Bergen Station, Soroya

Shuttles and light freighters off the Perlemian Trade Route entered and departed off Bergen Station as insects around their hive. Passengers strolled off the shuttle ramps and gawked at the various ships within the hangar or the shops in the central hub. Packages of freight were hurriedly unloaded or reloaded onto the various cargo ships under the watchful eye of Soroya Customs. The energy of commerce suffused the space station, and the icy planet below. It was routine that Soroya had seen since the blazing of the route centuries ago. Among the hustle and bustle of the port, a sole man dressed in a light gray uniform paced the corridors, looking out the transparisteel viewports at the light blue orb that was Soroya or watching the various starships that plied the ancient trade route. It was a sight that he too had seen for a long enough time, serving over two decades within the force, and yet, he still took pleasure in the sight, every day he saw it.

Commander Larvik of Soroya Security Forces stared out into space, gazing at the large amounts of spoke-and-wheel stations, mostly spacebound cities and centers of commerce, that encircled his Soroya. Among those stations were Soroya’s Security Outposts. They differed little from the common civilian models except in one aspect: the center of the spoke was a somewhat antiquated mass-driver. He smiled. So beautiful, so deadly. I must be one of the luckiest defence commanders around. Not even the Empire has tried to touch us. He frowned. At least not yet. He shuddered for a second, and continued on his daily stroll on the station, ignoring the crowds of unfamiliar travelers which engulfed him at times. A tall crimson droid approached Larvik. The commander smiled, proudly recognizing the familiar face of Zed 802, one of the many SoroSuub 501-Z Police Droids that staffed Soroya Customs under organic constabularies.

“Sir, Detective Kiel and Representative Townsend requests to meet in your office, ASAP.”

Larvik frowned. “Did they tell you why?”

“Negative, sir.”

Unexpected visits are never good. Larvik’s frown deepened, as he hurriedly strode towards his office onboard the Bergen. He glanced at those who passed him, suspicion crawling in his mind; he moved faster, knocking into a traveler in the process. Muttering an apology, he distractedly brushed himself off and continued on his way. At the door to his office, a pair of hand-picked guards stood at attention. On a normal day, he would see their amused faces and exchange pleasantries with them. But today, as he neared the door, the soldiers were somber and stiff.

“Representative Townsend is waiting inside, sir,” stated the sentry in a voice devoid of emotion.

“Thank you Will.”

The door slid open.
----------------
Audacieuse, Confederation Flagship

“That’s the last one. Cerberus reports that Quadrant Beta-Eight is secure.”

Another minefield finished. The younger Lucerne stared out at the Cerberus, one of Abhean’s Countess-class Light Cruisers, which were little more than Vindicator-class Cruisers built at Abhean’s venerable yards. Most of the Abhean warships had quickly been put to use. For its third entrenching mission, the Cerberus had unloaded half of her fighter complement and used the 8,000 metric tons of cargo space to carry sensor and communication satellites and pulse-mass mines. Mines and satellites that seemed to litter all known entry points to the hyperspace routes within Confederation space and to its planets, even select points within the routes between Confederation planets. It was typical of Confederation redundancy in defences. And the placement had to be just right, as minefields, while relatively cheap compared to many types of defences, were still expensive. Corise pursed his lips at the thought of the cost. And there use to be critics within the Confederation that say we spend too much on our military budget. I suppose I should actually thank TNO for inspiring most of the Confederation to increase the defence budgets (and taxes) and bolstering our recruitment efforts. Some wry commentator of the Confederation had stated that it was not a government that controlled a military, but a military that controlled the government. While not entirely true, the military did exert a lot of legal influence within the Confederation’s workings; no-one would deny that. Corise turned to the ship’s helmsman.

“Lieutenant,” stated the Commodore, “take us to outer defence perimeter on our western border. I want to make sure that everything is working properly in case the Empire tries to make a run down from the Perlemian Route or Roche into our territory.”

“Yes sir.”
------------
Lavrik’s Quarters, Bergen Station, in orbit around Soroya

“You mean to tell me that the Governor’s daughter was aboard that ship?”

The two other man looked down, silent. Larvik threw down his hands in exasperation and collapsed in his chair behind the desk. Detective Kiel ventured a glance upward.

“There’s still hope.”

“It’s very faint,” stated Lavrik, “those slavers could be anywhere.”

“Where though?” replied Townsend, “They couldn’t have gone west down the Route, that would have taken them through the Roche Asteroid Belt, and I think the Coalition or Imperial Navy would have jumped on them quickly; a Corellian Corvette isn’t so small that it could easily escape customs in such a built-up system.”

“There’s little to the North of us, except for Warlord Blissex, and by the stories I’ve heard of her, she would be the among the least likely one to support slavery.”

Lavrik thought pensively. Warlord was an odd title to take up for a woman; enough so that he and the guards usually joked about it, eventually skewing into “Warwuss Blissex” during their everyday talk. Legend had it that when she was young, she had been traveling with her aristocratic parents to Coruscant on the family yacht, when it had been jumped by a piratical gunship. When the pirates boarded the craft, they executed her parents before announcing to the surviving crew of the yacht, mostly family servants, and announced that their next home would be at an auction block in Hutt space. The pirates never left the yacht; for an Imperial warship arrived and captured both the pirate ship and her smaller prize. She apparently then swore revenge and joined the Empire’s Navy when she came of age. While it was a popular story amongst the region’s inhabitants, used to explain why an aristocratic would become an Imperial Navy Officer, and then warlord, Lavrik was not sure if anything was truthful within it, given the amount of people it had to have passed through, even there was a bit of truth within it. He leaned forward.

“Well, we certainly can’t explore her space; that would only give her a reason to annex us.”

Townsend frowned. “Would she try? I always thought that the Mass Driver Cannons on our stations were enough a deterrent. I mean, the Empire and the Coalition haven’t bothered us.”

“The Empire never did because of a treaty arranged by a Governor with Sector’s Moff which provided him with money. Now that there is no Moff in the Sector any more, who knows why the Empire hasn’t come here. The Cannons are some antiquated, but fine, and could take on some ships, but not as many as the Empire can field. The force of starfighters and converted freighters built up over the years is probably more formidable than the stations. But still, it wouldn't be enough, at least from what I've seen from the holos. My guess is because they’re tied up in the Roche Belt right now with whatever they’re constructing, that or we’re not worth the trouble. The Coalition never bothered us because it’s not their way. If anything, we can expect a diplomat rather than a hostile war fleet from them.”

Kiel frowned. "So what do you suggest?"

Townsend leaned in closer, "I suggest we manipulate one of the other sides do our bidding then. The Empire is too cunning and powerful for this type of manipulation. Most of GC would see through it. But we're in luck. You've heard of the Confederation; they're new; they're idealistic. Let's let them play the knight in shining armor for us. We can even hint that the rescued daughter might be interested in marrying her 'hero' ."

Lavrik frowned. "This is risky."

"Of course it is," smiled Townsend, "when was anything ever accomplished without risk?"

"Still. The people would never stand if they knew what you're planning. And if the Confederation finds out, I don't want to know what they might do."

"Trust me Commander. We're just going to be allies."
----------------------------
Commodore’s quarters, Audacieuse, Confederation Flagship

“They are pretty good,” stated the Flight Lieutenant.

Corise turned about to the younger man. “What is pretty good? Good enough to be professional pilots in the Coalition or Imperial navies? Or good for a ramble-rouser like a novice pirate gang?”

Arensdale chuckled. “Good enough to be a threat to an overconfident pilot. Nothing we can’t take.”

“Let’s hope that overconfident pilot isn’t you then, shall we?”

The other man frowned. Corise sighed and collapsed into one of the light-coloured chairs; part of the ridiculously white furnishings of his quarters. It had been a long day. Inspections by the Confederation fleet had shown that the minefield seemed to have been placed all right by a portion of the subfaction's fleet under Captain Fyre. He looked up at Arensdale, who stared out the large transparisteel viewport into space.

"You know we can't have some criminals operating within Confederation space," stated the Commodore, "thus why we try to stop them before they have the chance to enter our own. We obviously can't have a large fleet operating outside of our sovereign jurisdiction for a long time because of defence concerns. So be careful while you hunt for these slavers with your flyers, because I'm not sure if the fleet will always be able to back you up."

"Yes sir."

Luxury Liner Queen of the Stars

Crystal domes dotted the hull of the Queen, presenting the occupants with a grandiose vista of stars; couples had been married here. Stressed-out beings had lost themselves amongst these celestial sights, their trouble suddenly lost as their eyes gazed upon the distant lights. Sometimes the simple exposure to nature brought the most peace and joy to denizens of a troubled galaxy. But the sanctuary it once provided existed no longer.

“You, move along,” snarled the grizzly man.

Amongst the opulent passengers of the liner, the ruffian appeared to be a beggar. His once stylish attire was now thread-bare and worn. His face seemed to have been aged more years than that of Emperor Palpatine at his demise with the second Death Star. If it weren’t for the blaster he was waving about and his snarling commands, the passengers might have pitied him.

“You old hag!” demanded the man, “keep moving! Or it’s Hutt Space for you.”

With a prod of his rifle, the old woman was forced into a docking tube that would take her to the waiting slave ship. Around the ship, other members of the piratical gang rounded up prisoners and forced them on their way. One of the raider’s crewmembers walked forward towards the grizzly man, pushing a young woman in front of him.

“Boss, this is the Governor of Soroya’s daughter.”

The raider leader gave a yellow smile. “Well, won’t you be a valuable passenger are my little cruise line.”

He barked a laugh. “Take her to my quarters.”

The raider hestitated. “Do I get an extra share for finding her?”

“Huh? Sure.”
-----------------------
Deathsaber Recon Patrol, Deep Space

A voice crackled through the comm.

“Five, I’ve got a reading on a heading of 15.39.”

“Copy that Six. Go take a look.”

“On it sir.”

Lieutenant Arensdale sighed. Things can take too long. Fifth day, and all we’ve found so far is are the remains of a starship collision and an old deep space probe. Not exactly a luxury liner or a piratical ship. His blue eyes looked out into the cold vacuum outside his bubble canopy. Stars glittered, but nothing else. The same as always. These are the days when I hate being a pilot. I should have become some naval officer on the Audacieuse, taking downtime every couple of hours. A voice jolted him back to attention.

“Five, I’ve got a visual. It’s the Queen of the Stars. It looks derelict.”

Frak.

“All right Six,” stated the Lieutenant, “we’re coming to your position. Any signs of life onboard?”

“None except for the plants.”

“We’ll have to land in their hangar bay and see if we can pull up their ship’s records.”

“How is that going to help us?”

“Well, if the ship’s sensors were still on and recording, we can maybe get a jump vector for where the slavers went next.”

“Sir, the hangar bay particle shield is still up.”

“Well, then blow up the generator then. It’s a civy ship, it shouldn’t be that hard with a couple of concussion missiles.”

“Yes sir.”
--------------------------
Bergen Station, Soroya

“…it’s a big ship from what I hear,” stated Townsend, “it will be a chance to see what they have to offer us…”

Commander Lavrik and Representative Townsend continued to pace down the corridors of Bergen Station. It was nearly silent, save for the tread of their feet and the occasional echo through the hall. Lavrik, for the most part, contented himself to staring out the viewport at the vista of Soroya and its many orbital stations while Townsend continued his erudite monologue on the upcoming visit of Commodore Lucerne and the Audacieuse. Finally, Lavrik interrupted the politician’s rant.

“Have you talked to Governor Depeche about the Audacieuse landing at Trondheim?”

Townsend frowned. “I left the packet with his aides, who said they would give it to him. The Governor is a busy man you know.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Lavrik, “it just seems like it’s been years since I’ve saw him.”

“The same here, but everything seems to be running smoothly.”

“When did you last see him?” questioned the defence force commander.

Townsend shrugged. “Probably shortly before the opening of the Westington Mine.”

Lavrik’s jaw tightened. Great things had been expected from the Westington Mine, being the largest mine on the planet, when it had first opened. Mines on Soroya had been very rare because of the few temperate regions had much, if any, mineral wealth. The rest of the planet was covered in perpetual glaciers, hundreds of meters thick. At that density of ice, even modern sensors weren’t able to figure out the composition of what lay below the surface. That combined with the intensely cold climate had seen to it that next to nothing was ever mined. Perhaps the strangest thing about the Westington Mine was its closure after only several weeks of use. The company had shut down and sold it to the government, which in turn sealed it off under the personal direction of Depeche’s daughter, recently graduated from a university on some influential core world.

“But that was over two years ago.”

Townsend hestitated. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Governor Depeche hasn’t been running the government since shortly after Westington was opened.”

“What?”

“His daughter took the reins. He’s on a leave of absence from day-to-day operations. Something about some diplomatic mission. I guess it’s been a long mission; if he still lives.”

Lavrik’s jaw simply dropped, millions of questions racing through his head. He could only think of one thing. He stopped walking, and faced Townsend.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this? If he’s out of our territorial space, he should have an security escort with him. You know these times.”

“That’s the thing. He never left Soroya. He just vanished. The only person who knew where he went is his daughter. A strange thing is that most of his groundside security detail vanished with him, as if the earth swallowed him up.”

Lavrik shook his head ruefully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“None of this makes any sense. If it was such a huge diplomatic mission, why wasn’t it publicized? Why didn’t he choose an envoy to take care of it or have whoever he’s talking to come to us for diplomatic talks. It’s not the only strange thing going around here. You remember the recent waves of retirement from Trondheim’s professors?”

“Yes,” stated Lavrik, “but the only thing that shows is that our pension plans are far to generous if they are allowed to start an early retirement.”

“I might agree with you if we knew where half of those professors ran off to.”

“This is more unbelievable than the Kirkanes Cataclysm.”

“Some legends are true,” chided Townsend.

“Sure, and this space station is made up of magical paper…”
------------------
Unknown Location

It was a simpe, cubic room carved out of gray granite. Its makers had attempted to grind and polish the walls to make up for the lack of architecture or elegance. Their efforts to use the natural beauty of stone were only marred by the simple, industrial light that hung suspended from the ceiling and the plain, circular metal table with accompanying chairs. Four men, three of them wearing semi-modern combat armor, sat around the table, apprehension hung in the air. Finally, one of them spoke.

“How do we know we can trust your promises?” stated an armored figure.

“I have nothing to show you except for my existence. Does not my existence show proof of what I have to offer you and your peoples? Do you not yearn to see what life can be for your people?” stated the man, wearing a dusty and badly worn business suit.

“We have our own life,” ventured one of the other men.

“But if could be better.”

“Better? Better is a comparative thing. What you think is better might not be better for us.”

The unarmored man sighed, “But how can you know what is better if you have never seen it?”

“Because I’ve read about it.”

“That information is over three generations old. Times change.”

The other men looked at each other. “They’ve rarely changed around here.”
------------------
Deathsaber Recon Patrol

Arensdale murmured a few words to himself as his fighter soared through the flashing lines of hyperspace. Fiddling about, he grabbed hold of the cockpit straps and tightened them, squashing his torso against the padding of the seat. Confident that nothing short of a lightsaber could cut him from the harness, he glanced about the rest of the flight controls. Everything checked out, from his life support to the concussion missiles loaded on the pylons. He sighed and leaned his head back as far as the harness would allow. It was the fifth time he had done the routine since his squadron had jumped from the Queen of the Stars following a lead.

According to the navigation information downloaded from the Queen, the route would eventually take them to an abandoned colony. It made sense for a criminal group to set up a base on the world like that, with structures probably still in place from the colony. What didn’t make sense would be the stupidity of slaver simply jumping his craft in front of a ship’s recording sensors to the planet. Unless the slaver was intentionally trying to throw them off. He glanced at the chrono. Another fifteen minutes and we’ll find out the truth about this lead.

The fighter shuddered and reverted prematurely into realspace. As the stars began to flash into myriad of tiny specks, Arensdale could make out the comm. signatures from the squadron’s other fighters reverting to realspace with him. Frak. We must be in an interdiction field. His face turned into a snarl as he armed his weapons. He then tapped a button that set him up with the secure frequency used by his squadron.

“Looks like an ambush. Arm and be prepped people.”

The squadron complied. But no interdictor craft or any hostile warship greeted them. No artificial presence that indicated a sentient’s presence. Among the brilliance of stars, there was only one anomaly: a single tumbling asteroid. An asteroid large enough that it had pulled his squadron out of hyperspace.

“What the frak?”

“Quiet Eleven. No time for personal remarks; though I tend to agree with you. It’s a dead end.”

He scanned the horizon. They could have jumped in nearly any direction from here. Unless the base was in the asteroid. It’s far enough from civilization and not on the nav charts. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time criminals have used asteroids for bases. He keyed his comm.

“Scan the asteroid, maybe they’re using it as a base. Split up and take the quadrants by call sign.”

The men and women of the squadron acknowledged; flights of Deathsabers broke off from the main formation and then disintegrated into individual fighters to scour the desolate surface. They neared the surface and peeled off into terrain-following mode. Deathsabers soared over the fields of gray and into the craggy canyons carved into the surface. It was an uneventful search.

“Twelve here. My scan is complete. I have nothing.”

It was the last scan. And like the others before, it too was inconclusive. Either the slavers were incredibly well-hidden or they weren’t there. Knowing the sensitivity of their starfighter’s sensors, he knew it had to be the former. Arensdale sighed, silently wishing to bang his helmet into the bubble canopy. He began to orient his fighter away from the asteroid to make the jump back into hyperspace. The Commodore won’t like this.

“Five here. I’m picking up an ion trail. And it’s from a capital ship of some point.”

Of course. The asteroid serves as an navigation point for the pirates. Most ships’ sensors wouldn’t pick up their ion trail, so they’d figure that either the asteroid or the distant colony would be their base, and if they didn’t find it there, that would be the searcher’s dead end. There would be no leads left. He smiled.

“Looks like the hunt’s back on. We’ll follow the trail into hyperspace.”
----------------
Slaver Corvette Zong

“We’re past the Rock. Smooth sailing from here, Captain.”

“Aye. And the Guild will be pleased,” vowed the raider captain, “over 400 captives netted. Not to mention the booty.”

The helmsman smiled, staring into space. Captain Tarsk frowned, guessing the man’s thoughts.

“The booty’s not for you or for me. It’s for the ship. You’ve been in the engine block. You know the repair they need.”

“Aye sir,” grumbled the slaver, turning his attention back to the controls.

Tarsk mumbled a bit and walked out of the bridge down the aging ship’s corridor. The lights flickered, not because of a power shortage, but because the little money the crew had had been spent on keeping the essential systems of the ship. Sadly, they had not had enough money to replace some of the loose wiring or defective glow lights. A pair of the criminal guards stood attention in front of his quarter’s doors. Glancing to make sure that the guards were alert, he opened the door. He gave a yellow smile as he entered

“Well Miss Depeche,” declared the Captain, “I can assure you that we’ve thrown off your rescuers.”

His mouth dropped, staring at the chair where she had been tied up. A quick scan revealed that the woman was nowhere to be found. He quickly clamped his jaw and drew his blaster pistol from its holster. Turning back to the open doorway, he silently beckoned the guards in, whom upon seeing their hostage missing, began to search the quarters to no avail. Tarsk could only say one word as the slaver’s crew began to search the entire ship:

“Frak.”
-------------------
Audacieuse, Confederation Flagship

“Commodore’s on the deck!”

The armored heels of the trooper clicked as the officer entered the doorway. Seeing the senior officer’s entrance, the ship’s captain, Christian Sato, quickly paced up to the Kashan man. Corise had so far been impressed by the other man’s performance. Sato was a citizen of Audacia, but had previously spent most of his time as a hyperspace scout, exploring the far reaches of the galaxy while war raged throughout the core and the rim. Although not very well known, he had even led a New Republic expeditionary force into the fringes of the Tingel Arm before the second Republic collapsed.

“Sir,” started the Captain, “we’ve picked up an automated distress beckon from a corvette calling itself the Zong. It’s on a course that matches Arendales’ squadron of Deathsabers.”

The younger Lucerne frowned, walking down the command walkway. “Plot the courses on the holo projector.”

Sato tapped a few buttons on the projector. A green line appeared, with a large dot representing the Zong and several smaller ones trailing behind it: the Deathsabers. Suddenly, the dot represented by the Zong stopped midspace.

“Its engines are out. Regardless who it is,” stated the Commodore, “they will be needing a lift. Plot us on an intercept course.”

“Aye sir.”
-----------------
Unknown Location

At the end of the dark tunnel, a pair of guards stood at attention at the doorway. The guard with the blaster pistol wore a business suit, dusty from subterranean travel. The other appeared have a standardized black uniform over which an armor vest was worn. Leaning on the butt of his projectile assault rifle, the second man turned to face the other guard.

“You have a family back home, Todd?”

The man nodded. “I have a wife. We have a child on the way.”

He frowned for a second, “if he hasn’t been born already.”

“I’ll never understand you surface dwellers. Why do the things you do. Why you put up with them.”

Todd smiled. “Many times I don’t understand us either. What about you?”

“No, not really. My parents died in the Dark Alliance Wars, you know, our civil war. I don’t have a girlfriend or anything. I figured that I would probably die in the war and now this has just come up. Whenever this gets done, I’ll settle down in some nice warren.”

Todd smiled. “Not going to even consider the surface before you settle down.”

“Nah, from what I’ve read in the Chronicles, its freezing up there. Nice and warm down here, though I’ve always wondered what space is like. I might try that, and if that’s okay, travel a bit. Though I hear that takes a long time.”

“Maybe before the Cataclysm. Times have changed on the surface and in the rest of the galaxy.”

“Well-”

The door opened. Three men, clad in the black battle armor of the Ironfist Dynasty emerged, behind them, the man in the dusty business suit. The semi-troglodytic humans looked at each with a feeling of stoic resolve while Governor Depeche simply beamed with pride as he approached one of his agents: Todd.

“Well, Todd. I think we’ll be heading home soon. Come on.”
---------------------------------
Slaver Corvette Zong

“Frak.”

“We’ve blown several fusion circuits in the engine room, sir. We’re sitting dead in space.”

Tarsk’s face turned into a snarl. The first profitable raid in two years and then it goes to hell. Things have gone from bad to worse. That Depeche wench escaped and set off an emergency transponder code from an escape pod; we probably have bounty hunters and navies on our tail, and now the old girl gives up on us. Can’t really blame her; we’ve needed a real overhaul for a couple of years now. Maybe Sparks can fix up another one his frakking patch jobs to pull us through.

“Is Sparks working on it?”

“Yep. He’s got the mechanical crew working furiously on it. Eyeball destroyed the emergency beacon, so the last thing they’ll be getting is our position right now.”

Tarsk nodded. “Which won’t mean much if Sparks doesn’t get the engines patched up quickly. How is our hostage?”

“Sedated and in the escape pod as ordered.”

“Good. We might have to use her to get by this time of around.”

“Aye sir.”
-------------------------
Deathsaber Recon Patrol

Following the coordinates of the last emergency signal, the Confederation starfighters surged into realspace, still coasting off the momentum built from their flight in hyperspace. Immediately, their HUD lit up, showing the decrepit Zong. Arensdale’s jaw tightened. It matches the footage from the Queen of the Stars. He keyed his comm., but another voice spoke first.

“Five here, this corvette exactly matches the records the profile and transponder code of the ship that raided the Queen of the Stars.”

“That’s right five, so this is what we’re going to do ladies and gents,” wryly smiled Arensdale, “Fire staggered pairs into their engine block. The Audacieuse is inbound, so don’t be sloppy.”

“By the book?”

“By the book,” repeated the Lieutenant, “fire on my mark.”

The Deathsabers quickly converged onto the corvette’s engine block and fired, sending blackened missiles straight into down the nozzle of the thrusters. The first wave of missiles slammed into the shields and detonated into a fireball that briefly engulfed the rear end of the corvette. For all the visual effects, the missiles only succeeded in bringing down the worn out vessels shields. Missiles from the second wave lanced into the bare hull plating, shattering and charring the engine block into an unrecognizable piece of metal fit only for the scrap yard. As the squadron came about for a strafing run on the crippled vessel, a silver wedge cut into realspace straight towards the Zong: the Audacieuse. A crisp and precise voice filled the comm. waves.

“Slaver ship Zong, this is the Confederate starship Audacieuse. Your engines are irrepairable, or they will be shortly hereafter. Standby for boarding.”

“Confederates, this is Captain Tarsk of the Zong,” stated the criminal confidently, “We are holding the daughter of Governor Depeche hostage. Any aggression by your part will result in her untimely demise. But perhaps we can work something out to our mutual advantage.”

“Whoever Governor Depeche is, we don’t care,” replied a hardline voice, “Hostages are of no value to us; your lives or bodies are; we’re interested in the bounty on your heads. In fact, I think that if you resist at all, we’ve have executed here and now by fire squad or spacing without a trial. No, I think we will do that no matter what you do; scum like you is only fit for the airlock.”

Arensdale frowned. It’s Commodore Lucerne’s voice, but that can’t be him speaking. Since when were the innocents considered to be acceptable casualities? Since when did we kill people without a trial? Tarsk’s voice came back somewhat shakened.

“What if we were to ensure the hostages unharmed? I mean, if you’re only interested in the bounty then you’re interested only in the money, right?”
Lucerne sighed. “And the hostages get us money how? They are extra mouths we have to feed. That means more money I have to spend.”

“You could sell them.”

“All right, you’ve convinced me. Now what do you think you get in return for this?”

“A trial before Soroya’s court system instead of instant execution.”

“Very well…I guess.”
----------------------
Audacieuse, Confederation Flagship

“Welcome aboard Miss Depeche,” bowed Commodore Lucerne.

Sara Depeche eyed the officer as if she was meeting a patient put into an asylum for insanity. I really can’t blame her after that bluff we’ve pulled off. The Soroya woman regained her composure and weakly smiled.

“You don’t seem like the ruffian I heard on the comm. waves a half hour back.”

Corise shrugged. “They played and relied on the one card they had. It’s not a very strong vantage point if that card appears to become worthless to other barterer.”

“Are you saying that I am not of any value to you?”

“Well,” blushed the younger Lucerne, “not to me directly at least. All life is valuable I suppose. Your father wanted to talk to you; he’s right now on hold in the communication center if you wish to see him.”

She slowly nodded. “I suppose I should. It’s been a long time since he’s had access to any type of communication to the outside world.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Could have you someone take me there?”
-------------------------
Two weeks later…

Soroya

Among the Jugenstil-style buildings, crowds flooded the cobblestone streets of Trondheim; Soroya’s ancient capital city. Today was the Governor’s term address to his people, a speech performed for centuries that highlighted the man’s accomplishments for his people within his four-year term. In most cases, it was an event without fanfare, with no-one save the politicians paying much attention to it. But today, it would be different. Rumours abounded that Depeche had found the survivors of the Kirkanes Catacylsm: a natural disaster in which the planet’s earliest colonial days, Soroya’s largest city, Kirkanes, had disappeared off the face of the planet. Scientist had long supposed that the city had been located on a faulty tectonic line, and had literally collapsed into the earth. But in those years, Soroya had neither the technology nor the money to investigate the disaster, and when it did, nothing could be found except a smattering of frozen debris on an icy wasteland. More substantial, Governor Depeche would likely be announcing the planet’s membership into the Confederation, as evident by the grounded Audacieuse at Trondheim’s massive space port. The citizens of Soroya gathered in the square or turned on their holo-projectors in their home as Governor Depeche made his way to the balcony for his speech.

“Citizens of Soroya, these four years have been long and arduous, but it is my pleasure to have headed our people in these prosperous years. Not only has trade ever been higher, and our economy stronger, but we will have old family members to include within our own as we enter a larger one. As many of you have probably guessed, the House of Representatives voted today to join the Confederation in light of its actions that rescued our citizens and brought the perpetrators of these despicable crimes to our esteemed court system. It is my belief that the Confederation will continue provide that protection for our people, our commerce, and our planet. Perhaps more interesting to some of you, the rumors you have heard of the Kirkanes Cataclysm are true. Would General Ragnar please step forward.”

A man clad in the buffed black armor of Soroya’s subterranean people proudly strode to the side of the Governor.

“General Ragnar is the leader of our people who were cut off by the Kirkanes Cataclysm. The reunion of our two peoples, whether we live on the surface, or in the earth, is the ushering in of a new era. Those of the Kirkanian descent will now be represented in our government as the province of Kirkane, to be effective as soon as representatives from the province can be elected to their office. General Ragnar will now be leading our military forces as the Confederation officer in charge of protecting our people. As most of you know, Soroya has long relied on its set of defence stations and planetary shield generators for protection. The Kirkanes have recently recovered from a civil war, and the existing armies raised during that tragedy will now serve to protect all of us, as will new defences being brought in by the Confederation. It is my hope, that us, the surface people of Soroya, can dedicate as much as our new family members for our well-being. Commodore Lucerne, General Ragnar, and the Congressional Committee for Defence will be soon be reorganizing and expanding our military in order to protect ourselves against those elements that would try to harm our planet…”