The Rebel Faction

Space Station Sacrosanct Pitstop, in orbit via Orvax IV

Sturm walked down the ramp of the freighter into the cold atmosphere of the space station. All right, who turned off the heater in here? He zipped his jacket up a bit tighter as he glanced around the hangar. A myriad of light craft littered the floor, offloading their cargo; most of which would be illegal on most worlds: crates of spice, bundles of illegal weapons, assassin droids, and huddled clusters of manacled beings: slaves. Sturm winced a bit as his eyes crossed over one group of them. A hulking T’surr stepped in front of him, and coolly stared at Sturm with his for four eyes. The blue-skinned alien stretched one of his four hands plainly.

“Chip,” demanded the security guard.

Sturmed pulled out an ID chip from his pocket and neatly dropped it into the creature’s hand. Glowering, the alien inserted it into a reader. He grunted.

“Mercenary looking for work I see.”

Sturm nodded. “Correct.”

The T’surr shook his head, “You are not a T’surr. You will not find any work here. We have all the jobs here: slavers trust us.”

“I see,” replied Alexander deferentially.

“Now you don’t stir up any trouble here, or I send you into space, with no ship,” said the guard, handing back the ID chip.

Sturm neatly pocketed it and walked towards the center of the station. He snorted. No trouble huh? I’m not sure if I can do that. He pulled his blaster carbine out of its holster and glanced at its readings. One hundred percent. Sturm passed by a particularly noisome creature, or perhaps it was a garbage droid of some variety. You know, the only good thing about this place is that I can openly carry weapons and what not. And one of the few downsides to this place is that everyone else carries weapons, and they’re armed to the teeth. Every corridor he entered seemed to have a bounty hunter or one of the native T’surr guards idling about it; on occasion, he even strolled past some rather lethal looking droids. He entered a densely packed turbolift, which took him up to the observation deck of the station.

“First-timer,” grunted a T’surr.

Sturm nodded.

“Stay away from four and eight decks. You might be mistaken for merchandise.”

“Thank you.”

The door binged, letting loose the motley array of denizens into the Crystasteel domed room.

“Now you watch yourself,” said the alien.

Sturm strode over towards the railing, noticing the rapid influx of small craft to and from the station; a veritable hive of indecent commerce. Most of them were smuggling craft, or so he guessed. But there were several larger vessels, some obviously piratical in nature based on the number of guns and oversized weapons haphazardly latched onto their hulls. Sturm ignored those, finally locating several ships which in their past lives could have been liners. Now they bore the markings of the Guild of Zygerrian Slavers. Several darker and smaller vessels, Y146s, docked nearside them; all of them bearing the eye of the Thalassian slavers. Several other warships prowled around the station with starfighter patrols; likely whatever constituted as the Orvaxian defence force. Sturm snorted and descended back down the turbolift.

As he rode the crowded turbolift back down, Sturm ignored the vibrating comlink in his pocket. The pod abruptly halted, jerking its occupants around; nearly all of whom muttered profane curses. Sturm merely snorted in derision as the doors slid open with an almost musical ting. They all piled onto the hangar deck, scattering all over and to their ships. He pulled out the comlink and listened to the message.

A bar huh? That's almost cute. Has Crafty ever been to a bar before? I have to wonder...He ignored the thought as he strode up the ramp of the starship. Its grizzled Alliance-aligned spacer tossed him something which could have been a salute, or a wave hi. He really wasn't sure what it was. Sturm managed a tight smile.

"Back so soon?" gulped the man, "What went wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing, I just need to retrieve a few things."

Sturm strode to a cargo hatch to get his extra mission gear. He tapped the button on one, and the globe-shaped security remote silently hovered up before him, it's comparitively large holo-cam focused in on the trooper. Sturm snorted. Perhaps the dumbest and most useful droid ever. He ignored the construct and picked up a large datapad case, in which was his electronic lockpicker. Both had been useful pieces when he worked as private security; but both could easily be utilized to work in the exact opposite roles in which they were intended for. And Sturm intended just that, eventually. Discreetly trailed by the diminutive droid, Sturm exited the craft and made his way up to the bar by stairs; it was less conspicious for the small droid to follow him in those sparsely occupied spaces. He entered the bar, ordering the droid via datapad to conceal itself in a ventiliation grate just outside the bar.

The bar itself seemed to cater to the most criminal elements which occupied the already rough station. Dim lights barely passed through the fog which permeated much of the room; whether it was intentional, or someone had never bothered to fix some atmospheric control, Sturm couldn't tell. but he could certainly understand why someone like Whisper or a less desirable person might choose it for a meeting spot. He had barely stepped into the restaurant's bounds when a quirky waitress bot bumped into him. It seemed to giggle at him.

"And what will you be having, cutie?"

"A Bantha burger," deadpanned the man, "You do have them here, or something close to it."

"UM...welll...there's something close to it..."

"That'll be fine," replied Sturm, edging past the droid.

Now there's something I'm never going to eat. But it's part of the necessity for maintaining social stealth. He waded through the fog and eventually made his way to the table. Sturm glanced at both of them.

"I've had a look around the targets' sites," informed Sturm, "and I think the hardest part will be getting them out of here. We will probably have to do some very hard negotiations with the Zygerrians and Thalassians to obtain our merchandise. Perhaps even unorthodox, and a bit bloody negotiation. What have you guys seen of the station so far?"

Sturm nodded as Whisper whispered.

"Security around the entrances to the ships does look tight," admitted Sturm, "but that's understandable given the thousands of beings packed into each ship. Security within the station is just...unique...in that there is very little in terms of electronic security, but everyone seems to have a gun..."

"It's gonna be child's play for me," beamed Crafty.

Sturm half-jumped as the waitress droid dropped a sloppy block of something next to him. As suddenly as it had whisked over to him, the droid faded back into the bar's mist. The cell leader wrinkled his nose, and pushed it over to Crafty.

"Hey, I don't want it either," shot back the hacker, "it's disgusting enough in here. I'm gonna have to have a shower after this ordeal."

"Because it's such an ordeal, the pain must be absolutely unbearable," said Sturm with just a tiny, itty bitty piece of sarcasm, "speaking of which, I've heard that the Blood Prince of Thalassia is here. I'm thinking that one of us should pay him a visit or two. I think I probably will eventually; it's best if all of the slavers get along around here, I mean."

"Oh, I just love dealing with bloody-thirsty, megamaniacs."

Sturm frowned, "Aren't you just going to be a some computer terminal the entire time, that is what you do right?"

Crafty nodded. "And go on dates with hot babes."

"I bet you do."

Sturm leisurely scanned the lines on the datapad, occasionally pausing to surreptitiously steal a glance around the room. Nodding, he finished reading the datapad, and added a few keystrokes of his own to it. Sturm peeked through the dank haze at the other two.

“All right, I think that deal will work, but my employers will want to have assurance that it will work, so I have one addition to it,” said Sturm, pushing the datapad back, “and I am going to have to have a chat with the Thalassians to make sure everything goes right by them. All right?”

I am going to pay the Blood Prince a visit. Purely business, of course. Things like ours tend to go better when people are busier than they like to be. Or should I say not busier?

Sturm tapped a button on the table, summoning the waitress droid to the table. He heard the droid wheel towards him before he saw it; the thing appeared to them like an overly cheerful, techno-wraith; harassing Sturm for credits, which he promptly gave. The droid wheeled away back into the mist, and Sturm rose.

“I trust you guys can take of yourselves? No more training pants, right Crafty?”

The hacker snorted.

“I’ll be on the ship if you need any help; you have my frequency. But if you don’t hear from me right away, try not to worry too much; I’m probably trying to get someone’s number, or numbers, ‘kay?”

“I’ll try to remember that, but I’m getting ancient, so you might have to remind me during the middle of whatever you said you were trying to do. Cool.”

As Stormy walked out of the bar, he snapped his fingers; his faithful droid dropped from the ventilation system to hover alongside its owner. The duo walked through the corridors of the station half-aimlessly. Sturm looked for the Thalassian Slavers, trying to discreetly determine where they were mostly coming from. But after fifteen minutes, he hadn’t the slightest clue. Frak this. Sturm walked into the nearest public refresher stall and locked the door behind him. But he didn’t use it. Rather, he pulled out the control datapad for the Spyeye and began to pilot the droid around the station. The minute droid silently skimmed near the ceilings, eavesdropping onto conversations as they went. There we go; a couple of Thalassians. Perfect…crap this is boring stuff.

Fifteen minutes later…

You know what Kgter, if you really want that girl, why don’t you buy her. Yeah, that’s right, I said. You’re interested in a slave that your cartel owns. How hard can it be to get a hold of her, huh? Unless you’re low on credits…

“If I’s ya, I’d just talk to the Prince, boy. I’s mean, he owes ya one, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, I guess I could try that. I did catch that slight discrepancy in accounting…”

“Slight? Millions boy, millions, and ya call that slight? Talk ta hem. Tha Prince’s at the girls for one of thase wonderful nights out. Wench’s called Christa, deck 9. Ya could just wait at tha counta for hem when he’s done; talk to him then…”

That’s enough of that. Sturm pushed a button on the droid; recalling it to the restroom. He packed up his gear. Deck Nine in private with his guard down…aside from the girl…it’s picture perfect. Sturm rose and met the droid just outside the stall. He glanced at some writing on the wall. Deck Five. He entered the turbolift, with the same craggy T’ssur still in it. The alien grunted a greeting, which Sturm returned in kind. A minute later, they exited the capsule to leave behind its oh so glorious aroma. Sturm blinked.

“Can I help you son?”

Sturm turned to face the voice. A kindly old man dressed in a garish white costume fit for some stage act on Muulinist. Sturm briefly glanced the guy over. Seems harmless enough.

“I’ve been told to deliver a message to the Blood Prince.”

The man frowned. “No-one by that name lives here on this floor.”

“He’s with Christa,” said Sturm, “I must see him. The message is rather important.”

The man opened a hand in front of him. “I’ll take you there for a few credits. I’d say about fifty…”

Sturm raised an eyebrow. “The Blood Prince does not take kindly to his messengers receiving poor hospitality. His anger towards those sort of people can be most unfortunate.”

“Ten credits then.”

“Sure,” said Sturm, forking over the ten credits over to the man.

The man gingerly grasped the money and slipped into some pocket concealed among his ridiculous gemstone-studded alabaster suit. Three corridors later, the man pointed at a door.

“That’s her place. Here, I know the girl. I’ll just call her..”

The man pressed a button near the door.

“…she’s a reasonable lass; knows her place.”

The door slid open rather abruptly to reveal a rather angry woman in a surprisingly sophisticated dress. Sturm wasn’t sure where that sort of clothing was worn on the station; it seemed more fit for the halls of high society. Behind her stood an imposing, beast of a man. Good maker. That guy needs to lighten up more than the girl. Christa glared at the two newcomers.

“Yes, what do you want?” demanded the woman impetuously.

“Christa, this guy says he has an important message for the Blood Prince here.”

The Blood Prince glared at the Sturm. You know, I think I’m probably better equipped for combat with this guy right now, but he’s rather terrifying to just be near him; looks like he’s about to rip the station in half. Explains how he got to the top so fast...

“What is it now? I don’t recognize you…”

“Sir, I’m a hired guard for Guild of Zygerrian Slavers-”

“Talk fast before I shoot you.”

“-and I overheard a plot to assassinate you.”

“What? How?”

“Some guy Kgter is selling you out. He’s going to be waiting for you at the turbolift area on this deck, or so I’ve been told…”

“Christa,” ordered the Blood Prince, “Go down and get Lieutenant Roscoe and his men. They’re the only guys I can trust. I will repay you for your deed, Mr. ?”

“Dissek,” replied Sturm.

“Stay with me for a bit,” said the Prince, kissing Christa before the woman scurried out of the room.

Sturm glanced at the man near them.

“It’s okay,” said the Prince, “he’s my bodyguard. Can’t let everyone know that. Everyone’s a traitor these days. Come, let’s go.”

The trio started down hall in a single file, led by the bodyguard and brought up in the rear by Sturm. The former security guard warily looked around the group. Sturm glanced at an open maintenance access corridor. He tapped the Prince on the shoulder.

“Do you see that?”

The Prince frowned, and started to approach the doorway, but the bodyguard pulled him back and took point. The two entered it cautiously, with guns drawn. Both shook their heads.

“It’s only a-”

A stream of automatic fire erupted from Sturm’s carbine and tore the duo apart. The bloodied Blood Prince absorbed most of the bolts with his back; slipping onto the floor in a pool of crimson. Sturm glanced at the bodyguard, whose white suit was now pokey-dotted with several red stains. The man stared at Sturm in shock before beginning to scream like a banshee. A few more bolts quickly ended that ghastly music. Shutting the door, Sturm cooly walked away. Several minutes later, he walked to the turbolift and into Christa and Lieutenant Roscoe, who held a rather bloodied Kgter in cuffs. The woman frowned.

“Where is he?”

“He said he was going to have a chat with the Zygerrians, he didn’t let me follow him, saying that he couldn’t trust everyone. He told me to tell you guys that when you got here, and then to bugger off before I got hurt.”

Lieutenant Roscoe turned to Christa, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. If he isn’t, those Zygerrian’s won’t be...”