Suffren-class Cruiser La Couronne, somewhere in the Chaykin Sector


“No sign of them anywhere,” muttered Ryols, peering over the shoulder of a robotic crewman.


Commodore N735 bobbled his head as he strode down the walkway of the artillery cruiser, “It's unlike them to be so late. They were always punctual with their shipments to Uffel.”


“Perhaps they were intercepted,” suggested the man, “or ran into a navigational hazard, I've heard people say the Chaykin cluster is very dense.”


“No,” dismissed the droid commander, “it is not like them. They're a respectable organization.”


“Or they were, once upon a time.”


A metallic voice broke their conversation, “Cronau radiation has announced the entry of several starships into the area.”


“Distance and heading?” questioned N835, turning his blue photoreceptors to face his fellow droid sailor.


“Five thousand kilometers, heading straight towards us. They appear to be an unknown corvette analogue and several escort shuttles. Shields and weapons are charged on all vessels.”


Ryols raised an eyebrow, “And this was the ambassador you were talking about? Seems to be coming on a little hot and heavy for my liking.”


N835's photo-receptors flashed, “I have already upgraded the threat status of the squadron based on the targets' behaviors. Helm, turn us 2.43 degrees to port and angle downwards 3.41 degrees.”


Ryols frowned, “You really think?”


“I don't know what to think, Lieutenant. But I do know this is not how even normal organics like you conduct business.”


A silver-blue communication's droid turned its roughly humanoid head towards them, “Transponders identify them as Mining Guild craft.”


“Open up a channel with them,” directed N835, “ask them to explain their actions immediately.”


“Yes sir.”


Ryols quickly paced over to his console, just offset of the Commodore's and began to type in various commands into the console. The ship's distant visual scanners pulled up half a dozen tri-winged craft vaguely reminiscent of a Lambda-class shuttle, but each one sported multiple laser cannon turrets jutting out of its top and bottom halves. The center craft appeared to be some sort of Corellian or corellian-inspired corvette but the cylindrical “head” of the craft had been replaced with an inelegant box-like structure. It too sported more weapons than any typical civilian craft he had seen before. Belying that armament were the blue crests of the Mining Guild, seen on countless thousands of bulk freighters and industrial craft throughout the galaxy. The communication's droid made an artificial noise which Ryols guessed was the equivalent of clearing its throat.


“No response sir.”


“Sir, the corvette is jettisoning its escape pods.”


“What?” frowned Ryols, whipping his head back up.

"Scan the whole formation," ordered Commodore N835, "prepare to fire."
 

The two Confederate officers watched the speck of gray morph into massive brick-shaped starship hurtling at such high relativastic speeds that Ryols wondered if either groups would be capable of accurately firing their weapons on each other. Red beams jumped out from the Mining Guild starships to lash out at the Confederate squadron. But most of the beams fell far ahead of the formation, even as their gunners attempted to redirect their aim. N835 strode towards the viewport of his command, his metal feet rhythmically echoing off the floor.


“Return fire,” ordered the droid commander.


Bright beams of yellow light jetted out from the La Couronne to illuminate the space between the starship squadrons. Ryols felt the vibrations below his feet as the massive railguns beneath his feet began to churn out bursts of slugs at the charging vessels. Ryols quickly jogged to catch up with the droid commodore.


“How are they keeping such a high speed?” questioned the young man.


“They must have modified their hyperdrives,” guessed the droid, “so that it does not properly decelerate upon return to real space. It is dangerous and liable to break those ships soon if this is a standard operating procedure.”


A brief ball of light popped out as one of the escort shuttle's took a railgun slug through one of its large wings. The craft spun out of control and hurtled out of the formation. Just as N835 idly mentioned that the group was entering optimal firing range, most of the Mining Guild starships jumped back into the safety of hyperspace. Commodore N835 began to remotely alter the ship's main holo-projector to present an image of the crippled shuttle attempting to limp away to the distant escape pods recently discharged by the marauding Mining Guild corvette. Ryols shook his head.


“None of this makes sense.”


N835 turned his cyan photo-receptors to gaze upon the man from Genarius, “It does not make sense to you, young lieutenant. It was a performance designed to demonstrate our opponent's will to face us in combat, yet without the commitment of an actual battle. N325, hail that shuttle. N583, launch the CAG to move to intercept the shuttle before it reaches the escape pods.”


“Why?” questioned Ryols.


The droid hesitated, “Sometimes I forget you humans aren't wired to the ship itself. The escape pods are broadcasting distress signals. They are not automated. They are realtime. Supposedly those on board are from the real Mining Guild, the actual crews and passengers of the vessels before whoever are opponents are took over those vessels – ah, N325 has acquired a communication's channel with one of the attackers.”


N835 and Ryols strode over towards the main holo-projector, watching it turned from a mishappen starship turn into a green-skinned near humanoid wearing a navy Mining Guild uniform, but also wearing a red armband on his left sleeve. A tiny trickle of blood leaked down from the top of his head and intermingled with his sweat to flow down his right side cheek next to the mike of the headset comlink he wore. The man squinted his eyes and focused on Ryols.


“You won't need a translator droid with me. I speak Basic well enough...”


Commodore N835 interrupted the man, “I am Commodore N835 of the Confederation Defense Forces, and this my executive officer, Lieutenant Ryols. Please identify yourself for us.”


“None of your business, droid.”


“Captain,” stated N835 plainly, “you will notice that there are several squadrons of our starfighters about to enter firing range. You will not survive their attack if you do not heel to and surrender.”


“You think I'll surrender, droid?”


“Very well,” decided the Commodore, “I will instruct the fighters to disable your shuttle physically and let you drift off in space to die of starvation or hypoxia. Enjoy your slow death...”


“I'll kill myself first.”


The green-skinned humaniod pulled out a blaster pistol as if to perform the deed, but suddenly the channel turned to a hazy static.
 

Wincing, Ryols turned to face the droid commodore. But N835 stared pass the holo-projection of static, seemingly into space itself. The young man turned around to look at the other screens of the bridge crew, but he could tell nothing from them; most of the droids had long since ceased using them, simply using their built-in scomp-links to communicate with the ship, or resetting the terminal's to display information and controls in nonstandard ways that the droids found easiest to use. The Uffelian commander rotated his head to bring his icy stare on the lieutenant.


“The shuttle's occupants are dead,” noted the Commodore.


“How?” questioned the man.


“I do not know for sure,” admitted N835, “I can only tell you what our sensors can see. They see no more lifeforms on that ship. Lieutenant, I need you elsewhere. I have instructed N987 to prepare a CG-10 for your use. You will join the other craft being launched from the squadron to collect the escape pods. I realize this may seem...somewhat odd as you humans are want to say, but I think it necessary that the survivors see a human face, at least an organic one, among those rescuing them. Be conspicuously present.”


“Yes sir.”


The liaison officer strolled out of the bridge, followed by a pair of federal C1s who awaited him just outside of the bridge foyer doors. The man spared a glance at both of them, but the droids had become strangely silent ever since being stationed within the droid fleet. While it had become normal behavior among them, it still unsettled the officer, perhaps wondering if they had become like the other droids, communicating in silent bursts of code between the two of them. As they entered a lift that would take them to the artillery cruiser's hangar, he cleared his throat .


“Do you two have any knowledge about the Mining Guild?”


“Negative.”


“Negative.”


The man blinked. I have forgotten that not all droids are on N835's level of intelligence or thought. These two may be able to protect me, but could they ever really take the place of the camaraderie of real people? He scratched his chin as the lift came to a halt. Perhaps real personalities would be more fitting...He shrugged the thoughts away as the lift doors snapped open to reveal the relatively cramped hangar of N835's flagship. A N-series droid marched over to the trio and handed the young lieutenant a datapad.


“My name is N987, chief pilot aboard the La Couronne. The Commodore has instructed me to take you along with me on my mission to rescue the survivors in the escape pods. Commodore N835 instructed that I give this to you to help take notes from the survivors as we pick them. If you will please follow me, we will join the other vessels in recovery operations.”
 

Two days later...


Dozens of Mining Guild officials and a handful of Confederation naval personnel shuffled out of the room; their debriefing of the subsequent hi-jacking and rescue of the Mining Guild personnel complete, leaving only two figures sitting in the room.


Seldom were two such opposites encountered in the La Couronne's conference rooms.


The spindly silver droid stood stiffly in his chair, his blue photo-receptors eying a corpulent man whose sweat and grease-stained business suit belied his refined taste and business acumen. One coldly plotted the tactics and strategies to liberate and defend peoples; the other plotted typically plotted the tactics and strategies to enslave and advance materialism over the people they encountered. But both war and business made strange bedfellows. The man shifted his eyes away from the droid down to his datapad, finally breaking off their staring contest.


“This isn't quite what I had in mind you know. I didn't plan their rebellion,” quipped Reginald McIntyre, leaning back in the conference room's chair.


Commodore N835's blue photo-receptors stared at the man intently, “Indeed. But we are still at step one then. If the rebels do now control Gamor as you say, we will have to change the plans. You will be unable to keep your end of the bargain after the Confederation has already put it's fair share in.”


The Mining Guild officer shrugged, “What do you want me to do about it? The Reavers already decimated much of our fleet, we don't have the resources to fight back the rebels, nor the political capital. It's not as if your people can simply barge into the system and take your stuff back. Take my advice, it's best if you cut your losses.”


“Bacta is not cheap...”


“I know it's not. I wanted to give you the payment, but the rebels have it now, along with most of my ships. I do thank you kindly for the rescue, don't get me wrong. I will try and convince the board of directors to give you a script that will repay you the bacta once the Mining Guild is better on its feet.”


“Do the rebels know about the bacta or its location?”


McIntyre threw up his hands, “How I am to know that? It's not as if I know who all of these rebels are, or where they came from...I know that at least some of them were in the auxilliary portions of the Guild planetary defense forces there, so I suppose it's a possibility.”


“The Council will never allow this.”


“Your Council may not have much of a choice. I do not have the authorization to pay you in any other way. I'm sorry Commodore.”


“Sorry does not magically put a bunch of credits in our federal budget.”


“Well that's just rich. I thought you guys always tried to be the good guys, but something's changed with you all, now that you've left the Coalition. You've become mercenary.”


“Economic deals are mercenary by their very nature,” chided N835, “and that's what makes us different from GC. The Confederation does good for its people and those around it, but it does have moral boundaries that it will enforce and will not be trampled on. If you will not correct the situation for us promptly, I will start by other means.”


“You're going to invade them?”


“I will talk reason to them, and possibily negotiate an understanding with the rebels. Would the Mining Guild care to take part in it?”


McIntyre stroked his chin, “Personally, I would; if nothing more to find out more about them. But officially, I will have to talk to my superiors. You do understand, of course. But of course, you too will have to through your own superiors to get approval for that.”


N835 didn't move or speak.


Reginald quietly swore, “You knew how this would go.”


“I had my guesses,” admitted the droid.


“CSIS...”


“I do not need an intelligence agency to tell me what is logically probabilities,” repudiated the droid commander, “I simply requested leeway in my orders shortly after I encountered the rebels...”
 

Several days later...


Suffren-class Cruiser La Couronne, Gamor System


The artillery cruiser cruised through the black ocean towards of a ball of ashen gray mottled with streaks of yellow-orange. Behind N835's flagship, a host of other vessels from the Cularin squadron escorted a quartet of Styria-class Galleons from the CMF. As the augmented Confederate squadron edged ever closer to Gamor, Lieutenant Ryols found himself wondering how and why anyone would want to live on such a forsaken and desolate looking world. If the heat and ash doesn't get you, the toxic fumes will, but I suppose location can make a wreck of a world valuable real estate for someone out there...the crazies...His comlink chirped. He briefly fumbled the datapad he was holding before answering the call.


“Lieutenant Ryols speaking.”


A disembodied voice, clearly that of a droid, droned out the comlink, “Lieutenant Ryols, your Centaur is ready to launch at your convenience.”


“Thank you N987, I'll be down there shortly, as soon as I have some better intelligence.”


“Understood sir.”


He ran a set of fingers through his exceedingly short hair. I'd rather not go down there at all. It's probably safer here than on a tiny ship like that, but I suppose it is command experience...Perhaps I took a little too much initiative last time...They say no good deed goes unpunished...The man from Genarius picked up his datapad and strolled over to the droid commander.


“Any word from Gamor, sir?”


The droid only spun his head about to face the man, “Verbally, no. But the space lanes are clear and there is no other traffic to or from that world. They know we are going coming, but perhaps they are unsure of how to act.”


“I will guess then that we have no new intelligence then.”


The droid rotated its head back to face the viewport, “That is your job Lieutenant. Reconnaissance in force. That will be all.”


“Yes sir.”


The man clicked his heels and strolled away towards the turbolift. The doors swished shut behind him, whisking him away yet again to the hangar accompanied by his guardian C1s. I wonder how he thinks about the concept of death. Does it occur to him that we are risking my life by this action? That he might ever see me again? Surely he has to know by some sort of way, or maybe that's something they took from him to make him a better, no, a more level-headed and calculating commander...The thoughts melted away as he entered the hangar and approached the lead craft. N987 strolled half-way down the ramp and spared a glance at the commissioned officer.


“Any word sir?”


Ryols shook his head, “Nothing new. Ready to buzz Gamor?”


“Yes sir.”


They all clambered back onboard N835's personal transport. Ryols followed N987 to the cockpit, where yet another N-series droid acting as the co-pilot had begun to power up the ship for launch by flipping an assortment of switches and turning several knobs and dials. The ship began to hum to life. Repulsors whined and lifted the craft off the starship's deck before dropping it out of the cruiser's ventral hangar bay into the depths of space. The heavily armed transport jetted forward, followed by the rest of the La Couronne's complement of CG-10s. Ryols grabbed a standard issue crew headset and adjusted it to comfortably fit his head, just in time to hear the last of the ship ready acknowledgements.


He quietly swore as the quartet of craft left the umbrella of the fleet's defenses to close the gap. While the La Couronne had already used its powerful sensor array to gather information the world, there were still blind spots caused by moons and spaceborne debris which it could not penetrate even with its sensors. These had already been somewhat lessened by placing an Stellar Industries drone in orbit, but even then, their sensor coverage was not complete, nor noticeably present to the residents of Gamor.


But that was all about to change.
 

Minutes seemed to pass as the Colonial-built starships continued to sail towards the dark world. The time can't by fast enough...He peeked at the sensor screen, but few blips appeared. Most of those that did were weak. According to the feed being streamed by the drone, most of those blips were merely orbital satellites, though it appeared that several were automated shuttles and drone barges; neither of which should pose a threat to the incoming Confederate group. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and ran that hand across his pant's leg. N987 swiveled his head to stare into the man's eye.


“New sensor contacts, sir.”


The lieutenant frowned as he glanced at the screen, “I don't see any in front of us.”


“They are behind the squadron, the whole fleet,” replied N987, rapidly punching in a series of commands.


Sure enough, a group of sensor contacts had appeared behind the Confederate fleet, on the same vector that N835 had taken the Confederate squadron into the system. Ryols stroked his chin. There are two possibilities here. Either they were waiting for us to jump in, and then come in behind to corner and ambush us, or they were elsewhere and have scrambled in here to protect their world. Either case puts their ships at our rear, and with the La Couronne's weapons primary being in a forward arc, we are a bit more vulnerable in our situation...He tapped a button on his headset.


“Any new orders, Commodore?”


“Negative,” replied the distant droid, “continue with your mission but be prepared to receive new orders. I will be patching your channel through so that you can hear the conversation I am about to begin with their commander.”


“Roger that sir.”


A slight beep emanated into his ears followed by a waiting signal as the La Couronne hailed the other vessel, the Mining Guild analogue that the rebels had previously taken over. He blankly stared at Gamor as it began to loom in his viewport. It's too bad I only have audio...


“This is Commodore N835 of the Confederation defense forces. To whom am I speaking?”


“Commodore, you are speaking to Krag, acting commander of the Gamor People's Army. Why have you entered our system in such force?”


“Krag, you have something of ours that we want back.”


“The cargo you gave the Guild,” suggested Krag, “we cannot give it back. It has already been used on those affected by the outbreak groundside.”


“You do know that the Guild's payment to the Confederation was in your ship. We have not been paid for that bacta, as such, legally that is Confederate bacta.”


“Was Confederation bacta,” sighed Krag, “I do not know of any payment onboard this vessel. If we had it, I would give it to you. There should be no harm to those that trade honestly.”


Ryol raised an eyebrow. Interesting. They do not appear to be overtly hostile to us. Perhaps they wish to reconsider their initial actions seeing our strength, or there is more to this than meets the eyes. Perhaps there is another player that we do not know about...Yet the Commodore's voice came back unfazed.


“I spoke to Reginald McIntyre, perhaps you can recall his face. He stated that the payment was in eight duraplast crates in hold A4.”


“There was nothing in hold A4 when I took over this ship. I do not trust you take my word on that, Commodore, though I would give it to you.”


“I would like to meet with you, Krag, and perhaps work out a solution to our quarrel. I also have Reginald McIntyre onboard my vessel. He too would like to have a word with you, if you are willing to meet him.”


“Very well Commodore, I will meet you, but not Mister McIntyre. I see that you have several gunships already in orbit around Gamor. They will notice that there is a commercial freight depot in orbit over the northern pole of our world. If you would like to have them scout out the station to ensure that it is safe and to your liking, we can meet there to talk. I ask that you take your vessels no farther into our system. I too will leave my vessels, aside from a shuttle with which to transport myself to the station, in our current positions.”


“That is suitable. Commodore N835 out.”


The channel made a quick popping sound before N835's metallic voice came back on.


“Lieutenant Ryols, we do see such a station on our sensors from here. Investigate it immediately. I will be recalling two of your vessels back to the La Couronne to ferry myself and Mister McIntyre.”


Ryols frowned, “I didn't think the two of them were going to talk...”


“I might not give them that option,” decided the droid, “one of them is likely lying and I intend to find out which one of them it is...”
 

Orbital Station MGG-8, in orbit via Gamor


Several hours had passed after Ryols had landed on the old Telgorn-built platform. He had inspected it accompanied by his pair of guardian C1s in a matter of minutes and had found it substantially dull place. At one point, perhaps even as few as several days ago, it had been a Mining Guild ore transport point. Yet now, he had found no-one, not even a cleaning droid, aboard the flower-shaped structure. The only thing unusual he had found aboard the station was an abnormal about of a red chalky substance which covered most of the internal bays, which hand-held sensors had indicated was most likely dust from Hfredium ore mined from the world resting beneath them. He almost leaned up against the hold's bay but caught himself.


“I don't get it N987,” murmured the man, “who do you think is lying?”


“It is possible that it is neither,” suggested the droid, “that there is a third party involved that neither of them are aware of.”


“Doubt it,” said the man from Genarius, “I mean, on a world somewhere, or maybe even on a large ship, sure. But on a ship that size? There weren't that many people on a ship to have a population large enough to move that many crates somewhere else without one of them knowing about it...”


“I do not sir. I am not a detective,” replied the droid, pointing a silver finger to distant speck that appeared out of the hangar's mag-con field, “but I do know that is one of our vessels.”


Sure enough, the speck grew into two objects, which in turn grew into the pair of CG-10s that Commodore N835 had withdrawn from Ryol's group back to the fleet. They passed through the field with the characteristic pop of the containment field to land right behind the two other CG-10s already onboard the station. As they did, another vessel swooped in to enter the field: a gray Mneffe-class superluminal shuttle. Rare to see a vessel that old these days, but it looks like it's in pretty good shape. Maybe the Mining Guild had it stashed away somewhere as old surplus before the rebels took over...The winged craft drifted over to the opposite side of the hangar and began to set down. As it did, Ryols found himself following in N987's wake to meet the lowering ramp of the lead CG-10. Before the ramp had completely lowered, Commodore N835 had already stepped off the ramp and had began walking towards the rebel's craft. The droid commander spared a quick glance at the man.


“I trust nothing has changed since our last communication.”


“No sir.”


“Good,” affirmed the droid, coming to a stop in front of the civilian shuttle.


A brief spout of air hissed out of the side of the craft as a door slid open to reveal Krag, an almost human-looking being with strangely tinted orange hair and large charcoal-colored eyes. He still wore a Mining Guild uniform, though its original Mining Guild insignia was now covered by patches of red cloth. He eyed them both intently before stepping off his craft.


“I see that none of you have drawn your weapons,” stated the humanoid, “I take that as a good sign. I have something for you as well. This datapad has the security camera footage and cargo manifest of the Wayfarer before I assumed command of it.”


N835 snagged the datapad and handed it off to N987 before turning back to the rebel, “I will have my staff take a look at the pad immediately. If it does match your story, I ensure you that no harm will come to you, and that the Mining Guild will have some explaining to do...That is, of course, that we find no evidence of tampering.”


“You will find none,” replied Krag, surveying the station, “but even with our innocence, we still do need to pay you for the bacta. I had hoped that there would still be some ore aboard the station to show you what we could pay you with, but it would appear that some of the Guild escaped with it during our revolution. We would pay you back in ores matched to their fair going price for bacta on the open market, though it would take time. I wish for you to know that your bacta saved many lives of our people. It is unfortunate that we had to pay so many of our own to get a hold of it.”


Ryols frowned, “What do you mean? Was your revolution to cure the sickness?”


“In a manner of speaking,” replied the man, “my people, the Gamors, began to contract a wasting sickness several weeks after the Mine Worker's Union had begun their strikes and walkouts. The negotiations between my people and the Mining Guild had stalled. We were at an impasse. Then suddenly, it swept over many of the strikers as they picketed the Gaochor Mine, perhaps the jewel of the Mining Guild's holdings here. They stay a Mining Guild starship flew over them and sprayed a weird mist on them as it headed to the local star port. Then they began to waste away. None of our doctors had ever encountered the disease before, so we had no treatments for it. The Mining Guild offered to procure bacta to cure disease, if we would stop the strike and return to work with a few, minor demands of people met. But it was too little, and we knew who had given us the sickness, so we struck back, seized the bacta, and cured those of us who had been infected. And here we are now, with my people preparing for war against the Mining Guild as we speak.”


“Sir,” announced N987, “I have completed my review of the datapad's records, as well as that of the local newsnet, as have several crewmembers. Krag appears to be telling the truth.”


“Krag, I will be forward with you,” stated the Commodore, “I do have Reginald McIntyre onboard the other transport you see there. I will go now interview him to see his side of the story, and to see if there any...flaws in his story that do not add up. If I find that he is lying to me, he and the Mining Guild will have a lot of explaining to do. Justice will be served.”


“May I make a question of Krag, sir?” said Ryols.


“Certainly,” replied N835, “assuming Krag does not mind.”


“I do not.”


“If Krag here is right,” started Ryols, “then why did he and the other rebels attack us initially?”


Krag frowned, “It was intended to be a demonstration of strength. McIntyre had informed the crew that we were rendezvousing with Mining Guild allies who were going to “fix” his problems on Gamor. Myself and the other rebels took that to mean mercenaries. We did not expect to encounter the Confederation, though in hindsight, it would make more sense now. At the time, we did not know the source of the miracle medicine with which he promised to cure us in exchange for our loyalty. You have my most sincere apologies for attacking you. We did not mean to incite a war with the Confederation.”


“I accept them,” decided the Commodore, “I find it highly logical that the Mining Guild would and likely will hire mercenaries to attack your system, especially right now in their weakened state.”


Ryols held up a hand, “Sorry to interrupt sir, but if Krag and his people were wronged, and they're willing to pay us back for the bacta, shouldn't we try to help them? The galaxy needs governments that look after their people and try to do right, especially to other governments. Perhaps even membership in the Confederation?”


“Could such a thing be arranged?” questioned Krag, “It goes without saying that membership would likely prevent an attack on my people...”


“Lieutenant Ryols,” stated the droid, “I do not have the permission to induct Gamor into the Confederation, though the CMF captain in my squadron would, assuming his story checks out.”


“Then let us not waste time,” said Krag.
 

Orbital Station MGG-8, in orbit via Gamor


Several hours had passed after Ryols had landed on the old Telgorn-built platform. He had inspected it accompanied by his pair of guardian C1s in a matter of minutes and had found it substantially dull place. At one point, perhaps even as few as several days ago, it had been a Mining Guild ore transport point. Yet now, he had found no-one, not even a cleaning droid, aboard the flower-shaped structure. The only thing unusual he had found aboard the station was an abnormal about of a red chalky substance which covered most of the internal bays, which hand-held sensors had indicated was most likely dust from Hfredium ore mined from the world resting beneath them. He almost leaned up against the hold's bay but caught himself.


“I don't get it N987,” murmured the man, “who do you think is lying?”


“It is possible that it is neither,” suggested the droid, “that there is a third party involved that neither of them are aware of.”


“Doubt it,” said the man from Genarius, “I mean, on a world somewhere, or maybe even on a large ship, sure. But on a ship that size? There weren't that many people on a ship to have a population large enough to move that many crates somewhere else without one of them knowing about it...”


“I do not sir. I am not a detective,” replied the droid, pointing a silver finger to distant speck that appeared out of the hangar's mag-con field, “but I do know that is one of our vessels.”


Sure enough, the speck grew into two objects, which in turn grew into the pair of CG-10s that Commodore N835 had withdrawn from Ryol's group back to the fleet. They passed through the field with the characteristic pop of the containment field to land right behind the two other CG-10s already onboard the station. As they did, another vessel swooped in to enter the field: a gray Mneffe-class superluminal shuttle. Rare to see a vessel that old these days, but it looks like it's in pretty good shape. Maybe the Mining Guild had it stashed away somewhere as old surplus before the rebels took over...The winged craft drifted over to the opposite side of the hangar and began to set down. As it did, Ryols found himself following in N987's wake to meet the lowering ramp of the lead CG-10. Before the ramp had completely lowered, Commodore N835 had already stepped off the ramp and had began walking towards the rebel's craft. The droid commander spared a quick glance at the man.


“I trust nothing has changed since our last communication.”


“No sir.”


“Good,” affirmed the droid, coming to a stop in front of the civilian shuttle.


A brief spout of air hissed out of the side of the craft as a door slid open to reveal Krag, an almost human-looking being with strangely tinted orange hair and large charcoal-colored eyes. He still wore a Mining Guild uniform, though its original Mining Guild insignia was now covered by patches of red cloth. He eyed them both intently before stepping off his craft.


“I see that none of you have drawn your weapons,” stated the humanoid, “I take that as a good sign. I have something for you as well. This datapad has the security camera footage and cargo manifest of the Wayfarer before I assumed command of it.”


N835 snagged the datapad and handed it off to N987 before turning back to the rebel, “I will have my staff take a look at the pad immediately. If it does match your story, I ensure you that no harm will come to you, and that the Mining Guild will have some explaining to do...That is, of course, that we find no evidence of tampering.”


“You will find none,” replied Krag, surveying the station, “but even with our innocence, we still do need to pay you for the bacta. I had hoped that there would still be some ore aboard the station to show you what we could pay you with, but it would appear that some of the Guild escaped with it during our revolution. We would pay you back in ores matched to their fair going price for bacta on the open market, though it would take time. I wish for you to know that your bacta saved many lives of our people. It is unfortunate that we had to pay so many of our own to get a hold of it.”


Ryols frowned, “What do you mean? Was your revolution to cure the sickness?”


“In a manner of speaking,” replied the man, “my people, the Gamors, began to contract a wasting sickness several weeks after the Mine Worker's Union had begun their strikes and walkouts. The negotiations between my people and the Mining Guild had stalled. We were at an impasse. Then suddenly, it swept over many of the strikers as they picketed the Gaochor Mine, perhaps the jewel of the Mining Guild's holdings here. They stay a Mining Guild starship flew over them and sprayed a weird mist on them as it headed to the local star port. Then they began to waste away. None of our doctors had ever encountered the disease before, so we had no treatments for it. The Mining Guild offered to procure bacta to cure disease, if we would stop the strike and return to work with a few, minor demands of people met. But it was too little, and we knew who had given us the sickness, so we struck back, seized the bacta, and cured those of us who had been infected. And here we are now, with my people preparing for war against the Mining Guild as we speak.”


“Sir,” announced N987, “I have completed my review of the datapad's records, as well as that of the local newsnet, as have several crewmembers. Krag appears to be telling the truth.”


“Krag, I will be forward with you,” stated the Commodore, “I do have Reginald McIntyre onboard the other transport you see there. I will go now interview him to see his side of the story, and to see if there any...flaws in his story that do not add up. If I find that he is lying to me, he and the Mining Guild will have a lot of explaining to do. Justice will be served.”


“May I make a question of Krag, sir?” said Ryols.


“Certainly,” replied N835, “assuming Krag does not mind.”


“I do not.”


“If Krag here is right,” started Ryols, “then why did he and the other rebels attack us initially?”


Krag frowned, “It was intended to be a demonstration of strength. McIntyre had informed the crew that we were rendezvousing with Mining Guild allies who were going to “fix” his problems on Gamor. Myself and the other rebels took that to mean mercenaries. We did not expect to encounter the Confederation, though in hindsight, it would make more sense now. At the time, we did not know the source of the miracle medicine with which he promised to cure us in exchange for our loyalty. You have my most sincere apologies for attacking you. We did not mean to incite a war with the Confederation.”


“I accept them,” decided the Commodore, “I find it highly logical that the Mining Guild would and likely will hire mercenaries to attack your system, especially right now in their weakened state.”


Ryols held up a hand, “Sorry to interrupt sir, but if Krag and his people were wronged, and they're willing to pay us back for the bacta, shouldn't we try to help them? The galaxy needs governments that look after their people and try to do right, especially to other governments. Perhaps even membership in the Confederation?”


“Could such a thing be arranged?” questioned Krag, “It goes without saying that membership would likely prevent an attack on my people...”


“Lieutenant Ryols,” stated the droid, “I do not have the permission to induct Gamor into the Confederation, though the CMF captain in my squadron would, assuming his story checks out.”


“Then let us not waste time,” said Krag.