Darkness.
The darkness was all-encompassing, surrounding the chained prisoner. Shackled to a wall in a dungeon on a forgotten world in the Outer Rim, the man moaned. His captor had stopped the torture sessions- for now. The never-ending torture sessions wearied the broken shell of a man. It was his curiosity that kept him alive at the hands of his dark host. Curiosity as to why he was being held in this dark dungeon on this hellish world, in a fortress that radiated darkness, more encompassing than that of the cell around him.
Why was he here? Why did the deranged man that called this fortress home hold him here, against his will, guarded by an army of minions that didn't even seem remotely human, at least not any more. It was his curiosity that kept him alive. Curiosity, and hope.
Hope that his message was received. Hope that his ally would come.
He hoped for a miracle, a miracle that would save him from this cruel and twisted fate.
He hoped for Phiht Piroc to arrive.
Hyperspace- Near the Y'toub System
Vertical City. The Smuggler's Moon of Nar Shaddaa loomed in the forward viewport of the Call of Destiny. The moon was built over with massive buildings, much like Imperial City was. It was a moon that trillions of beings, sentient and otherwise, called home. Much of the planet was a haven for smugglers, con-artists, thieves, and other less-than-savory characters of all shapes and sizes. It was one of those smugglers, most of which were employed by the Hutts of the world Nar Shaddaa orbited, Nal Hutta, that I was searching for.
A weeklong hunt and finally ended with this backwater world. From world to world I had followed the smuggler, a Duros called Renatu Madak, and the hunt finally ended here. The smuggler had a cargo that didn't belong to him, and Drolslobba the Hutt wanted it back. I didn't know details of what the cargo was, but the Hutt had paid him handsomely to make sure it didn't fall into the hands of one of the other Hutt kajidics that rivaled Drolslobba's Besadii clan. If Desilijic got their hands on the prize Madak had, things could go against Besadii. The clan didn't want that. Hutt politics were very cutthroat, and one advantage a clan had over another could lead to having the greatest power on Nal Hutta.
I slid the Call of Destiny, my modified YT-2400 freighter, into the inbound traffic lane, heading planetside towards the Smuggler's Moon. It was just another anonymous freighter finishing the last leg of a long cargo-hauling trip. Following behind a larger Action-series freighter, I kept my freighter following at a good distance, keeping away from the larger freighter's engines.
It wasn't long before the freighter entered the atmosphere. I changed my course to land in one of the larger starports. The way I figured it, a fugitive on the run was more likely to head for a larger spaceport, hoping to get lost in the crowd of freighters coming and going day-round. I had an ID tab on Madak's Barloz-class freighter, the Duro Star, and a list of known aliases Madak and his ship operated under. He also had a small crew that was extremely loyal to him. It consisted of a professional gunslinger, a few mechanics, and Human trained at one of the Imperial Academies as an Imperial Marine. I would most likely have to deal with the crew in addition to the ship's rogue captain, in order to get the cargo for Drolslobba. The only problem was finding the freighter.
I guided the Destiny down into an open hangar, easing the ship through the narrow opening and gently landing the freighter on its set of landing gear. I rose from the seat and walked out of the cockpit, into the main hold of the vessel. I turned and opened the gear locker near the cockpit's hatchway, and removed from it the scarred and battered helmet of a Mandalorian warrior. Like the rest of the armor I wore, it was a dark, gunmetal grey, utterly featureless save for the dark, T-shaped visor. I placed it over my head and reached back into the gear locker. I pulled from it a large assault rifle, a MerrSonn Munitions WESTAR M-5 rifle. I had inherited it from my father, a Mandalorian commando during the Clone Wars. He had fought alongside Mandalore and his loyal battalion of 211 soldiers, until he died in a failed assault at Norval II. All that was recovered from his corpse was his rifle, taken from a Republic-allied Mandalorian earlier in the war, and the shattered bronze helmet he wore. It hung from a pike on Manda'yaim, alongside the other helmets of Mandalore's fallen. It was a fitting honor for a good and loyal soldier. I shouldered the rifle by its sling and walked to the landing ramp. I lowered it and walked out into the perpetual gloom of Vertical City.
The first place I went was the main office the spaceport. I walked to the main desk, which dominated much of the small room. I was the only person inside the office besides the Rodian dockmaster. He barely looked up as I approached, but then did a double take once he realized a Mando soldier, armed with a large assault rifle, in addition to the massive amount of armament built into the suit. "Um..." he stuttered. "You're the YT-2400 that just landed, yes?"
"Yes," the baritone of my voice rumbled from within the faceless helmet. I wasn't good with nonhuman facial expression, but I think I made the alien uneasy. Good.
"Ah. Um, well, uh, you owe the port a 2000 credit docking fee, sir." I handed over a credit voucher, untraceable money compared to credit tabs, to pay for my docking. "We don't look too well on trouble, sir, so if you could restrain from firing your weapon here, please, we at the Nar Shaddaa Docking Authority would much appreciate it."
"I don't make promises," I responded. "I'm looking for someone."
"Someone's always looking for someone on Nar Shaddaa. How can the Docking Authority assist you?"
Well, hopefully this would be a little easier than usual. "I'm looking for a freighter, Barloz-class, that would have landed within the past forty-eight hours. It should be registered as the Duro Star."
"Ah, yes, the Duro Star." The Rodian tapped at the datapad in front of him. "That particular freighter hasn't made port here in four months." He tapped again. "There are currently seven freighters of that particular class docked here." Again, he tapped on his datapad. "Of course, specific information on said ships in port is not to be given out to other spacers." He gave a quick glance at my weaponry, and then tapped at his datapad again. "I believe, of course, we could make an exception every now and then. Does the ship you seek operate any known aliases?"
"Yes, as do most ships that operate as smuggling vessels." I scowled beneath my helmet. Shame the dockmaster couldn't see that. "List off the names of the ones in port."
"Of course, sir. Do any of these sound like the vessel: Star of Corulag, Freedom's Call, Fait, Neimodian Nova, Epsilon Delta, Tres-enta'ares, Hope of a World."
"The Neimodian Nova. It's that one."
"You can find it in Docking Bay 12-7-B." The Rodian twitched slightly. "Of course, you will please restrain from firing your weapon."
"Again, no promises. I plan on shooting back if they take a potshot at me."
"Self-defense, of course. I understand." He tapped at his datapad one more time. "Have a good day, sir."
"Sure thing." I turned and walked past a Zabrak that was coming through the door of the small office. I walked back out into the spaceport, and walked quickly over to a directory. It wasn't terribly crowded at this hour, so I guessed it was night locally, but the beings that walked through the spaceport still gave me a wide berth. Most people tried to keep as far away as possible from a fully armed Mandalorian. I glanced at the map quickly and found Docking Bay 12-7-B in comparison to the You Are Here sticker on the map. I memorized the route, then walked through the dimly-lit corridors toward Madak's hangar bay. I would take care of the smuggler and his crew, and claim the cargo for Drolslobba. It couldn't be that hard.
Nar Shaddaa- Outside Hangar 12-7-B
I somehow got lucky enough to spot one of Madak's crew members leaving a general store near Hangar 12-7-B. I picked up my pace slightly, pushing my way through the steadily-increasing crowd to grab him before he returned to the hangar. The less to have to worry about in a potential gunfight could be a bonus in the hunting business. My ID scanner tagged him as Trent Vandor, the former Imperial Marine. Getting him out of the firefight would be a huge bonus. Mechanics with guns didn't score high enough on my threat list in comparison with a trained Marine to be a problem.
Vandor was wary, that much was certain. He constantly through quick glances over his shoulder, eying for someone tailing him as he returned to his ship. He was good, but I was better. I had removed
my helmet, making it less likely for me to be picked out as a threat. The rest of my beskar armor was harder to see in the crowd, but a helmet stands out, especially the distinctive T-shaped visor of my scarred buy'ce. He turned from the main thoroughfare and into the airlock to the hangar. I slid in behind the ex-Marine as the hatchway began to seal. He didn't even seem to notice me. I quietly replaced my helmet. I took another step closer, raised my right arm, and fired.
Mandalorian armor has a lot of useful tools. I fired off my liquid-cable launcher at the Marine. Catching him completely off-guard, the cable zipped around his ankles and, with a tug on my part, launched him off my feet. Before he could reach down to untie himself, I had raised my WESTAR M-5 and fired a stun round at him, close range. The Marine slumped, muscles visibly slacking as he fell into unconsciousness. The stun blast on my rifle could knock out a good sized Wookiee for a few minutes, so, with luck, Vandor would be out for a bit. I hit the control panel by the doorway, opening it.
The mechanic standing right outside the doorway didn't even see it coming. He caught a stun blast to the chest, felling him like a tree. It was almost too easy.
Of course, the easiness never lasts. The echo of the assault rifle's blast had alerted the two guards that stood by the entry ramp of the Barloz freighter. The one looked uncomfortable with the handgun he held. The other, however, was obviously the gunslinger in Madak's group, Brank Lavoz. The overconfident di'kut was spinning his dual DH-57 Annihilator pistols around his fingers. I brought my rifle up as he stopped the elaborate spinning pattern of his pistols. I hit him full-one with three shots, on kill rather than stun, at him. He was ripped off his feet with the force of the plasma rounds hitting his chest. The other guard had dropped his blaster onto the floor of the hangar and had darted up the boarding ramp before I even had him lined up in my sights.
I went to follow him up, but was stopped short as something went over my head and caught on my neck. Someone had come up behind me when I had been occupied with the gunslinger with a cable and was trying to choke me with it! I activated the 360-degree vision of my helmet and saw the Marine, Vandor, had recovered pretty quickly from the stun blast. I dropped my rifle as I struggled against the other soldier. He was big and muscular, even for a Marine, and I doubt I was strong enough to compete with his strength.
I was left with one option.
I squeezed my right hand into a fist and felt a satisfying jolt as a knife blade slid out of the knuckle plate of my gauntlet. From the sides sprang blades of multiple shapes and sizes. I brought my arm up to my neck as I kicked backwards, feeling a sickening twist of Vandor's knee as my boot slammed into his leg. The knife blade flicked up, the beskar blade cutting easily through the thin metal cable. I turned, and took a fist from the big Marine across the faceplate of my helmet. I lost my balance momentarily and took a few involuntary steps backwards. It gave the Marine enough time to recover and leap at me.
He tackled me like a professional athlete. I was on the ground in a heartbeat, Vandor on top of me. He yanked a handgun from the holster at his waist and put it to my chest. "It's lights out, Mandalorian."
I responded with a jab up with my right fist. The drawn blade went through the Marine's throat with a wet slurping sound. Blood poured from wound onto my visor, and Trent Vandor's great weight fell off me and onto the ground beside me. He still bled, red blood pooling on the cold durasteel deck plates. I got to my feet, grabbed my dropped assault rifle, and wiped the blood off of my visor with the back of my gloved hand. I marched towards the Duro Star, blaster rifle raised.
The reputation of a lot of targets leads one to believe they'll know how a target will react when finally encountered. Madak, however, surprised me. He had a blaster drawn, but he was curled in the fetal position in a corner of the freighter's main hold, shaking. I walked up him, stopping when I was merely a foot away. This pathetic thing led me on a week-long chase? Fierfek, that was ridiculous.
I lowered my rifle to point at Madak's head. He dropped his blaster as he raised both hands to cover his eyes. Hut'uun, I thought silently to myself. "Where's Drolslobba's cargo, Madak?"
The blasted coward quickly pointed to a small wooden box, tied down on top of one of several larger crates in the hold. "It's right there. Please, don't kill me. I don't want to die!"
"You lived a good life, I think."
"Please, I'm barely out of my teen years."
"I didn't say long, I said good. You cross someone, you've got to learn to live with the consequences." I smiled beneath my helmet; I liked good irony every now and then.
The cowering Duros' eyes widened in panic. "Please, it was just a job. I don't want to die!"
"Everyone dies. It's the only everlasting justice in this universe."
I fired. The Duros, face now fried beyond recognition, collapsed. I turned and walked over to the pile of crates on the other side of the hold. I grabbed the box, an intricately carved and decorated piece. It was small, barely a cubic foot in volume. Tucking it under one arm, I walked to the engine room of the freighter. I put the box down and pulled a small canister from my belt. I punched a few buttons on its otherwise-featureless surface. The thermal detonator, now armed on a ten minute timer, was carefully placed inside the starboard engine block. I grabbed the box, my ticket to getting paid, and exited the late Renatu Madak's freighter. I left Hangar 12-7-B exactly as I had found it, besides the bodies lying where they had fallen on the floor.
YT-2400 freighter Call of Destiny, outbound from Nar Shaddaa
The box was strapped in, as if it were a sentient being, on the vacant copilot's seat. That seat was never occupied: I made it a general rule to work alone. There were few in the Galaxy I could call my friend. One of them had left a message for me while I had been off hunting Madak. I called up the hologram feed of the closest friend I had ever known, Roykin Dermitchal, a man I had grown up with my homeworld of Concord Dawn.
Roykin had followed Mandalore into the Clone Wars some thirteen years ago. I had chosen to stay behind on Concord Dawn, where I was one of the Journeyman Protectors charged with the protection of my homeworld. I was the law there, and for remaining loyal to the people of my homeworld rather than heed Mandalore's call to arms, I was exiled. I hadn't spoken to him since he left with the Protectors to fight for Dooku's Separatists, but I knew he had survived the war. I didn't know details of it, but he managed to escape the fate of nearly the entire battalion of Mandalorian Protectors.
The hologram came to life on the control panel in front of me. I recognized Roykin, despite over a decade of aging since I had last seen him. He looked… panicked. I knew Roykin well enough to know he didn't ever panic. That couldn't be good.
"Phiht," the blue image of Roykin said, "I know we haven't spoken in some time, but I'm in serious trouble. You're one of the only people I can trust, and I need your help now. I'm on assignment in the Outer Rim, on a small, hellish world called Shola. Things have gone sour and I need your help if I'm to escape alive."
The message kept playing, but static interference during his transmission, or possibly even signal jamming, had started to garble the message. "I need…droids…there's…Dark Jedi…some sort of mechanical… nightmare virus… please respond," was all that could be made sense of the message. Whatever trouble Roykin had gotten in to, there was no way it was good. I still had a job to finish though.
For the first time in over a decade, I found myself conflicted between commitment to an assignment, and commitment to a friend. Once again, it was a clash of honor and duty.
I didn't know what to do.