Prologue
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Hindsight
2347 hours, 15 BBY
Coruscant, Imperial City, Senate Distract, Ambassadorial Sector, 500 Republica, 501st story
AMBASSADOR Tiuy Rirjen slumped heavily into the overstuffed easy chair that dominated the sparsely furnished apartment on the 501st floor of the 500 Republica building, heaving a long, heavy sigh as she did. She rubbed her furrowed brow with a sweaty hand, reflecting on the events that had taken place in the Senate to-day:
As always, Emperor Palpatine had dominated the building with his raspy, wavering voice which grated upon her ears, pushing more and more xenophobic laws that rose up the Humans, while degrading the other species. Tiuy could not accept the fact that when the Emperor—then still Chancellor Palpatine—had come forward after the supposed assassination attempt by the Jedi she had been one of his strongest supporters in the reformation of the Republic into an Empire.
At the time it had seemed a brilliant plan, as it took away the sway the Jedi had over the people of the galaxy, as well as taking away the Jedi themselves.
But know, in hindsight, she understood that she had greatly misused her position as both a female member of the Rirjen family, one of the strongest families on the planet Kuat, and as the Kuati ambassador.
Once she had recognized her folly, she had done every underhanded, secret thing she could do to overthrow the Empire, even financing the smallest rebellions on the most unknown worlds in the farthest regions of the galaxy. These traitorous actions, while not taking her pose as ambassador, had earned her several bounties being placed on her head, some of them quite substantial, making her the target of bounty hunters.
Tiuy sighed again, and rose to her feet, blinking in the bright light of the apartment. Any normal Human would have had their residence darkened at this time of night, but not Tiuy, for she was a Hapan, and as such, had poor night vision, and even the Sephi blood that she carried in her veins, which displayed itself in the form of pointed ears, did naught to change her eyes. She kicked off her high heeled boots and walked over to the front door, beside which stood her one and only bodyguard Bordao, a FIII Footman Droid, painted blue and gold, the colors of the Rirjen family.
"You awake, Bordao?" she asked, her voice, though laden with fatigue, managing to be voluptuous.
"I am always vigilant, Lady Tiuy," replied Bordao, moving its head only slightly down and to its left, facing Tiuy.
She smiled and padded the droid on its shoulder. If Bordao could grin, Tiuy knew he would have. She walked through the living room, turning the lights out as she went, and entered the bedroom, leaving the door ajar, so that, if Bordao heard or saw anything suspicious, it could come to her with out the slightest determent.
Tiuy sighed again and shrugged out of her robes, and, leaving them on the floor, stepped out of them and climbed onto her large bed. Without a second thought, she turned off the bedside lamp, gripping the holdout blaster concealed beneath her pillow. She did not doubt Bordao's ability to protect her for a second, but there was no reason to be unprepared.
RUNNING on silent, the matte black M-31 airspeeder drifted up to the wide balcony window of the apartment on the 501st floor of 500 Republica. The cockpit canopy slid quietly back, revealing a figure clad head to toe in dark orange armor, riddled with scorch marks from many firefights, the helmet sporting a black T-visor. The figure approached the large window and, using his HUD, dissipated the glare from the city lights and peered inside: he saw nothing out of the ordinary, except, that is, for a footman droid.
The figure slid noiselessly to the side of the window, found the transparisteel door, and slid it open. At the faint swooshing of air caused by the opening of the door, the droid swung its head to its left, its photoreceptors glowing blue. Bordao raised its miniature rail cannon, aiming squarely at the figure's head. Before the droid even had a chance to fire its weapon, though, the figured had fired its Verpine shatter gun at the droid's head, the bladed, metal projectile slicing silently through the machine's neck.
Before the beheaded droid could topple noisily to the floor, the figure rushed to it, caught it, and laid it carefully on the carpeted floor. The figure reloaded the Verp with the gun's proper ammo, then went to the wall and crept along it to an open doorway and peered through it: a large bed dominated the room, light from the city slanted in through the open blinds, their rays falling on the bed and illuminating the bare form of a sleeping human woman.
The figure stepped slowly over to a pile of discarded robes which lie on the floor and set to rummaging through them. He found what he was searching for: an identity chit with the name Tiuy Rirjen, Kuati Ambassador stamped on it. Confident now that he had the right apartment, the figure strode to the bed, drawing a syringe from his belt pouch. He leaned over the sleeping woman, reaching for her arm.
Her eyelid snapped open. She did not scream, as he had expected, rather, she rolled onto her back and brought up a holdout blaster, aiming at his head. She fired, and the shot bounced off his helmet and went through the window across the room from him. Fear was evident in her eyes as he grabbed her right hand—the one that gripped the gun—and squeezed it.
"If you want to live, drop it," he said menacingly. Obediently, she dropped the gun and it fell to the bed with a soft thump. He put one knee on the bed and leaning forward, never taking his eyes off her, twisted her arm to that the inside of her elbow was facing up. He wiped off the area with a cloth, then inserted the syringe and injected the sedative into her bloodstream.
Within minutes, she was unconscious. The figure in the orange armor picked up the discarded robes from the floor and dressed the woman in them, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to himself by carrying a naked woman should he be seen—and he did not intend to be seen. He then scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder. On his way out, he struck at a few objects, causing them to fall to the floor, making it look as if there had been a struggle.
Once on the balcony, he, using a device incorporated into his armor, sprayed a splash of blood—the woman's blood—on the floor and railing of the balcony. He placed the woman in the passenger seat of his airspeeder, then sat behind the controls, slid the canopy back into place, and then sped away from the building, to a secluded landing pad near the industrial section of Coruscant that was known as the Works.
0207 hours, 15 BBY
Coruscant, Imperial City, the Works
HIS long, white hair and the stark white orbs that were his eyes, not to mention the claws that graced his four-fingered hands, would have betrayed to any casual observer that he belonged to the Arkanian race. That is, had they been able to see these features, as now hae was clad head to foot in armor that was as black as the darkest night with a helmet that sported the trademark T-visor that invoked fear in those who knew what it meant.
His name was Adrian Waris Balthazar, though he went by Waris, and he was a Mandalorian. He had once been—was still—a noble on his homeworld of Arkania, as his father was a high-ranking man in the Arkanian Dominion. But while his father, mother, and brother and sisters had been content with the life of luxury and ease that they led, Waris had always had a burning desire to do more with his life than to argue with politicians all daylong. And so, he had sought out the Mandalorians, for he knew from the many books he had read that their lives were hardly ever dull, and that they cared naught for the other people of the galaxy, that they were out for themselves only.
And know he was living his dream.
He checked the chrono in the HUD of his helmet: 0207 hours. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and paced about the landing pad impatiently. His companion should have been here with the woman seven minutes ago, and Waris did not like it when things ran late. He was about to call his companion when a sleek, black airspeeder crested the edge of the pad and floated gracefully over to hover near the Aggressor assault fighter that rested in the center of the pad, the lights of the city gleaming off of its silver hull.
The canopy of the airspeeder slid back, and the figure in the orange armor jump out of it. He nodded to Waris, then bent into the rear of the speeder and produced from it the unconscious form of a beautiful woman, whom he swung over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a small dog. Waris let out a sigh of relief when he saw that he woman was clothed.
"Finally, a clothed woman," he exclaimed to his friend as they walked up the ramp that extended from the Aggressor to the pad.
His companion rounded on him and replied: "That only happened once and there are two aspects that you always seem to forget about the incident, Waris. One, there were no clothes readily accessible. And two, I had an entire contingent of guards almost breathing down my neck so I didn't have time to stop at the shopping mall and pick up the season's latest." The exasperation was evident in his voice.
Waris smiled beneath his helmet. He loved to tease his friend so.
Once they had the woman properly contained, the two men went to he cockpit of the ship and sat down, Waris at eh controls, and his friend behind him in a passenger seat, scratching the ear of the dog they kept with them. Waris, using the crane that he had installed on the ship, brought the airspeeder into the cargo hold, and then lifted the ship into the night sky of Coruscant, punching in the coordinates for the appropriate world into the ships navicomp.