The Rebel Faction

First Secretary's Office, Sennatt, Bothan Space


He must have run straight here from whatever hole he'd been hiding in during the Battle of Coyn. His soiled clothes stank of sweat and fear.


It was some small satisfaction, after all of the hard work the First Secretary had put into his quadruple-cross. Seeing the younger Bothan standing there, defenseless, flanked by a pair of honor guards who would strike him down without a moment's hesitation, something like pity began to stir deep within the patriarch of Clan Aakai. Something like, but definitely not, pity.


This dog had betrayed him, after all, and there was no room for betrayal in Rolk Bar'akai's new order. Least of all betrayal by his own nephew.


“Are you a fool?”


The question seemed to surprise the young Bothan. Rolk liked that. He liked that finally, after all of this time, after all of the young Spynet operative's treachery, finally Rolk Bar'akai was the one in the position of power, the one to set the tone of things. The one with the surprises to spring. “I said: are you a fool, Ziv? Because I've known you for your whole life, and I've never thought you to be a fool. Never, that is, until you chose that alien over me, over your own flesh and blood! Over the Bothan people and the Way!”


“I'm no fool,” Ziv said quietly, trying his best to show himself defiant, but his fur rippled with the blatant signs of fear and shame. He was beaten, his allies had been smashed to pieces by Imperial retribution, and now here he was, the last place left to him.


Groveling.


“Well, you're here. If you're no fool, then you brought me something, because only a fool would think he could stand in my presence, after all you've done against me, and live to see another day without first buying that right from me!” He had raised his hand, shaking a pointed finger at the traitor for emphasis.


“Jarvis Ragnar is dead,” he said solemnly. “I am released from my oath to him.”


“After all you've done, your word alone could never be confirmation of that.”


Ziv shook his head, but his fur shifted in a sign of his fear. “I just wanted you to know that my loyalty to him is spent, that I answer to you once again.”


It didn't really matter, one way or the other, if Ziv were lying or not. Rolk had never killed a man, only a few months ago couldn't have even imagined being able to kill a family member, but now he was wondering if the personal satisfaction of strangling the life from this rat bastard might outweigh the political capital he'd accrue from having his nephew, a known traitor to the Bothan people, publicly executed. Who could doubt his fairness after seeing him deliver such final justice to his own brother's son?


“Very well,” Rolk prompted, leaning forward slightly and resting his hands on his large, ornate work desk. “What has your newly rediscovered loyalty compelled you to come to me for? Is it the dear Vice Admiral? Has Alt'aior sent you to seek pardon on his behalf? Has he misjudged my fondness for you?”


“Vice Admiral Alt'aior is dead as well,” Ziv said, bowing his head slightly.


Oh, then the child-traitor was completely worthless to him! Wonderful. So his only concern would be in how to dispatch him . . . “Then what are you here for, Ziv?”


The young Bothan was shaking ever so slightly now, his fur shifting and rippling in a most peculiar fashion. Was he having some kind of nervous breakdown? Was there something Rolk could do to push him just a little further? That might be worth seeing . . .


“To beg,” Ziv whimpered. “To beg like a fool, for mercy. You're all I have left, Uncle Rolk. My family's dead, the Wandering Ones are destroyed, the Alliance won't have me . . . I lost all credibility with the Spynet when I chose to stand by Jarvis Ragnar. You're all I have left . . . please.”


Like a fool, indeed. He was staring at the floor, still trembling, completely oblivious to the implications of his admission. Rolk actually saw a smirk on the face of one of his guards, standing behind the young Bothan, blaster ready to swing into firing position in an instant. Oh, the poor boy; what a fool he was after all!


“Now, now,” Rolk feigned concern, relishing this moment. “You have to understand it isn't as easy as all that.” He began to move around the corner of his desk, toward his nephew. Ordinarily he wouldn't draw near to any member of Jarvis Ragnar's organization, but Ziv had been searched and scanned in all manner of thorough and unseemly ways before being allowed into the First Secretary's office. There was nothing for Rolk to fear here, in his own domain.


“Please, uncle,” Ziv pleaded, holding his hands out in front of himself, palms turned upward.


“Now Ziv,” Rolk began with all of the condescension he could muster, reaching out to grab his nephew's hand, mind full of ways in which he might build up this traitorous dog's hopes before dashing them a final, decisive time. “This is about the Bothan people, what they need. I'm sure we can find a way for you to serve their needs again. Don't you think?”


Rolk squeezed one of Ziv's hands gently, and the young Bothan nodded slightly. “There is one more thing I should tell you, about the Wandering Ones.”


So maybe that dreadful organization wasn't completely gone after all. That could be of some small use, he imagined. “What is it . . . OUCH!” Rolk reflexively pulled his hand away from the sting.


If he had had the time, he would have realized that he had no need to fear poison. Every molecule in Ziv's body had been accounted for before he'd been allowed anywhere near the First Secretary. If he had had the time, he would have realized that every bit of Ziv Bar'akai here today was biologically Bothan. But he didn't have the time.


Because the two centimeters of keratin blade that his hand squeeze had dislodged from beneath Ziv Bar'akai's fingernail was already sailing through the air at the end of a swinging arm. By the time it traced its thin, red line across the First Secretary's throat, Ziv's other hand had caught Rolk's forearm. Ziv pulled hard, jolting himself forward and spinning Rolk in a close arc, turning him into a living shield against any response from Rolk's guards.


“Mine is the face of vengeance,” he whispered into his uncle's ear as his grappling arm wrapped around Rolk's chest, pinning the First Secretary against him. His fingers dug into Rolk's throat, spurts of blood issuing from the wound and running down Rolk's chest and Ziv's restraining arm. With a feral roar, Ziv brought his arm up and yanked Rolk's head back, tearing flesh and sending blood gushing out across the room.


Ziv released his grip and allowed the limp body to hit the floor. He stood, defenseless, in the middle of the room with a pair of blasters pointed at him. His arms were drenched in the blood of his closest relative, the fur clumped together, drops pooling on and breaking from his fingertips. His chest was heaving from the strain of tearing a man's throat open, and he pointed a bloody finger to each of the guards in turn, drops of blood breaking off and flying toward them.


“You can shoot me now, and be the men who failed to protect their First Secretary and killed the martyr who set the Bothan people on their True Way, or you can help me clean this -” he waved a bloody hand in the air “-up, walk me calmly out of this building before anybody finds that -” he pointed at the corpse – and I'll disappear you. Anywhere you want to go, any name you want to have: I can do that for you. Wha'do you say?”

 
This post was edited by Smarts (9:41pm 20/06/15, 10 years ago)

Krant High Orbit
A'krai Class Heavy Cruiser Mak, Command Bridge

It was a show of force, as much to the departed Imperials as to the inhabitants below. Krant was a “mixed world”, one of the few in Bothan Space with a substantial non-Bothan, non-native population. But Krant was a Bothan world, and First Secretary Bar'akai would have that known. He would also have known that the taint of Jarvis Ragnar's influence on Bothan Space would not be tolerated.

And so newly reinstated Rear Admiral Bael Vir'jin, former commander of the Mandell Defense Fleet, found himself here, at the head of a Bothan navy task force. He had been driven from his command in disgrace by the machinations of that Ryn terrorist, then working on behalf of Rolk Bar'akai. Admiral Vir'jin couldn't help but admire the ruthlessness of the First Secretary's cunning, and the manner in which he served The Way. It was inspiring, really.

Jarvis Ragnar, on the other hand . . . well, with a little luck, the First Secretary's Imperial conspiracy had seen the alien come to a gruesome, horrifying end. That thought brought a smirk to the Bothan admiral's face, one only dispelled by a mid-level alert from the bridge's tactical station.

“Report,” the admiral ordered.

Before a response was forthcoming, the source of the alert was clear. The relief convoy from Sennatt had arrived on time, but its escort was all but missing. Limping along near the rear of the formation was a lone Bothan Assault Cruiser, its hull scorched and pitted from battle damage.

“Bothan Assault Cruiser . . .” Admiral Vir'jin checked the sensor report, “Dall'Sei, report. What happened here?”

The response was slightly garbled, audio only. “They attacked at the waypoint, Sir. It was . . . it was The Wandering Ones.”

“The convoy appears undamaged,” the admiral noted, something not quite adding up.

“The convoy wasn't the target, Admiral; we were.”

It was a surprise, to be sure, but it made as much sense as anything. The only problem was, if the Wandering Ones still had the firepower to strip the convoy of its escort, and they had deployed that firepower in Bothan Space, with their lingering local connections from the push for Ar'krai . . .

“Captain, I'm repositioning the fleet to cover your entry vector, in case of pursuit, but I need to get a report on the Wandering Ones' combat strength to Military Intelligence with all haste.”

“Admiral, we're still sealing off hull breaches and locking down radiation leaks. I'll get a report to you as soon as possible, but my priority right now is my crew and my mission.”

The admiral shrugged, mostly to himself. It seemed reasonable enough. He ordered the fleet to redeploy and focused his attention on the sensor readouts. The Wandering Ones wouldn't really attack here, would they? Surely they weren't so foolhardy as to challenge his fleet?

“Sir?” the communications officer piped up after a few minutes. “I thought I recognized that name, the Dall'Sei, so I ran a check against the ship's records.”

“And?” the Admiral asked absently, studying the long-range sensor noise for any signs of approaching craft.

An alarm sounded, “We've been targeted!” the tactical officer reported.

“It defected, to Vice Admiral Alt'Aior's pro-ar'krai faction,” the comm officer completed, though no longer entirely necessary.

“The rest of the fleet's reporting target locks,” the ship's captain said, looking to the admiral for direction.

It didn't make any sense. One damaged Assault Cruiser against an entire fleet? It's not like a firing solution would be of any use to reinforcements hypering in . . .

“Should we raise shields, sir?” the captain asked.

“Uh oh,” the comm officer said aloud. “Sir, I ran a check on the lead ship in the supply convoy.”

Oh. Oh no.

Another alert sounded. “Proximity alert!” the tactical officer shouted.

Oh no oh no oh no. “Raise sh -”

Rear Admiral Vir'jin was a coward, but he was not a fool. He had reason to fear The Wandering Ones,
and just cause to expect they would seek retribution. His cowardice, however, had driven him to overextend the commitment to heading off an unseen attack. With the fleet's scanners focused on the empty blackness of space, his attention turned to the possible entry vectors from which a Wandering Ones warfleet might streak in to harass his doubtless superior force, he had forgotten one vital piece of information:

The Wandering Ones, like that damned Ryn who had put them together in the first place, were crafty.

A dozen sensor locks from a single, heavily damaged Bothan Assault Cruiser was little cause for alarm. The three hundred warheads launched from the fake supply convoy, on the other hand . . .

The fleet was a cloud of superheated debris before the Rear Admiral could finish his order.

No statement was issued, no planetary hail was accepted, the lone Bothan Assault Cruiser simply continued its leisurely approach to the planet Krant. The Wandering Ones fake convoy peeled off and jumped from the system, and finally the Dall'Sei achieved its desired position.

The Imperial garrison on Krant had been thoroughly cleared of all valuable military equipment. Its shield generators, defensive turrets, and stockpile of weaponry had all been dismantled, packed up, and shipped off before the Empire withdrew from the planet. The Bothans of Rolk Var'akai's administration, however, had scampered into the stripped-out carcass of the military installation like so many rats feasting on the remains of a far greater beast.

They hadn't gotten the shields up yet, or the defensive turrets, or even the comm dish that would have allowed them to send a distress call. They had, however, packed the storerooms of the complex with everything they would require to ensure the dutiful submission of the Krantian population.

The rain of turbolaser fire that obliterated that island of Bothan Order in a sea of Krantian wilderness was little more than a hint at was was to come for the world.

Its mission complete, the lone Assault Cruiser broke from its orbit and made for open space. As it neared the edge of Krant's gravity well, its comm array powered up, receiving and retransmitting a live bulletin from Sennatt: “ . . . we say again: First Secretary Rolk Bar'akai is dead, assassinated in his office some time ago. The perpetrator is believed to be Ziv Bar'akai, his nephew and a . . .”

The transmission cut off to be replaced by the prerecorded holoimage of a free-floating Bothan head, a head recognizable to anyone who knew him as Ziv Bar'akai. It said, simply and calmly to the people of Krant and its neighboring Hanoon: “This is the face of vengeance.”

Then the Dall'Sei was gone, and Krant was left, alone, to tend to the fires of Jarvis Ragnar's fury.


* * *


Void Station
Bothan Space

Ziv Bar'akai allowed himself some small interest in the signs of combat still littering the docking bay. “Report. How bad was it?”

The Calibop had learned quickly not to prattle on when asked a question. “Five dead, eleven in the infirmary.”

“I don't like those numbers,” Ziv admitted, checking the label on a crate of captured supplies.

“You wanted the station undamaged, yes?” the bird-man asked.

“And their side?” Ziv continued, ignoring the clearly valid point.

“A couple dozen security staff surrendered. A couple hundred station staff were rounded up as well. We're holding them in a separate docking bay; it was the only place large enough and easily secured.” He stopped himself, seeming to realize he was about to be going on too long.

“And the owner?” Ziv pushed around some ruined cargo with a boot tip; a grenade of one kind or another had done this damage.

“That'd be you, Sir.”

Ziv cut the bird-man a testy glare.

“Alive, unharmed, held separately. We didn't want him . . . riling up his henchmen.”

“Move him to be with his people.” He stopped poking, content that nothing valuable had been lost there. “I'm not concerned about him making trouble.”

“Yes, Sir.” The Calibop fell in step beside Ziv, relaying the Bothan commander's order as he headed further into the station.

“What's the status of the rest of the . . . cargo?”

“We've cordoned off a section of the station and moved them there,” the Calibop explained.

There was something in the alien's voice, something Ziv hadn't quite expected . . . “You don't like me very much, do you?”

“I can't say that I really know you, Sir.”

“No, but you don't like me, do you?”

“Jarvis Ragnar trusted you, Sir. That's good enough for me.”

“That's not an answer . . .” Ziv trailed off as he looked the alien up and down for some kind of rank or insignia. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Grub, Sir, and no, it wasn't an answer.”

“Well let's have it,” Ziv goaded, waving the alien on for added effect. “We're going to be working together, I might as well get used to your blathering sooner rather than later.”

“I was in a cage when Jarvis found me, Sir.”

Ziv came to an abrupt stop. Jarvis had rescued a lot of people from slavery before he turned to killing Imperials full-time. The comparatively few who stuck around to help him continue the fight had become the heart and soul of The Wandering Ones. Their commitment was unquestionable, their ferocity impressive.

“They kept me like a pet, fed me for . . . for doing tricks, for putting on a show.”

“You want to know what I'm going to do with the slaves on-station?” he asked bluntly, turning to face the tall, wiry alien.

“You aren't Jarvis Ragnar,” was all Grub said.

Ziv shifted on his feet, falling to the side toward the bulkhead, then stretched out an arm to catch himself early. His hand pressed flat against the emergency fire control button mounted there, and through the transparisteel viewport overlooking the docking bay-turned-prison, Grub watched the magcon field shut down and the two-hundred-some-odd crew of the information hub/shadowport/slave trading post get blown into empty space.

“Close enough?” he asked, smirking, then set off again.

“Some of those people were Spynet operatives!” Grub exclaimed after recovering from the shock of the display.

“Yeah, and?”

“And your Spynet contacts are what got you this station.”

“The Spynet won't be interested in helping us anymore.”

“And why's that?” Grub asked, a little too excited, the last word turning into something of a squawk.

“Because the Dall'Sei just wrecked the Bothan forces at Krant, and it's going to make the Spynet look hella stupid when word gets back to whoever tries taking power on Sennatt.”

“Still, didn't we owe them their lives, at least?”

Ziv stopped again, this time causing Grub to bump into him. “I can't risk the Bothan government learning our combat strength. Fear, confusion, doubt: they're our most powerful weapons now, and we're going to have to lean hard on them if we're going to complete our mission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ziv started walking again.

“Oh, and where are you going?” Grub asked, not sure if he was still supposed to be following.

“That little stunt I pulled back there meant your people didn't have time to return Mr. Kopatha to his people first, so I'm going to rough him up a little before I space him and see if he knows anything interesting.

“Okay . . .” Grub waddle-ran after him. “Mind if I come along? I've always wanted to be on the other side of the bars from a real-life slaver.”

Krant System
Bothan Assault Cruiser Rhan'starn, Command Bridge

Captain Trey'lis surveyed the ruins of Task Force Mak, a shiver running down her spine. Twice while in transit from Sennatt, the convoy she was escorting had been pulled from hyperspace by a cluster of small asteroids, their combined mass shadow sufficient to trigger the emergency shutdown on the fleet's hyperdives. When she tried to report the anomalies to HQ, she'd found the local hypercomm buoy nonresponsive.

It was too perfect to be coincidence, but her first thought had been of ambush. When no attack came, she wondered what other forces might be at work. Now there was nothing left to wonder.

The Bothan task force was barely recognizable from its wreckage. The ground base was a smoking crater, and she had arrived only to pick up a priority message over emergency military channels: the First Secretary had been assassinated.

Too perfect, indeed.

“I want a gunship to break away and survey Hanoon, a squadron of fighters each to check the far sides of the other moons.” She paused, considering the thousands of civilian sailors in the convoy at her back. “Keep the rest of the fleet outside the planet's gravity well, orient for a jump to Bothawui and make the calculations, but do not execute unless we detect a threat in-system.

“Then take us in, alone.” Her fur rippled slightly as she fought down the fear of what else she would find. “Hail the civilian administration, see if anyone's still in charge down there.”

A notice sounded and Captain Trey'lis snapped her attention to the comm station.

“We're being hailed from the surface, Ma'am.”

“Source?” she asked.

“I'm . . . not sure. It's not a military channel, but they've got access codes, old ones . . .” He looked up to meet her demanding stare. “They're Alliance codes, Captain.”

The captain made no effort to hide her surprise. “Alright then, patch it through.”

The head and upper torso of a Duros in an Alliance army uniform materialized in front of the captain. “Colonel Gar Beikt, Third Fleet, Task Force 30, 304th Reconnaissance Regiment” he announced immediately, saluting.

Uneasy, she returned the salute. “Captain Rya Trey'lis,” she said, choosing not to identify herself further. While the Bothan Clans technically supported the Alliance, that support had been on extremely shaky ground of late. With the murder of the First Secretary fresh on her mind, the future of that support was at as great a risk as ever.

“What's going on down there, Colonel?” The Captain signaled for the crew to continue the approach to Krant, her hand just outside the holorecorder's field of view.

“It was the Wandering Ones, if you didn't know. They spoofed your convoy and got the jump on Rear Admiral Vir'jin, destroyed the whole task force in a single torpedo salvo.”

Trey'lis tried to swallow, her fur rising as her apprehension built.

“They parked right in orbit and vaporized the garrison. By the time the local Army commander knew to issue an evacuation order, it was too late. Best estimates are eighty percent dead, ten percent injured.”

“I see,” she said coldly, her fur settling as she absorbed the information. Now was not a time for rash action.

“No, Captain, you don't.” Her fur shot up again, ears perking up, on full alert. “Alliance personnel on-world have managed to restore some semblance of order, but the locals aren't taking kindly to the situation. There are some pretty serious riots ongoing in the major cities, and I'm getting multiple reports that civil administrators installed by the Sennatt government are being targeted. Captain, I'm sorry to say it, but we've got an uprising on our hands.”

“Take us back to the convoy and fall in formation,” she said to the navigator.

The comm officer took the opportunity to fill the captain in. “Scouts are reporting all-clear in our sensor shadows, and Hanoon is secure and on lock-down.”

Captain Trey'lis acknowledged with a nod before returning her attention to the Alliance colonel. “My task force is moving in to render assistance. The supplies will be needed now more than ever, and our troopers will be required to restore order.”

The Duros colonel shook his head. “I'm sorry, Captain; I can't let you do that.”

Rya froze, her fur laying flat, ears angling back, predatory instincts piqued. “What did you just say?”

“The people of Krant are in revolt, captain, against an installed government. The Alliance has a history with these kinds of conflicts, and in the struggle of freedom against tyranny, guess which one it always picks?”

“Orders, captain?” the tactical officer asked.

“Civilian humanitarian aid will be allowed and accepted gratefully,” the colonel continued. “We'll keep your army boys safe for as long as we can, but if the locals are targeting Sennatt's administrators, it's only a matter of time until their attacks become less discriminate. Your concern needs to be with getting them off-world, and fast.

“There's nothing pretty about this situation, Captain, but I'm doing what I can down here and your involvement would only make things worse, trust me.”

There was a long silence in which Captain Trey'lis stared at her Alliance counterpart, trying to size up the blue-white hologram of the blue-skinned alien. “What were you doing on Krant in the first place, Colonel?”

“Recruiting drive,” he answered immediately, like he'd been expecting the question. “Most Bothans stick to their own military; Krant's one of the few worlds in your people's space where we draw any meaningful numbers.” He shrugged. “Lucky timing, I guess.”

“Perfect timing, I'd say,” the captain remarked before signaling the line closed.

“Captain?” the tactical officer asked again.

“Order the convoy to Hanoon,” she ordered, nodding at the viewport in the general direction of the terraformed asteroid. “Maintain escort formation, and establish contact with the Hanoon civil administration. I want to know everything they do about anything that's happened in this system for the past month.

“Notify Military Command of the situation and request orders.” She paused, contemplating the Alliance presence and its actions. “And send a request to Military Intelligence; I want everything they've got on Colonel Gar Beikt.”

Too perfect.


* * *


Void Station
Bothan Space

The trio of light frigates, visible through the docking bay a few kilomters away, were the only Wandering Ones warships in-system. Since they seized the station, Ziv had had his forces on a crazy-weird rotation, moving ships in and out of the system at irregular intervals. Grub knew the ships had multiple transponder codes and switched through them often, and the Wandering Ones had settled on a relatively small number of ship classes for the bulk of their forces, making it incredibly hard for any observer to know how many ships they actually had.

Grub had seen the larger group responsible for the asteroid interdictor operation near Krant, or at least what he'd been told was that group, but either way he'd seen the group with his own eyes so he knew Ziv had more than those three ships at his disposal. Still, it was hard to tell even who Ziv was trying to fool. If they had the ships to hit the convoy instead of just delay it, then why didn't they? Unless that was the point; to make the Bothans think they didn't have the ships?

But if that was the case, what for? What was Rolk Bar'akai's endgame?

Grub let the question fade from thought as he spotted the approaching shuttle through the gentle haze of the hangar's magcon field. He stepped out of the big, yellow circle marking that particular landing zone, and waited with only a tiny case of the jitters for the shuttle to land. Out stepped Ziv, with a squad of Coynite murderizers right on his heels.

“Did you find anybody?” Grub asked, scurrying over to Ziv's side as the Bothan commander made straight for the interior of the station.

“Only two,” he answered, checking his chronometer. “Station status?”

“Everything's ready to go, right on time. Should I give the order?”

Ziv shook his head, screwing up his face a little. “It's been a long day; I want to see it with my own eyes.”

Grub nodded. Ziv had been spending most of his time since the devastating betrayal at Coyn tracking down Spynet assets inside Wandering Ones crews. The kill count was up to almost a dozen now, a testament to the broader Bothan Clans' disdain for Jarvis Ragnar's organization, he was sure.

“The freed slaves?” Ziv asked, stepping into a turbolisft.

“Safely away to our contacts in Hutt Space . . . Enclave space, whatever.”

Ziv snorted at the notion that Hutt Space could be anything other than Hutt Space. “Any recruits?”

“Maybe a dozen,” Grub said, disappointed.

“This was always Jarvis' fight. He was the only one of us ever worth following. Vengeance for a man they never knew just isn't the same.”

Grub shrugged awkwardly, given his avian features. “I reminded them that it was a Bothan information broker who was selling them like cattle, and a Bothan government that looked the other way for the convenience it offered. That seemed to work alright.”

“It's not the same,” Ziv said darkly.

“No, it's not,” Grub admitted.

The lift doors opened and the pair stepped into the command center of Void Station, the highest room on the tallest spire.

“Report,” he ordered, headed straight for a viewing chair near one of the massive, gently curving windows that made up the single circular wall of the room.

“All systems checked and rechecked,” a technician reported. “We're green across the board.”

The Wandering Ones had committed massive resources to the defense of Coyn. The Wanderer's Home, their mobile headquarters and deep-space repair yard, had been destroyed when the Coynite government surrendered and powered down their defensive shields. This would not – could not – replace that loss. But it was a start.

“Jump Void Station.”

As the pinpricks of light stretched to starlines then imploded into the vortex of hyperspace, a gentle smile tugged at the edges of Ziv Bar'akai's lips. He was not a member of the Wandering Race, one of Jarvis Ragnar's kin, but in that moment he glimpsed something of the peace, the relief, that his leader had found gazing out at the vast, untamed black of space.

Krant Surface

Alliance Command Center

A collapsible holotable and a handful of Army surplus tents. This was what Colonel Beikt had managed to cobble together on short notice. They had two-thirds of a portable energy fence, and three hundred able-bodied soldiers to secure the perimeter.

Nearby, smoke still rose from the ruins of the Bothan garrison. It was a chilling reminder of the present circumstance. “I'm sorry, Minister,” Colonel Beikt began dismissively, “but there's nothing I can do.”

“Nothing you can do!” the Bothan official exclaimed, “but the entire Government District's been flooded with rioters!”

“Exactly,” the Colonel agreed. “With a little luck, your administration got to ground before they took the Government House.”

“Luck!” the Minister exclaimed. “Have you noticed how our 'luck' has been going, recently?” He pointed to the smoking ruins in the distance.

Gar Beikt circled the table and seized the Bothan by his collar, hauling him toward the exit. “Seven hundred men and women under my command are buried in that rubble, their blood and bone mixed into the broken stone and churned earth.” He hurled the man onto the ground outside the tent, standing over his quivering form.

“I have fifteen hundred wounded soldiers inside an unsecured perimeter large enough to properly house half that number, but it doesn't matter because the supplies I need to tend to them are parked in far orbit under your government's control, held there as a bargaining chip to make me do . . . what! I don't know! Your government is leaving your soldiers to die while your civil administration is dragged through the streets by a local population that wants nothing to do with any of them, and I'm beginning to see why.”

The Bothan rose to his feet, dusting himself off and trying very hard not to look very terrified. Reluctantly, cautiously, he withdrew a sheet of flimsi from a pocket, unfolding it to reveal a recent picture of the early rioting. “This man,” he said shakily, pointing at a human who seemed to be leading a band of locals against a police line, “has been positively identified as an associate of Jarvis Ragnar's Wandering Ones. This . . . insurrection . . . is not the noble act of a disenfranchised people that you want so desperately for it to be, Colonel. This is an act of chaos and vengeance, whose only goal is destruction and death.

“Contact Captain Trey'lis in orbit, Colonel, I beg you. Help us resecure this world. Help us stop this madness!”

Colonel Beikt turned back to the tent's entrance and motioned for a trooper to bar the way. “Hanoon's jamming our comms. Your captain cut us off.”

“No,” the Minister whispered to himself, hands crumpling the picture so many Bothans had died to get to him. “No . . .”

* * *

Krant Orbit
Bothan Assault Cruiser Rhan'starn

“He checks out.”

Rya frowned. It would have been easier if he'd been some sort of plant. Assassination was still an option, but things could get . . . messy. Especially if it went sideways.

She laughed bitterly. “'If' things go sideways.”

“Ma'am?”

The Captain shook her head. “How do we salvage this, Xar?”

“Well,” her XO feigned deep consideration, “I don't think an orbital bombardment would be ideal.”

“Convoy escort, Xar. That's what we were doing here. There was an Admiral in charge of this system. An admiral, Xar. This was his mess to clean up.”

“Yeah, well he's dead now. Lucky us.”

She huffed, not quite able even to fake a laugh. “This isn't the kind of promotion I was looking for.”

“The kind where we all end up dead?” It wasn't a tasteless joke this time. He was deathly serious.

“Aren't we supposed to be the crafty ones?” she asked, finally turning to regard Xar directly. “Aren't we supposed to spin the inescapable traps, the inevitable schemes? Why do I feel like every move possible is the wrong one to make?”

“We misjudged our enemy,” Xar said simply. “We misjudged his motives, and we misjudged his reach. Even in death, Jarvis Ragnar is making us pay for our leaders' betrayal.”

Captain Rya Trey'lis nodded definitively, then headed for the door to the bridge. “I'm going down. You said Colonel Beitk checks out? Well get me whatever we have on him. Whoever he is, he's trapped in this web with us; maybe if I can convince him not to play his part, we won't all get eaten in the end.”

“Captain . . .” Xar started warningly.

“It's decided. Make it happen.”