---

Tychus had grown up seeing a lot of aliens, had seen more during the war and more still after coming to Coruscant, but he had never got over the Amaran vulpine looks. They were very similar to the Coyn fox he had seen on holo-documentaries on Outer Rim fauna. This particular Amaran, O’Keemi T’Sombe, even had the same fur.

“So,” Tychus cleared his throat, sitting back in the comfy chair, “did you bring the twins?” His eyes flicked to the door of the committee conference room, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the blondes. Small talk, meant to amuse and confuse.

O’Keemi looked over at Tychus with a questioning eyebrow lift. “Those two wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if I hadn’t. They like to confuse people and probably would have created havoc back at the office.” Her nails clicked together as she rolled her eyes at the antics of the Twins.

The Alsakan senator could think of a few things those Thormea aides could get into, with themselves or… a third party involved. “That means you don’t keep them on a tight enough leash,” said Tychus. Before the Amaran could retort, he moved on. “So, what’s this meeting about? The brief was… well brief. I don’t see how we can make any progress on the Pantoran matter with Pharliis in absentia.” Think those high-tech, expensive desalination plants can turn her bitter tears into potable water? Not a charming thought, but that’s how Tychus’ mind operated. He still felt for his Pantoran colleague.

O’Keemi mock snarled at the word leash. “You go giving them ideas and they will be worse than when I picked them up off the streets. Leashes. Horrid thought. Pharliis will learn to pick her battles like we all did. Some of us sooner than others.” O’Keemi fixed Tychus with an intense stare. “How much reading did you get done over your fancy coffee this morning Tychus?”

No chance that she had got wind of his holographic tête-à-tête with the CEC Chairwoman, Tychus surmised she was referring to his better known fondness of vine-coffee. “I did not realise my morning routines were of such an interest to you.” This time, a smidge of vitriol laced his town. Tychus was very protective over what little privacy he had left in his capacity as Planetary Representative. “But if you must ask, I do my best reading in the outhouse.”

O’Keemi smirked. “I’m just going to savor this moment that I know something before you then. But I need you up to speed more than I want to stroke my own ego.” She handed him a data pad which showed the bill that Towler sent her. “See for yourself what Towler is plotting. If you take that out of my presence I don’t want it back. Fair warning it was one of the Twins.”

It only took a few moments of scrolling for Tychus to realise it was the impending bill of seizure the Senate would push in retaliation of Corellia’s Contemplanys Hermi. “Seems I will have to let you down. I’ve known of this for a little while now. It’s hardly in the province of the migration and immigration committee.” He entwined his fingers and watched her with heavy-lidded eyes. This is highly sensitive. Play coy. “What of it?”

O’Keemi nodded. “Not yet our problem, but it could be. Personally I’d love to hear your views on it.” She shifted and leaned over and lowered her voice to a whisper. “It favors one party far too much but that’s before everyone gets their claws into it, so to speak.” She leaned back and smoothed her tail absently watching Tychus with bright curious eyes.

“I’ll be candid. Personally, mark me: personally, I believe the Corellians get what they deserve for having a cop-out. Corellia has its ‘Contemplanys Hermi’ and Kuat its ‘Inheritance Exemption’… Call it what you will – meditative solitude or dynastic bequest – these are privileges exploiting goodwill. Why does one party get an exception and the other does not?” Tychus shrugged, took a deep breath. “There is a lot to be said for both sides though. I understand the strategic reasons for needing to remain in control of the CEC Shipyards, but I also know the Corellians won’t ever stand for it. If this bill passes, Free Corellia will only gain traction. Have you seen the news-feed, the vids? Then, we’ll all be looking down the gun-barrel afore too long. The Senate’s playing with fire, O’Keemi, and we need to mind not to get burnt so I’m waiting to see which way the wind blows. I do not intend to go down in flames.” He looked at her for a time, letting it sink in. Tychus cracked his trademark charming smile then. “Officially? That’s another matter entirely.”

It wasn’t but a few minutes later when the doors to the committee conference room opened, and in walked Senator Pharliis. Accompanying her was her Junior Representative Barin Elwahs. Eyri held a datapad in her hands, one hand typing and the other keeping the device steady, as she approached the table to take a seat.

“You know you can work on that elsewhere, right? You should wait until the meeting is over.” Barin insisted, his eyes rolling, his tone reflecting his facial expression, annoyed.

“This is important, Barin.” she said sternly, sitting down one chair away from Tychus as she worked away at the datapad.

“More important than the meeting?”

“Not more important, just important.” Eyri huffed in frustration as she glanced up at her Junior Rep before her eyes moved to the table. “Good afternoon Senators.” she said, forcing out a sincere but weak smile as she looked at them both.

O’Keemi turned toward Eryi as the greeting was heard. “Looks like the mining bill is still on the table. You jinxed it Tychus. Good afternoon Senator. What can we do for you?”

Tychus saw the brittle resolve. “Senator Pharliis… Eyri… Should you even be here right now?” The reason why was left unspoken but clear for all presently in the committee conference room. “No one would fault you for taking some time off.” He had several questions, mostly pertaining to Pharliis’s security, and more still about the how and why of the murder. A chief of staff killed, even from a backwater like Pantora, was a big deal. It put them all at risk.

Setting the datapad down on the table, Eyri looked to O’Keemi and Tychus in turn. “There is still work to be done. I am a part of this committee, it would be highly improper if I wasn’t here to discuss the bill with you, we all have a job to do.” Eyri said. Her body language reflected confidence, yet her tone was obviously reflecting her emotions. It was weaker, and wavered from time to time, but Eyri kept on.

“You’re no good to us - or the bill - if you can’t think straight. Grief and mourning are a thing, Eyri.” Tychus remembered well the trauma of losing people close to you. Living on when others died could cripple the survivor with sorrow. “I am fairly certain your physiology is sufficiently similar to my own to know what you’re going through.”

O’Keemi watched as the two of them tossed the tense ball of emotion back and forth. “My condolences Eyri. I didn’t take the gossip as fact, or as close to fact as we get here. We can at least be that certain half the time. If there is anything you need just let me know.” O’Keemi bowed her head and indicated that Eyri take a seat.

"Iri would have wanted me to keep going." Eyri said, although she knew that was a lie. Her friend was always saying that she needed rest, needed to get away, to spend some time to herself.
"Now can we please change the subject." she continued, taking a deep breath and holding a hand up to rest her head on as she rested one elbow on the table. "The bill, how far have we gotten on it?"

---

Eyri wished to be nowhere but her office at any point of the day now. After Iri’s death, anywhere she went was a test on her emotions. At least in her office, Eyri felt as if she had a sense of peace and security, she could be herself.

The statement to her people had been finished. It was well known that Iri Mosvaine of Pantora had been found dead earlier that morning, the Chairmen himself had contacted Pharliis to discuss what she knew.

It seemed that was all everyone wanted to talk about now, was Iri. Eyri was sick of riding the emotional rollercoaster. She didn’t wish to take leave to grieve, there were important issues to discuss with the committee and important work Eyri did not want to leave to her Junior Representative, Barin.

The senator’s back was to the room, for if anyone did come in she didn’t wish for them to see the tears in her eyes. She cried all that she could that day. Now her eyes simply welled up with tears when thoughts of her friend came across her mind.

The view from her office was something she and Iri had always enjoyed. Eyri stood, wiping tears from her eyes as she gazed out the window at the afternoon setting of Coruscant. She leaned against a support pillar that merged the window into the wall of the office, taking deep breaths, eyes closed as she attempted to rein in her emotions yet again.

It was often surprisingly easy to get into places that really shouldn’t be that easy. Getting out was always more difficult, that was for sure, but you’d have thought with an ongoing investigation into the death of a key member of staff, the former might be a little difficult too. It seems someone important really was that keen on selling the ‘overdose’ narrative.

This was how Aylara found herself in the offices of one Eyri Pharliis, dressed in a rather convincing replica of a Coruscant Security uniform. The Identification she flashed to get in was legitimate, aside from an altered image file. She breezed past others dressed in similar garb to herself, as well as any staff members in the building which hadn’t been sent away. There weren’t many of those, which is why she’d been forced to go with the Security angle. She hated the uniform, no matter how advanced the technology, standardized never really worked for her. Now it was just a matter of finding the right room.

It took her a few minutes of wandering around, but, eventually, she caught sight of the Senator, facing out across the view of the City trailing away into the distance, leaning to one side.

That’s a good angle

She thought to herself, as she blinked twice, the imaging software built into her right contact lense capturing the picture. Not that anyone she might send the eventual file to could use it without the Senator knowing, but it was still pretty. Maybe she’d even like it.
After a few more brief moments of pacing to and fro, trying to see if there was a ‘better’ angle, she moved to open the door, sliding into the room softly, although by the time she spoke, she was already pulling off the outer layer of the security jacket, exhaling in relief as she rested the, to her, unsightly garment on a chair.

“Senator Pharliis? Sorry for your loss, I have some information you might be interested in.” Aylara finally spoke to draw her attention, waggling a datapad at the politician, maintaining an even smile that was warm without seeming at odds with the sombre mood of the office.

“I believe we can help each other out here.”

The unfamiliar voice caught her off guard. Eyri turned her head, frowning a little as she looked upon the stranger in her office.
She saw the datapad, saw the security jacket the woman was taking off. The “information” the woman spoke of caught her interest for a quick moment but was quickly pushed to the bottom of the priority list as she tried to figure out just who this was in her office.
“Um, thank you but-” Eyri wiped the last of the tears from her eyes as she stepped towards her desk, arms crossed almost as if she was cold. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Aylara Tewoe, I work for the Times.” Ayla maintained the polite smile, some situations called for obfuscation, but from what she’d read up on in regards to the Senator, playing it straight might work better with this particular individual. Quite rare for a politician really. Rather than carry on speaking, she instead placed the datapad down on the table, a holographic display flickering to life from the pad, presenting a list of names, some with faces. Originally this had included the recently deceased Iri, but, on a whim, Ayla had removed the woman’s image from the file, instead allowing the presence of the Senator's friends name to simply tell the story for her.

“You may or may not need me to tell you about just how nasty the Senate’s politics can be, but, I think you’d agree with me that this is a very long list for a short time, Senator. I believe you’ve had contact with the homicide division? It’s good to know someone is finally taking this seriously.” Ayla moved her hands forwards, flicking through the hologram, progressing the list. They were mostly aids, actual Senators dying was big news, but this amounted to those who might inform their bosses being knocked off. There were a few names here and there Ayla was fairly sure had nothing to do with this, gambling debts or whatnot she’d manage to dig up, but, a bigger list made for a more convincing tale.

“The thing is, Senator, how far can you trust any part of Security these days?”

Eyri watched as the holographic display flickered through names and faces of people she had heard of, some she knew, and many she didn’t. Eyri was in her first term as a Senator, that was true, but she had also been in politics for a long time before now. Many of the names she recognized, and she quickly made the connection between the list, and the status of all of these names. They were all deceased.
“I’ve talked with the homicide-” Eyri paused, catching her own words.

Homicide division? Homicide?
It had been a detective, but Eyri had never really asked for which division. Leena had only stated that she was a detective. Everything pointed in one direction now, though up until this moment Eyri refused to come to that conclusion.

“What are you trying to say?” Eyri prodded, eyeing Aylara as she placed both hands flat on her desk.

“I’m suggesting that someone is covering their tracks, and they’re doing it in a way which doesn’t hold much regard for the lives of those working to keep the Senate on track and informed.” Ayla’s eyes drifted from Eyri for a moment, catching a specific name on the list. Journalists weren’t exempt from whatever was happening behind the scenes in this sordid affair. She’d need to remember to be more careful, or at least, carry a blaster.

“The thing is, brutal and only passably subtle as they may be, they’re doing a good enough job that they’re not leaving a trail beyond the names, it’s obviously caught up in the Senate, but ‘what’ and ‘why’ I should think the only people with answers to those questions are on this list.” Aylara reached down to lift up the datapad, the holographic display fading as she did so.

“The people of Coruscant, of the Galaxy, deserve to know if someone is steering their representatives through murder and misinformation, but a list isn’t a story, nor is it protection. I’m trying to uncover what it is all these people knew that got them in trouble, and why no one’s caught them so far.”

“And by got them in trouble, you mean, got them murdered?” Eyri asked, her face hardened in anger as she thought of her friend, of Iri’s final moments. What torment was she forced through?
Was this what her message was about the night before her death?

“Iri sent me a message the night before she died… she wanted to talk to me about something. I told her to meet me in my office the next morning but got no reply. That’s the last I heard from her.”

“Exactly.” Ayla nodded, looking down at the datapad she was holding, punching in several digits into the interface, before offering it over to Eyri, her other hand resting on her hip. “Go through it yourself if you feel the need to, I’ve added some contact details there, they’re mine. If you want to help, stay in touch. I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d share anything ‘before’ you tell anyone working for security, even those that seem like they’re trying to help. No one gets away with this much nasty without having insiders with them. Help me, and we can keep sharing what we know, and find the people that did this to your friend, stop, whatever it is they’re trying to do to the Republic.”

Eyri took the datapad cautiously, reaching over her desk to grab it. She watched Ayla for a few long moments before looking at its screen.

Did this go against anything that Eyri held as her values? The young woman searched through her feelings. Nothing about this felt wrong, if anything she was trying to help Iri, to avenge her murder. Right?

“I’ll do what I can.” Eyri said quietly, setting the datapad down on her desk as she looked at Ayla. “I’m not sure if I should thank you, but I appreciate the information you’ve brought me.” she said, giving a weak smile to Ayla in response.

“You can thank me when it’s over, until then, maybe hire your own security.” Ayla winked at Eyri as she turned to go, picking up the Coruscant Security jacket as she did, pulling it on with one movement and zipping it up. She was out the door in another moment, moving back through the building at a quicker pace than she’d arrived, yet still within what might be perceived as normal. She passed the final checkpoint to the outside world with a polite nod to the legitimate Security team, before making her way to the nearest public parking bays. This was a nicer part of town than she usually worked in, the lack of neon advertisements and countless alleys to disappear down made her a little uncomfortable. Still, it was convenient not to have to hide your bike.

Exactly where she left it, sitting atop the highest floor in the speeder-bike bays was the bright red model. Corellian make, which, was ironic given the news lately, she quickly opened it’s rear storage bay to begin stowing the Security uniform, leading her standing in the sun-touched parking bays wearing the white tank and black shorts she had on underneath, sighing with dramatic relief at not being cooped up in the uniform. She then retrieved a second datapad from the bike, flicking through to a list.

“One down.”

---

”At this time, the death of Iri Mosvaine, Chief of Staff for Pantoran Senator Eyri Pharliis, is considered to be suspicious after narcotics were found in her apartment. We are unable to say at this time what was located, or how Ms Mosvaine died, but we will release that information to the public at a later time.”

The holo shut off with a soft pop and the police spokeswoman faded from view as Leena turned back to the Senator. The two females were alone in the Senator's office, a rarity in the past few hours. Leena was not in the habit of visiting employers of the deceased, what with Coruscant suffering nearly 500 million murders a year, she would never have had the time. She had made an exception in this case due to the rather cryptic nature of the media release the two had just watched.

“Senator,” She waited until the other female met her gaze. “It is paramount that you do not contradict what you just heard. Do you understand?”

Eyri took a deep breath after the holo transmission shut off. She put a hand to her forehead as the other brushed over her desk. She opened her eyes and looked to Leena for a brief moment before turning to gaze out the large window that made up an entire wall in her office, offering a glorious view of Coruscant.

Eyri took a deep breath in and then out, wiping any forming tears from her eyes as the drama threatened to overtake her again. “Yes, detective… I understand.”

She had so many questions but hardly any answers. Others told her to take time away from politics and grief, yet she felt pressure from her rivals to keep moving forward. There were so many things that needed to be done to help the refugees in her system, to help her people.

Leena could see the stress working its way across the Senators face and felt a brief sympathy. Millions of beings died everyday, and some who were much closer than the senator had been with her chief of staff. Privately she admired the senator for sticking to her task. The last thing Leena would suggest was sitting at home alone and trying to find solace in a bottle of Coruscant Roundhouse Gin.

“Good. I am going to be bringing in a speciality team to assist on this file and I need to know that I can count on your full, and complete cooperation. Not to mention discretion. Even your security team must not be aware of what you know.” A large Republic battlecruiser began to ascend skyward in the distance and Leena wondered, not for the last time, why anyone left this planet.

“Of course, anything you need Detective.” Eyri responded, her back still turned as she gazed out the large window, spotting the battlecruiser as well. “Thank you for everything you do. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but I’m still not able to push it aside.” She said, referring to her grief. She figured there would be some peace in working to find out what happened to Iri. But instead Eyri felt like that had left too many opportunities open to spend time with her friend. She should’ve done more.

Leena stood up to go, the weight of her concealed blaster tight against her lower back. She was dressed in plainclothes with some custom modifications, the product of nearly 50 years on the job. That thought brought a few painful memories rushing back and she swallowed. She caught the Senators gaze in the window reflection.

“Senator,” She began, her voice quiet and far less businesslike. “I don’t know how you feel, but I can understand your pain. In my career I have buried three partners, and attended nearly a thousand funerals for other officers I knew. It never really goes away, the pain I mean. Do not be afraid to take some time for yourself, even an afternoon. Remember your friend, honour her memory. Don’t let it consume you.”

Eyri glanced back at Leena for a moment at the sudden change in her voice. She listened quietly for a few moments, the knot in her chest tightening at Leena’s words. ‘Of course, Detective… thank you for the kind words.” she said, nodding in thanks before her gaze turned away again.

Her thoughts went to Tychus and O’Keemi, and what they had told her in the committee room. She was no good to them if she couldn’t think straight, and she could definitely feel the grief taking over her concentration and motivation towards her job, something she loved. She took the Detective’s words to heart, and Tychus and O’Keemi’s, but she didn’t feel like she could take time to grieve yet. Not when Iri’s death was still a mystery.

Leena gave a short nod and left the Senator to her thoughts.

---

“Captain Menron.” He snapped the title out, the edge of his stylis tapping the “On” button for his holocommunicator. Like most of the team, he did not use anything that could transmit his image. To much of a security risk.

“Captain,” A familiar voice came through the communicator, a bit of static letting him know it was encrypted. “We have a priority file on Coruscant that your name came up. How soon can you get your team back here?”

Menron stared at the communicator for a moment. It was impossible not to know who the caller was, Deputy Commissioner for Republic Cover Operations. If they wanted his team, at the expense of the Khulbe operation, it was a big deal.

“All depends on how soon you can get us a relief team.” Menron was happy to help out but he wasn’t going to let all the hard work his team had done to this point go to waste.

“Group 188 is enroute as we speak. Get them briefed and turbo waddle yourself back here.”

“Copy, turbo waddle.” The call went dead. A priority file. Interesting. It wasn’t often a team got pulled off a target. This was clearly a big deal. He placed a call to Lieutenant Lyra Dorma, his second in command. She would have to round the team up while he briefed the new arrivals.

@Bea@Saix

---

Callum sat at his desk, Raya Navi in one of the two seats across from him. Between them, laid out on the glass surface, was her datapad. A small, holographically manifested Rodian, seated at a desk, hung in the air just above the device. He was in the middle of a fiery rant on state of the galaxy.

“I’m talking about Rendili StarDrive, I’m talking about Republic Fleet Systems, I’m talking Czerka Corporation, Hoersh-Kessel, SoroSuub,” he pronounced, counting them off on his long, presumably green fingers, “they’re all working together, pouring money into the Senate, into their campaign accounts, into their bank accounts, into their friends’ bank accounts to make sure they get what they want. And what do they want, New Republic Nation? That’s right. They want to bring down Corellia. They want to bring down the CEC, they want to bring down StarDrive . . .”

“Who is this?” Rensler asked. He'd asked the team to look into whatever leads they might dig up on lobbyists and interests with the money and a motive to buy a fifth of the Senate. This Rodian, who as far as Rensler could guess was some fringe media personality, was not what he was expecting.

“Neero Bext. He’s the netshow anchor for Holonet Free Coruscant, the leading broadcast on this Rim-wing media outlet called The New Republic,” Raya explained. “He’s a big name on the Holonet conspiracy forums.”

“. . . the deep state is telling us, they’re shouting it in our faces, that they don’t care about your freedoms! They don’t care about the free
market . . .”

“And you think he’s on to something here?” Callum asked, eyes on the furiously gesticulating Rodian.

“He’s a bit, well, unhinged, I guess,” Raya said, looking down at the broadcast. “But he’s talking about the same kind of voting trends we’re looking at here. The idea of the seizure bill being some kind of subversive conspiracy isn't exactly a fresh idea. It seems like it gets talked about a lot in these circles, and this is the guy everyone talks about when they discuss it.”

“. . . but the mainstream news,” Bext continued as they spoke, nearly spitting the word mainstream, “tells us the deep state isn’t real. That these are crazy, fringe conspiracy theories and that people who question the system are out of line . . .”

“I guess this is the territory we’re in,” Callum said. He did not go to law school for this. Lobbying was a career field roughly adjacent to the practice of law to begin with. Delving into a crazy, fringe conspiracy, especially one that might be real, that wasn’t covered in the books. That wasn’t something you picked up professionally, either. “Where is his studio?” Studio. Could be this Bext character was filming this out of a cramped, one-bedroom apartment somewhere.

“The address on their incorporation forms is a postal box down in the low 4000’s, Sector L-81.” That was only an hour’s trip from the Federal District’s upper levels. “They’re probably in the area, but,” she said with a shrug, “there’s no address. You want to talk to him?” she asked. This was a stretch as far as a lead went, and he could tell she knew it. She was probably surprised he was taking it seriously.

"Right now we have nothing. If he's in the area, we might as well," Callum said. He could hardly explain it himself, though. There was, literally, no reason to think this Neero Bext was grounded on any planet in the galaxy. All the same, again, conspiracies weren't his area of expertise. Maybe an expert would be helpful.

"Right, of course," Raya agreed.

“Let’s get that address through Coronet, then,” Callum said. “Give Jast a call and put him on it. And see if we can hire out one of his security contractors for the trip. This Bext doesn’t seem like the most stable person.”

“Do you want me to go down there?” Raya asked. If Callum had to estimate a guess, he’d say she wasn’t terribly excited at the prospect.

“No, I will. I’ll take Ben, too,” Callum said. “Force knows that child isn’t doing anything worth his billing rate up here.”

“. . . I don’t have all the answers. I’m just saying when you look at Project Corona, when you look at the Strategic Intelligence Service, when you look at the military-industrial complex, when you look at the facts, you know, you just know something is going on. It’s time to wake up, Coruscant!”

The night was calm, as Akira drove the speeder to the Senate building. There was a lot riding on this half of the mission and they would see it done. So far the plan had gone well and they had what they needed to get access to the Senator’s offices. The only hard part was getting in and out of the building now. Guards were everywhere and they rarely took chances or the benefit of the doubt. No, what Akira needed was a distraction so they could get inside. Such was easy to handle, what with the rotation list at hand they slipped in and took out a section of the building’s power. As the alarm blared Akira raced to the other side and slipped in.

The going from here was tough, touch and go, two steps forward and one back as they stealthily made their way up. The Senator’s office was on the twenty-fifth floor in the eastern wing. A quick test of the ventilation system proved that would not be a good idea as there was a sonic motion detector at a set interval. They would be in there all day trying to disable them as they moved up the floors. Instead, they took a different way. Breaking into an office with a balcony they looked around, leaned over the balcony and shot their grapple up.

The climbing was rough, as the winds started to pick up and often Akira needed to hide from patrolling guards. One time they needed to hang from pot off the side as a guard came out for a smoke break. Akira plastered themselves to the wall, suit helping them blend into the relatively dark background. The guard was there for ten minutes before heading back inside. Unhooking the grapple they kept climbing.

It took the better part of an hour, between almost getting caught by some guards and passing patrol vehicles before they reached the floor they needed. “Alright, senator, let’s see what you’ve got…” They pulled out the keycard and gained entry to the offices. Making a cursory sweep they headed over to the computer, cracking the password and checking the servers to sweep them when the light outside turned on. Shutting off the monitor Akira leaped into action, jumping into a nearby vent and holding the vent closed. They wouldn’t be seen there and could hear the guards talking.

“Dunno, boss said we need to check everything. He thinks there’s someone snooping around.” One said. The light flicked on and they looked around.

“I doubt it. Come on, you know how the Senator hates having anyone in her office… Besides if anyone is here they would have chosen the higher floors where the Trade Senators are. Come on, nothing to see here.” The footsteps walked away as the light went out.

Letting out their breath Akira rolled out of the vent after a bit, placing the cover back like they had never used it. The file sweep was nearly complete and barring taking a datapad, they had collected what they needed to. They would of course save a copy before handing it over, for personal reading and to add to the database. The contractor wouldn’t mind, of course. They still had the Phantom Eyes by the proverbial groin with the ship.

That thought nearly cost them the mission, as they missed resetting an alarm. Eyes widening they chastised themselves as they shut it off, darting over to the balcony and hailing Ixon.

“I can hear sirens from here.” The zabrak’s scowl could be heard in their ear.

“Shut up and ready the escape. I’m thinking of going up. Can you meet me there?” They shot the grapple up and quickly ascended before the guards could see which way they went. Getting to the balcony they made their way inside to the stairs, using the grapple to ascend faster. Along the way they came across some guards and took them out quickly and efficiently, leaving them cold while they took one of the coms.

“Suspect tripped a stair alarm. We have a few officers not responding.” A voice shouted into the coms.

It was Akira’s turn to scowl as they used the guard’s keycard to open the door to the halls revealing a security droid. They dispatched them quickly, running off to another balcony to ascend that way. The coms exploded when they found the downed guards and all forces were ordered to find them. Akira was only a few more floors to the roof when they took to the stairs again running up them and out onto the roof. Ixon pulled up alongside the roof and Akira jumped in as guards poured out after them. Dodging blaster fire Ixon expertly steered the vehicle away and off into the busy pathways. It was a simple matter for the zabrak to drop their tail and they made their way back to the hideout to lay low.

“Frekking hells, Ak, that was rough.” Ixon shook his head as he stretched out on the couch. “This intel better be worth it.”

“Agreed. It went off as smooth as we could have hoped. I expected way more guards. They had most of the droids powered down it seems. We got lucky.” Their eyes went to the datapad and the stick containing everything they needed. “I’ll have Oracle get word to our employers. Wouldn’t want them to think we failed. What is the status of the ship?”

“Tinker finished the scans and Rogue is sending it back. He’ll do a better job than Jigsaw. Especially since we can just wave that pass Jedi Rekka gave him at them. He’ll drop it off and make his way out by tomorrow evening.” Ixon happily reported.

“Perfect. Keep me posted on that. The sooner we get it out of our hands the better. I need to shower and change. Do be a dear and get some dinner.” Akira waved as they headed to their bedroom.

The cargo hold area was Raphelia's least favorite place despite all of the valuable items it held in it. The cramped space was becoming filled with even more crates of jewels and weaponry as time had gone on, and she found new sources for these items. She only really came back here just to check if everything was still sealed away in their proper boxes. T7 was upstairs, working on navigating their way to other planets one minute, and sulking moodily in a corner the next.

After confirming that everything was fine, she went back up to check on him. "How's everything going on up here?" She asked him. He wasn't actually sulking this time when she went to go check on him, so that was a good sign at least. They had a few deliveries to make on Corellia, as per usual, but the few recruits she managed to hire actually found a few folk on Coruscant looking for jewels and even weapons. T7 whirred sadly, projecting the map clearer for Raphelia to see. It seems he wasn't all that happy with having to return to Corellia, as his old owners still resided there, and were definitely not happy about the whole "Stealing their old cargo ship in the dead of night" thing.

Raphelia patted the top of the small droids head. "Well try not to think too much on it. I've only got one place to stop on Corellia anyway, we'll be headed for Coruscant in no time once we make this delivery." She said, going to the pilots seat. Now that she had checked the cargo and the directions, she was ready to head off now. There first stop on Corellia was actually at an old employer of Raphelia's who she knew had a certain weakness for Sapphires.
.....................

Donya Hollister looked down at Raphelia with a very disgusted, yet welcoming look as she opened her back door for the smuggler. She was a wide, heavy set human woman with pale skin wrapped in an expensive fur robe. "You're on time, for once." She said, as Raphelia entered with the bag of hidden Jewels. Donya was smoking on one of those long, smoking pipes that caused a lot of pollution in the air around her as she walked. The ship was stowed away in an underground garage that Donya had built and secreted behind her home. It was something only she knew about, at least as far as Raphelia knew.

She dumped the bag on a nearby table. "Yeah, well I got you your pretty stones. So where's my pay?" Donya waved her off.

"It'll be provided of course, don't worry." She told her. "I'd be happy to give you a little extra, seeing as I'm probably the only client you've had in months." She laughed, horribly.

"Stuff it, Hollister. I'm not a charity case." Raphelia gritted. "Can you at least tell me what's been going on here on Corellia? I don't listen to much news flying in the Quartermaster."

Donya shrugged, taking a long drag from her pipe. "Nothing much really, it's just the same boring political talk coming from Coruscant over and over again." She said. "I heard someone died, recently. A Pantoran woman who was close to the senator."

Raphelia shook her head. "I guess I really miss all the exciting stuff when I'm off world, huh?" She sighed."Well, that sounds terrible, but not exactly what I had in mind." She supposed she'd just have to find out when she got there and see what the buzz was all about.

There was a certain kind of rat that she had to visit on Coruscant, and in her experience, rats like Marister Jayd knew far more about what was going on then any of her clients.

---

Z. Zatticus Blackbark was no stranger to the law. He wasn’t fond of it, and didn’t elect to involve himself in it, but it had a habit of finding him. He was hardly surprised to find himself hailed while trying to fly to a planet embroiled into a rapidly escalating civil war. Only, this time around, he wasn’t being hailed by CorSec officials or Republic patrols. Rather, he was being hailed by a Foray-class blockade runner identifying itself as a Hosnian Prime Navy frigate. At any other time in his life, this would be utterly bizarre.

Those were the times though, and as expected or unexpected, an air of indignancy about the whole affair went a long way, as far as he could tell.

“What in the hell is the meaning of this?!” Blackbark roared, stomping down the corridor connecting the cockpit to the main gallery and airlock.

The Nosaurian rolled his shoulders back, fighting against his customary slouch and bringing himself up to his full four and a half feet of height before rounding the corner. He found his loyal droid companion, Clunker, standing next to what appeared to be a human male. Their uninvited guest, a Hosnian Prime marine if Blackbark knew his insignias, was armored head to toe in black and white plasteel and wearing a mask devoid of features, human or otherwise, save for a reflective black visor. The marine was in the process of inspecting a datapad. Behind him, more Hosnian marines were already milling about, rifles in hand as they set to scouring the ship.

Scuffing the floors with their jackboots too, no doubt.

“Greetings Master Blackbark,” Clunker said in his usual dry monotone, tridigit hands clasped at his waist, “I have produced to this law enforcement officer a copy of our ship’s manifest upon request in accordance with Republic law.”

“The hell you have,” Blackbark growled, hands on his hips. “Who do you Hosnians think you are?”

“You’re Blackbark, I take it?” the marine asked. He stood an entire foot and a half taller than Blackbark, and asked the question with what seemed to be a deeply rooted disinterest. “Z. Zatticus Blackbark, registered owner of the light freighter Hotspur?”

“She’s mid-sized,” Blackbark corrected sharply, “and yes I am.”

“What does the ‘Z’ stand for?”

“The what?”

“Your name? Z. Zatticus? What does the ‘Z’ stand for?”

“It stands for ‘zone of your business,’ that’s what it stands for!” The marine stared at him blankly. Maybe not blankly, it wasn’t entirely clear from the mask. “What, they don’t program you for humor over on Hosnian Prime?” Blackbark asked. “It’s stands for Zyberio, after my grandfather, but I don’t go by that. Sick joke, giving that name to a hatchling, but my mother had a worse sense of humor than even you, if you can believe it.”

“Right,” the marine said tonelessly. He turned to business instead. “Well, Zyberio,” he said, “pursuant to Hosnian Congressional Resolution 441-74, Subsection C, my men and I are conducting an authorized inspection of your ship and personal property.” The marine recited what must have been a standard introduction with a bureaucrat’s dispassion for the job. “If you are found to be in violation of local or federal law, we are authorized to place you under arrest and seize your vessel. If you’d be willing to answer a few questions, maybe we can speed up the process and get you back to work.”

“Always happy to help an officer of the law,” Zatticus answered with scathing contempt. “But don’t call me Zyberio.”

The marine, unfazed, nodded and gestured to the datapad with his free hand. “Based on this manifest, seems like you’re carrying mostly industrial equipment, building materials, some luxury goods. I’m also seeing about a ton of kolto and some high-end medical equipment. Could you tell me a little bit about how you came to be transporting that to New Plympto?”

“Yeah, if you haven’t heard, we’re flying about five hundred kilometers above an active warzone, which, to my knowledge, is a place where people tend to get shot,” Blackbark grouched. “Great profit margins for this stuff down there.”

“Uh huh.”

“So,” Blackbark continued, raising his hands, open palmed, “unless taking advantage of the basic economics of supply and demand is now against the law, I don’t think we have much to talk about here.”

“Uh huh,” the marine intoned again. He turned his attention to his wrist mounted holoprojector, and began typing away at the holopad, referencing the datapad from time to time. Recording the full scope of the manifest’s contents, it seemed, based on how long it dragged on.

“I’ve got some great filth up in the cockpit under the dash, if you want to write about that too,” Blackbark offered as the minutes dragged on. The marine ignored him. “What, your commanding officer doesn’t want to hear about my Clutchmates Gone Wild collection? Doesn’t do it for you guys?” Nothing.

They stood in silence, ignoring one another, another fifteen minutes before the marine looked to the left. One of his underlings sauntered up. The second marine nodded and turned to the airlock, exiting the Hotspur to return to the boarding craft upon which the party had arrived. The leader returned his faceless gaze to Blackbark, who felt great discomfort looking into the black visor. Like staring into the void. “Everything appears to be in order here,” the marine said, handing the datapad back to Clunker.

“You sure you don’t want to stay for caf?” Blackbark asked as the marine took up a post next to the exit. “No trouble at all, always happy to accommodate Hosnian Prime’s finest,” he continued as more marines filed past. After the last one had boarded the shuttle, the leader gave Blackbark a wave and followed suit. The airlock hissed shut behind him.

“Fuckos,” Blackbark growled, and then let out a long breath and whistled. The Hotspur was old as hell and ugly as sin, but she had a few tricks here and there. The smuggler compartments scattered all about the ships, near seamless with the floors, walls, and ceiling surfaces, were one of them, and an absolute dream too. Blackbark was very glad he’d made the investment.

That marine didn’t seem like the kind of man to take kindly to a smuggler vessel stocked to the gills with a hundred blasters and a veritable shitload of thermal detonators. Not to mention a fair bit of spice for the sake of morale. The Nosaurian captain was a firm believer in supporting the troops, if there were credits in it.

Hands in his pockets, Blackbark strode back to the cockpit. His Free Nosauria contacts were waiting planetside.

---

Bar Carrigher, President of Hosnian Prime and Senator for the same, was due to land at Organa Senatorial Starport earlier in the morning than Fosten Towler liked.

Towler worked as the holomessages flowed, and they started late in the morning and continued late into the night. This early morning charade was entirely disruptive to his work-life balance, and he resented it. That said, as whip to the South Colonies Caucus, greeting the chairperson of the Caucus as she made a rare appearance on Coruscant was one of his more important responsibilities. Appearances were nine-tenths of politics, so they said. That last one-tenth was a real bear, in Towler’s experience, so he wasn’t sure how true that was, but there was a kernel of truth to it and that was enough.

Towler wasn’t the only one to make face. Two dozen of the most important Senators of the South Colonies Caucus had turned out to greet Carrigher. They checked datapads repeatedly as they waited, but with the reporters about Towler stood at attention and waited. A holoimage suggesting that he was too preoccupied to care about the chairperson’s arrival was not a look that agreed with his personal brand.

This was especially the case now that Senator Carrigher and he were at odds. After he’d brokered a deal between Duros and Hosnian Prime allowing the Hosnian Prime Navy to use the Duros system as a staging ground for their operations deeper in Corellian territory, he’d committed Loronar, in Carrigher’s eyes, to the just cause of securing the hyperlanes. Corellia lay at the intersection of the Corellian Trade Spine, on which Hosnian Prime lay, and the Corellian Run, on the route of which Loronar and Byblos were located. Carrigher’s plan called for Hosnian Prime to secure the local systems along the Spine, while Loronar and Byblos would secure the Run.

While Hosnian Prime had held up its end of the bargain, establishing strongholds in the Plympto and New Plympto systems, the civil war on New Plympto had dissuaded Loronar and Byblos’s planetary leadership from following through. Loronar and Byblos had set up patrols around Nubia, the most strategically valuable Corellian Sector world on the Run, but were refusing to advance into the Truuzdann and Tanthior systems.

This had resulted in a half-dozen increasingly hostile holoconferences between his office and Carrigher’s, and he did not relish the idea of dealing with her in person. Nevertheless, she was here. The datapads went away as the hum of a starship engine grew louder above the crowd.

An elegantly designed starship, a chrome and gold crescent, glided near soundlessly into Hangar 88 of Organa Senatorial Starport. Towler looked to Casmir Covost, Senator for Byblos, brows raised in an effort to convey surprise. Senator Covost returned the expression. Towler imagined they were sharing the same reaction. This was a beautiful luxury yacht produced, so they were told, by the new orbital staryards over Hosnian Prime. The landing gear unfurled from the smooth underbelly, and the ship alighted on the landing pad, daintily for an enormous piece of machinery. Its journey from Hosnian Prime concluded, the boarding ramp hissed, and began descending.

Towler stood twenty yards back, alongside the other senators of the South Colonies Caucus. They were joined by dozens of security officers, senatorial staffers, media representatives, lobbyists, and more. It was crowded, more so than would ordinarily be the case. The awaited upon President of and Senator for Hosnian Prime had, of course, commenced a naval invasion of the Corellian Sector’s outerlying worlds, and was advancing on the heart of the Sector itself. Or, alternatively, she had launched a well-coordinated, heavily armed and outfitted anti-piracy campaign in a desperate, last-ditch effort to secure the Republic’s hyperspace lanes in the Corellian Sector and prevent the civilized galaxy from collapsing in on itself.

It depended upon to whom you directed the question, but Towler figured it was somewhere in the middle.

President Bar Carrigher strode down the boarding ramp, flanked on either side by a Hosnian Prime marine garbed head to toe in white and black plasteel armor and carrying a milspec blaster rifle. President Carrigher herself wore a sleek dress, nearly translucent, shimmering as if wet, and sheer enough to give hinting impression of her nipples. The dress seemed to Towler’s eyes to shift between silver and gold in hue with each step she took. He wondered if she was on the cutting edge of Hosnian Prime’s fashion, or if she made it herself by picking an outfit out of the wardrobe on a given day. She stepped as she finished her descent, smiling for the reporters and the cameras.

Carrigher had been a model long before she’d been president, and still knew how to work the cameras.

“President Carrigher, who are you wearing?”

“Madame President, will you be attending MetroStar Gala tonight?”

“Senator, is your daughter Berez traveling with you?”

The questions pressed on, and Carrigher answered some here and there, smiling and flirting with the blue flashes that rendered her in holographic format for republication across ten thousand news channels. They treated her more like a holostar than a politician, Towler mused to himself, but wasn’t she just that? She was the son of one of the wealthiest titans of industry and trade in the southern half of the galaxy, and in addition to money she had draped herself in the trappings of power and celebrity as well. Towler had the connections with the Loronar Corporation, he was exceptional at his job, but he would never amount to half as much as Bar Carrigher, he imagined. Who could?

“End Hosnian imperialism!” shouted someone, and Towler perked up. That was out of step with the rest of the questions. Not a question at all, actually. Carrigher seemed to notice as well, and her expression was one of puzzlement, maybe. The speaker was a reptilian Nosaurian in the process of drawing something from a bag. A holocamera, Towler expected.

No, a blaster.

It was a small thing with blue markings, nothing special to look at. The Nosaurian drew it from the bag and trained it on the President of Hosnian Prime. Towler’s mouth was open, and he couldn’t close it. It seemed surreal, to be watching an assassination unfold in front of his very eyes. Holofilms had soundtracks, and cinematic angles to add dramatic effect. The real thing looked very ordinary, almost at odds with the magnitude of the act. Just a sentient holding a small device in a hand, pointing it at another person.

Maybe the crack of blaster fire would have made the scene, but the blaster didn’t fire. The Nosaurian jabbed it at her once, twice, and considered it. He’d pulled the trigger, Towler thought, but nothing had happened. If he were human, Towler wondered if the blood would have drained from his face. Then a blaster was actually fired, and the Nosaurian grasped at his chest, taking a knee. Another blaster shot, and another. The two Hosnian Prime marines, each with his rifle leveled and trained on the would-be killer, discharged their weapons time and time again, pouring flashing blood-orange bolts into the body of the Nosaurian long after he’d collapsed. They had not set their rifles to stun, that was for sure, judging by the smoking corpse they left behind.

There was screaming and crying, shouting like nothing Towler had heard before. President Carrigher was escorted away into Organa Senatorial Starport by her two guardians as more Hosnian Prime marines poured from the mouth of the presidential starliner. A female reporter sat on the ground next to the dead Nosaurian, mouth agape in a silent, shocked cry as she clutched at a blaster wound at her thigh. Another, a Rodian male, lay dead.

Towler became dimly aware of a tugging at his elbow and realized that Casmir had been trying to get his attention.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, pointing back to the interior of the hangar, back to the doors. Medical personnel were streaming into the hangar, and there was a frenzy of activity as security officers and droids and all manner of officials began directing and countermanding direction among themselves.

Chaos.

---

“Two were left dead and three wounded earlier today,” Coruscant Holonews Network’s talking head, a boringly well-dressed human rendered in full color holoprojection at the head of Doriah Castal’s living room, droned on, “after an attempt on the life of Hosnian Prime President Bar Carrigher. The assassination attempt occurred at the Organa Senatorial Starport just as President Carrigher exited her starship. For more, we go to Jel Ontolla, who is there at the scene. Jel, what more do we know about this situation?”

The CHN anchor’s image slid to the side and was joined by another figure as a perky blonde reporter shimmered into existence to his left. “Well, Van, the situation is still developing,” this new holographic projection answered, “but Coruscant Security Service officials have released the shooter’s identity. The alleged assassin is Segg Jumproot, a Nosaurian native of New Plympto. We’re also being told that Jumproot was a self-described freedom fighter with the Free Nosauria Liberation Front.”

No mention of Hosnian Prime marines opening fire on a crowd of reporters with blasters set to kill, of course, or that the “shooter” had never fired a shot, but that was the news for you. Doriah slouched deeper into her plush couch, red wine sloshing in an oversized glass. Like it or not, though, this was the news, and as Senator of Dorsis she had a fiduciary duty to keep herself appraised of all news relating to the planet and the Corellian Sector. That was, of late, a great deal of news, but no one had ever said you needed to keep appraised while sober, and so it was bearable.

“But to be clear, the FNLF has not taken responsibility for the attack at this time.”

Ah, fair and balanced reporting.

“That’s correct, Van, but CSS officials have stated…” she continued, but she was suddenly silenced, her lips moving but producing no words to match. A moment later and the call followed. Aurabesh lettering replaced the CHN news team, projecting a name across the holoprojection field in big, blue lettering.

“Pick up,” she said aloud, and her apartment’s droid brain answered the encrypted holocall. A crisply dressed naval officer stood at attention in her living room, hands clasped behind his back. Or so she assumed. The holoprojector didn’t render the backsides of her callers. She’d checked.

“Commodore Donnic,” she said, hardly moving a muscle save to bring her wine to her lips, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Only good news, Senator,” he offered.

“Something I can drink to, I hope?”

“It seems you’ve already begun, Senator.”

“So I have. But a retrospective reason would be appreciated all the same,” Doriah said with a smile. The military types were so uptight. It was hard to have fun with them.

“I may well have something for you, then,” Donnic said with a brief, crisp and very thin smile. “The last of sixteen supply ships has landed on New Plympto and delivered its cargo." Doriah struggled to refrain from rolling her eyes. This was not her area of interest. "The Free Nosauria movement has received the full bulk of our first supply operation in the region. In addition to medical supplies, food, tools, and more mundane equipment, we’ve also managed to put military grade blaster technology in their hands, along with armor and construction materials for fortified defenses.”

“I thought we were having difficulty supplying the Nosaurians with armor,” Doriah said, eyes narrowed. Best to look shrewd, she figured, when you have little idea of what you’re talking about. Politics, the cultivation and expenditure of influence, that was her game. Military strategy was not.

“Armor in the sense of starfighters and vehicles, yes,” Donnic answered, speaking slowly. “We have been able to supply them with personal armor, however, produced by our more discreet manufactories to fit the Nosaurian form.”

“Well, let me know when we supply them with starfighters and I’ll open the wine,” Doriah said, taking a long draught of red.

“As you wish, Senator.”

“What about our Corellian friends?” Doriah asked. New Plympto bored her. The Nosaurians were a primitive people, bootstrapped into modernity by aid packages and galactic outreach, with a single, non-voting representative on Coruscant attached to the Corellian delegation. From personal experience, Doriah had few positive things to say about the sentient to boot. Their war was even more tedious. Inspired by the Corellian separatists and inflamed by the Hosnian fleet’s seizure and destruction of several Nosaurian space stations alleged to have been harboring pirates, a bitter civil war had broken out on the planet’s surface. Hosnian Prime’s anti-piracy operation had rapidly evolved into an intervention effort to bring peace to the world, or so Bar Carrigher said.

Doriah strongly suspected this was either a happy accident or Hosnian Prime’s plan all along. Policing the most strategically valuable sector in the galaxy because Corellia and the Republic couldn’t do it must be such a heavy weight on the Hosnians’ shoulders, she imagined. The treachery gave Doriah all the more reason to support Free Nosauria, though, and all the more reason to support the Corellian sector’s secession. And so she did her part to stoke the fires on New Plympto, though she had little to contribute on that front.

Free Corellia, on the other hand, was a boiling hot cauldron of partisan politics, paramilitary groups, activists, and some of the brightest thinkers in the galaxy. Establishing a stable diplomatic connection between the Free Corellia movement and sympathizers in the Senate was Doriah’s top priority, made difficult for the fact that the Dorsian navy was far more interested in communicating with Free Corellia’s motley array of starship commanders, a collection that ranged from pirates to ex-CorSec officers to former System Defense Force captains. They had far more enthusiasm for the cause than they did a love of organization, which made coordination challenging. As a deniable asset heavily linked to what was quickly shaping up to be a political, if not outright military, conflict between the Corellian Sector and Hosnian Prime was a valuable thing, so she understood their focus.

“We’ve arranged for some two dozen light capital ships scheduled for decommissioning to be diverted into the hands of captains we estimate to be potential strategic assets,” Donnic answered. “We’ve also arranged for some of our officers to work as consultants, setting up logistical networks and advising on naval strategy. Organizing the Free Corellia Navy has been challenging, but we’re making headway.”

“The Free Corellia Navy. So, they have a name, but no leader? Have we identified a suitable liaison? A point of contact?”

“Not yet, but we expect some sort of leadership structure to emerge in the coming months. As I said, there are a number of promising candidates on the board.”

Months was a long time, far longer than she liked. But all things in good time, she supposed. She finished the wine, and began pouring another glass, emptying the bottle. “Very well.”

“The Dorsian Navy has drawn the line at the Xyquine system,” informed her further. “We’ve directed our most reliable Free Corellia captains to the system. If the Hosnians try to muscle their way onto Xyquine II, we can arrange for an appropriate response.”

“Don’t make me the centerpiece of a civil war here, Commodore,” Doriah retorted sharply. “I just renovated my condo here, and I’m not interested in moving back to Dorsis.” Truth be told she missed her homeworld. Dorsis was a developing ecumenopolis, with roughly a third of the planet covered by urban sprawl, much like Coruscant. Unlike Coruscant, there was still a biosphere to speak of, and the urban sprawl was much cleaner.

It was also unlike Coruscant in the sense that it was not the capital of the Republic, and the Dorsian Navy was a system defense force by another name, with no more rights and privileges than any other. Except for the Hosnian Prime Navy, apparently. If you’re Bar Carrigher you can do as you please, it seemed.

In any event, waging war on other Republic worlds was certainly beyond the scope of their powers, to say the least. Whoever shot first would lose.

“We’re under strict orders not to fire on Hosnian forces unless fired upon, Senator,” Donnic answered easily, but she wasn’t sure she trusted him. The Hosnian incursion into the Corellian Sector under the guise of securing the Republic’s hyperspace routes was, to put it mildly, greatly unappreciated by Corellia and her sectormates. Dorsis, as one of the centers of civilization in the Corellian Sector, was keen to support Corellian hegemony in the sector. ‘Hosnian imperialism,’ the would-be assassin had shouted at Bar Carrigher? A very apt description.

“I trust your judgment,” Doriah lied. “That’ll be all, Donnic. This bottle is empty, and I can’t continue without a drink in my hand. Keep me appraised of the situation?”

“Of course, Senator.” The commodore winked out of existence.

Doriah sipped at her last glass of wine. She was a traitor to the Republic, she knew. Or she was a product of circumstances. The Republic was a husk of what it had once been, propped up by the economic and industrial strength of the Corellian Sector and a half dozen other sectors like it. There was a bright future for Corellia and her sister worlds without the Republic, without the Senate, without the thousand parasite planets across the galaxy that fed on Corellia and Dorsis. She wondered if the Founding Fathers of the Republic felt as she did now, wondering whether history would remember them as heroes or villains when the curtains were drawn, and the show ended. She wondered what crimes of theirs the history texts had erased. Some like hers, maybe.

To do a great right, do a little wrong, she’d heard somewhere. She’d done her little wrong; she had no choice to see it through now to do that great right.

She drained the glass of wine, set an alarm, and laid down.

---

Back aboard the Interceptor, First Lieutenant Aleks Callagher stood, still in his battle armor, at attention before his commanding officer. Jodo Adorne, captain of the Foray-class blockade runner and a man with a squat face that looked to have been beaten with a hammer, sat behind the desk in his quarter. He was looking down at a datapad in his hands and scrolling through, Callagher assumed, the report on the Hotspur.

“This all seems to be in good order, Lieutenant,” Adorne said, giving Callagher something that sounded like approval.

“Thank you, sir,” Callagher answered.

“I see the tracking devices are in place on the cargo and the ship?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Specialist Calder performed a solo spacewalk to secure a tracker to the hull while we conducted our search. One way or another, he’ll lead us to the rebels.”

“Excellent,” Adorne said with a smile. “Dismissed.”

---

The Paragon, second among the sleek new Optio-class Fast Attack Cruisers off the Hosnian Driveyards lines, drifted through space some thousand kilometers above the surface of New Plympto. The ship was cruising at an angle such that the crest of the planet’s horizon lay ahead, far off in the distance through the bridge’s wide trapezoidal viewports.

Callagher stood next to Captain Seils, his commander, and a dozen other marine officers with the First Reconnaissance Battalion, all in their officer's uniforms. They almost looked like the navy officers around them, seated at their positions on the bridge. Though the marines were still, silent at attention, the officers around them seemed to be very busy, tapping away at their terminals, communicating, receiving and directing orders. Callagher had no idea idling in space could be such a complicated endeavor.

Before the collection of officers, next to a command holoprojector a meter tall and two meters in diameter, stood a clean shaven, hardened looking man in his mid-forties. This was Colonel Ferrangh, callsign Obelisk, First Recon’s commander. His face was unreadable. Not blank, but hard and impassive. He appraised the room.

“Are we all in attendance?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the recon officers answered.

“Good,” Ferrangh said, and he pressed a button on the holoprojector’s terminal. A large holomap projection of a piece of forested, coastal terrain sprang into view. “Gentlemen, this is New Plympto’s Kourshad Region,” Colonel Ferrangh said, pointing at the map. “The provincial capital, Phereis,” he said, using a gesture to highlight an inland city, “is the nerve center of the Free Nosauria Liberation Front. From this location, rogue elements of the planetary government are able to provide air support, establish supply lines, and give refuge to the enemy. As has been made clear to us, gentlemen, General Vennader’s orders are that the enemy shall have no refuge.”

With a short series of waves and gestures, Ferrangh zoomed out from the city and to the larger region. Bright red and green lines and icons appeared on the screen, the lines of battle and unit positions. “Phereis is the General’s objective. Fourteen standard days ago, the Second Marine Regiment, attached to the New Plympto Army, moved out from Camp Darropolis and marched on the city. You are currently looking at the projected lines of battle. This is not, however, our current situation.”

Another gesture, and the lines moved. The green fell away from Phereis. The red units pushed forward in tandem, and many of them vanished from the map. There was far more green than red on the map now, and the line was a messy, serpentine thing limited in its coverage to the northwestern sector of the grid. If Callagher had to make a guess, he’d guess this was bad news.

“Heavy enemy contact has placed us behind schedule, and local allies have failed to provide us with intelligence up to our standards. The General understands that no plan survives enemy contact. The General is adaptable and tolerates changes in circumstance. However, the General also understands that the violence of action will carry the day on New Plympto. The NPA and Second Marines have permitted the enemy to seize control over the tempo of this fight. That, General Vennader cannot tolerate.

“As a result, Obelisk and the First Recon Battalion are putting boots on the ground. It falls to us to recapture the tempo in Kourshad. To this end, command has seen fit to attach a special operations unit to our battalion. The First Recon will be conducting joint operations with Captain Seils and his MARSPEC operators. Those operations will be carried out here.”

The map zoomed in and shifted focus to the southwestern sector. On the first, projected status map, this area had been behind allied lines. Now, it was well before them, and dark. No red or green units to be seen there, just a few population centers Callagher estimated to be small towns or similar.

“The southern flank of the NPA-Hosnian joint task force is dark, and four thousand enemy combatants command anticipated encountering on the battlefield in the north are currently unaccounted for. This concerns General Vennader. He wants eyes on these units yesterday.”

“Jungle density in this area is too high for remote reconnaissance, but thanks to the efforts of our MARSPEC team, we understand that certain cargo shipments aboard freighters suspected of carrying shipments to the enemy have been unloaded and transported to these locations.” Red dots appeared on the map now, marking four of the towns and a few locations deep in the New Plympto jungle. “These are Nosaurian hamlets and villages, and the objective of First Recon’s mission. Officers, your companies will be deployed here, in the west, by Axehead drop,” he said, and three yellow icons appeared on the screen. “You will move east and hit each of these villages. Your mission is the acquisition of actionable intelligence on the enemy’s position and disposition at these points and the surrounding area, and to act on it.” The holomap outlined prospective routes for the new yellow units, and then additional icons appeared farther south, off the coast.

“Captain Seils,” Ferrangh said, now addressing the MARSPEC commander, “you and your operators will be dropped here, off the southern coast under the cover of darkness. Your MARSPEC team will move up the coastline and into the Kourshad Delta before disembarking at the riverbank here.” Callagher watched as lines traced a route up the coast and inland via a large river. Just to the north of the projected disembark, three red dots gleamed deep in the jungle. "You and your team are to ascertain the nature of these positions and, if possible, destroy the enemy’s advantage there. To accomplish your missions,” he said, now addressing both the MARSPEC and recon officers, “you will have the orbital strike capabilities of the Paragon and the Optio, as well as close air support in the form of low-altitude gunships and fighter craft.”

Easy enough. “Any questions?” Ferrangh asked.

“Sir,” one of the recon officers began, “do you have any additional guidance on the rules of engagement for this operation?” Ferrangh nodded.

“The New Plympto government believes that the civilian casualty count is too high. They have insisted that we make every effort to ensure that we engage only the enemy. Command has incorporated this directive into the ROE. Accordingly, we are only cleared to engage after reasonable efforts have been made to determine whether a target is hostile.” There was a pregnant pause. Ferrangh’s eyes shifted to the MARSPEC officers’ and then back. “That said, if you were to ask Obelisk how many dead civilians he would trade for any one of your lives, there is no number high enough. Our enemy does not wear uniforms, they do not play by the rules. You are to protect yourself and your units with the aggression expected of Hosnian Marines. It goes without saying that I have full faith and confidence in your judgment.”

He looked around, expectantly, but there was silence. “Thank you, gentlemen. Prepare your units to move out. Dismissed.”

---

“That right there, Clunker,” Blackbark said to his pilot droid, “that’s what we in the biz call a problem.”

The Nosaurian and his faithful droid companion stood atop the Hotspur, looking down at a flat, black, cylindrical disc about a half meter across. Blackbark knelt down to inspect the thing. Entirely unmarked, no blinking lights and such. Almost entirely unsuspicious, except it was definitely not there when they left port out of Graland Station. No, someone had stuck this on the Hotspur sometime between leaving the station and landing on New Plympto. Someone on the ground, then, he imagined, but who? Or someone in the air. Someone without a face. “Fuckin’ Hosnians,” Blackbark growled, remembering the search. “Clunker, what do those databanks in your head tell you about the Hosnians we ran into? How long did they hold us up?”

“My memory banks inform me that the Hosnian Prime marines were aboard our ship for precisely twenty-three standard minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Clunker advised him. It had been shorter than a usual customs check, in Blackbark’s experience. He’d chalked it up to laziness, but maybe that had just been the cover. Twenty minutes is long enough to attach a tracking device to a ship.

“Shit. Clunker, get this thing off my ship, bring it down to the hold and disassemble the thing.” It might not be marked on the outside, but inside there might be serial numbers, identifiers, something to give him a clue.

“Right away, captain,” Clunker said, and primed the blowtorch contained in his left forearm. Blackbark swung down the ladder on the side of the ship and climbed down, cursing all the way.

He brushed past a few dockworkers and strode up the boarding ramp and into the Hotspur. Once in the cockpit he threw himself into the chair and pulled up the HoloNet on the terminal. He slapped the side of it as the connection booted up, hoping to hurry it along with some percussive encouragement. With the HoloNet up, he moved to a secure channel, the cheekily named Free Corellia Express. FCE was a new, grassroots smuggling network based out of Graland Station that served as a major logistics avenue for the Free Corellia and related movements. Their shipments were the lifeblood of Free Corellia, Free Nosauria, and others that had yet to spark the flames of revolution. The movements had plenty of money to spend on outfitting armies and supplying themselves in a bid for independence, and smugglers like Blackbark were happy to help.

The network also served as a way for the smugglers to watch each other’s backs. When you get tagged with a tracker on an FCE route, sounding the alarm is a thing of common courtesy.

“Attention all FCE captains,” he spoke aloud, “I think I've got a Hosnian Prime Navy tracking device on my ship. Sweep your ships and standby for confirmation.” He gave it a once over listen and sent it.

Down in the Hotspur’s workshop soon after, Blackbark found Clunker taking a blowtorch to the thing. It took two hours to get it up. Clunker’s torch couldn’t cut through the alloy shell without going over 90% power, and it was slow going even then. That was enough for Blackbark – no crime lords in the Corellian Sector had this kind of hardened tech on hand – but he needed to be sure. Soon enough, though, he got what he was looking for. Inside, after pulling out the guts of the thing, he found an alphanumeric code etched into the casing. No blinking red lights, though. He guessed the holoflicks took some liberties with that kind of thing.

“What do you make of it, Clunk?” he asked.

“I am afraid the identification of such technology is not strictly within my programming, but it would seem to me that this is a very high-quality piece of equipment,” the droid replied as he sifted through assorted wires and parts.

“Let’s take this back up to the cockpit and run the number through a HoloNet search. Not something you’d find in the hands of civvies, though, eh?” Blackbark asked.

“I should think not, sir,” Clunker agreed.

It was indeed not.

“’Sale is restricted to military and police organizations,’” Blackbark read aloud off the HoloNet’s description of the SG810 Guardian, a high-end tracking device with interstellar capability and pinpoint accuracy. It was produced by a Hosnian security company. “Shit,” the smuggler growled, cycling through the product list. Plenty of similar devices, some a lot smaller than this one. “Shit, Clunker, that seems like a problem, don’t it?”

Clunker, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, nodded his vaguely humanoid head in affirmation. “Yes, captain, it certainly does.”

---

Doriah Castal was half way through her first glass of wine of the evening when she made the call.

“Call Commodore Donnic, will you?” she asked aloud. The droid brain replied by putting the dial through the holocaster at the head of her living room.

Moments later, Commodore Donnic flickered into existence, his countenance and body all blue in holographic light.

“Commodore, thank you for taking my call,” Doriah said with a smile.

“Always, Senator,” Donnic greeted her crisply. He stood at attention, as if before a commanding officer. She liked it. Maybe she should have gone into the navy. She wouldn’t have made a half-bad commanding officer, she thought. “What can I do for you?”

“The Galactic Senate has commissioned a diplomatic assignment to Aurea, a fact-finding mission bringing some of our best negotiators together with experts on the Free Corellia movement,” Doriah said. “I’m transmitting the details to you now. I think it may be appropriate if this mission were to encounter some, shall we say, ‘difficulties’ en route?”

“What are you getting at, ma’am?” Donnic asked. A man of limited imagination, Doriah deduced.

“Our friends in the Free Corellia Navy have a small bevy of capital ships at their disposal thanks to our efforts, do they not?” Doriah asked. She fought the urge to slow her speech.

“They do,” Donnic said.

“And, therefore, they may also have the ability to disable a starship while it is in transit from one system to another, no?” she pressed on.

“We may be able to arrange something. This seems like an aggressive step,” the commodore advised her, hesitance in his voice. Hesitance. She almost scowled, but deftly avoided that impropriety by taking a timely draught of wine. Decisive action would carry Dorsis and the Corellian Sector to a brighter future. If Donnic proved he was not a man of action, she may have to lean on others in the future. “Are you sure this is the best course of action?”

“Commodore, I have no love for so many of my fellow Senators, but I respect their talent for mitigating crises as they arise,” she said. “The diplomatic arm of a republic that has stood for thousands of years, on the back of diplomacy mind you, cannot be underestimated. No, we must amputate.”

“This would be an assassination.”

“I didn’t say kill them, necessarily,” Doriah wheedled, putting a sweet note in her voice. “Just disable the ship, if such a thing is possible. I have no expertise in this field, but so long as shots are fired and these Senators fear for their lives, so long as the Republic sees that Free Corellia is unwilling to come to the table, that will be victory enough for our purposes,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll forward this mission to one of our assets. It will be done.”

The holoprojection flickered out of existence.

“Dismissed,” she said with a smirk.

How many lives would she end with this, she wondered. Three Senators, their staffs, the crew of the Hammerhead-class cruiser they traveled aboard. Hundreds of lives thrown into contention by a quick call across the galaxy and a tentative alliance with a growing rebellion. Of course, if all went according to plan, no one would die, but she figured when lasers started flying in the void and ship-to-ship combat was at hand, mistakes could be made and miscalculations could dust the crew of an entire starship.

She wondered if there was a difference between killing a person and ordering an execution. Did they feel differently? Should they?

---

The late-night rain made the sleek dark spacecraft's arrival that much more thematic. For the two soldiers stood out the back of the embassy, it was a blessing. It meant that their hour's watch had something interesting to it. For Lieutenant Commander Maugvi, who waited half-soaked in his Imperial officer's uniform, it was a curse. For him, it meant that any chance of moving beyond his station was over. He did his time and served the Empire well.
"Not well enough," he muttered as he took one last huff of his cigarra before tossing it to the concrete floor. He would be posted elsewhere, somewhere comfortable somewhere near the heart of the Empire where he would be out of the way while the grown men did their work. It's not to say that he wasn't capable - quite the contrary, given the significance of his now most recent assignment - but rather, that he's a victim of circumstance. As he watched the sleek spacecraft lean back into a hover and pressed a few creases out of his coat, his thoughts wandered to his family. Even if he didn't perform well enough to be trusted with the latest flashpoint in the galaxy, at least he could be with them now.

The spacecraft hissed as it gingerly set itself down on the Imperial embassy's private landing platform. It sat idly for a moment, looming over the two guardsmen and the Lieutenant Commander, before it hissed again to herald the Commander's arrival. The boarding ramp of the ship shuddered before starting its descent, parting to reveal the silhouette of a broad man in a greatcoat and a more feminine figure at his flank. There, at the top of the ramp and with the light at his back, stood Commander Corvane Voycnor, with a head that reflected the lights behind him and eyes that seemed to penetrate every detail. There he was: the "adult" that was Lieutenant Commander Maugvi's replacement. With a hint of malice in his mind, Maugvi lifted a hand to his forehead in salute.
"Welcome to Corellia, Commander Voycnor," Maugvi began, holding his salute as Corvane started his stride down the boarding ramp. Corvane's assistant, Crewman Tiedee, followed at his flank without missing a beat, whipping a gray umbrella open above their heads without so much as a glance as she went. It made Maugvi burn that little bit more. With a conclusive final step and a subtle click of boot heels, Corvane lifted his own hand to his head apathetically, before their hands collectively dropped to their sides. The swagger stick that Corvane held under his arm didn't budge. "We are honoured to finally receive you. I only wish it was under better circumstances."

At a glance, Corvane seemed interested in everything but Lieutenant Commander Maugvi. His eyes, uncompromising and unrevealing as they were, distantly swept over every detail of the landing pad before running briskly over Maugvi. They hovered over the small pile of burnt cigarras and the creases in Maugvi's uniform. Despite the stony expression that Corvane wore, his disapproval was obvious.
"As do I, Lieutenant Commander, but better circumstances do not bring us together," Corvane retorted. His gloved fingers adjusting on his swagger stick gave more expression than both his face and the face of the secretary holding the umbrella beside him. Had Maugvi also been wearing gloves, they would surely squeak as his hands gripped tight in frustration. Thoughts of his family abated less helpful thoughts.
"Shall I show you inside then, sir?" Maugvi suggested, half turning towards the door as he did. "I imagine you two have much to do."

---

"I will leave you be then, sir."

The gentle whirr of cycling doors heralded some measure of peace for Corvane. He waited for a moment as if he wasn't truly alone, before letting out a restrained sigh.
"Disappointing, but not unexpected," Corvane observed as he whisked his dress hat from his head. His eyes wandered over the several idle screens of the desolate command center, all unnervingly lifeless and vacant.
"The last of your men are due to arrive by tomorrow morning, sir," Tiedee assured. Her eyes briefly flashed over her dataslate before looking back up to Corvane, confirming the details as she spoke. "The last of the garrison personnel are scheduled to have left by the following evening." Tiedee, Corvane's secretary and assistant, has been Corvane's shadow for almost a year. The lowly rank she wears on her shoulders means little compared to the authority she truly has. In many regards, she may as well wear the commander insignia aswell. They share the same uncompromising standard for their work; the only difference is that Corvane trusts the troublesome details to Tiedee, who makes sure that they don't bother him later. The sight of a lowly crewman commanding a team of what are essentially executioners is a curious sight to the untrained eye, but a familiar sight in Corvane's wake. After all, Corvane was not made a diplomat because of his prowess in diplomacy.

It was an example that very much applied here, Corvane mused to himself. He had become the embassy commander of the Corellian embassy at the will of the ministry, but that was more of an inconvenience than an objective. With a few idle taps into her dataslate, Tiedee brought the array of idle screens to life. Footage of riots, protests, and news reports were spread neatly across the many screens as Corvane stepped up into the overlook for the command center. His mind wandered back to the planning as he surveyed them all. With the arrival of the last of his staff tomorrow morning, selected by hand by himself and his aides, the operation was finally prepared to enter the execution phase. The mission statement was still fresh on his mind: destabilize the Corellian sector through covert cooperation with the Free Corellia and Free Nosauria movements, and seize proxy de facto control where possible to do so. He already had several meetings planned, but he would need several more before he could establish his network on Corellia and begin aiding the separatists.

With the powers that comes with diplomatic immunity, and the freedom that comes with a stark absence of Sith, his mission would be that much easier.

"Have the embassy cleaned to standard before the last of the outgoing staff leave, Tiedee." Corvane ordered, prompting Tiedee to tap at her dataslate as he spoke. "Once we begin, we will be escalating embassy security to more appropriate levels for a conflict zone. Let's draw some value from the civilians while they're still allowed on site."

---

MARSPEC Company 3-Gamma executed the insertion through a 0-dark hundred local Axehead drop. The ship cut thrust at two hundred klicks above sea level and glided to the surface of the Kourshad Gulf on silent, sensor-friendly repulsors. At fifteen meters above the frothing blue-green sea, jet black in the alien darkness, the boarding ramps were lowered and the skimmers were dropped. Each watercraft touched down smoothly, the swept wings cutting into the waves and the repulsors driving them forward.

Apex Team took point, followed by Callagher and Blackrock, Condor, and then Nomad at the rear. The skimmers were dead silent and low sensor-profile vehicles, and they slipped past the lightly defended coastline with ease. Callagher and his team, their rifle’s optics projecting high fidelity night-vision images of their firing arcs, drew beads on the occasional Nosaurian on the beach, not a hundred meters away, but they maintained trigger discipline. The rebels were lightly armored, carrying light blaster weaponry and slugthrowers, and ill-disciplined. In an era when assault teams could be dropped from orbital transports directly onto the battlefield, amphibious approaches were not the most highly anticipated action.

The Kourshad Delta, the mouth of the mighty Kourshad River that fed into the Gulf, was heavily mined, but the skimmers were light and elevated some two meters above the waterline, with only the wings dipping beneath the surface. With the assistance of underwater sensors, the skimmer operators deftly maneuvered through the hostile waters and into the river. About a klick up the river, Condor and Nomad teams broke off and went to shore.

3-Gamma had five targets in the jungles of Kourshad, which together formed a rough triangle converging some fifteen klicks inland. Condor and Nomad would handle the two southeasterly objectives, while Apex and Blackrock would advance on the two northwest from there. The company would then converge on the fifth location. MARSPEC Command, not entirely contrary to Obelisk’s orders, had passed down a weapons free order earlier that night, effective immediately upon landing. 3-Gamma was to maintain operational integrity by shooting target that was not immediately identifiable as friendly in the course of the mission.

Callagher’s skimmer pulled up to the riverbank, and Blackrock One put boots in the water. Blackrock Two and Three followed soon thereafter, and as soon as they disembarked the skimmers turned back into the waters to find concealment upriver. The Blackrock Team’s fourteen Hosnian Prime marines, their stark white ablative plating exchanged for jungle green patterned armor, waved them off. Callagher nodded to the marine to his left, who raised his left gauntlet and pressed a button to open a comm channel.

“Ghost Command, this is Blackrock One, do you copy? Blackrock Team is in position to advance,” Specialist Calder’s voice came through the comms.

“Blackrock One, this is Ghost Command,” Seils’s comms transmissions operator answered, “we copy. Blackrock Team is cleared to advance, weapons free per SPECCOM.”

Callagher gave Calder a thumbs up and then opened his own comms channel with the team. “Blackrock Team, we are weapons free and cleared to advance. Blackrock Two, take point.”

“Copy, Actual,” came Blackrock Two-One’s answer. The five marines that comprised Blackrock’s second element readied weapons and pushed into the treeline. Even as they disappeared from view, Callagher’s HUD kept electronic markers on each marine’s position.

He gave the signal, and the rest of the team followed Blackrock Two into the Kourshad jungle.

---

"We're on schedule to arrive at New Plympto within the hour, Captain." called the young officer sitting in the navigator's seat. He glanced over from his terminal as he spoke, meeting Pund'ii's gaze before swinging back to his work.
"We've confirmed our schedule with the New Plympto spatial authority, sir. We've been cleared to dock at Table station at mooring point 2." called the next young officer, this time from the communicator's seat. She offered a rushed glance over her shoulder as she spoke before promptly returning to her calls. From his perched seat overlooking the bridge of the corvette, Captain Pund'ii offered no distinct response beyond brushing one of his lekku off his shoulder as he admired the distant New Plympto. Somehow, the bridge crew must have interperted some meaning from this, as they carried on with their duties with some purpose to their maneuvers.

For Captain Pund'ii, this meant the beginning of the lull for the journey. While the trip from Coruscant from Corellia was largely uneventful beyond the odd high-needs senator, the crew was at least in motion. After a few meetings with the Republic ambassador and other officials representing the New Plympto government, they would move on to Corellia and wait, just like they did every time. That was the relievingly unfortunate reality of flying a stateperson-variant Thranta-class corvette: less rooms, less troops, less action. For any young officers eager to cut their teeth on spatial combat, being posted to the RNS Programme was a career death sentence. For everyone else with sense, it was a dream come tru-

"Captain!" called out the sensor officer. It was the first voice of panic Pund'ii had heard in months. "Three unidentified corvette-type vessels approaching on an interception course." Pund'ii paused in thought, brushing at his lower lip with one of the fingers that rested o his chin before he shifted to stand up straight.
"Confirm that we're running active scanning with diplomatic tags," ordered Pund'ii as he cracked one knuckle under his thumb, "and put the sensor data on the screen." It was the first time he had spoken all morning. An uneasy hush fell over the bridge crew as the distant view of New Plympto was obscured by a simplistic map. The map detailed three vessels with approximately the same signature as their own approaching in a loosely arrow-shaped formation, travelling on course to bring themselves up alongside the RNS Programme.
"Confirmed, we are running diplomatic tags." called the sensor officer, with beads of sweat starting to form on his brow. Pund'ii furrowed his own brow in thought.
"Execute comprehensive scans on the ships and attempt to hail." ordered Pund'ii, now leaning forward onto his hands. The uneasy hush over the bridge festered as the bridge crew borderline assaulted their keyboards.
"They're all Thranta-class corvettes, captain, but no ID tags transmitting from their vessels. No ID in Republic databases, either." called the sensor officer, still focused on his screen as he spoke.
"No response to hailing from the lead vessel, captain. Attempting to hail the other tw-" explained the communication officer, only to be cut short in a panic:
"We're detecting a power surge, captain! They're bringing shields and weapons online!"

---

"All hands to general quarters, no duff. All hands to general quarters, no duff. The alert condition is now red. The material condition is now level 3. Prepare for hyperspace manoeuvres."

The alarms throughout the cruiser howled. Xadi couldn't have thrown her pazaak cards down fast enough.

Outside of the cramped and claustrophobic room, the crew of the ship raced through the hallways. Through the small utilitarian window in the airlock door, it looked like chaos; crewmen hardly had time to screw their hats on as they barreled past one another, shouting and twisting as they went. In Xadi's own room, it wasn't much different. The small table littered with cards and cigarra stubs squealed as it scratched across the durasteel floor, almost tipped over in the squad's panic to get up. Footsteps echoed through the small room as the soldiers, who were already adorned in all of their armour bar their helmets, scrambled to race to their stations and wrench open their lockers.

The keypad beeped with each keystroke before letting out an affirmative pair and parting way.
"What's the play, two!?" Xadi called out as she craned her head over her shoulder. From the other side of the room, another armoured soldier hoisting a jetpack over her shoulders shouted back:
"Full force in open quarters!" Artora - or 'two', the second-in-command of the team - yelled back. Xadi found her hands moving on her own as she turned her head back. This was something she had well-drilled over her three years of training. The helmet came on first, before pouches and kits found their way to their mountings and weapons found their way to their places. Black gloves adorned in white and red armour racked energy cells into weapons as they went, with a new counter came up in the corner of her helmet's display for each one. A vibrodagger followed a bullpup blaster rifle, which followed a heavy blaster pistol, which followed a set of grenades, which followed an out-of-place short matte scattergun. She twisted the ancient weapon about to begin thumbing in shots as she turned to face the cycling airlock door.

The word 'Vyshtal-1' appeared in a corner of Xadi's HUD as the last soldier walked into the room. Sergeant Marnath, the commander of the team, spoke over the squad channel as he wrenched on his own locker open.
"Listen in, Vyshtal. No less than five minutes ago, the RNS Programme, a Republic diplomatic envoy vessel, broadcasted a mayday signal. Allsource intelligence confirms the vessel was crippled by three corvettes in transit to New Plympto. The vessel is on a crash course for the planet as we speak. Our mission is to secure a landing zone for the marines, where we will then provide close protection for the extraction conducted by low orbital vehicles. We're operating on 'dynamic intelligence' as the crash site does not yet exist, with 3 seconds notice-to-move." Twisting about to face the team, Marnath conclusively worked the mechanism of his blaster. "Questions?"
"Dynamic intelligence..." Xadi scoffed, glancing over to another soldier - Losa, or 'Vyshtal-5', her closest friend on the team - as she spoke. Even through their helmets, they could both tell they were rolling their eyes.
"What's our vector, one?" came a dull feminine voice. The words 'Vyshtal-2' came on the HUD.
"Conditionally lethal. There may be civilians in the area, but command wants overwhelming force against anything bearing arms." Vyshtal-1 answered, twisting about to glance over as he secured his helmet into place. "Command wants to make an example of anybody who bears arms against our diplomats. That's why they're sending us." A pause settled on the room as the six soldiers kept making themselves ready. "If the crash site is as currently projected, there will be friendly forces on the ground. Be prepared to be redirected as required. As we all know, no plan survives first contact with the enemy."

Behind the six soldiers, the six hollow grey pillars looming dormant over the room screeched and roared before grinding open. Inside, six LOID-A - low orbit infantry department, assault variant - vehicles now waited for them. In staggered sequence, each of the soldiers pulled their doors up and set themselves into the claustrophobic pods, strapping themselves into the standing seats and racking their weapons into their slots. As Xadi strapped herself in and fastened the straps tightly about her armour, she found herself brawling with the repeating blaster emplacement that loomed above her head. That was the defining feature of the LOID-A variant: a droid-operated repeating blaster out the top, a man-operated repeating blaster out the front, and enough density to punch a hole through a bunker if it lands on one. Xadi always thought that another strap to hold the damned thing up wouldn't go amiss.

"Last call for questions, Vyshtal team." Vyshtal-1 called, his name appearing on Xadi's HUD once again. Silence came over the team as the last man pulled the LOID-A door shut over the top of themselves. "Alright. Let's get in and out in time for lunch." Outside of the assault pods, the white lights were abruptly replaced with dim red lights, heralding the young voice over the intercom:
"All hands, prepare for hyperspace manoeuvres. All hands, prepare for hyperspace manoeuvres. Executing in ten seconds."

---

The Thranta-class corvette suddenly burst into smoke and flames as it fell through New Plympto's orbit. It fell with all the grace of a tipping titan before it unceremoniously crashed into the ground, bursting into a mushroom of soil, steel, and flames as the impact ripped it asunder. A wave of dust and smoke heralded a shockwave of force throughout the Kourshad southern jungle, just outside of which the corvette made its crash landing. The stars bent for a moment for a much larger and much older Republic warship to barrel out of hyperspace after it, where it wasted no time manoeuvring itself into orbit above the Kourshad jungle. From the port side, which faced the planet below, six streaks of light fell and hurtled towards the burning wreckage below, like six shooting stars with the same course. There, in one of those plummeting assault pods, Xadi gripped at her seat and gritted her teeth, waiting for the seeping heat of an orbital insertion to reach her.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy. Xadi only hoped that their timely arrival didn't make that the case for the other soldiers in the Kourshad jungle.