduate high school. It not only bolsters are defences, but makes us all appreciate those who continue to serve us.”

Tobias nodded. “An excellent practice. Something that probably should be applied to the rest of the Confederation. You’ll be able to influence something like that fairly soon.”

“Soon,” acknowledged the politician, “as soon as that treaty is signed in the conference room.”

Tobias nodded as they reached the end of the assembled ranks. A set of higher-ranking officers awaited the delegation at the blast doors. One stepped forward to meet them: Commodore Broghild, who promptly bowed at their arrival.

“Welcome aboard the Swiftguard, gentlemen,” greeted the slightly corpulent man, “if you will kindly follow me, I will show you to the briefing room. Right this way.”

With a sweep of his hand, the officer and his retinue guided the Hastian diplomats, along with Captain Tobias, throughout the expansive corridors of the Confederate battleship. Strangely enough, most of them corridors were empty, aside from the typical security checkpoints manned by Confederate marines and Paladin II battle droids. Ten minutes later, after a trek through the hallways and a pair of turbolift rides later, the people were entering the conference room where the treaty would be signed as a mere formality; Tobias and Depp had already co-authored the treaty in accordance with both Confederation and Hastian laws. The Contegorian Council had quickly approved the induction treaty while the Hastian Congress had ratified it with a landslide of votes. Commodore Broghild picked up a datapad and stylus from the central table.

“Gentlemen,” stated the man, “the treaty.”

Broghild quickly set the datapad down and scribbled down his sloppy signature, which seemed more like a random set of paint drops than any organized set of letters. Depp drew a stylus from the folds of his ceremonial robes and tapped it impatiently as a mass of Confederate officials added their initials to the document. Tobias signed the treaty last, letting the Senator begin the signing for the Hastian delegates. One by one, each delegate signed the document. When it was finished, several waiter droids entered, carrying glasses of champagne. Ingham snatched one from a serving tray, and raised it up high.

“To Hast.”

“To the Confederation,” offered Depp, “and to their eternal unity and friendship…”