"My childhood was so comfortable that I'm almost ashamed of it," begins Jorm as he continues stripping what he hopes are usable parts from the ships. "I grew up without a care in the world. No one ever mentioned what the Empire was or how it came to be. It was just there. It was the 2 ton Bantha in the room that everyone refused to talk about."
"I actually served in the Empire for a while. My parents always told me not to make trouble like my older brother did, so I went with the flow and ended up working for the only stable employer in town...the Empire. I wanted to be a fighter pilot -- at that point in my life I didn't care who I got to fly for, just that I got to fly -- but the Empire decreed that my natural talents were in logistics and supply. So I went to work routing various shipments and orchestrating personnel movements and the like."
"I didn't want to know what was going on, so I buried my head in the sand and reminded myself that all I was doing was routing various numbers. Then, one day my supervisor told me to change the routing number on one of the 'supply' shipments. I wanted to know what was going on, but I kept my mouth shut and did my investigating after hours."
"They were slaves. The routing number was changed because all of the slaves in that particular shipment had died and they needed to be moved to a disposal site. I tried not to be sick, but to this day I'm sure some mop jockey at the Quartermaster's Office is trying to figure out why he had to clean vomit off an access terminal."
"It took me longer than I like to admit to make up my mind, but I eventually got up the nerve to help. Once I knew the ID code for the slave shipments, I rerouted them as often as possible. I could not deal with another 'destination code change' on my conscience."
"They eventually figured out what was going on, but the funny thing about the Empire is that they route their troops in almost the exact same way as they route their slaves and other 'supplies'. I was able to buy myself enough time to get out."
"And now, I get to fly and do crazy things like build my own starship."
(Edited by Aihal the Silent at 4:19 pm on Jan. 24, 2006)
Aurelia listens to the conversation as it crackles over the Dagger's ever-so-slightly upgraded comm system, musing over the empty battlefield. Vultures, here to pick the flesh from the dead. They were just particularly tardy vultures. It's odd...almost a inverse image of where she grew up. The space docks, cluttered with half-completed ships, twinkling with light and life. And this field, cluttered with their gutted remains, utterly dead.
She listens to Jorms story...noble. But she stays quiet as she brings the Dagger back into position for another load.
The Dagger's comm system crackles a bit before Mandall's voice comes on.
"No Radio Free Mandall now. I...I just had this thing spooking around in my head, and I couldn't get it out at the funeral service.
I didn't really know those guys.
No, really, I'm not trying to be an asshole here. I really didn't know them. I had no idea who they were beyond a couple of faces I saw in the bar. Maybe I talked to them once or twice. I didn't know their hopes and fears, who they loved and who they hated. Well, I guess I have a fair idea who they hated."
Mandall chuckles a bit.
"But that's it, isn't it? We're here...because we hate the Empire. We want something better. That's what we all work for. No matter who we are, no matter where we come from...we're all here to blow those bastards straight to the void. Now I'm not into philosophy, but I guess that's a pretty good thing to be fighting for. And I also guess that even if I didn't know those guys, they fought for that, believed in the same things I do. They knew that it was worth it. Worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.
And I don't know how you guys see that, but I'm not afraid of dying. I'm not rushing into death, but I'd go down if I knew I had to. Because if I can't live to see this future we're building here...if I am going to the void...I wanna take as many of those pricks with me as I possibly can. They sure did. And even if I didn't know them...I'd want to go out in style like them."
There's a short pause with only a sharp breath.
"Okay, that's it. Back to your regularly scheduled shenigans."
Mandall drops the mike and walks back to his haphazard hammock. He's tired in a way sleep won't fix, but it'll pass.
The few trips back and forth through hyperspace get downright dour at times. It's lonely work, and the impact of the squadron's recent losses even tugs at Mandall. Eventually, the Decimator carcass is hauled back to the Sword, along with enough TIE components to keep the deck chief busy and out of Jorm and Aurelia's way.
Several hours are spent drafting more concrete schematics, taking into account the dimensions and capacity of their find. It's late into the night cycle when Aurelia figuratively shaves off some extra cubic meters in the plans and fits everything in the spaceframe. On paper, at least.
Jorm's tried his luck on the Sword with what they had to barter - the components weren't right, or he didn't bring enough to the table. Aurelia and Arnae weren't always Rebels, though. Arnae was known to inadvertently spill his Chooka-beans about his past dealings, although he would quickly change the topic.
Much like Jorm used his technical and administrative muscle to reroute slaves back in his former life, he manages to get some crates of repeating blasters and explosives loaded onto the Dagger, cunningly mislabeled as power converters. The weapon shipment is replaced with other weaponry from the armory and the missing equipment is rerouted so many times in the system that Jorm's confident noone will be able to tell that they're short some crates. The quartermaster listens to the droid, and the droid, whether it liked it or not, was "fixed" with Jorm's updated manifests.
The Rusty Dagger blasts off for some illicit barter.
"All right, my little womprats," Arnae calls over the comm. "Aurelia and I've talked, and although she'd prefer not to, we'll get the best deal from a man we know on Sullust. He used to be on my crew; you should be safe, but don't trust him, and don't assume he's your friend."
Bad memories flood unbidden to Aurelia's thoughts as the freighter leaps out of hyperspace over Sullust's cracked, barren surface. As distateful as coming back was, she knew Arnae was right. They'd been out of the game too long. They didn't know the right people anymore - they'd sided with the Alliance, burning bridges and closing doors to once-safe harbors.
Wayde Stryker and Jileeza had their fingers in just about every type of illicit activity imaginable. They had taken over the late Gulgo the Hutt's enterprises without too much fanfare, and aside from being significantly more open to trade with the Alliance (part of the reason for coming), there wasn't a whole lot of difference from when the Hutt ran things. Gun running, smuggling, spice dealing, assassinations, prostitution, gambling - if it was illegal and happened within 4 sectors of Sullust, it was likely connected to the devilish duo.
The Dagger fires its braking thrusters and comes to a gentle stop inside one of the cavernous docking bays just under Sullust's noxious surface.
As the Dagger sets down on a planet that would be described as a putrid pile of sludge on a good day, Jorm can't help but feel nervous. Black market deals were never really a part of his life, even after joining the Alliance. He knew that some very bad people ran things in this sector of space. People who would probably have him killed without hesitation...
I can't believe Arnae and Aurelia used to work with these guys. Then again, I can't really believe that I'm about to sell them guns.
The Vandals decide having their own transport is preferable to relying on someone else's public transportation, so a ramshackle skiff is rented and a sampling of the weaponry is loaded onto the repulsorlift vehicle. Arnae takes the skiff's yoke, navigating the group through back alleys and tunnels. Sullust was an Alliance-held world as far as the reports were concerned, and indeed a Rebel insignia could be seen here and there, but on the ground it was the locals who kept the peace.
The edificial facade of the crimelords' fortress looms inside the caverns of Sullust. Stryker has apparently dispensed with Gulgo's Gamorrean guards, preferring security who could form complete sentences. A human and a twi'lek male in light blast armor wave the skiff to a stop in front of the entrance.
"State yer business, and keep yer hands were I can see 'em," gruffs the human.
Calsera watches the planet grow in her viewscreen. It's reputation preceeds it, and it looks as dismal as she had imagined.
Like most of the crew, she's heard Arnae's and Aurelia's tales of their previous companions. The Striker character seems like someone who has some ability to be reasonable, if unscrupulous. The woman, however... Well, hopefully they won't encounter her at all.
Once planetside, Cat helps will loading the skiff, then climbs aboard. Given the reputation of the planet, and those they are meeting, she is fully armed and ready for trouble. Since Arnae knows these people, she figures to let him do the talking.
Eritram inspects the Twi'lek guard's face through the holographic scope with a cool detachment. He was in a vacant tunnel-dwelling with a good view of the front of the Fortress du Crime. If anything went wrong, the outside would be clear. Getting out of the base, however, was up to them.
"Captain Arnae Maddox, who used to run with your employers. I'm looking to do business."
The human guard checks a wrist-mounted datapad. "I've got no mention of you on the boss's schedule. Turn this heap around."
"Call him. He'll want to talk to us." Arnae gives the rest of you a trust me, this'll work look.
The guard rolls his eyes but steps back to use his commlink. A few tense moments pass before he announces: "Had to check, captain. Go on in - my men will collect your weapons and take you to Mr. Stryker."
Arnae whispers to Jorm and Aurelia, "You guys do the talking once we get inside I don't want to misquote any of the parts you were talking about."
The skiff floats its way through the thick blast doors, disappearing from Eritram's sight. Once inside, five guards with rifles approach the skiff, accompanied by a loading droid.
"Hand over your weapons," barks the man in front from behind his half-visored helmet.
Though she doesn't like it, Calsera will hand over her weapons as well. There are just too many ways to detect such things these days, and not doing so would not doubt cause trouble.
Being a career military man, Dutch could almost sympathize with the mercenary lifestyle. He gives the visored guard a sizing-up, then hands over his blaster.
"By the way...your weapon's safety is on." remarks Dutch.
The guard looks down, clicks his safety off, and levels the rifle at Dutch. "Thanks. Get moving."
The tunnels have been extensively modified since the last time Aurelia or Arnae were here. Autoblasters sit ensconced in the walls, which themselves have been given a once-over. There's a woman's touch to the underground base. It almost looks inviting, assuming you could ignore the armed guards and droid turrets.
A short turbolift ride takes you to what is presumably a checkpoint outside Mr. Stryker's office. There are two more guards - this time both human and carrying an air of military experience. They scan the Vandals for weapons with a wand unit connected to a wall-mounted scanner and, pronouncing them clean, key in the access code for the blast doors.
Stryker's office is organized in the way of one who was never mentally discharged from the military. Dutch, of course, approves of the spartan layout. Aurelia wonders, just for a moment, if there's time to rig his autowash to use the recycler instead of fresh water. She pauses there, and reflects that both Dutch and Wayde could probably use a bit of recycler-spray in their next shower.
More troublesome than the simple, clean office, however, is the Wookiee-height silver droid that exits a door in the rear of the room. It's an odd model, looking like someone mish-mashed an HK-47 unit with one of the so-called "Super" battledroids from the Clone Wars. Jorm realizes it's one of the old MDK models - it's a protocol droid type that was used to communicate with Wookiees. Its abnormal stature was intentional, so as not to appear weak to the hairy natives of Kashyyk. It's been obviously modified since then - wrist-mounted blasters are clearly visible, and additional armor adds to its considerable bulk.
The droid takes up a standing position behind the large desk in the center of the room. A few seconds later, a well-built, round-faced man enters the office. Wayde Stryker has a little more gray in his hair (stress from running a multi-system crime syndicate, no doubt) and keeps his stubble under control a little better, but it's still Sarge. He's wearing a light jacket over a blast vest and still wears his Imperial-issue pistol in his Imperial-issue drop holster. He eyes the group with a mix of suspicion and nostalgia, sizing up Calsera and Dutch as seemingly potential troublemakers while giving Mandall a sort of mental okay.
"Well, my boys downstairs say the gear you brought is top-notch, so I suppose this is where I say 'It's good to see you, Arnae'. This your new crew?"
Arnae and Stryker shake hands. "Of a sort. I'm just their foot in the door, so to speak. We mean to trade those weapons downstairs, and more besides, for some ship components. This is Jorm here, and Aurelia you know, so I'll let them explain what they need."
"Mr. Stryker," says Jorm stepping forward with his hand extended "as Arnae said, my name is Jorm Taban and I was hoping that you might be able to help me. Aurelia and I are currently working on a project and we find ourselves in need of some parts." Jorm pauses and hands the datapad with his parts list to Stryker. "As you said, the merchandise we brought is top notch and so are some of the parts we are trying to obtain. Arnae said that you might be able to help us if you were so inclined. From what I've seen of your operation so far, I think he was right."
Wayde looks over the list with interest. He compares it with another datapad procured from his desk, then answers "We can deliver what you're looking for. MDK-911 will go back with you to retrieve the weapons. You'll leave here with the parts."
Stryker turns to hand the datapad back to Jorm when he pauses. "This stuff is pretty high-end. I didn't spend 6 years goose-stepping around Imperial ships not to know the little parts from the big. Your... project... it works out, look me up. I might know some people'll pay top credit for one. If that's all...? Mickey," Stryker barks at the droid, "See Captain Maddox and his crew safely back to their ship - whatever it's called these days."
Stryker turns to hand the datapad back to Jorm when he pauses. "This stuff is pretty high-end. I didn't spend 6 years goose-stepping around Imperial ships not to know the little parts from the big. Your... project... it works out, look me up. I might know some people'll pay top credit for one. If that's all...? Mickey," Stryker barks at the droid, "See Captain Maddox and his crew safely back to their ship - whatever it's called these days."
"As you wish." groans the droid's imposing voice, its servos powering up from an idle; propelling its massive frame around Stryker's desk and towards the exit door.
Passing by the crew, it turns its menacing head, giving each one a tactical scan and sizing up each of the mercs while computing threat levels. The polished durasteel frame shows signs of multiple wookiee attacks and carbon scoring, all of which were met with great resistance. Above its wrist-mounted blasters are laser-cut tally marks indicating the droid's kills.
Wayde looks over the list with interest. He compares it with another datapad procured from his desk, then answers "We can deliver what you're looking for. MDK-911 will go back with you to retrieve the weapons. You'll leave here with the parts."
Stryker turns to hand the datapad back to Jorm when he pauses. "This stuff is pretty high-end. I didn't spend 6 years goose-stepping around Imperial ships not to know the little parts from the big. Your... project... it works out, look me up. I might know some people'll pay top credit for one. If that's all...? Mickey," Stryker barks at the droid, "See Captain Maddox and his crew safely back to their ship - whatever it's called these days."
"Thank you Mr. Stryker," says Jorm, taking the datapad back. "I'll keep your offer in mind."
Mandall simply stands to the side, letting Jorm do the talking. His eyes wander around the room, tracing the various walls and artifacts.
Now it's just my uneducated guess, but this interior design oughta account for atleast 8 MegaHuts of overbudget tackyness. And have these guys ever heard of air conditioning?
Aihal the Silent
