Chapter 2

It had been at least a week since anyone had last heard from Lira Ansii. She'd departed the Jedi Temple on Coruscant en route to Fractis Minor, then she simply vanished. The mysterious disappearances were a deepening thorn in the side of the Jedi already swamped with a cacophony of problems, like trying to fight a war. Or like taking on padawans in a battle zone, especially as young as both padawan and master were in the force as of late. Things moved so fast since the mess on Geonosis, muddling training and making the art of peacekeeping a sloppy affair.

Master Valen Stral sat in a thatch hut, meditating, trying to find Ansii in the Force. His large Mon Cal eyes twitched in concentration while he searched for his comrade. She was alive, he could tell that much. But that was it; there was no emotion or feeling tied to it. A disturbing mystery, one that he didn't have time or resources to investigate. He was expecting a pair of youngsters fresh from the Jedi academy within a week or two, and wanted to have the bulk of the heavy fighting done before they arrived. The least he could do is try to break the padawans in easily. They would have plenty of time for the chaos of war with the way things had been going.

Exiting the thatch, he moved through his platoon's camp, preparing for the next push in his mission. They'd encountered droids, a few tank units, but nothing of particular interest. It made him wonder what was significant enough to call for an expeditionary force. Raw materials? A staging ground, perhaps?

He passed by a group of more than a dozen wounded, not far from another five troopers finishing repairs on an AT-TE that almost lost a leg in a swamp from some of the fauna. The clones dubbed it a "bog scythe," not uncommon from the fabled creatures of Mimban.

"Greetings, General Stral. We've received some intel about an outpost in the western flats that may have separatist presence. Our scouts haven't returned yet to confirm." the yellow-marked commander reported.

"Any word about reinforcements from off-world, friendly or not?" Stral asked.

"Negative, general. It's hard enough even talking across the terrain with this equipment. No wonder this rock is all but forgotten about." he replied.

"Keep at it, Commander Fray." he nodded as he continued off.

Operation Cauldron had been a disaster from the start. The atmosphere made communications spotty at best, the planet was remote enough that reinforcements weren't readily available, and the Jedi available to command the clone units were so sparse, it was tough at best to coordinate an attack effectively. Thankfully, the clone force was vast and well-trained, so tactical efficiency could afford to take a back seat. But to stage a push into wild space with the rest of the galaxy in turmoil just seemed like a waste of resources.

A pair of bike scouts rocketed into the camp from the western horizon before coming to a rest. The scouts dismounted, approaching, and no doubt reporting their findings to Commander Fray. With a blasé salute and quick dismissal, Fray came to relay the information.

"We're ready to move out, sir. We've discovered an outpost that looks to have an impressive comms array. It's pretty heavily guarded, but shouldn't be a problem with our armor." the clone commander informed Master Stral.

"Very good, Commander. Maybe we have found purpose on this desolate place."

--

The darkness was a welcome ally in the recent hunts for the all-too-frazzled Jedi, normally placid and stoic. Political turmoil had turned them into soldiers of misfortune. Into easy prey. They were the draw to Coruscant, a world that Articus Trang hadn't visited in better than a century. But here, in the center of their civilization, was a strong force energy. It was insidiously dark, overwhelmingly powerful, and tantalizing. She craved it! The sentients in the underworld sustained her for now, but she was far from satisfied. The Jedi she'd used for their luck worked well, but it only lasted so long. She needed to leave soon, to find more sustenance. To hunt. Almost as if conjured by the thought of hunting, she spied a peculiar figure, much like herself, here on Coruscant. A Mandalorian with the look of numerous wars adorning his battered armor, who carried himself as if ready for another thousand. Calm and methodical, he was making his way toward one of the massive vent shafts that led the lights of the surface. The armament embedded on his suit likely held more value than an entire block of the sub-city both hunters currently shared. Value not likely to go unnoticed among the vagrants infesting it. It was these moments she almost pitied lesser sentients, for a rare few showed such promise, as this one immediately would be. Two Aqualish blocked the man's travels, a Quarren with a vibroblade behind him. From seemingly nowhere, the gang then doubled in size. "You sure you want to do this?" Mando cautioned. "Drop the armor, and you can go on your way," the first Quarren demanded. "We've got you six to one," a second said. "I like those odds." Daringly, one of the Aqualish hit the helmet square in the cheek plate, jarring the man but breaking the assailant's knuckles. He howled in pain, but fired a belly shot that ricocheted into the chest of the second Quarren, who slumped to the ground. The Mandalorian kicked off the face of the wailing thug as he was tackled from behind by two more men. Their lower halves burst into flame from a jetpack thrust as the Mandalorian drew his pistol, scoring hits on another Quarren and the Aqualish with two good hands, before dragging his would-be captors airborne. When the Mandalorian landed several meters away, the original Quarren was running. He carefully took aim, then turned the would-be thief into a smoldering cloud of embers. The armored man scanned the area, then continued on as if nothing had happened. Even the mighty Jedi feared these mortals, with good reason. She watched the man for a moment more, nearly in a state of awe, or perhaps just respect. Then, with the most silent of steps, she revealed her athletic figure into the corridor, no more than a silhouette in the low light, slowly striding toward the scene of the fight. There lay the lone surviving Aqualish, just regaining consciousness. He looked up at her as she watched his attacker disappear, then shifted her attention down to him. "My, my," she soothed, caressing his head, "what a mess, such bravery with no purpose. Now, you live up to that end."

--

Q'evarra stood amidst his Barabel guards, goggles on and weapon holstered, outside of the abandoned Altar repulsortrain dock. The Barabel all stood quietly, almost statuesque. Bendo had been near paranoid about the remote depot outside of Altar. It was starting to get dark, and Q'evarra began to wonder if the Ithorian would show or not. He cracked his knuckles as he dreamt up reasons to be betrayed, when a large skiff came into view. There was a droid piloting the craft, which began to slow its approach. Bendo appeared as the skiff slowed to a stop. The skiff looked to have roughly a metric ton of cargo, as promised. "Hey, we were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten cold feet!" Q'evarra said, feigning a playful tone. "I am still within my window, am I not?" he stammered. "How do you plan to get home, Ithorian? On the droid's back?" Q'evarra goaded. Bendo tapped his opposing fingertips against themselves, "You, uh, I can't just leave this speeder here. It's registered property, it might-" Q'evarra burst out in laughter, elbowing a muscular Barabel to his right, who's grin looked like a bloodcurdling sneer. "It's registered, he says! Straight and narrow, I like it. You have another sample? I trust you, this is just good stuff, y'know what I mean?" Q'evarra jostled. "Well, I, uh, yes, yes...and here are the dates harvested and then frozen. Handpicked myself." Bendo demonstrated on the containers, handing a small gray/black brick to the Dug. "Good, good." he said, inspecting the bricks' flashing readout, "Get this stuff loaded up, boys. We've got profit to make." As the Barabel made short work of the unloading, he turned to the Ithorian, handing him a small container, heavy for its size. "No need to count. A little extra so you don't forget your loyal customer." as Q'evarra reared up on one arm, slapping the Ithorian's shoulder with the other. "Uh, th-thank you for your graciousness, uh, Q'evarra, sir." Bendo said shyly. "You're actually my first..." "Well then, to new business ventures." Q'evarra concluded, stroking his chin. Bendo boarded his transport and directed the droid back to the light freighter he'd used to ferry his goods between Deko Neimoidia and Pure Neimoidia. After stowing the speeder and punching his return course back home, he decided it was safe enough to count his credits. It certainly seemed like a good bit, more than he'd ever held at once. The more he thought about it, holding one hundred twenty-five thousand credits made him a little edgy. But he was alone, and nobody save for Q'evarra knew he possessed it. He opened the blinking container and eyed his hard-earned prize. The sooner he got back to the hothouse, the better he would feel.

--

As the Dead Bolt barreled through space on its class 2 hyperdrive, Conn Vallai carefully reassembled his old Blastech EE-1 piece by piece. Far from any standard-issue blaster rifle found on a modern conscript, this weapon had been the cornerstone of his success as a scout under Jaster Mereel. In the recent years following the fall of the True Mandalorians, it had served as a deadly staple in bounty hunting. The carbine had a special telescoping stock to further shorten it for close-quarters combat, along with a bayonet mount at the muzzle. But what truly set the weapon apart was the barrel extension that could be used instead of a simple, barbaric edge. The special amplifier, a one-off Verpine prototype, could send the blast of the carbine up to 1,100 meters within 10 centimeters of the RF-28 wired range finder. The beskar armor plate added to the blast amp made the weapon nearly invincible. It was a work of art, a source of envy among any other Mandalorian. As he finished the final touches, the Dead Bolt indicated it was nearing the first leg of his hunt. Conn slung the carbine onto its custom holster as he made his way to the pilot's seat. Flipping switches and dropping his vessel solely onto sublight drives, bringing Cato Neimoidia into view. "This is close enough to Kuat. Let's do a little digging for our dug friend," he said as he took over the flight controls. "Monitor comm traffic and find us a quiet way in." The IG-86 growled an affirmative command as it manipulated controls to monitor any chatter between military vessels and space ports. It deciphered and relayed relevant information in milliseconds to the navigation computer, plotting possible courses around blockades or any other parties who might deem the Dead Bolt of interest, now or in the very near future. Always better safe than sorry. Conn opted to match orbit with the planet on its day-breaking side to have the aid of its sun to conceal his final approach, and the changing light to help mask his entry into the atmosphere. "Guidance locked in. Kill the running lights, I'm going to cut back the power, reduce engine flare, come in nice and quiet. Keep those visuals sharp." The droid continued its flurry of motions along with the constant monitoring, its versatility matched by its ferocity. As the Dead Bolt dropped into the planet's failing night sky, Conn switched his helmet's visual filters to better navigate the low-light conditions. He could see Tarko-Se lit up against the waning night in the distance, hanging ornately in an arch, unlike other bridge cities of Cato Nemoidia. He dropped just into the mist of the almost infinite canyons which the cities overlooked, staying relatively close to the canyon walls as daylight chased him. He circled low around the plateau supporting one half of Tarko-Se and ascended once he reached the back side of it. He switched to repulsors only, and set the Dead Bolt down near one of the city's supporting struts. "Eighty-six, ramp up and power on but keep the engines quiet. Never know what I'll find in the heart of a warlord's home planet," he commanded as much as he questioned. The journey into the city was simple enough, keeping a low profile in such an opulent place would be a bit more challenging. Eighty-six had located the closest thing the ornate civilization had to a seedy establishment near the city's famed arena. There were as many diplomats and dignitaries as there were Neimoidians here in such a lavish place. But the war brought all walks to all corners of the Galaxy, as he spied a stoic Duros, sporting the same brand of quiet swagger as Conn himself. As he neared the arena, he wondered what beasts and warriors such a place could possibly contain, for elite people from the Galaxy over to make a spectacle of. His thoughts were interrupted by a wiry Devaronian who matched his gait. "I know a working man when I see one, Mandalorian. Might I interest you in some supplies or provisions?" he queried.

"Depends on who is asking and what you have. This place looks awful rich for good hardware," Cobb jabbed.

"You're at the heart of separatist territory. I think you might find some worthy offerings," he retorted.

"Let's see what you've got. We could start off by getting some fuel for this Merr-Sonn jetpack," Conn said to the confident man. "Though I'm interested in up-fitting my ship. What do you have in the way of sensory jammers or turbolasers?"

"Well, I could only point you in the right direction. But I can help with that fuel. Right this way," the Dev offered. Conn followed the red-horned fellow through a narrow alleyway that was still very pristine compared to the shabby lower levels of Coruscant. The denizens would have fit right in, however. The place was small and packed with crates of all manner of ware, though it didn't appear large enough to house many worthwhile ship components. He came to a small alcove surrounded by even more boxes and equipment, scanning for any possible exits. The devaronian motioned Conn toward the alcove. Conn removed his jetpack, placing it in the stranger's hands. "Careful now, it's more dangerous than when it's worn," he implied. The devaronian gave a cautious nod, replying, "I have a line on some turbolasers from an old friend, right over there," motioning to a Kubaz not far away. "Does he speak Basic?" Conn asked.

"Oh yes, no need for a translator," the devaronian said, easing back into his demeanor. "You can-"

"-wait until you're finished so you might be able to introduce your friend," he cut in.

"As you wish." The devaronian acknowleged. With the jetpack topped off and paid for, Conn was led to the Kubaz who wore a thick duster and their signature goggles. He stood rather unassumingly by a portable computer terminal, no doubt with a fortune of valuable intel within. The DL44 strapped to his thigh indicated his secrets would stay with him unless they were paid for. "What services does a Mandalorian acquire from an informant this far into a red zone?" the Kubaz practically honked. Conn flipped the devaronian a credit chit, dismissing him. He turned back to the goggled face, "I seek turbolasers, some better sensor jamming for my ship. In that order."

"I can offer a location for turbolasers, though as your presumed profession dictates, it isn't a straightforward transaction. Not far from here, there will be a repulsortrain with hardware bound for the separatist cause. Due to the incursion of bandits, a delivered secure load could be very profitable for you in the way of services rendered. My associates could see to it personally, bounty hunter."

"These bandits a recurring problem?" Conn probed. "Maybe enough to make a few Jedi MIA out here?" He knew the space wizards were too much for bandits, especially the likes of Q'evarra, but it was a lead worth following up once he'd dealt with the small timers.

"Enough to grant you the armaments you seek. It seems they have grown comfortable in their ways, though they become increasingly dangerous," the Kubaz droned. "Do you agree to these terms?"

"Give me the specifics."

--

Mi'tha Bendo arrived at the botanical garden well after dark, to a mob of droids busy laboring on the menial tasks involved in caring for such a variety of plant life within its transparisteel walls. It was hard to believe the lush humid atrium was privately owned, as it was practically an indoor park much like the public works you'd see in a square on Alderaan or Coruscant. But its privacy was what allowed the Bota to be grown, let alone mass-produced without the CIS trying to take over the operation, which kept business profitable.

The profitability came from such a rare and potent herb being in high demand. It had medicinal abilities better than bacta, and was even rumored to have effects on Force-sensitive beings. Mi'tha hadn't ever seen a Jedi in person, despite his travels, or his dealings with so many beings. The underworld was new to him. Up to this point, he'd been a successful botanist, even dabbling in some bacterial experiments. Otherwise, no personal dealings of his own.

As he neared his makeshift, albeit well-equipped laboratory, he noticed a dish out of place. One of his bacteria that had some potential for removing necrotic flesh. He'd initially designed it to speed up the decomposition of plant matter to make better fertilizer, but the strain mutated with expired Bota, and had horrid effects on an unfortunate pylat bird that had been an impromptu pet to Mi'tha.

As he examined the room, he failed to notice a figure departing the shadows of the hallway he'd just been in. A toned female of general height, with pale skin and jet-black hair. Her lips curled, under her wide nose, almost in a snarl.

"Doctor Bendo, your resourcefulness is ever impressive!", she called out in mock joy.

Mi'tha jumped in shock, slightly whimpering. "Mistress Trang! As silent as ever. You gave me quite a start!", he chuckled almost uncomfortably.

"I do hate to interrupt, but I have an enterprise to run. Business before pleasure, my dear.", she cooed.

"Of course, Mistress, of course. As you can see, everything continues to run as smooth as Neimoidian silk. Erm, how was your trip to the interior?", Mi'tha redirected.

"My trip? It was the usual bland and dissatisfied hunt for new clients. But I did find something…enticing. A potential lead I simply cannot wait to further investigate!", she said in elation.

It had been a while since he caught a genuine reaction from Articus Trang, though in his tenure at her compound, he hadn't seen much of her. Always away on business, and exploring worlds and cultures. It was almost unnatural at how versed she was in such a multitude of customs. Though she could afford it with her margins.

"Is our next shipment all ready?", she reverted back to business.

"Oh yes, well, of course. It's set to drop off tomorrow morning.", he assured.

"I want you at that train, to ensure its safety. And seclusion.", Articus sneered.

"Me? To load a repulsorcar?", he said, surprised.

"To oversee, dear Mi'tha, to record. I have customers to appease and an image to maintain. With such valuable cargo, there could always be interlopers whose luck may need to run out.", she practically purred.

He was in no position to disagree, as uneasy as he felt. Her visit had been so unexpected and sudden that he reeled at the thought of her having caught him. It was a good thing he'd left his money locked up on his ship. It was the one thing he still possessed that was truly his. That and the newly acquired funds, of course. Though a few more shipments like that and he could retire to somewhere away from this dreaded war.

"Oh, and Mi'tha…how was your trip, did you go far?", Articus dared.

"My trip, uh, yes, my trip. Uneventful as well, Mistress. Looking for spores to counteract this aggressive bacteria.", he responded.

"As I said before, impressive, doctor."