The history books will say that the galaxy is at peace.

The GALACTIC EMPIRE has strengthened its hold over the Galaxy's Core and surrounding vicinity- defeating all challengers to its authority. All vestiges of the NEW REPUBLIC have been wiped from existence. The HOLY DEMOTHESIAN and JUTRAALIAN empires are long forgotten nemeses. The OUTER RIM SOVERINGTY is nothing but a distant memory. The GALACTIC COALITION will not soon forget its humbling at Corellia. All who have challenged the Empire's supremacy have been pounded into the history books, simply another footnote in the inexorable rise of the Empire.

All except one.

One man has the audacity to challenge the Empire, to challenge the order of the galaxy. His motive is not to rule, but to remake and reshape. To spare the galaxy from its own self-destructive tendencies.

BRUTUS NOGOTH's GALACTIC LIBERATION FRONT has been silent for sometime. The galaxy has interpreted this as a sign that the organization was dead. Rather, the GLF has been biding its time, garnering power from ghosts of the past and putting into motion the final phase of its UPHEAVAL operation.

The galaxy is not at peace.

The galaxy is never truly at peace.

The precious few moments that appear to be the onset of peace are merely transitory lulls in a constant flow of violence, warfare, death and destruction. The galaxy is nearly ensnared by the infinite force of entropy, and is spiraling toward the event horizon of perpetual conflict.

Sometimes the history books are written with too much haste...

It had been a long trip.

Randel Terrance had expected long. Bespin was a hell of a long way from Ord Biniir: Up the Cornelian Trade Spine to Aargau, short jump to Anaxes. Refuel. Hop onto the Hydian Way, skirt Junction, stop at Toprawa. Refuel. Finally turn off the beaten path and into a set of jumps that would drop his Action VI bulk freighter and its 90,000 metric tons of cargo at the final destination.

It had also been a tiring trip.

Running a crew of three on a 125 meter vessel that was designed to be flown with a dedicated crew of ten would do that to you. When one of those crew members was a virtual novice in the area of deep space cargo transportation it made things exponentially more difficult. Still, Randel thought he had accounted for himself very well. They were almost there weren't they?

It certainly isn't the most exciting thing I've ever done...

Randel was no stranger to space travel. Granted, flying a snub-fighter, hell even a light freighter, was a whole different world from this veritable behemoth. Having two old hands aboard had certainly reduced the learning curve dramatically. Without Kyle and Rex, the trip might have been a disaster.

Risk versus reward

A lot of things could have gone wrong, running an ultra-light crew on a run that covered about 2/3 the length of the galaxy. They were flying unescorted, in what amounted to a huge flying box, on two of the most heavily trafficked trade lanes in the galaxy. The stretch through the Expansion Region along the Spine was notorious for piracy, mainly because the lack of nearby worlds made it unlikely any authorities would respond to a distress call. With only one dedicated mechanic, as opposed to the usual four, maintenance problems could have been crippling. The reward however, was well worth it. Running this much tinbanna, and only having to split the profit three ways (agreeing to an equal three way split had been the only way to get his crew to agree to make the run) meant everyone would be coming away with a nice chunk of change.

Rex had been working like a madman ever since they had stopped at Aaragua (some sort of capacitor problem that threatened to shut the hyperdrive down) and Kyle was constantly fiddling with the temperature controls on those monstrous tanks in the cargo holds, but they had told him everything was under control. Having laid in the final hyperspace jump just over three hours ago, Randel was lounging in the captain's chair, happy to have finally hit the home stretch. The Imperials had a fairly large compliment based at Garqi, which was barely a parsec from Ord Biniir- which went a long way to keeping the privateers at bay. And the Belgardi people had assured him that the company’s security apparatus had been sweeping the area for around six months as a part of a long term agreement with the customer to who Randel was delivering to.

He'd wondered who the hell was buying copious amounts of tinbanna gas on a backwater planet like Ord Biniir, but never out loud. Frankly it didn't matter- as long as they had the credits Randel didn't much care, but it intrigued him nonetheless.

He took one quick scan over the various screens on the display board in front of him, and satisfied that all that everything was in order, let his shades slid down over his eyes and leaned back into the surprisingly comfortable command chair. Or maybe it just seemed comfortable because he was exhausted. Either way he intended to sleep through what was supposed to be an uneventful next few hours...




The wailing klaxon of an emergency proximity alarm woke Randel from his slumber. He had been counting on the ship to rouse him, but it quickly became apparent that something was not right.

Kyle Ferigan burst into the cockpit, a large hydrospanner still in hand.

"What in the name of Vader did you do?"

Ignoring his first mate (a funny title for a man with a decade more experience in flying freighters than him) Randel's hands began flying over the boards, starting diagnostic sequences that might better explain the alarm. Randel hadn't heard this particular screech before, not even during series of dry run sequences Rex had run through right before they set off from Bespin.

It particularly bothered Randel that Kyle didn't know what was going on. The man had told Randel countless stories, and implied he had experienced everything that could happen in this line of work.

Before any of the diagnostics popped up with an explanation of what was causing the ear-splitting racket the Action VI lurched forward and Randel, who hadn't engaged his crash-webbing, slammed his head on the display console.

Randel felt strong hands grabbing him under the arms, and tried to bring his eyes back into focus. A moment later he was on his feet, and he could hear Kyle asking him if he was ok. Randel, however, was much more concerned by the image he saw through the frontal viewport of the vessel: a menacing white wedge.

"That’s an Interdictor Cruiser." He said it devoid of emotion, as if he was stating that space was black and cold.

Randel brushed off Kyle's grasp and moved to the control console. He began the process of powering up the freighter's meager shields, a futile gesture, because if became necessary for the shields to perform their intended function the situation would be virtually hopeless.

"Are we being hailed?"

Randel glanced at the control console. At first glance, he saw no transmissions being picked up on any general hailing frequencies, but a flashing light caught his attention. Someone was sending out a distress signal. It quickly dawned on Randel that they were not the targets of this ambush.

Retaking his seat in the captain's chair, Randel felt the torrent of emotions that had obfuscated his thinking begin to lift. The situation was unexpected, possibly dangerous even, but it was not impossible. A man of many talents but few specialties, Randel Terrance was known for being resourceful and level-headed. Although he had been temporarily stunned by the situation, he was quickly regaining his wits and trying to analyze what was going on and how he had gotten dragged into it.

"The Interdictor isn't displaying any transponder code..." he thought out loud, both to keep Kyle from distracting him with questions and to allow himself to think.

That meant the Interdictor belong to someone who didn't want their identities known- which ruled out any nearby government or otherwise legitimate authority.

A moment later the ship's somewhat sluggish sensors picked up the vessel giving off the distress beacon. It too lacked a transponder signal, but the ship's computer determined it was small Corellian model, possibly a corvette or small gunship. Randel peered out the viewport, and by following the trail of weapons fire from the Interdictor spotted the vessel, which was painted black and blended in nicely against the background void. Judging by the way the smaller ship was firing back, at long intervals and very erratically, it seemed to have sustained serious damage.

Interdictor cruisers were not very well armed. Even catching its prey by surprise (and therefore, most likely with its shields down) to damage the ship that badly meant the fight had probably been underway a while before they Interdictor had unwittingly pulled Randel's lumbering behemoth out of hyperspace.

"Do you see any fighters out there, Kyle?"

The crewman squinted out at the sparring ships, then after a moment, shook his head.

"Nope. Doesn't mean they aren't there though."

Randel however, was inclined to believe Kyle's judgment. Even though the Action VI's sensors were somewhat weak they would have been able to pick up the ion trails of most fighters; especially since there was a very high chance that the Interdictor belonged to some sort of pirate or criminal organization and there would be behind the galactic curve of military technology.

"Who do you think it is?"

Kyle seemed to have calmed down, he too having realized the threat was not imminent.

"Not sure. Seems clumsy to me- they're not even jamming the distress call!"

As he spoke, Randel watched as a volley of fire connected with the hull of the Corellian vessel, and she stopped dead. The Interdictor ceased firing a moment later, but began closing the gap between the two vessels.

"The Interdictor isn't big enough to tractor that thing into her hangar." Kyle observed.

"They'll probably send in an assault shuttle."

A flashing light and beeping sound interrupted the two men's commentary. Randel saw it was a transmission over a general hailing frequency.

"Seem like the noticed us."

Kyle put two and two together.

"You going to answer?"

Randel didn't think he had any other option. With the Interdictor still projecting its gravity well, he couldn't jump to hyperspace, and there were barges that could reach higher sunlight speeds than his current vessel.

He reached for the button that would open the channel when the sensor board suddenly lit up. Another ship had just exited hyperspace. It did have a transponder code- the Necleas.

It was possibly the first time in his life Randel Terrance was happy to see the name of an Imperial Star Destroyer show up on his sensors.

The artificial gravity well had forced the ISD to exit hyperspace at a considerable distance from the Interdictor, which was the silver lining for whoever was in charge of the vessel. When you were the captain of an unescorted Interdictor, an ISD is bad news.

For a second it appeared that the Interdictor started to turn toward the Star Destroyer, a suicidal decision, but then Randel realized the ship was merely positioning itself along an escape vector. The Imperial commander must have realized this as well, as a stream of turbolaser fire started emanating from the ISD, concentrated on the aft region of the ship.

To Randel's surprise, instead of returning fire (though at the current distances neither ship was likely to do much damage) the Interdictor opened up with a salvo on its original target. The move through Randel? why fire on a defenseless vessel you've already disabled?

The Corellian vessel buckled, and sent pieces of debris flying in every direction. It was apparent however, that the ship had survived the onslaught.

Obviously the commander of the Interdictor was as surprised as Randel was when the Corellian vessel held together. The Interdictor did not immediately fire a second salvo, a move that unbeknownst to all parties involved, was one of those tiny events that can change history.

The Interdictor did, however, fire again in short order. The Corellian vessel broke into several pieces, and one of the larger sections was consumed by a fireball as the reactor overloaded.

The delay however, was a costly one for the Interdictor. It gave the ISD enough to time to latch onto the smaller vessel with one of its tractor beams. Although clearly outmatched, the Interdictor immediately spun toward the bigger vessel and began returning fire.

"The Interdiction field should be down anytime now."

Randel nodded. However, there was something else pressing on his mind.

"Kyle, start calculating a jump away from Ord Biniir."

"Away?" Kyle was confused, not that Randel had expected anything different.

"Our transponder signal is telling the whole world our destination, and I don't think popping up at Ord Biniir is such a good idea at the moment."

"We've got a delivery to make."

Randel was trying to think, and was in no mood for Kyle's argument.

"You signed onto this mission and agreed to follow my orders. Now calculate the jump!"

Randel could have worked out the jump vector himself, but he was too busy thinking about what had just happened.

What could possess the commander of the Interdictor cruiser to fire on the Corellian vessel? Had he left the ship alone he would have easily escaped the reach of the ISD... yet he had fired a salvo seemingly out of spite at the already disabled vessel. It made no sense. Especially the second volley- the Interdictor still could have escaped, but instead they had ensured the ship's destruction.

Either the captain of the Interdictor was a vengeful and incompetent or the destruction of the target was more important than his escape. But that didn't explain why he hadn't just destroyed the vessel on the first place...

Unless there was something aboard the ship he was after, but would rather have seen destroyed than let fall into Imperial hands.

Randel glanced toward his sensor board, hoping that the pathetic sensors could confirm his hunch. He saw the two huge signatures of the dueling warships, and several large pieces of debris from the destroyed Corellian vessel, and...

a small contact moving away from the destroyed vessel. The ship's computer was classifying it as an escape pod.

Gears in Randel's mind began turning, possibilities came under consideration.

"Kyle?"

"Yes?

"How's that jump coming?"

"I'll have it ready in a few minutes... were not really near any major hyperlanes so the computer takes extra time to make the raw calculations."

"Fine, just have it laid in so we can get out of here in a hurry."

Randel reached over and activated the ship's intercomm.

"Rex!!"

After a few moments a gruff voice replied.

"What in the hell is going on Randel!!?"

There was no time to explain the situation, but Randel knew he wouldn’t have to. Rex was a true sailor... he took orders and followed them without another thought. He'd wonder about why later.

"Rex I need you to get to the airlock. We're picking up some passengers."

"Aye Cap'n."

Randel glanced out the viewport at the dueling warships as he pushed the throttle of the freighter as far forward as it could go. It was obvious that the ISD was getting the better of the engagement, but the Interdictor was stubbornly fighting on.

Perfect.

As long as the Interdictor held out for a few more minutes, there would be no way the ISD would be able to stop Randel from picking up the passengers in the escape pod... and if they were lucky, they wouldn't even get a good vector trace and follow Randel into hyperspace.

Randel Terrance was feeling lucky.

His trip was about to get quite a bit longer...

Contrary to popular opinion, stormtroopers are people too.

Not all of them of course, as Imperial spinmasters will be quick to mention. Only the willing join the Imperial Armed Forces. The ranks are augmented by clones, the standard procedure of any major power since the Old Republic, or one of the grab-bag of supersoldiers that the Empire employs... from Darktroopers, to Conclave legionaries, to even more secretive projects straight from the twisted mind of Yu... but that’s classified.

Any way you slice it, there are plenty of willing humans who sign up with the New Order and don the white plastoid armor that has been a symbol of power and might for almost half a century. (There might have been some aliens in those same ranks... if not for the "unofficial" policy of xenophobia that still managed to pervade an "official" non-discriminatory Empire.) Everyday people, good citizens who have answered the call to fight for the Emperor, to defend their homeworlds, to protect their loved ones.

Many are young, seeking adventure and escape from the drudgery of 'normal' life. Others are more seasoned, veterans of the recent "Corellian War" or the myriad of smaller, less publicized actions from around the Empire. They have wives or girlfriends (and some have children too) back home, loved ones to whom they promised they'd be safe, that they would see them soon.

Stepping onto a massive public transport was the first step to fulfilling the promise. Drawing soldiers from the far reaches of the galaxy meant sending transports to those corners... a logistical nightmare, not to mention a expensive one, except for the fact that there was already a system of civilian transports making those very same runs. Instead of dedicating thousands of military transports to continual runs to the edge of the galaxy, the Empire distributed vouchers for free rides along public transportation. Not particularly luxurious, but that barely matters if you're on your way home...

Fondor

They poured from the spacedock into the battered transport, a wave of black and gray among the myriad of civilian colors. The smiles on their faces did wonders in softening the otherwise harsh, military posture that pervaded their personas. The journey was just beginning, and there was sure to be pure jubilation later as the ferry lumbered down the Rimma Trade Route all the way down to the Kathol Sector at the eventual stops, but for now the atmosphere was more of relief and relaxation.

A bell sounded, reverberating throughout the station, signaling to any stragglers that the transport was preparing to shove off. As the mass of gray and black began to settle on the vessel, a wave of civilians pushed forward, trying to secure the few seats unoccupied by stormtroopers on their way home.

The bell sounded again, though the mass of people on the transport meant that one had to strain to hear it over the din of light conversation. A cadre of Eriaduans began singing a drinking song native to their world, which created a more festive atmosphere aboard the packed vessel. Some younger children began to realize that they were on a ship with the brave soldiers of the Empire, and could be seen saluting and pointing at the towering figure all around them.

The bell sounded a final time, a long single tone, signaling the final boarding call. A couple of stormtroopers jumped the boarding gates as they clanked shut, eliciting a cheer from the entire hold of passengers. One of the troopers then revealed he had a case of Corellian ale, and the cheers of the younger stormies reverberated throughout the vessel.

The transport moved slowly away from the floating spaceport and the captain fired up the main sub-light engines. The transport maneuvered around a Star Destroyer that was on its way to the dry dock, then stopped. The captain fired the maneuvering jets, slowly spinning the behemoth toward its intended hyperspace vector. After a few seconds the transport came to a halt, and the captain began powering up the vessel for the jump to lightspeed.



A moment later, any onlookers watched in horror as the transport exploded as a massive fireball, sending molten metal debris showering in all directions...

Woops, replied in the wrong thread. Delete, please.

"Green Nebulae this is Sinsang control. Your docking request has been noted. Please come to heading 34.56.2.5 and wait for an assigned descent path."

"Roger control. Any idea how long the wait is going to be?"

"Negative Nebulae. Lots of traffic on the move right now. Just sit tight and we'll make sure you get down as soon as possible."

Randel clicked the comm in response, then closed the channel. He eased the throttle forward and fired a maneuvering thruster, putting the nose of his big freighter on the designated vector, then relaxed as the ship settled into a lazy orbit over the Galactic Coalition's primary foothold in the Riaoballo Sector.

The space over Sinsang was densely populated with spacecraft, ranging in size from snubfighters to a dozen or so large, unfamiliar vessels that were undoubtedly Coalition Battlecruisers. Most however were transports. There was a veritable sea of smaller light freighters (primarily stock Corellian models), a smattering of larger bulk freighters similar in size to the Green Nebulae, and a handful of truly massive superfreighters that could have passed for assault cruisers. The planet's economy had always been pretty robust, but since joining the Galactic Coalition (and receiving several lucrative government contracts) it had really taken off. The influx of space travel was the side effect of success, and the Singsanese couldn't complain too much about that.

Randel leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the control board. He'd spent enough of his life waiting that he had long since stopped getting annoyed with the prospect. Not a patient man by any stretch of the imagination, Randel had spent years rushing and hustling- and had nothing but scars and bad memories to show for it. He was a bit older now (though still a young man) but he had finally come to realize that he was liable to get killed by acting on every impulse. He wanted to rev up the engines, and find his own descent path, the consequences be damned, and a couple of years ago he might have done just that. Now, as much as it galled him, he knew it was time to wait.

Knowing that didn't make the time go any faster. Several minutes ticked by, time seemed to be flowing at a quarter its usual speed. Randel distracted himself watching other vessels maneuver themselves into position and descend toward the planet. His thoughts drifted to the other day's events, but it led only to frustration- he had no idea what he had stumbled upon and not enough information to make even begin to put the pieces together.

They'd picked up the escape pod from the Corellian vessel, and found one man inside- he had been unconscious and remained so now. The man had no identification on his person, and no possessions, save for a metal suitcase that had resisted all attempts at opening it. He needed medical attention, a fact that Randel had made clear in his docking request, but apparently a coma was not considered serious enough to give Randel landing priority.

The ship's intercom buzzed.

"Randel, you might want to come down here... I think he's waking up."

Randel jumped to his feet, wasting no time answering the summons. Rex had moved the man to one of the unused crew quarters about halfway down the length of the keel after retrieving him from his escape pod. Randel walked briskly down a series of corridors and arrived in time to watch the man start to sit up.

He was tall, with brown hair and a lithe build. He was wearing a business suit, the attire he had been wearing on the escape pod, that looked expensive but seemed well-worn. His face was angular and he had a sharpness about all his features. His eyes darted from Rex to Randel, then flitted around his to his surroundings.

"Where am I?"

Randel answered him.

"You're aboard an Action VI transport, over the planet Sinsang."

The man took a moment to digest that information before speaking again.

"And you are?"

"Captain Randel Terrance of the Green Nebulae"

He pointed at Rex.

"And this is Rex Hamstum, my chief engineer. He pulled your escape pod in."

"I must have been out..."

"You've been unconscious for nearly three days now. What happened?"

Randel watched as the man's eyes rolled upwards, and he could see him searching his memory.

"I don't remember. We got pulled out of hyperspace, and the alarms started going off..."

Rex spoke up.

"Who the hell are you?"

Randel was fully prepared for a full bout of amnesia, as the man did not respond immediately, but after taking a second to compose himself, he replied.

"Conner Furgeon, Vice President of Accounting Agro Incorporated."

Vice President of a major intergalactic corporation? For some reason the man seated in front of Randel didn't strike him as the corporate type. Sure, he had the suit and all, but something didn't quite fit. Although, it might help explain why his vessel had been under attack. Before Randel could inquire further, Furgeon spoke up again.

"I had a suitcase with me, in the pod. Is it here?"

Rex nodded, and stepped out of the doorway. He returned a few moments later, and set the briefcase on the floor at the man's feet. Even with a controlled drop, it landed with a resounding thud. The man hefted the case, and quickly examined its exterior. Running his hand along the bottom he felt the small dent Rex had put in the case's exterior with a hydrospanner out of frustration.

"You tried to open it?"

The man's tone was hard to read, and Randel wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

Rex started to speak but Randel cut him off.

"Yes we did. You were unconscious, and we didn't know who you were, why you were being attacked, anything. We almost spaced the stupid thing because it could have posed a hazard to the ship."

Randel had never even considered that course of action, as it had quickly become obvious that the case had been of some importance, but there was no way the man could argue privacy against safety.

Rex spoke.

"What's in it."

The man stumbled for a second, and started to say something that sounded like 'none of your business' but sputtered out.

"Sensitive information, documents that my company couldn't afford to have destroyed."

Kyle Ferigan popped his head in the doorway.

"Randel, you better get back to the cockpit. Control is green lighting us for descent."

Randel nodded.

"I apologize, Mr. Furgeon, but I must be going."

The man slid back down onto the cot.

"Don't worry bout it. My head is killing me... I'm going to lay back down."

"Rex, get him some painkillers- and sleep aide if he wants some. We'll talk again after we land."




Randel Terrance knew the moment the he saw his designated landing zone why there had been such a massive traffic jam over Sinsang: they didn’t have enough docking space.

Randel had been expecting a relatively easy landing, and had spent the last half an hour trying to maneuver a vessel in which he was vastly inexperienced at piloting into a area that might have had five meters of grace in all directions. Sure, five meters was a nice halo for a snubfighter, but when you were landing a bulk freighter filled with tinbanna gas for maybe the third time, it was a challenge.

When the landing struts contacted the hard surface of the landing pad, Randel exhaled sharply. He had been holding his breath for about three minutes- the entire duration of the final approach- without realizing it. Taking a moment to compose himself, he got to his feet and made his way back to the quarters where Conner Furgeon was situated.

Furgeon had extracted himself from bed, and apparently taken some time to clean himself up. His suit appeared less wrinkled and his hair had been slicked down and back. Randel noticed that the man’s posture had improved dramatically, and he now reminded Terrance of the caricature boardroom bulldog that he ascribed to all high-ranking business types. Furgeon met Randel’s gaze, and a fire that had been lacking from the man’s eyes was now readily apparent. Randel realized that he should have waited for the confusion that would assuredly accompany any comatose state to wear off before making an judgments about the man.

“Mr. Furgeon, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“It’s amazing what a few painkillers can do.”

Randel noticed that Furgeon had the handle of the large suitcase grasped tightly in his hand.

“Going somewhere?”

“The contents of this case need to be delivered as soon as possible.”

Randel once again wondered what could possibly be so important it needed to be transported in person. Still, a thought crossed his mind.
“I assume Agro has offices on Sinsang?”

“We do.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“Garqi.”

That only made sense, considering the planet was the company’s headquarters.

“And you’re sure you’ll have transportation?”

“The company should be able to provide me with transit, especially for a matter of such great importance.”

“What makes you think you won’t get attacked again?”

Furgeon’s eyes narrowed, but he answered.

“I don’t know why I was attacked in the first place, but according to your crew members my ship was destroyed. Whoever attacked it will assume I am dead.”

Randel shook his head.

“Not necessarily- an Imperial Star Destroyer showed up and engaged the attacking ship. Before the ISD showed up they were firing to disable. They wanted something, and didn’t want the Imperials to have it.”

Randel saw a tiny flash of emotion, realization maybe, cross Furgeon’s face that faded just as quickly. He pressed his point.

“Your attackers had an Interdictor Cruiser stationed at a crucial junction of your route. An ambush like that requires some inside help, unless Agro announces its secret movements at stockholder meetings.”

Furgeon said nothing.

“Let me make you an offer: go meet up with your company, and have them arrange transit. The probably won’t be able to get anything off Sinsang until tomorrow, with this huge gridlock. Make sure they promise you extra security, then reserve a hotel room. Don’t go there though…”

Randel trailed off. Understanding flashed across Furgeon’s eyes.

“I assume you’ll want payment?”

Randel nodded. Furgeon took a moment to consider.

“I appreciate the offer Captian, but I must decline.”

Randel sighed.

“You have saved my life, and Agro Incorporated owes you a debt for salvaging this suitcase. If you accompany me to our office, I’ll ensure you are justly rewarded.”

It’s better than nothing.

Still, Randel knew he was just as likely to get a bushel of Oruip Onions as credits. He could feel Rex’s eyes boring into him from behind, and he turned to see both him and Kyle standing in the doorway.

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Furgeon.”

Randel walked down the hallway, out of earshot of their guest. They ducked into Kyle’s quarters, and shut the door. As soon as the door clanked shut his crew began talking

“We’re already going be late as it is!!

All this extra work, and we might only break even!

“We should have left that fucker out in the vacuum.”

Randel raised a hand.

“I have a few contacts here, let me see if can sell them the tinbanna. We’ll make a nice profit, and then we’ll move on.”

Kyle shook his head.

“You realize that Belgardi owns Agro- if you waltz into their offices on Sinsang when you’re supposed to be delivering goods to Ord Biniir they’ll never give you a contract again.”

A lightbulb went off in Randel’s head. How he had missed the connection with Agro and Belgardi before escaped him.

“Kyle you’re brilliant!!”

His first mate looked at him, obviously confused.

“We’re only late because we’re doing Belgardi a favor. If Agro loses that suitcase, then Belgardi suffers. As soon as they realize what we’ve done we’re liable to get a bonus!”

Everything seemed to have magically worked itself out. Randel wondered what he had done to deserve a turn of good luck for a change.

“Come one, we’ll all go. I wouldn’t want to take all the credit for myself.”

Super Star Destroyer Midas

Meetings of The Committee were nothing if not tense.

The specter of death hanging over the room made the toughest, most ruthless men who sat around the highly polished table somewhat... nervous. Failure, incompetence, ineptitude, treason- all were offenses that could result in you suffocating on your own blood as your throat was slit from ear to ear. In many cases, the members of the Committee, some of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, were most vulnerable when they sat a seat at the table. No lawyers to obfuscate the truth and delay justice, no bodyguards or enforcers to break bones and crack heads, no secret clones or body doubles ready to take the fall- just the Directors and there performance records. Success was the only shield available.

Brutus Nogoth had walked into the Midas's conference room numerous times, and had never once worried about walking out when the meeting was over. The GLF was a proven quantity(with over two dozens highly successful attacks on major galactic governments), and more importantly was a visible entity that masked the existence of the Union. Nogoth was one of the first members of the alliance, and one if it’s most influential. It was also common knowledge that in many ways the GLF was a personality cult based around Brutus, and without him, the group would collapse. Although it was extremely frustrating for him, Brutus knew that the complexities of his ideology made it much easier for the rank and file of his organization to subscribe to following him as opposed to his principles. As much as that frustrated Brutus, it provided a convenient layer of protection at these meetings which allowed him to focus more on furthering his cause and less on the machinations and politics of the Committee.

It did most of the time, anyway.

Currently however, he found himself in the unusual position of being under assault, and while he was confident in the fact that he was invaluable to the Union, he couldn't stop his mind from letting a tiny fraction of fear well up in the back of his mind. Irrational? Yes, but as a student of math, Brutus Nogoth knew that being irrational didn't make something any less tangible.

The man trying to gain favor at his expense was Rico Belgardi, who was in his own way almost indispensable. His corporation, Belagrdi Universal, was one of the Union's primary (although hardly its only) source of income and provided numerous essential services that helped the Union run smoothly. Belgardi banks on Sestria handled huge volumes of cash from both legal and illicit Union activities, and made laundering credits a hassle (and worry) free process. Belgardi also maintained a very large private fleet, which in times of desperation could assist the Union in a way that few of the organizations other members could promise.

Belgardi however, did not enjoy the same immunity Brutus did, or at least he didn't believe he did. The man had been battered by other Director's following a break-in at Rico's private residence, which appeared to have revealed the existence of the Union to the Galactic Coalition. Brutus almost felt sorry for Belgardi, who by all accounts was a shrewd businessman and would have succeeded with or without the Union. Belgardi had seen his private residence attacked and ransacked, been nearly assassinated on a business trip and watched his company assaulted by the Empire- all either directly or indirectly due to his association with the Union. Belgardi had benefited from his association with the Union, but Brutus wondered if was worth the cost.

"This incident is costing me millions- and if it cost me millions, its costs you millions too! Forget the Coalition, if the Empire moves to nationalize, your veil of secrecy is gone! The Peragus facility- how can you hide that? And that’s not even considering what will happen if they try to review the Sestrian transactions!!"

A murmur began among the Directors as Rico continued his scaremongering tirade. Brutus had to wonder what Belgardi hoped to accomplish with his speech. Sure, he was distracting his peers from his previous failures and reinforcing how important he was to the Union, but it wasn't like that was new information. Belgardi had to know the Union could survive without him or his company- but he also should be aware that short of making some sort of ridiculous blunder the Chairman was never going to lose such a valuable asset for the sole purpose of setting an example. Sabrino might be ruthless, but he was also pragmatic. Beside, the Chairman had made examples on numerous occasions, and didn't dally when he decided to do so. Rico's survival of the leak incident pretty much guaranteed that he had escaped a slit throat.

"I risk my livelihood, everything I've accomplished for this organization. People have died! Died because I've done this Committee's bidding! I am not going to let my company be nationalized due to the mistakes of some insane fanatic."

"Tell me Rico, do you think I'm insane?"

Rico Belgardi seemed surprised that someone had interjected into his speech. He stumbled for a moment, and stared at Brutus. He remained silent.

"It's so easy to blurt out accusations when they're part of a cleverly crafted declamation. How much did you have to pay you're speech writer?"

Brutus paused, waiting for an answer.

"Well? Go on? Am I insane or not?"

Clearly frazzled, Rico's aura of confidence seemed to melt away. The emotion that had filled his earlier oratory was gone, replaced by the tentative tone Belgardi usually spoke in at the meetings.

"No, Brutus you're not insane"

Brutus smiled.

"Director Belgardi, despite his dubious perception of my mental status, does raise several important points. His company's success is linked to the well being of this organization- and the threat of nationalization is a serious one. I would suggest that Mr. Belgardi have his company issue an apology, but if Mr. Belgardi can show some intestinal fortitude for just a short while longer I don't think such action will be necessary.

My organization is entering final stages of an operation that will bring the Empire to its knees. Gentleman (and glancing toward Kira Talixx) and women, I was not exaggerating when I said on the holonet that Fondor was my final warning. The Empire has decided to ignore my suggestions. It is there prerogative, but I think they will quickly realize that it may be the last mistake they ever make."




Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sound of knocking on his personal quarters on the Midas was unusually forceful, but considering the time of day (as it was almost continually in deep space, the Midas regulated and ran on its own timescale) Brutus knew who it would be.

"Come in."

It was no surprise then, when Hilter Afdol stepped through the sliding doors. Brutus looked up from his desk, where he had been recording his thoughts into a journal to peer at the face of his friend. He couldn't tell anything out of the ordinary, but Hilter was very adept at hiding his emotions, and Brutus was notorious for his poor ability to read people.

"We have a problem."

Brutus might not have been able to tell from Afdol's facial expressions, but the circumstances of his arrival had tipped him off that something was amiss.
He sighed lightly.

"I assumed as much. Let's hear it."

"Challenger Seven didn't show up at Garqi today."

"Frell!" Brutus muttered the mild oath, wondering what deity he had pissed off and how he could make amends.

"You're sure she was not merely delayed?"

Hilter ignored the question.

"There's more: apparently one of the Star Destroyers assigned to the Imperial defense fleet answered a distress call yesterday and hyperspaced to the scene. According to my sources, they found an Interdictor attacking a Corellian Corvette."

Brutus cursed again, this time with much more conviction.

"Was it Seven?"

"We don't have any confirmation. Our sources are investigating the matter."

Brutus nodded. Stranger coincidences had happened. And space was a huge place, where a lot of things could go wrong. There were alot of Corellian Corvettes, and countless ambushes happened every minute. Maybe Seven's hyperdrive wasn't up to par. He let his anger dissipate. Nothing could be done about it now, not until they knew the pertinent details.

"I want to be notified as soon as we have any more information."

"Of course Brutus."

Hilter turned and left. Brutus stared at the doorway for a long time after his chief lieutenant had left, his eyes focused on the doorway but his mind far away.

The Green Nebulae and its crew had been on the surface of Sinsang for less than nine hours (a figure that was slightly skewed, as it didn't include if the time they had spent languishing in orbit, waiting for a landing clearance). Less than half a day. The sun had been setting as they touched down, another factor that had added an extra degree of difficulty to Randel's landing attempt, and had barely begun to rise again when it happened.

Looking back, when he had a moment to concentrate on something other than the here and now, Randel Terrance would marvel at the lethal efficiency of the whole operation. They had moved in less than half a day, against an unknown target of unknown capabilities and unknown motives, in the middle of a highly civilized society that, unlike many of the planets Randel had frequented in the Rim, did not turn a blind eye to public displays of violence.

What was a truly frightening prospect, though Randel didn't know it, was that the people ultimately behind the whole operation weren't even the best in the galaxy.

The group had set out first thing in the morning for several reasons, but primarily because Furgeon had been extremely anxious to get to the Agro Office as soon as they opened.

In fact the man had been ready to storm off into the night, but upon Randel's recommendation had agreed to first inform his company that he was coming. He had spent several hours afterward at the ship's comm station trying to communicate with the office (which, they discovered, had closed an hour before they touched down; though Furgeon kept trying in an effort to catch someone who was working overtime) as well attempting to reach the manager and various other contacts at their residences, but had been unable to get a hold of anyone. At sometime around midnight, local time, he had given up and returned to his quarters. Kyle had taken advantage of his unexpected free time to sample a number of the cantinas scattered around the spaceport, though he did so alone. Rex had declined an invitation, claiming he had "some maintenance" to correct problems brought on by the ships recent, unexpected, gravity well assisted hyperspace terminus. So he spent the night "fixing" various portions of the ship, though it seemed hardly coincidental that every power coupling and auxiliary heat shunt that need repair was conveniently located in close proximity to Conner Furgeon. Randel, worried about a possible confrontation between the two, and in need of some R&R had also politely declined.

Randel even caught a few hours of shut eye, confident in the fact that his ship, its precious cargo, and his person was safe. He was surrounded by dozens of other vessels, on one of the Galactic Coalition's most important industrial strongholds. Even if the Interdictor Cruiser had managed to escape the ISD (a highly unlikely proposition) it would have been nigh impossible for the ship to have gotten a good bearing on the Green Nebulae's vector. Even if they did manage to track Randel (and his newest passenger) to Sinsang, they would have to get by Coalition forces designed to fend off an attack by an Imperial battlefleet and find their target among the literally thousands of docked freighters idling on Sinsang's surface (not to mention the thousands more waiting patiently in orbit over the planet).

So as Randel, Furgeon, and his crew marched (or in the case of Kyle staggered) down the ship's landing ramp and toward a small turnaround where spacers could engage the services of an airtaxi, the last thing Randel Terrance expected to happen did.

Blaster bolts appeared as if by magic, their staccato report magnified significantly by the lack of noise and activity that preceded their firing.

Randel watched as a crimson shot caught Kyle squarely in the chest and his first mate crumpled unceremoniously to the ground. Another bolt connected solidly with Conner Furgeon's shoulder, spinning him like a top, and sending the heavy metal suitcase cascading off towards a decrepit looking Z-95 headhunter parked about ten yards away.

The sound of the suitcase scraping along the duracrete inexplicably drew Randel's attention for a half second, and he followed the object until its progress was arrested by one of the Z-95's landing struts. The fact that the case had been effectively welded in Furgeon's since he had regained consciousness made its separation from his grasp an event of note to Randel.

A blaster bolt flew past his head, perilously close to his ear, reminding Randel of the much more pressing matters at hand.

His natural impulse was to turn and run for the safety of the ship, and Randel felt his body kicking into high gear as adrenaline cascaded through his bloodstream, he felt himself turn and break into a sprint even as his mind began analyzing the situation and he decided what action he should take.

The air was thick with blasterfire, and out of his peripheral vision he saw Rex fall suddenly, and bounce his head viciously off the unforgiving landing pad. Stray shots chased Randel, flying past him to form small black scorches on the hull of the Green Nebulae. Randel pounded at his pocket without slowing down, trying to activate the small remote that would open the ship’s hatch and dispatch the landing ramp.

Randel instinctively looked down as he fumbled with the remote, so he never saw the thermal detonator arc over his head and then bounce, bounce, under the Action VI transport. Before Randel raised his head a concussive shockwave sent him flying backward. Randel landed in a heap about twenty yards from where he had been just moments before.

The distance probably saved his life.



Moments later there was a tremendous explosion, one that made the thermal detonator look like a firecracker. The force of the explosion picked Randel up and tossed him like a rag doll into the side of a YT model freighter. A wave of heat rolled across Randel, and the world was engulfed in an excruciatingly painful light that threatened to consume the universe. Then the light suddenly receded, replaced by a merely painful, orange fireball.

Randel tried to move, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He hurt, everywhere, a deep throbbing pain that drowned out all other thought. Letting out a feral yell, Randel willed his arms to move, and they did. He pushed his torso upwards, his arms fully extended, and he swiveled his head.

The Green Nebulae was a raging inferno, so consumed by flame that from his angle Randel could see molten durasteel pooling beneath the ship. Nearly every ship in the vicinity was on fire, as was portions of the landing pad. Randel could see Kyle’s body, unmoving, lying where the firefight had begun, remarkably untouched by flame. He struggled, and failed to make it to his feet. He craned his neck but couldn’t see Rex or Furgeon.

The blasterfire had ceased.

The heat was oppressive, overbearing, and threatened to suffocate Randel, or at least incinerate his lungs. A small explosion broke the eerie stillness, most likely a concussion missile in on of the nearby vessel’s cooking off.

Randel decided he wasn’t going to die here. Not like this.

With what seemed like superhuman effort he got up on all fours, as he didn’t think his legs would be able to support his weight, and started crawling toward the edge of the landing pad.

He heard a voice, and another answer it, so he stopped, and with supreme effort raised his upper body up from the ground, resting his weight upon his shins and knees.

He saw a trio of figures, two dressed in military style fatigues, one in some sort of body armor, walking slowly among the wreckage. Two of them carried large, lethal looking blasters, with odd looking tubes slung under their barrels. The third, the one in the armor, had a huge rifle with a long barrel and scope, and an unbelievable amount of equipment attached to various parts of the armor. They were moving in formation, eyes scanning systematically back and forth.

A bit of motion caught Randel’s eye and he glanced away from the trio. He saw a charred figure, crawling on its belly near a toppled Y-wing. It was Conner Furgeon, dragging the metallic suitcase, which glinted in the reflected light of a nearby inferno.



Randel dropped down flat, and immediately began contemplating his own mortality. It struck him as odd that he was about to die and he had absolutely no idea why.

He laid his head down on the duracrete, closed his eyes, and wondered if some benevolent deity would explain it to him if he made it to the afterlife…

Bei-diang, Capitol of Sinsang

It was a calm and simple day. Well, as calm and simple as things ever got on Sinsang. The people were busy going about their daily business and coming and going, keeping themselves occupied with work, social gatherings, or whatever else caught their interest. And amongst all this, walked one figure wearing a simple grey suit and a black tie.

Irtar whistled to himself as he walked down the street, watching the people and businesses go back. He picked up the odd conversation, normally in Common or Sinsangese. A woman with a fussy child marched by, scolding it as a business man likely late for some appoint charged by the other side.

As much as Irtar hated the bustle of the city, and longed for the quite of home, he had to admit to a certain niceness in the city. The effort of people to draw the money made pockets, streets lined with various stores, where one can pretty much find everything. Irtar was out looking for something for his little sister’s birthday. It was only a couple of weeks away and he felt bad about not being over there. Indarin, his elder brother, had pretty much disowned him.

Irtar gave a hefty sight as his mind ran over the whole matter again. He was just waiting for Indarin to finally get over this whole thing so they could just be a family again. Irtar looked around and suddenly was caught by a holo store. His sister always loved that old ‘Gemheart’ show and was sure she’d love a collection of it. His father had never been able to find someone to ship a copy to Dantooine by surely there’d be a copy here on Sinsang.

He made his way down the street and was waiting to get the crossing signal, when suddenly he heard a large explosion from the not so distance. Irtar spun around on his heel as did most of the people on the street. He could make out the smoke. It was coming from the spaceport. It wasn’t even a block away.

Quickly, Irtar sped off towards whatever was going on. Irtar focused his mind, focusing it towards moving his muscles faster than they should. To remove the restrictions the mind puts on the body through his skill with the Force. He dodged and dipped around the crowd as he made his way, hearing the sirens in the distance approaching.

Firefighters, police, and ambulances. Did a ship crash? Irtar felt himself slow as his mind began to wander. The unfortunate thing with using the Force, it didn’t provide the chance for distraction. Well, at least yet. Irtar pushed back the thoughts until he was standing before the spaceport, black smoke billowing from one of the platforms.

People were running out of the spaceport in a panic. Irtar paused as he stood there taking in the scene of fear. There was something… not right. Well, other than the screaming hordes and the fire in the spaceport. Irtar looked around and finally saw someone who just seemed to more be confused.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Irtar shouted as he came up to the man who just looked at him absently. As if in a dream or lost deep in thought.

“Hrm…?” The man asked as he looked at Irtar then shook as if awakened from a dream. His eyes suddenly focused on the Jedi and he was taken aback for a second. “Oh, there’s something going on. There was gunfire. My wife fell over. Have you seen her?”

“Uhm… no.” Irtar responded awkwardly as he made his way towards the spaceport. “But I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“Oh. Okay then….” The man mumbled, as he continued his way to wherever it was he was going. Irtar paused for a moment and considered whether to help the man or not. No, if there were people shooting up the spaceport that would be the higher concern since more people were still inside.

It was amazing how fast the normal paces of the day could degrade into chaos. It had started out like so many other mornings and here he was. Going into a spaceport where some guy was shooting up the place. What the frell was wrong with people?

Why couldn’t they just go and let other people run their nine to five in peace? There was always some sort of mugging, murder, or some other act of hate against their fellow sentients. Irtar weaved his way through the crowd as people filled out, trying to get to the wherever these guys were shooting up the place.

Eventually, Irtar managed to get to the scene of the crime. Smoke poured down the dim corridor as the Jedi focused to try and see what was going on. He slowly made his way along, hoping for the benefit of surprise to take whoever was doing this damage. Keeping low where fresh air was being circulated in to avoid asphyxiation.

In the distance, a dim white light became visible. Slowly he made his way towards it and as he got close, things became less of a contrast with shadow and more of things on themselves. He could see now the light came not just from the sun, but the burning hulks of vessels. He could see figures moving amongst the bright light of the fires.

One was heading towards a Y-wing and another towards a Z-95. Irtar watched carefully as the third, a larger fellow, began to walk towards him. Had he seen him yet? No. There was a body he was looking. Irtar’s hand tightly gripped his lightsaber as he tried his best to stay out of view. At least they seemed to be more concerned on something else, other than him.

He examined the large figure, wearing a suit of body armour and brandishing a huge rifle of some sorts. His body was covered in a variety of military gear. He saw the symbol of a military organization that he didn’t recognize. The man conjured up images of mercenaries and hired guns in Irtar’s mind.

Whoever he was, he and those with him seemed to be the ones responsible for this carnage and damage. Irtar took a deep breath as he summoned up the courage for what he had to do. If he stayed hidden, he could wait for the police but who knows what damage could be caused in the meantime? Besides, what if they found what they’re looking for and left?

Irtar took some cover behind some baggage and cargo along the hallway and did it. “You have breached Coalition and Sinsangese law! Throw down your weapons and surrender peaceably!” Irtar yelled at them, hoping they would think the police had them surrounded. He was first planning to just attack but he knew that just attacking was illegal. He didn’t feel like ending his diplomatic career by being extradited.

The figures suddenly all looked in his direction, rifles raised and ready to fight. There were shouts and orders amongst them and they quickly organized themselves defensively. One of them ran off to continue their search for something as the other two stood ready to rain fire on whoever chose to face them. NOW Irtar was more in the right to just attack them. And he knew just the trick…

Focusing his will through the flow of the force, Irtar’s mind reached out. Reality slipped from its norm to a higher sense that he was slowly getting used to. The higher sensations one felt through reaching out to the very fabric that holds reality together. The hand of his mind weaved through the wreckage and the carnage. Making its way slowly towards something that the mind knew was there, and felt the presence of. It reached for the man with all that equipment strapped to him. Slowly, the many fingers of it wrapped around something hard and metal. When they help purchase, it was time. And then suddenly, all at once, they tugged.

And then he returned back to himself just in time for his ears to register the frightened shouts. The pins on a number of grenades suddenly had pulled loose. He frantically reached for the items to try and remove them from his body but unfortunately he didn’t plan for this eventuality.

Irtar took cover as the mercenary exploded in a flash of smoke, light, sound, and flame as a number of explosive devices consumed his body. The explosion knocking bits of the mercenary in an ironic case of overkill. Irtar was quick to take advantage of the disorientation as he charged from his cover to deal with his foe.

The other soldier who was aiming a gun down the hall was already dealt with thanks to the explosion. The left side of his body, the side facing his former compatriot, was scorched from the explosion. He lay still so Irtar didn’t know whether he was dead or unconscious, but irregardless Irtar would charge towards the third.

With a crack hiss, Irtar’s lightsaber came to life. The large, two handed saber was his pride and joy. Its azure blade cutting through the darkness as easily as it would metal and flesh. The third was turning on his heel, he was under a Z-95 and had a metal brieface in his hand. The man quickly went for his blaster but Irtar was powered by the Force.
Irtar’s boot hammered into the chest of the mercenary who fell over reeling. As soon as he hit the ground, Irtar’s foot was on his chest and his lightsaber at his throat. A small smirk came on his face as he dropped his blaster.

“So you’re Mal’Gro, eh?” The mercenary said in a gruff tone. Despite being held prostate by Irtar there was still this pang of arrogance in his voice.

“How about you tell me why the FRELL you’re here shooting up a spaceport?” Irtar yelled at the man as his face twisted into as serious an expression as he could manage. He couldn’t understand how this guy could be same calm as if everything he’s done has meant nothing. The damage they’ve caused, the lives they ended, and the people they’ve hurt meant absolutely nothing to him.

The man was there with this sly look on his face, and Irtar just couldn’t comprehend why. More importantly, he couldn’t comprehend how a being like this could exist. How is it he could bring himself to non-chalantly shoot up a place?

It was taking an awfully long time to die.

Randel had submitted to his fate, his battered body having rendered anything thoughts of escape, much less fighting, ridiculously far-fetched. He was no warrior, but the idea of spending the last moments of his life begging for mercy struck him as pathetic, and so he had decided to die with as much dignity as was possible given the circumstances. His only hope was that it would happen quickly, and with minimum pain.

Yet as the seconds ticked by it was becoming increasingly evident that what he had moments ago believed to be a foregone conclusion was not coming to pass.

He wanted desperately to sit back up, but the thought that he had been spared by an incredible stroke of luck (maybe the attackers thought he was already dead) kept his back pressed flatly against the ground.

The fact that he might not have been able to sit up even if he wanted to had nothing to do with that decision. Nope, absolutely no bearing at all.

Even lying flat, and completely still, the pain threatened to overwhelm Randel and there was the threat that he would be enveloped by the darkness. Rationally Randel knew that darkness was merely unconsciousness, his body deciding to shut down and attempt to repair, but there was a portion of him that was terrified of succumbing to that darkness, a portion of him that instinctively knew that if he embraced that darkness he would never wake up again.

So Randel tried to fend off the cloud of blackness by trying to make sense of the current series of events. The chances of having two violent encounters of this magnitude within such a short period of time totally by chance struck Randel as very unlikely. He had his fair share of bad luck (usually at the sabaac table) but the idea that he just happened to be at a landing pad on Sinsang that got blown to kingdom come less than a week after running unintentionally running into an ambush pushed the envelope of coincidence. Try as he might, he had absolutely no clue how the first event related to the second.

Still, that didn't mean there wasn't any connection. Randel was no dummy, but no one would mistake him for Simon Kaine. The fact that his head had recently been bounced quite forcefully off the duracrete certainly wasn't helping enhance his critical thinking prowess either. Neither did the pain that seemed to be coming from every portion of his body.

So Randel Terrance lay on his back, unmoving, doing his best to figure out why he was lying there in agony, and waiting for something to happen.



“How about you tell me why the FRELL you’re here shooting up a spaceport?”

The mercenary chuckled, or at least he tried to- the sound he made more resembled a cough that was only partly the result of the pressure Irtar was applying to his neck, and said "The fee was good. Really good. Especially for such an easy, vulnerable target."

The merc could see that Irtar was somewhat repulsed by his statement, and he coughed out another chuckle.

"Come'on Jeedi. Read me my rights and take me down to the station. Isn't that how you Guardians of the Universe operate? "

The merc's sly smile reappeared after the incendiary remark, and he saw a tint of anger flash across Irtar's face. Brief, and quickly controlled, but he saw it.

So much for the stoicism of the Jedi.

The merc team had been advised of the potential obstacles that might add a degree of difficulty to the mission, and Irtar's appearance had been considered.

Dealing with a Jedi was never easy, but the group had put together a contingency plan for the occasion, albeit, the plan had not been designed to account for the possibility of two members of the strike team being taken out almost instantaneously by the team's own explosives.

Still, if he could keep the Jedi distracted for just a few more seconds the fourth member of the team, who had remained on top of the containing structure that ringed the landing pad, could finish refitting his multipurpose sniper rifle with the silencer and switch to projectiles.

Jedi were good deflecting blaster bolts, but the merc was fairly certain Irtar wouldn't be able to deal with the subsonic, three inch long, explosive filled round that the sniper was loading into the chamber. The Jedi would die without knowing what hit him.

"Hurry up Jedi, my lawyer will be going to lunch soon and I don't want to waste me phone call!"



Randel couldn't take it any longer.

Pushing down with his arms he tried to sit up. Halfway through the motion shooting pain cascaded up his left shoulder, and his arm collapsed, leaving him awkwardly slumped on top of the now limp appendage.

He opened his eyes, staring upward past the charred wreckage that sat next to him at an odd angle, and he saw a black clad figure crouched on the wall like structure that surrounded the landing pad. He was semi-hidden behind what looked like a fuel tank, and was peering into the scope of what was unmistakably a sniper rifle.

Randel's first thought was something along the lines of "Oh Shit" but he quickly realized the man wasn't aiming at him. Ignoring the pain he managed to sit up, and take in the scene before him.

He followed the line of sight of the rifle to a nearby Z-95 and a figure in a grey suit, holding some sort of glowrod, who was standing over another figure in black combat fatigues.

Putting two and two together, Randel yelled (or at least attempted to yell, but given his recent trauma he wasn't even sure if his voice would carry that far) "Look Out!" just as the sniper rifle kicked into the shoulder of his bearer, and spit a lethal missile at the back of Irtar's head.

"The fee was good. Really good. Especially for such an easy, vulnerable target." The mercenary said with a slight smile. He coughed out something resembling a laugh as Irtar pressed his foot more heavily against his chest. "Come'on Jeedi. Read me my rights and take me down to the station. Isn't that how you Guardians of the Universe operate? "

Irtar looked down at the mercenary with a look of disdain on his face. It was people like this who made the galaxy what it is. A dark place where no one cares but another unless they can get something for themselves. Mercenaries were almost as bad as the Sith in his books, except that much more unpredictable. One day a mercenary could work for the Coalition, and the next the Empire. The Sith at least had some loyalties, however much Irtar loathed them.

The things people would do to earn a dollar these days….

"Hurry up Jedi, my lawyer will be going to lunch soon and I don't want to waste me phone call!” The mercenary mocked as Irtar’s eyes bored into him.

Then, all of a sudden, the hair on Irtar’s neck stood on end. Something suddenly did feel right at all. It didn’t feel like a dark sider; that sent cold shivers up his spine. This was just like… something was off. Irtar’s body tensed up and he heard shuffling coming to the side of him.

"Look Out!" Irtar heard from the gloom and his body suddenly snapped to the side. It was like everything had gone into slow motion as his body moved as if by itself. He could swear he saw the large slug whiz past. And in an instance, the arrogant look of the mercenary was whipped away as a subsonic, three inch long, explosive filled round that the sniped had loaded into his chamber collided. And the face of that look was now scattered across the floor of the landing bay.

There was this brief moment where Irtar was mortified. Bits of the man’s skull stained his dress pants and blood poured from the open wound, pooling at his feet. But survivalism was a powerful thing, and things that would once horrify and make one pause were quickly pushed aside when one’s life was on the line.

Irtar’s eyes went to the sniper, who was already reloading to try and take another shot. A variety of possibilities passed through his mind. Should he pick up the mercenary’s gun and try and shoot the sniper? No, he was a poor shot. Should he try and use the Force to pull the gun from his hands? No, he could barely do it on a good day may as well from this range. Irtar’s eyes shot around for something and his eyes came across a piece of debris. He quickly picked up the warm chunk of steel and tossed it in his hand and caught it to get a sense of the weight.

Then, with a heave, Irtar threw it. Normally, most people wouldn’t stand a chance of hitting a man as far away as that sniper with a thrown object. But Irtar wasn’t most people. He had focused his will into it, pushing the chunk of metal forward with his ability with the Force. The piece of metal flew through the air at incredible speeds, probably rivalling that of a professional athlete.

With the Force, and subtle guiding the piece of metal collided with a thud against the mercenary’s head. The man wobbled, and attempted to move. Perhaps to escape? Irtar didn’t know but what he did was that he was quickly falling unconscious. He buckled, wobbled, and soon fell over and off his precarious sniping position.

Irtar truly wished he could save the man, but he was just too far away. The man fell into the burning hulk of one of the vessels destroyed in the conflict that had occurred. With that, Irtar took in the devastation truly for the first time. Torn vessels and flames licked around the docking pad. At least it didn’t seem that many were killed.

While thinking about any survivors, Irtar’s mind went to the person who had called out for him to look out. Irtar ran over to where he had heard the scuffling come from. There he found him, looking very worse for wear. The man was scorched, and various cuts covered his body. He was obviously caught in one of the explosions that had rattled the spaceport.

He seemed to be sort of there, but a little bit in the distance. He likely had a concussion of sorts. Irtar ran over and offered his arm as support for the man. “There you are…” Irtar said in a comforting matter. “Was there anyone else with you? What happened here?”

Irtar slowly led the person away from the landing pad. Emergency crews would be there shortly and this guy could get the help he needs. He would just try to start a conversation with him and keep his mind active. He didn’t know much about first aid, but he knew a person with a concussion should be kept conscious. He learned that when his younger brother, Thanos, fell on his head. The doctor had Irtar talk to him as he went to get something from his bag.

“I’m taking you to help. Medical teams will be arriving shortly.” Irtar reassured as he guided the man forward.