The woman scowled as she struggled to pull the engine panel open. Her light hydrospanner didn't have enough torque to budge the damaged bolts.
"Three-See, grab the oh-nine hydrospanner," she hissed, sucking at her skinned knuckles. The squat utility droid beeped at her, wrestling the hydrospanner from the cart, stabilizing the heavy tool in the primary grasper arm with its fine-grasper arm as it trundled back.
[The tool, as requested], 3C-FD beeped.
"Thanks. Can you start diagnostics on this engine?" the woman asked, using the heavier hydrospanner on the corroded bolts.
[Negative. Diagnostic port has been destroyed] the utility droid apologized.
Of course, Choy thought, glaring at the damaged engine.
Some genius had decided to shave a few parsecs off their supply run (with a faulty deflector shield projector) through a meteoroid storm. The result; a badly shredded engine, and an irate Bith pilot behind on his delivery timetable.
The dock master came out of his office, more to escape the ranting pilot, than anything, and wandered over to Choy, milking the comparative silence of the massive hanger as long as he could. It was a long walk, but Choy could see him from the corner of her eye as she worked.
Choy knew he had a name, but she preferred to think of the man as the dock master. Titles were safer than names. Names bred familiarity.
"How's it look, Choy?" the dock master asked, standing four meters away. She was grateful for his courtesy, but bit off the reaction before anything more could grow from it.
"Starboard engine is scrap. Two meteoroids cored the primary power thrust generator, and damaged the coolant lines," Choy said flatly.
The dock master pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"He's lucky the engine didn't explode," Choy finished.
At the word explode, the dock master's eyes snapped open again.
Everyone on Peragus was leery of explosives, considering how volatile the fuel they mined from the asteroids was.
"Can it be repaired?" the dock master asked.
"Do you see any spare thrust generators listed in the supply stores? Especially for a Tympan-class medium freighter?" Choy grumbled, trying to dislodge a piece of metal shrapnel blocking an intake valve.
"Not the last time I checked, no," the man said ruefully. He was young, barely older than twenty-five, with blonde hair and a fresh-faced innocence about him. Choy wished he hadn't shaved the ridiculous moustache off. It had given her something to fix her gaze on, to avoid his eyes. Watching his lips, or nose simply felt wrong.
[We can cut the engine out of the loop] 3C-FD ventured.
"What did it say?" the dock master asked.
"Three-See said we could cut the engine out of the loop," Choy translated.
"Will that work?" the dock master asked, hopefully.
"Yes… if a straight window opens up in the orbital drift pattern, and the freighter doesn't have to maneuver," Choy replied.
They both knew the likelihood of that happening, this deep in the asteroid field.
"See what you can do," the dock master sighed, squaring his shoulders, in preparation for walking back into the tirade waiting for him in his office.
Another reason Choy preferred droids to people.
"I really don't want to go back in there…" the dock master sighed.
"Effess nine oh seven could hose him down for you," Choy grunted, gesturing at the fire-suppression droid that always followed her around.
"That might be lethal," the dock master laughed, but the man still paused, considering it for a moment.
FS-907 perked up at the possible mention of fire suppression duties.
"I'm sorry Effess. It was a joke," Choy called.
The vaguely crab-shaped droid seemed to droop a little, but powered down its fire suppression projector, returning to standby.
The dock master continued to stare at his office, but didn't move.
"He has kids," the dock master said, breaking the growing silence.
Choy didn't answer, keeping her hands and eyes busy with the engine.
"Six of them. He needs this job," the dock master said, still staring at the office.
The dock master was asking for help, in his roundabout way without ever asking a question. Choy hated it, because it was oddly endearing, and therefore, a threat.
"He's yelling so much because he thinks I'm going to spike his license," the dock master sighed.
"There's a reason for the security clearances," Choy pointed out.
"Yes. One mistake and everyone is dead… but this is the first time. And he didn't explode…" the dock master trailed off wistfully.
"This time," Choy finished flatly.
((()))
"Good afternoon, admiral. I'm glad you were available," Supreme Chancellor Tol Cressa said warmly, seated at the luncheon table.
Admiral Onasi nodded stiffly, "Thank you, Chancellor," and sat at the expensive greel wood table. His red and gold uniform seemed designed to camouflage against the crimson whorls of the table, and Carth wished it actually could.
"I hear that the outer rim shipping lanes have grown safer since your appointment to admiral?" Tol Cressa inquired politely, as he cut into some sort of seared avian life form, a delicacy no doubt.
"Scarcer. Not safer. Attacks are down because there's less shipping in the area," Carth replied bluntly, eyeing some of the foods, trying to see if he recognized any that wouldn't aggravate his ulcer.
"Admiral, please. The senate has already looked at your proposal and rebuffed it. We simply don't have the resources… and besides, you have the largest fleet in Republic space. You are hardly in a position to beg for more ships," Cressa rebuked casually.
"It's also the fleet with the oldest ships, and the youngest crews," Carth retorted, though he didn't raise his voice. He decided on something that looked like a pastry, or a meat pie, and carefully took a bite.
"Sadly, these are the times we live in. Losses were severe. Even with the enlisted crews pardoned from the Sith Empire in the last war, we simply don't have the manpower…" Cressa sighed.
"Part of the treaty stipulated that those enlisted could never rise to the officer corps. That still leaves a crippling shortage of command crews, chancellor," Carth said sharply.
"Would you trust the command of our ships to those that have betrayed their oaths once already?" Cressa rejoined.
"No," Carth said simply.
((()))
"Approaching rock sigma two seven niner," the pilot said flatly. A meteoroid slammed into his aft deflector, causing the twenty-meter long orehauler to shake, but nothing more.
"Rand, you still hungover?" one of the miners in the main hold yelped over the com line.
"Of course. Which means I'm only… three times the pilot you are?" Atton replied, not taking his eyes off his scopes, scrutinizing the orbital drift charts as he did so.
"He's also playing pazaak, and flying with his feet," a second miner interjected, before Atton could say it. Rand didn't care. His mouth tended to operate with its own auto-pilot, letting him focus on the important things.
Like not dying.
Sigma 279 was a terrible asteroid to attempt to set up automated drills on. It had too much rotational spin, and liked to stay closer to larger asteroids… and it was just big enough to attract the smaller meteoroids like flies to a carcass.
It took Atton seven minutes of rather intricate dancing to maneuver the clumsy orehauler into a synchronous orbit of the two hundred meter long asteroid. From there he managed to "land" the ship by securing the landing claws into the rock surface, directly over sealed cavern. More like a bubble in the rock, but it was large enough to house the drilling equipment and droids.
No landing thrusters were used. Nothing that could generate sufficient heat to set off the fuel.
Atton reinforced the deflector shields, diverting power from engines to do so. It was a preset.
"Alright, everybody out before we explode," Atton drawled into the ship's com, as he pulled out his pazaak deck. His part was done. Now the diehard idiots in the cargo hold could earn their hazard pay.
The boxy floor of the cargo hold had retracted, revealing the surface of the asteroid. In about… ten minutes, the miners should have excavated deep enough to reach the twenty-meter diameter bubble of space below, and start installing the equipment.
Atton waited fifteen minutes, long enough for everyone to clear out of the cargo bay. An emergency portable scanner was kept onboard, used primarily to detect peragian fuel deposits, in case of an accident. Rescue crews cutting through cave-ins, or hull plating might hit a pocket… and then no more asteroid, possibly no more asteroid field.
The scanner had other materials it could identify at a range of up to six hundred meters.
Like duratanium.
Atton carefully wrote the coordinates down on a scrap of flimsi, relative to the automated beacon that was being set up, as part of the drilling team's efforts.
Easy credits.
((()))
"Any luck, admiral?" Sergeant Jordo asked quietly. He sat in the passenger seat of the military air car, despite ostensibly serving as Admiral Onasi's "valet."
Carth liked to fly, something he rarely got to do after being shoe-horned into admiralty.
"No," Carth said shortly, weaving the car through the early morning Coruscant air traffic. He doubled back, obviously checking to see if anyone was tailing them, and not stalling.
"Does he still think you know where Revan and Bastila are hiding?" Jordo asked, double checking the calibration of his blaster rifle.
"I don't see any other reason to keep inviting me to these luncheons," Carth said bitterly.
The Chancellor had decided to keep Revan's involvement a secret, and had used Bastila Shan as the Republic's publicity symbol, for Republic morale, and as a photogenic hero of the Republic. He'd attempted to coerce her cooperation, over the protests of the Jedi High Council (who had wanted nothing to do with her, since learning that she had fallen to the dark side, another carefully guarded secret, kept from the masses and the Jedi at large), by using Revan's identity, and his war crimes, as blackmail.
That morale imploded rather spectacularly three months after the conclusion of the Jedi Civil War when Bastila Shan had gone off-script at a Republic rally.
Personally, Carth rather preferred her speech, to the propaganda doggerel Cressa had been forcing her to regurgitate. The woman essentially told the crowed that she was no puppet, and neither were they… and told them the truth. About the war, Revan, and the Chancellor.
Security forces had tried to cut off the broadcast, or escort Bastila away from the podium. Neither attempt was successful, as a suspiciously large contingent of the crowd seemed to possess military training, and did not permit the security forces access.
Carth did not however, mistake the man piloting the air car that had plucked Revan and Bastila from the riot.
Canderous Ordo… the mandalorian leader of Clan Ordo.
What hurt Carth, was that neither Revan, nor Bastila had told him about the escape plan. He hadn't been included, but Canderous had.
With his PR campaign in shambles, Tol Cressa had shoved Carth into the limelight, and used him as a surrogate hero. Hence the sudden jump to admiral, and the luncheons. There'd been extensive spin-doctoring as well, so that Cressa could ride out the accusations of scandal. The man was an excellent politician.
It didn't matter. It was what it was… and Carth had an outer rim to safeguard.
"Jordo. I think it's time I join the fleet I'm commanding," Carth said thoughtfully.
"Shouldn't be a problem. As long as you don't run it by the Supreme Chancellor," the commando observed quietly.
"I may be the worst admiral in two hundred years, but I'm still one of the best captains we have left," Carth grinned mirthlessly.
"Dustil's not going to like it," Jordo predicted.
"He's on Corellia. Why would he care?" Carth said caustically.
"You promised to be at the wedding," Jordo reminded him, reaching for the data pad that held Carth's itinerary. Carth hated the damned thing.
"I said I would try," Carth corrected.
Sergeant Jordo was silent for a time, thoughtfully watching the cityscape flash past.
"Admiral… look at everything you tried and succeeded. You managed to end the war. Compared to that… failing to appear at your only son's wedding… that's not failure. That's deliberate," the ex-sith commando captain said softly.
Carth scowled, but didn't shout at the commando.
"Besides sir, it's a rather durasteel-clad reason to leave the capital…" Jordo pointed out helpfully.
((()))
"So, Brynna, about that date…"
Brynna Corro sighed, and looked up from her report, "I said no, Rand. Why don't you pester someone else, I'm busy, and you're not injured," she said sharply.
"Brynna, you know I only have eyes for you… and I have this pain, right here…" the rogue said slyly, tracing an outline around his heart.
"You don't have a heart," Brynna said coldly, cycling to last week's roster, to double check some of the finer details.
Atton Rand frowned at the beautiful and completely unattainable doctor.
Of course, that just made her so much more desirable. Cold on the outside, plasma on the inside.
With a shrug, the man left the medical ward, and headed back towards the habitat level.
"Atton, buddy, thought I'd missed you," a big miner said loudly, clapping Atton painfully on the back outside the turbolift. Atton winced, and bit back the snide retort on his lips. Insulting customers wasn't exactly healthy.
"Coorta… yeah, good to see you," Atton said, skirting the edge between sarcasm and enthusiasm. A scrap of flimsi exchanged hands, followed shortly by several very large denomination credit chits.
"Good catching up, we should do this more often," Atton said, rolling his eyes, as he stepped into the turbolift. At least business was good… albeit stupid.
The lift doors opened, and Atton stepped out, right into a miner.
"Sorry, friend," Atton said reflexively, then realized his mistake.
Not miners.
Security.
"Hey Torin. Still on for tonight's Pazaak game?" Atton asked the muscular aqualish thug.
Torin shook his head, the bulbous, faceted eyes throwing light as he did so, [No. The chief wants you though.]
Atton was getting a bad feeling…
((()))
Choy dragged the power generator from a decommissioned ore hauler through the hanger bay on a grav-sled. It should be compatible, or at least mostly compatible. 3C-FD was already patching the coolant lines on the damaged freighter, while FS-907 lurked protectively nearby, attracted by the heat and flashes of the welding torch.
There was just one problem, Choy realized. She needed a heavy lift unit to hold the smaller generator in place, while she attached it, since it didn't fit the original seat of the damaged generator.
"Statement: greetings organic, I hope the day finds you well."
Choy spun, spotting a gun-metal gray bipedal droid behind her. She glanced at its feet, wondering why she hadn't heard it on the metal deck. Some people surfaced the metal soles of droids so they wouldn't clatter so loudly on metal decks… but this droid wasn't muffled. It was silent.
Then she looked at the servomotors of the droid. The housing was slightly oversized, possibly indicating additional power… or cheaper construction.
"What's your sustained lift rating?" she asked.
The droid tilted its head to the side, an oddly human affectation, "Reply: Under proper conditions, four hundred kilograms, without causing structural fatigue."
Choy glanced at the generator, ran a few quick calculations,
"Can you hold this generator while I mount it?" she asked.
"Statement: I would be delighted to, organic."
Without further delay, the droid squatted, gripped the conical generator, and lifted.
"Query: how would you like this unit positioned?"
"I need to mate the power conduits, and marry the coolant lines together," Choy said, clambering up onto the engine cowling, directing the gray droid, wiping excess oil and grime on the hips of her coverall.
She'd need to weld some struts to reinforce the housing, to keep the generator in place during flight. Just in case.
"Three-see, grab some J-struts for me, variable lengths, and the fusion torch," Choy said, as she quickly clipped the power conduits into the generator.
She also kept half an eye on the gray droid, in case it started to show motor fatigue. Some droids didn't realize that their factory-floor specifications altered over time with years of wear and tear. Or improper maintenance.
"I don't recognize your model, what are you?" Choy asked the droid, hoping for a better estimate of its abilities. She'd hate to damage a droid, especially one that was merely assisting her.
If it was possible for a droid to glow, this one did… although whoever had designed its face had not done the protocol droid any favors. Choy thought it looked vaguely sinister. Something about the sweep of its forehead and the placement of the burning orange photoreceptors. Blue might have been a better choice with its gray color palette.
"Proud Answer: I am an HK series protocol droid, skilled in trans-organic relations and communications. This model has been responsible for the facilitation of communication and termination of hostilities numerous times across the galaxy. I am fluent in over six thousand forms of communication and am also capable of nuances of expression ranging from irony to veiled threats," the droid said smugly.
Choy had been away from main stream society for years, but she didn't think she'd ever come across a droid with this much… character?
"Veiled threats?" she echoed, curious. Protocol droids were generally programmed to ingratiate themselves to those around them, because of their vulnerability… which unfortunately tended to make them annoy the very beings they were trying to befriend. This droids had far better articulation points for its joints compared to most protocol droids. She guessed it might even be able to mimic human strides…
"Clarification: Oh, yes. Sometimes the facilitation of communications and termination of hostilities requires the use of every weapon in one's... verbal arsenal," the droid chuckled, "The unspoken threat of violence to a listener's loved ones, or if possible, their entire planet, can effectively break the deadlock in even the most stubborn of negotiations."
Choy frowned, and her initial enthusiasm was beginning to wane, replaced by wariness, and she didn't like how flippant this droid was about casual threats of murder. Especially since it was just a protocol droid. She hoped.
Some pilots became jumpy on long hauls, especially with clients. It wasn't unheard of for some to modify droids into emergency bodyguards… just in case. The problem lay in that most were novice programmers… so the "combat protocols" tended to have hair-trigger activations…
3C-FD arrived, with the brawnier FS-907 pushing another grav sled, this one loaded with roughly a dozen paired durasteel J-struts in varying lengths, as well as a fusion welder, and black-out goggles. The utility droid pointedly held the goggles out to Choy with its fine grasper arm.
[Safety is priority] it burbled.
"Yes. Thank you Three-see," Choy chuckled. After a few quick measurements inside the engine compartment, she hopped down off the engine cowling and whipped the goggles over her eyes, cutting the J-struts to proper lengths. It also let her ignore the fact that the HK droid kept watching her.
((()))
"I was framed. Really," Atton said, lounging on the cell's flat bunk.
"Right," Security Chief Mavrel said sarcastically, drawing out the word for emphasis.
"So, someone doctored those holo-images? And the prints we found on the contraband were planted, no doubt," the chief growled.
"Of course," Atton said agreeably, folding his hands behind his head.
The chief shook his head, and sat down heavily at his desk, which coincidentally faced the handful of cells, allowing him to keep an eye on any prisoners, and do paperwork.
"I never suspected you Rand… Coorta, but not you. I thought you were smarter than this," the chief glared. Then he stabbed a button on his console,
"All right - all hands, especially you, Coorta - listen up because I'm not going to say this again."
The angry little man's words echoed outside, and throughout the facility, set to maximum volume, despite Administrator Landrow's wishes. Mavrel took what few pleasures he could in a job as stressful as his.
"The next one of you juma-heads to try and smuggle a blaster, or so help me, any sort of military grade frag weapons into my facility is going to take a long walk out the airlock."
Atton quirked an eyebrow. Hopefully that was hyperbole… but maybe not. The entire peragus asteroid field was technically an orbital ring, since it was the planetary debris that had been ejected from Peragus II after a mining accident ignited a pocket of peragian fuel… which exploded, and in turn cooked off another pocket… and another… and another… until roughly a sixth of the planet had achieved escape velocity from itself.
Mavrel took a moment to inhale before finishing, "So if I catch any of you with anything other than sonic charges or mining drills, I'll burn you and your contract. Security out."
Atton clapped politely from his cell.
"I don't suppose you'd let me have a holozine…" Atton said neutrally.
Mavrel didn't even acknowledge his presence. Apparently the man was taking Atton's duplicity rather hard.
"That's what I thought…" Atton sighed.
"As soon as the next freighter arrives, you're off my station, and on your way to a very lengthy prison-sentence," Mavrel said briskly.
Which was as much as Atton had expected… so… about a month of this.
((()))
Choy scrambled up the side of the freighter, spurning the climbing harness 3C-FD was still wailing at her to use. She'd been climbing ships for over a decade. She'd never fallen yet, and it was a quick fix. She just need to connect the—
HEAR ME.
Choy blinked, before something washed over her. She felt her fingers loosen… and she started to fall. Choy screamed, as waves of crawling fingernails and claws ripped at her mind. Then she hit the deck.
"Choy!" someone screamed, as if from a great distance. Choy didn't hear.
FEEL MY WORDS.
Beneath the agony, Choy heard something. A note… from a song she had not heard in twelve years. A song that had once been all that she was. It whispered where once the song roared. But after so much silence…
I NEED YOU.
Choy wept, not from the pain, but from the soothing touch hidden within—
—and then it stopped.
She was alone once more.
Alone in the silence.
"Medical! Get me medical!" someone shouted, as Choy retreated into darkness.
Too late. There's no one here anymore, Choy thought sadly.
They could look all they wanted but no one would find her. There was nothing left to see.
((()))
"Did you see what caused this?" Brynna demanded, not looking at Sully. The dock master shook his head helplessly.
"She just fell."
The medical officer stared at the bio readings on the scanner.
Two broken ribs. A rib fragment perforated the upper lobe of the liver. Spleen's ruptured. Right clavicle and right scapula fractured in three places each. Minor skull fracture, and—
"I've got a brain bleed!" Brynna shouted, as the med droid began prepping surgery.
((()))
Recalculation was required. The target had been positively identified as Meetra Surik: excommunicated Jedi Knight and former general in the Republic military (honorably discharged). The bounty stipulation was for live capture and "overall good condition," with a reward of two million republic credits.
Simple abduction and smuggling from the hanger bay was no longer feasible, since the target was now under observation in the medical facilities… a place any absence would be noted in minutes, if not seconds.
HK-50 considered the possible methods of target extraction available. The direct approach was feasible, considering the lack of appropriate blaster weaponry present, but chances of identification, and pursuit by official forces was unacceptably high. Eliminating all witnesses was complicated by the explosive terrain.
A quandary, but one that HK-50 felt fully up to the task of solving. The situation clearly necessitated additional assets and further planning. After all, any droid could kill an organic. That was a simple service. What HK-50 produced was art.
Unfortunately, art was never free.
((()))
"That was… amazing" a voice intruded on Brynna's thoughts, as she wiped the blood off her surgery table. The medical officer twitched. She'd forgotten all about Sully during the two hour operation.
"I don't even know if she has family," Sully said, worried. Brynna frowned at the man, uncertain what the conversation was about, then remembered he had something of a shine for the antisocial mechanic… which was the primary reason he kept changing his appearance every few weeks.
"Thank you for carrying her here so quickly. You can return to work," Brynna said.
"I just have a few reports. I'll stay here, incase she—" Sully started.
"Dock master. Let me rephrase. Get out of my med ward, and let me do my job," Brynna said coldly.
At least he hadn't made any noise while she was operating.
Brynna went back to her scanner. The patient was in stable condition, but appeared to still be suffering neurological issues from the fall.
There was a lot of neurological activity, even though the patient was unconscious. But the patterns weren't right, nor were the levels. The patient's current level of Beta waves would be appropriate for a zeltron. Not a human. Brynna scanned Choy Verdan's medical file, but didn't see any disorders, diseases, or non-human ancestors.
"No signs of mind altering substances, no current cerebral bleeds…" Brynna muttered, paging through the scans.
"Its almost looks like a seizure…" the wave levels were correct, but not the pattern.
It certainly didn't look anything like the activity found in most closed head injury cases…
((()))
"I found it," the man said, his gray beard neatly trimmed, in contrast to the ragged tunic he wore.
"Found what?" the mandalorian asked, distracted, as he tried to feed the screaming baby in the crook of his arm. It was harder than it appeared.
"It's on Peragus," the old man said, cackling.
"What's on Peragus?" the mandalorian asked patiently, ignoring the milk that had been sprayed across his armor by a rather smug six kilogram infant.
"Whatever's causing the blank spots in the futures. It's on Peragus," the old man said, absently handing a blotting cloth to the mandalorian.
"Or maybe you're just getting old, Jolee," the mandalorian chuckled, carefully wiping off his armor without dropping the babe.
Jolee Bindo scowled at his friend.
"I'm not getting old, I'm already old, damn it," Jolee grumbled into his beard.
"So retire," the mandalorian said bluntly, as he gently rocked his child.
"I keep trying… but there's still things that need doing. It never ends," Jolee growled.
The mandalorian raised an eyebrow at Jolee pointedly.
"Fine... I don't want to stop. Retirement's too boring. Even with the kids tagging along," Jolee sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Those kids are almost in their thirties…" the mandalorian chuckled.
Jolee cracked an eye open to glare at his friend. "I'm more than twice their age. Therefore, kids."
A pregnant silence fell within the cramped living room, as Jolee Bindo watched the man that called himself Kyle Draven feed a child. After six minutes, Jolee gave in,
"Revan… come with me. We both know there's something out there killing off Jedi, something that can't be sensed. Maybe it's based in Peragus. I'm old. I can't do it alone," Jolee sighed.
"You aren't alone. You have Kel and Lashowe," Kyle said, standing his ground.
Jolee studied Revan for several minutes, through the Force.
"You aren't going to change your mind," Jolee decided, with sadness and frustration in equal measure.
"I've gone to war twice, Jolee. Neither war ended how I intended it to when I began it," Revan said quietly. Something lurked within the mandalorian's tangled mind, and Jolee's mental probe edged closer.
"You're afraid," Jolee blurted, startled.
Revan looked up, meeting Jolee's eyes.
"I never had anything to lose before. Now I do… and I can't leave them, Jolee. I'm sorry. My wife and children comes first," Revan said firmly.
"I could always tell Carth where you're hiding…" Jolee threatened facetiously. It was an empty threat.
"And I could always kill you if you do," Revan said, his face hardening, brown eyes cold in an instant.
Revan's threat was not empty. They never were.