# Star Wars Fiction: Artifacts of Oros



## ragboy (Jun 11, 2005)

Greetings, 

I wrote these as character backgrounds for a campaign that never gelled. As you can tell, this was quite before Episode III  

Historical Note: The events in this piece take place before Episode I. I hypothesized that the various economic powers (Banking Clan, Techno Union, etc) waged several hidden and dirty wars before they all began to gel as the Separatists (of course led by the nose by Dooku). I don't read any of the Expanded Universe stuff, other than a couple of comics, occasionally, so I make no claims on knowing what storylines this might conflict with. 

This is all I have and I probably won't be updating, since the game never made it past the first episode. 

Enjoy. I always appreciate feedback.


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## ragboy (Jun 11, 2005)

The padawan dove against the oil-slick trunk of a Brrguun flame tree, rolling into a crouch as blaster fire erupted around him. Thank the Force that this is not the fire season, he thought. He adjusted his breathing mask and attempted to control his breathing. San-Roshi Dogo was not the calmest padawan that Master Sifodeus had ever had. Sifodeus made sure to bring this up all too often, as well. The chatter of blaster fire subsided.

 "Sssjedi-kin," a hissing-metallic voice echoed through the flame forest. "Sssmaster-yer sssded-be. Gerr-are Tsstrap-yer. Sssup Gerr-give-yer." 

 San-Roshi reached out with the Force and felt Sifodeus not far away, the light of life weak in his chest. The padawan’s lightsaber ignited as if to punctuate the fear and anger that suddenly exploded inside him. He charged from around the flame tree into the raking fire that began from his enemy’s position. He did not feel the slice of pain as a charged bolt creased his neck, but flipped over the firing position, deflected incoming blaster fire and beheaded the Quarren rifleman. Projecting his hatred, he smashed a second squid-headed thug against a flame tree and charged the group's leader, the notorious outlaw Gerr Doon. The armored form rose from his position, pumping laser bolts at the roaring padawan only to see each searing shot deflected on the flashing lightsaber. The outlaw's last shot smashed into his own faceplate, and Doon collapsed screaming as his helmet burned away.

 Before the scorched Quarren touched the oily mud, San-Roshi held him aloft in a crushing grip. Doon writhed watching the red-faced Jedi stand solidly, three meters away. 

          "Where is she?" San-Roshi growled, his thoughts still in a red rage. 

          "Here, young one," a soft voice answered from behind him.

          The padawan cast Gerr Doon aside like a torn ragdoll and whirled.

 A dark form stood ten meters away, her maroon cloak billowing in the steamy chemical breeze; her pale blue face illuminated by the red-bladed lightsaber in her hand.

 "Your anger serves you well," she said, unmoving, her solid azure eyes calming him somehow. "Sifodeus never understood that there is no Dark Side. There is only the Force and the power it gives us." 

          Guilt flooded the padawan. He glanced at the destruction he had wrought. 

          "Where is my Master?" he whispered, watching warily for her next move. 

          "Sifodeus was a fool, boy," she said. "Embrace your passion and your hatred." 

 San-Roshi felt his anger begin to rise again, but he retreated from it to the sanctuary of his Master's teachings. He remembered the cool ocean breezes of Danathere; the barrier islands and their soft white sand. The first time he had swam the two-kilometer bay he left all the other flailing, laughing boys behind. That was when he knew he was destined for great and wondrous things. He was six years old and not long for the cool breezes and white sand of his homeworld.

          His adversary still perched in a lazy, bastardized fighting form, her saber arm extended awkwardly to her side. 

          "What is your choice, pup?" she said, voice barely audible over the caustic wind. 

 "The choice is yours, Muan," San-Roshi said, calmly. "Sifodeus was our master. Your treachery will not go unpunished. Return with me to Coruscant to face justice."

          She barked a laugh.  

 He relaxed his stance, running through the forms in his mind. Her style was alien to him; nothing like the repetitious forms that their Master had instilled. A twinge of envy rose thinking that she had had time to learn something new; something Sifodeus had denied him.

 She moved then, as slick through her initial feint as the pools of oily water she leapt over. Two lightsabers met in an arcing wail of energy, and San-Roshi retreated, waving his blade crazily. The sheer force of her cold, quiet hatred assailed him. Muan was stronger than him. Much stronger. Almost as powerful as Sifodeus. The power she wielded was veined in flaming energies of anger, flat colorless currents of deceit, and an icy vacuum of fear.

 He turned aside a practiced thrust, but only barely, and thought it odd that she would use so basic a maneuver. He caught the trick too late and searing pain erupted from every nerve ending. The padawan collapsed, his left eye a smoking ruin. 

          “All too easy,” Muan murmured, kicking away San-Roshi’s lightsaber. 

 She laughed quietly, as she stood over him, raising her blade for the final coup de grace. Sifodeus’ strike fell like a hammer blow between her shoulder blades, and the dark one seemed to briefly take flight, smashing into the jagged trunk of a flame tree to fall lifeless. The Kel Dor Jedi master crawled into the soggy clearing, his face and clothes streaked with the volatile oils of the flame forest, kept dormant by the low oxygen atmosphere. He struggled over a muddy mound and slid down beside his fallen padawan.

          “San-Roshi,” the master said, weakly, his voice hoarse and crackly in his breathing mask.

 He placed his hand on the boy’s forehead and channeled as much of his energy into San-Roshi as he possessed. The padawan snapped awake, moaning and reaching for his ruined eye socket. 

          “Calm, padawan. You are hurt, but not dead,” Sifodeus said, weakly. 

          “Master,” San-Roshi moaned. “It was Muan. She has betrayed us..you. I have betrayed your teachings, too.” 

 “I know, young one; it is of no consequence. You are good in your heart,” he said, slouching down beside his apprentice. “You must away to the Council. To tell them…”

          His voice trailed off, and San-Roshi sat up. Sifodeus clutched at the boy’s soaked tunic with a spasming hand. 

          “Tell them what, Master?” the padawan implored. 

          “…new threat to the Order...” 

          “What threat? Muan is defeated.” San-Roshi’s body ached as his master’s ministrations began to wear off. 

          “…the Sith are come.” Sifodeus gasped, his last breath rattling within the humming mask.

          “No,” the padawan, alone, said quietly.

          Over his master’s body, he saw that Muan was gone.

###​ 
 Guided rockets streaked over 51st Strike Company’s position, smashing into their support vehicles and exploding. As the ringing left Deel Fannon’s ears, he heard the moans and gut-wrenching screams of his dying comrades. These were nothing new to the veteran, but losing was.

 Scanning down the length of the trench, he noted three of his men cowering, obviously still in shock from the power of the attack. He keyed his comlink. 

          “You men,” he said, his voice modulated for command and calm. “On me.”

 He scrambled down the trench embankment and skidded into the trench. The soldiers fell in behind him, and they headed out at a steady lope, their blaster rifles tracking for contact. Commerce Guild airspeeders roared overhead followed quickly by the hissing thunder of incendiary bombs. 

 “They’ll concentrate on our armor,” Deel clipped, sliding to rest at the end of the trench and holding up a fist. “Blau. Point.” 

 One of the group raced forward, vaulted the titancrete trench reinforcement and scrambled down the edge and into a defilade position. 

   “Clear,” he said, breathing hard.

 A burp of blaster fire erupted behind Deel. He snapped around, and then sighed heavily. He still wasn’t used to the enhanced sensory input from the Sernian battle helmet. The firefight was a good click away to his south. He adjusted the sensors and pointed to one of his men then gestured over the trench. He pointed to the other and held up three fingers. As he turned to follow the first soldier over the reinforcement, the shock of incoming fire knocked Deel down as he watched half of his trooper’s body melted away. 

   “Down!” Deel barked. “Blau. Report.” 

   “Small squad of battle droids,” Blau said, his voice high-pitched and quavering. 

 Deel heard the stutter of Blau’s heavy blaster rifle in stereo from his comlink and over the trench wall. He grabbed his remaining man and pushed him back down the trench. 

   “We can’t leave him, Sergeant!” the man cried. 

   “Move your ass, soldier!” Deel yelled and gave the man a boot-punctuated anatomy lesson. 

   “Half the squad’s down, Sarge. We got incoming.” Blau called on the open comlink.

   “Down!” Sgt. Deel growled, tackling the soldier in front of him and covering him with his body.

 The piercing cry of a falling thermo-canister could not be filtered by his helmet’s systems and Deel knew this was where the money ran out. A sickening whump sounded to his rear, and the heat sensors on the Sernian helmet washed out. As soon as he felt the sear begin to fade, he rolled off of his squad mate. The man’s helmet was a smoking hole; a blaster bolt meant for Deel.

   “More droids, Sarge!” Blau growled, his rifle speaking ruin again. 

   “On my way.”

 His armor still smoking, Deel vaulted the front of the trench and with one hand on the emplacement’s sheer face, he fell, firing into the flank of a battle droid squad advancing on Blau’s position. He hit hard at the bottom, and the armor’s gravity compensator squealed then sputtered its last. His legs frozen, Deel smacked the emergency release and shrugged out of the leg armor before the droids recovered. Blau cleaned up the rest, and the sergeant loped down the embankment to his man’s position.

   “Where’s your armor?”

   “Piece of Union crap,” Deel Fannon growled. “The helmet’s all I need anyway. Let’s roll.” 

   “Where to?” 

 A Techno Union airspeeder streaked overhead, and Fannon contemplated firing a homing beacon, but dismissed it, sure that the transmit codes had already been broken by the Guild. The Union’s crypto-slicers were elite, but they were also not known for their loyalty. 

   Fannon wasn’t feeling particularly loyal either. 

   “This one’s cashed, Blau,” he said, the chill of defeat running up his spine. “We’re getting out of here.”

 This small war was another in a long string of money-flexing actions by various business interests in the Galaxy. Sometimes he had to remember who he worked for; what planet they were razing today. He never forgot the objective, though: Destroy the army that couldn’t afford him. Fannon wondered how all of it would end. Union or anarchy. It’s always one or the other. He wished for anarchy, since it tended to pay the bills.

 The two men moved into a woodline to the north of their position, though its cover was largely a smoldering ruin from the Guild spider droids’ withering fire and incendiary canisters. They picked their way quickly into a steaming creekbed and pushed on, away from the rumble of Guild mop up operations. 

 The helmet chirped, and Deel Fannon froze in place, holding up a clenched fist and sinking slowly into a controlled crouch. Twin blips appeared on his HUD, moving from his left to right. 

   “Guild scout patrol,” he said. “Two vehicles.”

   “That’ll get us to the LZ faster,” Blau said, wryly. 

   He has a point, Deel thought.

   “Hold position,” he said.

 He shouldered the heavy rifle and removed a telemine kit from his rucksack. Slipping through the wasted forest, his heat sensors played havoc with the hotspots still smoldering in his peripheral vision. Sliding down a steep embankment, the mercenary came to rest behind a tangle of blackened logs and smoking ash.

 A Guild transport with a heavy escort speeder moved slowly across a blasted battlefield. The transport crushed the remains of men, machines and weapons under its tracks, as the speeder darted around, scanning the perimeter. Fannon keyed his helmet through several zoom view levels and sucked in his breath. 

          “Jedi!?” he breathed.

          “What?” Blau answered.

          The sergeant paused. “Nothing.”

          He hefted the mine kit and ran toward a choke point where the little convoy would have to cross. 

      ###

 Dirae Triin mustered her will, feeling slightly dizzy at the effort. This is impossible, she thought, and wondered if she would live through the torture. 

 "In the years after the fall of the original Fiduciary Clans, the Thern Conglomerate steadily took control of the remaining assets..." Jedi Master Unthen droned on, his hand hovering within the holoprojection of facts, figures and some unnamed outer rim system.

 Kenobi and his master were away again. Into the far reaches of the Galaxy, negotiating with hostile trade factions in the Blanton system, fighting off the starving beasts on Rigen. And she was locked here in a chilly, half-dark room with children. If my master were an adventurer and not some....administrator. 

          The padawan snapped awake. 

 The room was still half dark, but something was wrong. Unthen had stopped, his hand pointing down the row of holodesks to... Me? she thought, alarmed. 

          "Are you back with us, Dirae?"

          "Yes, Master Jedi. Sorry, Master Jedi," she stuttered. The other students could barely contain their laughter. 

 "This is not a humorous affair." The Cerelan turned his stern yellow eyes on his class and faces straightened as if by the power of the living Force. "Young one, please to come up here and stand beside me. I will require your assistance for this next _lengthy_ piece."

          I will not groan, she thought. I will not toss my lekku. 

 The Twi-lek apprentice rose quickly and moved with the fluid grace of a dancer to the front of the class. The white light of the holoprojector glared on her deep green skin, highly prized on her homeworld of Ryloth. She sensed unease and even frustration from her classmates. 

          "Please continue where I left off, padawan," Unthen said. 

 She glanced at the holoboard, and suppressed a sigh. Master Phaton had taught her this merchant squabbling as a child. When will I see outside these cold walls? she thought, and then picked up where Master Unthen had left off.

 "Vladnin P'kto once said that the path to real power is paved in cold hard credits. This was never truer than with the fall of the Thern Conglomerate. The Banking Clans, who were just rising to power in AFJ 4455, absorbed the remaining assets of the Conglomerate and came to prominence within the scope of Galactic Trade."

###​ The Banking Clans, again? Dirae thought, slouching a little in the uncomfortable Muun chair. She shifted and shook her foot, which had fallen asleep. A year out of classes, and she was still dealing with traders.

          "Patience, padawan," Master Therea Phaton said. 

          The Togruta Jedi Master turned her head, her multi-hued montrals color-shifting only slightly. 

 "They come," she said. "We must focus on the moment, young one. These corporate wars are unnecessarily destructive and could lead to a wider conflict." 

 The heavy stone door to the conference room slid open on silent rollers, and Flar Blix, undersecretary to the chairman of the Intergalactic Banking Clan strode in flanked by two battle droids and a covey of Muun underlings. Phaton stood and bowed slightly from the knees, a Muun affectation of respect among equals. Blix returned the bow quickly, his knees barely bending. Dirae's mind flared at the obvious insult. 

 *Patience,* her master projected. *His customs are not mine, and he just gave me valuable insight into his position. You must use the information presented, not react to it with emotions, apprentice.*

          *He should respect you,* Dirae thought back. *We are not Rim Traders scraping for a loan.*

          *Quiet now. Silence your emotions and observe.*

 "I apologize for the delay, Mistress Jedi," Blix intoned, again showing a less-than-respectful bow. "Chairman San Hill will not be able to attend the meeting since his duties carry him...elsewhere." 

 The Muun toady finished his explanation over his shoulder, and then perched on a chair at the head of the table. His battle droids took up positions on either side of him, and the underlings slid quietly into their places. 

 "That is most unfortunate, Undersecretary," Master Phaton said smoothly, her montrals a calm shade of blue. Dirae caught the emphasis on the final word and felt Blix mentally recoil. Muun did not like their positions flung in their face. "Then, I'm afraid we will have to reschedule, since this issue is of utmost importance to the Council and by extension the Republic."

 "That's impossible!" a lesser secretary burst out, his conical head shaking. "Vice Chairman Blix has a full power to negotiate with..."

 "Enough, Junior Secretary Hher" Blix said in a sharp but controlled voice. He gestured to the offended underling, and Hher's eyes widened.

          The Muun junior executive stood quickly and left the room, his face stony.

 "I am sorry for Hher's outburst," Blix smiled thinly, holding his arms wide. "Some of our younger executives tend to be on the..." His eyes shifted to Dirae. "...passionate side."

 The Twi-lek apprentice understood precisely. The Muun had sacrificed a pawn and wanted to bait her into a similar mistake. The Twi-lek kept her emotions under control and reached out to the other three Muun junior executives. The normal flood of emotions assailed her. Normal for a Muun, anyway: fear of making a mistake in a precise society, a machine-like thought process that tied everything back to credits and an overbearing hunger for the power that currency wielded. 

 "We are Jedi, Under Secretary. No offense is taken," Master Phaton said, as if in explanation, and then pressed her advantage. "When can I see the Chairman, as requested by the Jedi Council and accepted by International Banking Clan?"

 Embarrassment, tinged by a stark fear flowed from the Muun. All of them. Dirae realized that Blix' orders to put the Jedi off of their mission was of utmost importance. The fear was thick enough to mean the equivalent of a death sentence to a Muun: Unemployment. Impoverishment. 

          "The Chairman is a very busy man, Mistress Jedi," Blix backpedaled. "But, I assure you at the first opportunity..."

 "I will see him now, if you please," Master Phaton stepped from her chair to an imposing height. "I believe he's in his office. If you'll be so kind, Under Secretary." 

          "But, Mistress..."

          "You will address me as 'Master Jedi' or 'Master Phaton', Mr. Blix," she said calmly. "If you please."

 She gestured toward the door, and it slid open, squealing out of its locking plates. The two battle droids raised their weapons and stepped forward. Dirae shattered both against the wall without even rustling the Under Secretary's cloak.

          *Excellent control, young one*

          *Thank you, Master.*

          Flar Blix projected a palpable fear, his face frozen in a conciliatory smile. 

          "As you wish, Master Jedi," he said, without sarcasm. 

 His underlings had not moved during the entire exchange, but all stared at the conference table's reflective surface as if seeing themselves for the last time on the Muun ladder of success. 

 Blix stood, stumbled slightly over the remains of his bodyguards and gestured to the Jedi as he left the conference room.

###​ 
 Wark downshifted the airspeeder and slid to twenty meters off the deck. Flak from the Guild's automated AA guns now burst over the airspeeder's armored canopy. He jettisoned a pod of thermite canisters into a company-sized element of Guild spiders and chuckled deeply as he banked to survey the results. The droids were in disarray. The central array processing unit lay in flaming pieces, and the slave spider droids scrambled to negotiated a new CAP between them. 

 "Able Tee One, mission complete," the besalisk said over the Techno Core coded frequency. "Commence fire for effect. Out."

 Even before he spoke the last syllable, a shower of unguided rockets appeared over the horizon, streaking for the company of confused spider drones.

          "Able Tee One, this is Able Tee Zero," his commander said. "Standby for upload of mission directives, over."

          "Roger, Able Tee Zero." 

 Wark groaned. His back was sore from the constant banking and altitude changes he had to make just to stay alive. That and the general bumpy ride of the Techno Core XM-5 Assault Speeder made him wish he were on the soft cushions in his lab, tinkering with the new power converter he'd ordered for his scout droid.

 The Status screen flashed: INCOMING PRIORITY MESSAGE -- VERIFY KEY. Not taking his hands off of the stick, the targeting computer and the sensor scanner, Wark typed in his verification key. The Status screen flashed: CONFIRMED and began scrolling map and targeting details. The besalisk's HUD displayed further information. 

 "Who is this?" Wark grumbled, looking at the personnel profile. He let the speeder steer itself toward the coordinates as he popped twenty knuckles at once. "Fought for the Commerce Guild, the old Fiduciary Clans...Corporate Alliance for three galactic years, and now us? Professional, eh?" 

 Wark chuckled and took manual control as his sensors blared about incoming aircraft. The besalisk’s airspeeder executed a graceful pirouette that would have intimidated sentient pilots if the incoming bogeys had any. Instead the droid pilots were simply incinerated with their ships, and the airspeeder flew on into the battlezone. 

###​ 
 Deel Fannon kicked smoking dirt over the last mine. Four should do it, he thought. The rumble of the approaching transport and its escort echoed in the close valley. 

          "Blau."

          "Roger."

          "Mines are set," Fannon said, running upslope and back into the covering woods. "Rendezvous at point two niner."

          "Roger, out."

 Blau's a true professional. On track to be an officer. In a year, I'd be reporting to him. Fannon chuckled. Blau wouldn't be any worse than some officers he'd had. A hundred meters from the rendezvous, he took up an over watch position on his minefield. The transport and assault speeder moved into the belly of the valley, and then the transport groaned to a stop. Hitting the zoom again, he saw the rear of the transport disgorge troops in brown and green battle armor. 

 Human or humanoid, he thought, scanning the group. Two hundred or so. Skilled. They moved as a group, and then split into squads. Their leader made a quick address and the squads fanned out, the bulk of which headed toward the hill where Fannon currently crouched. 

          "Big time incoming," he said.

          "Got it." 

 Fannon grounded his ruck and began rummaging through it, never taking his eyes off of enemy. They moved like droids in their precision but with the obvious ease and competence of sentient troops. He never saw one pause or stumble. He found the blast concentrator and fitted it over the end of his rifle. This should even the odds a bit, he thought. He heard Blau slipping from cover to cover behind him. 

          "You sound like a drunk Bantha up there," Fannon grumbled. "You have a concentrator?"

          "Nope," Blau answered. "All I have left is my hold out pistol." 

          Good, Fannon thought. "You got a good position?"

          "Are we holding here?"

          "We stand and die here. Watch that defilade to the west." 

          "Already have mines set there, Sarge." 

 Smart ass. Fannon shifted his position slightly and lined up a belt full of thermal detonators behind his cover. The troops hugged the terrain, moving quick from cover to cover like they were already under fire. Fannon wondered if they'd picked up his and Blau's transmissions. They might break the crypto, but they'll never understand our code. Blau had a blaster cannon. Fannon had told Blau that they would slip off toward the choke point at first contact. The defilade reference was to check the enemy's comsec. There was a slight defilade, but nothing that would offer the Guild troopers sufficient cover from Fannon and Blau’s current position.

 They took the bait. A scout squad moved to the west and found the shallow creekbed that led up the side of the hill. The man in front held a sensor pack at arm's length and the group moved slowly. I knew it, he thought. Shirkin' Union code jumpers. The pointman signaled the all clear and his squad took up an over watch while the three squads at his back moved with precision competence up into the wood line. 

          "Hit 'em," Fannon said, quietly. 

 Blau's laser cannon emitted a whining roar as super-charged bolts of energy ate up the troopers in their uncovered positions. Fannon moved quickly down the hill, slamming to a stop in a second over watch, keyed a thermal detonator and threw the whole belt at the flanking squads that had already started moving to contact with Blau's position. He followed with automatic laser fire into the perimeter troops. The belt detonated among a group of them, casting armor clad body parts in all directions. The level ground became crater that became a fighting position as stunned Guild troopers dove for cover and began putting heat on his position. 

          "Move now!" Deel Fannon barked, blaster fire slamming into the dirt embankment at his back. 

 He rose up to give covering fire and caught a bolt in the collarbone. Yelling with pain and rage, Fannon unleashed the last of his powerpack on his enemy and dropped to reload. 

          "Set," Blau said, out of breath. "I cleared out the defilade. More troops coming from the west, though. 

          "No problem. Cover." 

 The cannon whirled to life again and bolts whined overheard. Fannon leapt up into a crouching run and moved through the woods like a ghost. The armored speeder accelerated toward the chokepoint. Fannon's shoulder burned like the forgefires of a titancrete mine, but he pressed on, pumping his legs higher to make up ground. 

          The cannon went silent again, but Fannon didn't bother to key the comm. He knew Blau hadn't made it. 
###​ 

 In the raucous din of the Lower Coruscant nightclub, San-Roshi brooded over his PanGalactic Gargleblaster. The fumes from the drink cleared his head, but still he felt dark. In the months since Sifodeus' death, the apprentice had again begun to walk the path of the true Jedi Knight. Yoda himself had congratulated him on his progress...his control over his emotions and thoughts of vengeance.

          "In time, the Trials you'll take, padawan," Yoda had said. “But, not today.”

 Months in the infirmary had soothed the wounds. But they had not removed the itch of the scars. The robotic eye caught movement that his natural one would have missed. 

 A hidden back door to the club opened and his contact emerged, a heavily cloaked figure moving swiftly toward his table. San-Roshi readied himself, clearing his mind of questions, though the darkness lingered. Too late he heard the scrape of movement behind him and before the Jedi could reach for his lightsaber, a shiny disk landed on the tabletop and discharged with a crackle of white energy. He struggled, but knew that the binderdisk was unbreakable. The club patrons had not skipped a beat. Only a handful of eyes turned his way, then roved on to more interesting fare. 

          "Is this the one?" a gruff voice said behind him. 

          "Yes," said the cloaked figure, the voice heavily muffled. 

 A credit chip changed hands and the presence behind the Jedi retreated. His contact sat rigidly. The cowl slipped away, and the young Jedi gasped.

          “You will not remember a word of this conversation until the right time, Jedi,” the voice said. 

          San-Roshi’s vision swam as he fought the wave of power washing over him. 

###​ 
 The targeting computer wailed, and Wark noted the positions of two vehicles, as well as a heavy group of troops over the next ridgeline in a bottleneck valley. He armed the concussion missile rack and it whined open from the lower hull plate. The airspeeder immediately lost performance and the engine began to tick. 

 "Damn maintenance droids," the besalisk muttered, preparing a target workup for the missiles. "Shoulda got this bird ready myself." 

 The airspeeder cleared the ridgeline and the fire control system locked the vehicles and individual troops. Wark could just make out one of the Union troopers he was supposed to evac breaking across an open space in the wood line and taking heavy blaster fire. He keyed the target acquisition computer and chuckled. 

 Forty concussion missiles ejected serially from the aircraft and fired their engines, zipping off toward troop concentrations and the two vehicles. Dirt, trees and body parts geysered from the ground as the airspeeder shrieked into a banking climb over the bottleneck and back behind the ridgeline. 

 Wark keyed the target assessment computer and found both vehicles still operational. Shields on a transport? he thought. 

 "I have something for that," he muttered, keying up a ring of ion charges while keeping two hands on the stick for the complicated maneuver to come. 

 He guided the speeder up and over the ridge again, perfectly positioned for a run on the transport. Dropping to ten meters off of the valley floor with trees whipping past at 700 meters per second, Wark fired the ion charge ring and followed it with a cluster of conventional bomblets. A bright blue energy field ejected from the aircraft, bounced once on the valley floor and slammed into the vehicle's shield in a fiery display. A line of fire mushrooms followed across the center of the transport. Before he banked for another run, a smoking crater sat where the vehicle had once been. 

          "Now, where's that speeder?" he said.

 The clatter of heavy blaster fire suddenly erupted around him. The pitch of the airspeeder's engines took on a sickening whine and emergency lights flashed across his HUD and computer systems. 

          "Son of the Erudin!" the besalisk roared, attempting to bypass errors and refire control systems with all four hands. 

 The airspeeder's engines cut out completely and without motive power, the craft pancaked in the air, falling like a stone. Wark struggled with the stick watching the ground come up quickly. The craft ripped into the treetops, losing both short wings and the rudder immediately. The restraining harness cutting into his shoulders and gut, Wark bellowed in pain as his left leg shattered, and the craft struck the ground. 

###​ 
Dirae and her master ran through the cold yawning halls of the Muun government building. A flurry of blaster fire suddenly came from all directions and the two Jedi stood back-to-back, deflecting the ineffectual battle droid attacks. Therea Phaton gestured and a group of the droids fell in a tangled heap on the slick floor. 

         “Go!” she cried, pushing Dirae ahead. 

 Their lightsabers humming, they cut through another phalanx of droids, into the hallway toward the speederlift. Dirae stopped to cover her Master with her flashing blade, cutting down three droids and projecting four more into the hard marble walls. 

         “The blast door is closing!” Master Phaton called. 

         They burst down the hallway and through the irising blast door, which effectively cut off the droids. 

         Catching their breath in the deserted bay, Dirae surveyed their surroundings. 

         “I can’t believe the Under Secretary would do such a thing,” the apprentice said. 

 “It was inevitable, I’m afraid,” Phaton said calmly, as she tinkered with the security lock on a two-seater aircar. “He had no future, but if he’d allowed us into Hill’s office, his family would have shared his fate. This way, Hill has plausible deniability, claiming that our attack provoked his droids.” 

 “How do we get out of here?” Dirae said, watching a glowing orange dot expand to the size of a bila-ball on the blast door. “They’re cutting through.”

         “Patience, padawan,” Phaton said, as the aircar roared to life.

         Dirae hopped in and the craft backed out of the speederlift and banked into traffic outside the government building. 

 “They would not dare stop us from leaving,” Phaton continued. “A localized malfunction is easy to explain away. A city-wide glitch is a bit more of a stretch. I’ve already reported to the Council and made sure Hill knows it.”

 “Are all negotiations like this?” Dirae asked, staring back at the government building expecting heavy laser fire to cut their craft into ribbons. “It doesn’t seem like anything gets done, really.”

 “Not quite as breathless, luckily.” Phaton grinned. “But, I’d say this one was a success. The Muun and the Banking Clan know that the Jedi know what they know. The fact that the Under Secretary had full power to negotiate with us means that the Chairman truly has other duties. Muun are not ones to be usurped by their underlings unless the mission at hand is more important. Most likely he’s already negotiating peace with his competition.” 

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand Republic finance,” Dirae moaned. 

  “Recite for me the nine thousand principles of the Mind at Rest,” Phaton said. 

 The Twi-Lek looked sharply at her Master, and realized that she wasn’t joking. Without sighing or tossing her lekka, the padawan began in a monotone. 

  “The Mind at Rest has Nine Thousand Forms. The first is the Breath of the Grave... 

###​ 
 Fannon dove when he heard the roar of incoming rockets. A platoon of Guild troops in front and behind him simply ceased to exist in the subsequent explosions. He quickly dug himself out of the dirt and debris, and, ears ringing, leapt up, pivoted and fired into a surviving trooper's helmet. The airspeeder screamed over and banked for another pass. The blaster fire subsided, but he did not wait for the Guild soldiers to recover. Charging up the edge of a freshly turned crater, he noted and then raced up a creek bed angling toward the valley chokepoint. 

 His helmet systems indicated light pursuit. The armored ground speeder had recovered and was dodging debris attempting to cut him off. The transport was frozen by the missile crater that had suddenly opened up in front of it and its driver attempted to back out of the hole. Fannon could now see the shield's faint glow around both vehicles. 

 A blaster bolt slammed into the center of his back, melting the last of his armor and throwing him heavily to the ground. Stunned, Fannon reached aimlessly for the armor release and painfully slipped out of his torso shell. Every muscle in his body shrieked in pain, but he pushed himself up, found his blaster rifle and hobbled into makeshift cover behind a low rocky embankment. The destruction of the transport rumbled through the valley, and the airspeeder screamed over again.

 His helmet's scanners dead, Fannon tuned the audio amp until he could hear the faint footfalls of approaching soldiers. They were fanned out, a lazy V with him between the tines. More troopers above him than below. He checked the rifle. Ten shots. His grenade belt. Empty. He heard the airspeeder set up on another run, and then heard its engines rev and whine crazily. 

 The groundspeeder approached behind a screenline of trees and debris. Ten meters, he thought. Just keep moving. The ion mines would temporarily disable the vehicle and stun the crew, then he'd be in and gone. He listened intently, scanning his field of fire. All movement had ceased as the groundspeeder cruised by. 

 Come on. Five meters. The speeder stopped almost parallel with him at the bottom of the hill. He could just see the flash of sunlight on the armored visor. They know, he thought, grimly. 

 As he prepared to rise and shift his position, he caught a flash of movement downhill. Instinctively, he brought the rifle up and fired. The blaster bolts ricocheted off of a blur. The rifle beeped the empty signal and a line of red light appeared in front of him with a sizzling moan. 

 Fannon sat dumbly looking at his own arm lying on the ground in front of him, still clutching the useless weapon. He looked at his shoulder, now a steaming stump. Time seemed to have stopped completely. He remembered that there was something important he was supposed to be doing and then he saw the boot about two meters away. Following it up, he saw that it was attached to a man. His first detached impression was that the man looked like a younger version of Chancellor Vallorum, though this man had shoulder-length red-blond hair and was clad in a flowing black robe. He also held a lightsaber. The man said something about questions and plans, but Fannon was suddenly very tired. 

###​ 
 "Commander Fale. This is Room 2202. The pilot is coming to." the voice cut through Wark’s subconscious and the besalisk snapped awake.

 He was strapped to an operating table surrounded by machinery and droids. A single human operator stood across the room at a control console, half his head encased in a dark glassy bubble.

 A young man with red-blonde hair stepped confidently through the sliding lab doors. Fale had a warm smile on his face, and Wark was reminded of someone. Someone famous, but the name escaped him. 

          “Warrant Officer Wark Oranlis?” the man said in a pleasant voice.

          Wark hesitated. His mind was still fuzzy, but he remembered the fight, the crash. Not much else. 

          “Yea,” the besalisk said gruffly. “Who wants to know?”

 “I am Drager Fale, the Commander of Special Operations for the Commerce Guild in the Heul System,” Cmd. Fale said, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

          Wark glared at the hand and then at his own, all tightly strapped to the table. 

          “Quite sorry,” Fale said. “Technician. Please release Mr. Oranlis.”

          “Of course, Sir.” The man bustled up and snapped the besalisk free. 

          Wark sat up on the table, but found that his legs did not function.

          “What have you done to me?” 

 “You were badly damaged in the crash, Mr. Wark,” Fale said, reclining against a piece of lab equipment. “There were many repairs made. At great expense, I might add.”

          Wark lowered his head back to the cool table surface and stopped struggling to rise. 

          “What do you want?” he grumbled. 

 “I want to know who it was that you were coming to evacuate and how exactly he and you knew that our forces were in that valley.”

          “Get me a chair and a Toolin ale, and I’d be happy to tell you.”

 “I can arrange that,” Fale said, lightly. “But, let me warn you, Mr. Wark: I am not to be trifled with. The man you were coming to save was wanted by the Guild and many law enforcement organizations across the galaxy.” 

          “For what?” Wark asked, raising his head slightly. 

          “Mercenary actions, mostly, on worlds that he had no business being on.”

          Wark couldn’t hold in the rumbling belly laugh. 

          “What is it?” the Commander asked, perturbed. 

 “Save your chair and ale, Commander,” Wark said, pushing himself into a pained sitting position. “That man and I are in the same boat. I got no beef with him, and you’re starting to piss me off.”

          “You’re no one, besalisk,” he sneered. “Not even a statistic.” 

          “If that were true, you would have killed me in the cockpit.”

          “Technician!” Drager Fale called, whirling to exit the lab. 

          “Sir!” the man answered, stepping from behind a screening wall. 

 “The drugs,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Full strength. I don’t care what happens to him after he tells me what he knows.”

          “Sir!”

 Commander Drager Fale walked to the door and looked at Wark with a pitying glare. Wark realized where he’d seen him before. He was Viscount Dougal Vallorum, son of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. Wark had driven the entire family to their private transport when he drove luxury shuttles back on Coruscant, years ago. That’s interesting, Wark thought. Too bad I can’t use that information for anything...yet.

###​ 

 “Up, Mojardin!” A beetled voice followed by a sharp kick roused the young man from unconsciousness. He lay in the street in a pool of his own blood. Coruscant vent rats, like fat ugnaughts, huddled nearby growling. The first thing the man thought was: Who’s Mojardin? San-Roshi Dogo reached for his lightsaber and made to rise from the gore and filth of the Corsucant alleyway. His vision spotted and knees buckled. 

 “You still owe me those cheap warp rings, Mo,” a wavering figure was saying. “I want the rings or the money. You got me?”

 San-Roshi’s vision cleared. His assailant was Rodian, a bright red crest sprouted from the center of the creature’s head.

          “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” San-Roshi said, feeling his face.

          A sharp pain and wetness there. 

          “To bad for you, human.” 

 The Rodian reached for his blaster pistol and San-Roshi, without thought, embraced the Force and snatched the weapon from his hand. 

 “I knew you were a double-crossing, no account,” The alien backed away, hands outstretched. “The year in Grabe-dun meant nothing to you, right?”

   Grabe-dun? That’s a Republic prison planet. 

 “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Rodian,” San-Roshi lowered the blaster. “I...I’m not myself at the moment. What is it that I owe you, and I’ll be sure you get it?”

   “Forget it,” the Rodian backed away further and turned to run. “The name’s Yrict. Let me know when you’re ‘yourself’.”

###​    “Strange, this event is,” Yoda said, hopping into a low chair with a grunt. “Details, you remember?”

 “Nothing, Master Yoda,” San-Roshi said, still on his knees before the Jedi. “I had set up a meeting through a contact in the Coruscant lower quarters. I looked for him this week, but he is no where. I remember little else.”

   “Told you, we did,” Yoda stared over the padawan’s head. “Revenge a Jedi’s mission is not. Justice, yes.”

   “Yes, Master Yoda,” San-Roshi bowed again. “May I return to my studies?”

   “Full of fire still you are, hmmm?” the ancient Jedi grunted. “You must quiet your mind and let the Force flow.”

   “I will, Master.”

   “Return to your studies, you may,” Yoda said after a long pause. “Another Master for you, we’ll find.”

   “Thank you, Master Yoda,” the padawan said quickly, and rose to leave. “I won’t disappoint you, again.” 

     Yoda grunted, and picked at a tooth with his sharp tongue staring at the door long after the apprentice had passed. 

###​ 
 Master and apprentice stopped short in the Muun spaceship hanger. A Genosian fighter sat crouched like a great Coruscant roach beside their light cruiser. Leaning against the craft stood a tall man with an elegant white beard and dark clothing. 

   “Count Dooku,” Thera Phaton said graciously. “I did not know you were on Muun, we would have arranged for dinner.”

 “Master Phaton,” the count said, smoothly. “It is so good to see you again. This must be your apprentice; the Twi-lek you...rescued. She is spectacular, I must say.”

   “Thank you, Master Dooku,” Dirae said, bowing, though she wasn’t sure exactly what the Jedi meant. 

 “I heard about the difficulties in the Muun government house,” Dooku continued, now ignoring the apprentice. “I trust the...malfunction was repaired?”

   “The Muun are not as subtle as the Council thought, I’m afraid,” Phaton said. 

   She gestured for Dirae to go on ahead. *Let the pilot know we’re heading back to Coruscant, immediately.*

   “The Intergalactic Banking Clans have much to hide,” she continued, walking with the Count.

   Dirae paused at the end of the gangway and trained her ears on the pair. 

 “They are concerned only with the material world, Therean,” Dooku said, his voice pained. “I have come on my own accord to convince Chairman Hill personally of his folly. The Chairman and I are friends from years ago.”

 “You had mentioned that before,” Master Phaton said, her montrals flushing pink at the ends. She lowered her voice. “I have...missed you in the council, Master Dooku,” she said. “There are few that believe as we do, that the Republic must take a stronger stand with these power centers.”

   “Only for that reason, Therea?”

 By the Force! Dirae thought. Lovers? Her imagination flared. All that she had been taught flashed before her. The denial of worldly feelings, attachments, and most of all individual love. 

 “Please, Master Dooku, we have discussed this before,” Phaton said. “We have a duty to the Galaxy. A single night’s indiscretion.”

 “And the month on Danathere?” Dooku raised an eyebrow. “If that I could buy that resort world for you and live out our years...”

 “Please, Medred,” Therea Phaton whispered, and Dirae noticed that the Jedi Master’s montrals flared ruby red. “We both have a job to do. Stop these pointless conflicts. Bring order to these trader clans. Maybe when peace is assured, we can speak further.”

 “Until then, milady,” Dooku bowed over her hand and pressed his dry lips to her knuckles. He turned and strode out of the starship bay. 

   Master Phaton whirled to see Dirae gaping at her. 

 “I believe I gave you a mission, young one,” Phaton said, sharply. “When you have instructed the pilot in his duties, you will practice the Ten Tests of the Yuduz in the cargo bay until we arrive at Coruscant.” 

     Dirae sighed, groaned and tossed her lekku. By all that is the living Force, she thought in a huff. When _will_ this end? 

###​ 
 “Let’s go, besalisk!” A rough hand shook Wark awake. Every nerve ending shrieked in pain, but he rose, his face set, ready for another round of torture. He stared into the haggard face of a human man in an ill-fitting and stained uniform. 

          “What is this?” Wark said thickly. 

          “Release day,” The man’s hoarse voice was familiar somehow. “Get some clothes on.”

 A pile of uniforms hit the besalisk in the chest. Wark looked around the room. Three facility guards and a technician were dead on the floor, all stripped to their skivvies. What’s this new game, eh? he thought. 

          “I’m not giving you what you want, you know,” Wark said, lying back down. “Do your worst.”

 “Why the hell do you think I’m here?” the man said. He reached out a hand. “I’m the man you saved on the battlefield...and _here_ if you’ll just get dressed. Now, we have about three minutes to catch our ship, so if you’ll follow me.” 

 The soldier rolled into the hallway amid a blaze of blaster fire and returned with rapid shots from two outstretched blasters. The hallway was silent and smoky when Wark stumbled into it. It looked as if Fannon had killed everyone in the place already. A short distance down the hall, Fannon crouched at the edge of the wall, and sprung around a blind corner firing and yelling as he went. 

          “Come on, besalisk! Unless you enjoy the accommodations that much!”

 Wark rounded the corner and Fannon was setting a timed charge on a blast door. Over the door read: Warning – STARSHIP BAY – Authorized Personnel Only. 

          “What are you doing?” 

 “Grab something and take cover!” Fannon dived into a room and the door imploded. Wark barely slipped back around the corner as white hot shrapnel shot down the corridor. 

          “Let’s Go!”

 Wark stumbled down the hallway and into the ship bay. A gigantic corroded transport liner took up most of the bay. Smaller freighters and fighters looked like bugs next to the ship. Wark noted the name on the hull: Alto Nova. A positively ancient human stood on the gangway waving them on. 

          “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Wark waddled toward the ship, every muscle in his body protesting. 

 Blaster bolts suddenly whined overhead and the besalisk forgot his pains, running faster than he’d ever run before. Fannon returned fire from the end of the gangway as the ship began to lift. 

          “Jump, besalisk!” Fannon yelled, taking a shot to the thigh that flared and sizzled. 

 Wark left his feet and felt as if he were flying. Three hands caught the end of the gangway and he used the fourth to heft himself further up as it began to close. Fannon, showing his teeth, reached out and grasped the besalisk by the pants. 

          “Up you go.”

          “Wark,” the besalisk said, gasping. 

          “Sorry, I don’t speak your language,” Fannon replied collapsing on the closing gangway. “Do you speak Basic?”

          “That’s my name. Wark.”

            “Deel Fannon. Nice to meet you.


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## Salthorae (Jun 11, 2005)

those were good! 

sorry to see that they won't be continuing...it's a shame when a campaign dies after only one session.


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## ragboy (Jun 11, 2005)

Salthorae said:
			
		

> those were good!
> 
> sorry to see that they won't be continuing...it's a shame when a campaign dies after only one session.




Thanks!


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