Bartyn's Landing


The driving rain threw itself against the weather beaten steel girders of Bartyn's Landing.

The township was built in the cannibalized remains of an old deep space cargo hauler. It sat on the very edge of land with its radial arms extending well out in to the choppy sea. Bartyn's Landing managed to remain a sleepy fishing and mining community. A population of fishermen, miners and their families called The Landing home. Merchants and traders were want to come and go with the seasons. Small scale commerce thrived on The Landing seeing fishermen and miners selling their goods seasonally to off world merchant traders. A myriad of tradesmen and women also called The Landing home, trading and exchanging goods and services with the larger population of fishermen and miners. Government in The Landing was a non-entity. The citizenry ruled themselves and were overseen by a gang of criminals calling themselves The Star Slammers. A black market enterprise run by the Star Slammers ensured reputable businesses stayed away leaving the The Landing largely to its own affairs. Even in a galaxy torn by war, invasion and infection life on Bartyn's Landing continued much as it had for centuries.

Thunder clapped and lightning flashed. Outside a storm was raging.

Deep within the bowels of the town hidden from the storm a meeting was taking place.

“You can't do this,” said a gnarled old Mon Cal. “It's too much.”

The aliens carapace shifted beneath its clothes, “And what about our cut?”

Across from the fish eyed creature stood an armoured and helmeted figure. The ubiquitous slit-faced helmet stared back emotionless. It crossed its arms across the tusked and skull shaped tattoo painted on its chest piece, tilted its helmet forward and sighed.

“The Star Slammers can be replaced,” spoke a distinctly male voice from beneath the helm. “Your cut is what we decide to give you.”

The Mon Cal ruffled visibly, “It's not fair, Fett.”

“Look,” the voice seemed to soften. “Taxes are going up and there's nothing to be done about it. You and the Slammers can play ball or get benched by the Guild. Deal with it.”

“And the boys?” The red-hued fish man asked. “What if they won't tow the line?”

“That's your job,” Fett snapped. “If you can't buy them off with what's left...”

Fett, scanned the ceiling with indifference gaving the appearance of contemplation. His gloved hand stroked the “chin” of his helmet.

“Take it from them,” he gestured vastly encompassing the township. “Just keep it regulated.”

This seemed to satisfy the Mon Cal who, clucking his fish-lips, nodded. “I can work with that.”

“You better,” put Fett simply.

With that he turned abruptly and stalked off in to the shadowy depths.

The Mon Cal smiled to himself. In the distance the storm raged on ever gaining strength.

“Sounds like a hurricane coming,” the alien observed, making good its own exit. “Storm's a comin'”




StarForge Station


The station was a ghost town.

War had come to the galaxy and the station moved deeper in to the nebula it called home. Its population had vanished almost over night. Only those unwilling to move on remained. The shops had closed up. The merchants and traders had moved on. The tradesmen and builders were gone seeking better jobs. The beggars and panhandlers were gone in search of greener pastures and its once busy shipyards were occupied with the flightless hulls of ships unable to escape the nebula. The same was true for the stations refinery, its foundries cold.

Radiation and star dust saturated the station.

A lone figure patrolled the station.

His task was a simple one; to protect and preserve the station.

He alone maintained the stations systems and scanned the nebula. He alone protected the station and its assets. He alone stalked the halls and streets of the station. He alone watched the nebula searching for signs of trouble. He alone was Skurge.

The massive Gen'Dai warrior had come to think of the station as his own. He had come to think of its ships and systems as his own and he protected them fiercely. In reality, however; he was only steward, charged with the protection of the station and all aboard. Skurge understood his responsibility – that he stood between the Guild and... everything else.

“One day,” he recited to himself. “He will return and claim what is his.”

“One day... soon”





Concord Dawn


Beff Pike, President of the Bounty Hunters Guild, smiled.

“Mr. Pike?”

He turned, “Yes?”

“My name is...”

Pike interrupted, “Totally beyond import. Do you have the documents?”

“Signed, sealed and delivered,” the other, dressed in the uniform of an Imperial Moff handed Pike a bundle of data-pads. “Everything you need is here.”

He tapped the stack with his spare hand extending the package to the bounty hunter.

“Good,” Pike said, taking the package.

“I was instructed to remind you,” the Imperial started saying.

Pike, having tucked the documents away, caught the Moff with a cautious glance and cut in, “To remind me not to kill you where you stand?”

He fingered the blaster slung at his hip, “I have just murdered and Emperor. Who are you to remind me of anything?”

The Moff, clearly unused to this sort of brash attitude, blanched. He stammered, searching for the words though his eyes never left the bounty hunters blaster.

“You're new to this,” Pike went on. “I get that.”

He turned, “But this is mine now and I'll remind you, you are trespassing.”

The Moff turned messenger seemed to get the point and, snapping off a quick nod, turned sharply on his heels. Pike watched, that amused smirk returning to his lips, as the Imperial climbed the ramp to his shuttle. He stood, that arrogant smirk painted on his lips, and watched as the craft shot in to the atmosphere.

Once again, Concord Dawn was under his thumb.

Beff Pike was back.

Port No Port


It had been a planet, once.

That was a very long time ago.

On the very edge of the galaxy, so far out it could look upon the black nothing beyond the galaxies edge, the pirate haven of Port No Port orbited a small and dying star. The planet itself had died eons ago and only its dense iron core remained. At the very edge of its primaries gravitational pull, it was subject to an elliptical orbit of extreme proportions and it was only by virtue of the density of that iron core that it maintained enough gravity of its own not to go spinning off in to space. No more then a couple of hundred kilometres across, the molten core had cooled too quickly for it to assume a spherical shape. It shared more in common with a comet then a planet.

And yet, in spite of its extreme remoteness and hostility beings lived here.

Port No Port was built in to the craggy, cavernous surface of the planet. Through some miracle of physics and technology a dense atmosphere was present deeper down and this was where the residents had set up shop. A network of buildings, mostly salvaged bits of space-craft and some purpose made modular units, peeked through a thick, omnipresent haze and though the sun never shone here the brilliant boreales lit up the sky. Landing pads and warehouses dominated the low-atmosphere zone, accessible enough that even large craft could make planet-fall. The “town” itself was home to a cantina, an inn, a town hall and not much else.

Popular with pirates and smugglers, “No Port” as they called it, was so far removed from galactic affairs that it tended to attract a particular kind of being.

There was only one street and it ran the length of the town, the cantina and inn opposite the town hall at its centre. A number of warehouses and prefabricated buildings with modular additions stretched away and up the street towards an arrangement of assorted landing pads. The ground was bare without any soil to speak of, the buildings had to be anchored to the hard iron-rich rock. Aside from the sentient population, which was largely transient, the Port was home to bacteria and lichen, transplanted here accidentally and able to thrive in the low lying atmosphere giving the illusion of an ever present moisture, a dank wetness not unlike a coastal port.

It had not always been like this and that was thanks to one woman; Lancia Hasheeni.

She had adopted the surname with the passing of her husband. Since that time she'd implemented a number of changes and this was the result. Lancia now ruled the Port though her loyal Hasheeni, warriors faithfully loyal to her and trained in the ancient assassination techniques of their ancestors. Gone was the religious fanaticism, replaced with a fervent loyalty to criminality. They, as a people, were as much changed as the Port itself had been and it was all down to her; Lancia, Queen of The Port.

It had all be down to plan, to his plan.

Lancia smiled at the hologram. She cocked her head, lips parted slightly, and said, “Beff!”

The hologram, a bust of the man on the other end, smirked and asked, “You were expecting someone else?”

“Never know,” she quipped without missing a beat. “What's new?”

News, so far out, was always welcome; good or otherwise. It was rare enough that the holo-net worked, this far out. Word of mouth was priceless. Literally. The reliability of the holo-net was evidenced by the grainy, low resolution hologram which flickered frequently.

“The galaxy is at war,” Pike shrugged. “There's plague and genocide. Nothing new, really.”

He was, she knew, being deliberately evasive. Regardless, she wanted to get as much as she could out of him before getting to the point. She pressed, “War? With who now? And who'd be bothered about genocide these days anyway?”

Pike spared a chuckle, “The bad guys aren't from around here and they're culling force-types.”

“Jedi?” She gasped, “Or Sith?”

“Both,” he put simply. “Which is maybe not a bad thing.”

“We're talking business?” Lancia leaned in. “I'm ready to work.”

“I know it, kid.” He paused, “Here's what I need...”





Orleon


Viceroy Gilad reclined in his mechno-chair.

The chair responded by shifting to compensate for the shifting weight with its mechanical legs.

With a sigh the Neimoidian took in his new office. It was, he noted, bigger.

“But is it bigger enough?” He asked himself aloud.

Starstriker Corporation was doing very well. That was an understatement. Starstriker Corporation was posting record profits. War, the Viceroy noted, was good for business On one hand, he had countless contracts with independent governments and corporations in the face of the Cree'Ar invasion forces and on the other he had the privateers and contractors buying up his goods left and right because of the Reaver threat.

Their coffers were full to overflowing.

Gilads office reflected that. Status, he had come to realize, was also good for business In that light, his sharp business acumen told him that while it was ostentatious and luxurious, it wasn't really for him. It was all for the business He wanted his clients and potential clients to see in him the success of his corporation. The company had just moved its main administrative headquarters to a newly built sky hook anchored to the planet below and within eye shot of the also newly minted shipyards there.

“It is the largest office,” a diminutive, fat bellied droid supplied helpfully.

“It will do,” Gilad conceded. “I don't imagine I will ever be here more then a few hours a day...”

And, in mid thought, his mechno-chair chimed.

“Hello?” Gilad asked, tapping a button. “Go ahead please.”

“So polite, Viceroy. You answer your own line?”

The voice, Gilad considered, was familiar. He paused.

“No,” answered the Viceroy. “This is a private line, actually.”

“I guess that means I'm somebody important then, does it?” The voice asked, amused.

“Oh,” Gilad gasped. “Yes, of course.”

Frantically waving a hand, the Viceroy motioned the droid out of his office continuing once the doors whooshed shut.

“Is this a secure line?” He asked.

“Enough,” answered the voice. “We have business to discuss.”

“Of course,” Gilad physically bowed while simultaneously reaching for a data-pad. “Go ahead, Sir.”

“Ships, Gilad,” the voice sounded annoyed. “How many do you have?”

“Now?” He did not wait for a reply, realizing the question rhetorical. With quick fingers he called up a display. He read out the information aloud, naming ships in transit for delivery, nearing completion in the yards, and awaiting delivery. His manner was polite and businesslike.

“Good,” the voice said, pleased. “All of it.”

“Very well,” Gilad tapped at his pad. “I will have the documentation prepared.”

The line went dead.

Gilad sighed again.

It had been nice, he reflected, being able to enjoy such a positive corporate image. With war on the horizon, planets reeling and populations in fear, the Starstriker Corporation was providing safety and security to its customers. Ships were needed to fight off the Reaver plague, to put the Cree'Ar within striking distance and to stabilize governments on the verge of collapse. The galaxy was a dangerous place and Viceroy Gilad had built a company that, in these dark times, was a beacon on safety.

But, that was all about to change.

His customers would be outraged at him, taking their ships and selling them to someone else. It wouldn't take long, he'd gamble, for his other clients to dig up the truth and bust his dummy corporations, the ones fronting his financier, wide open. Then, with his name smeared, the corporation would either die, or have to find a new market.

Unless, Gilad paused amidst his mental ramblings, he could come up with a way to do what was called of him and keep his company in the right light.

Slowly, he plotted, a plan...





New Underground


“Looks like refugee camp,” observed Skurge.

“Smells like one too,” replied the pilot, a Gran, laughing. “Worse.”

The alien steered the hover-craft in a wide arc around the slum that was New Underground. Built in the hollows of a giant asteroid, New Underground had become a refuge for those displaced by the Cree'Ar or the Reavers and who were lucky enough to find it. Deep within the asteroid field it called home, New Underground was difficult to reach in anything larger then a skiff. It was off the beaten trail, but near enough that those who knew how could find it. It was not, however; safe.

Gangs, made up of the diverse races currently calling it home controlled New Underground. The gangs ruled the people and fought each other. The Bothans sided with the Bothans, the Calamari with the Calamari and so on and so on. Initially planned for a population of under a hundred thousand souls, it was home now to five times as many. There was no infrastructure, no economy beyond the black market. Food and water were shipped in and sold at inflated prices. Simply living was extortion. The drug trade was strong, of course and the only safety to be had was in the gangs. New Underground had become a shanty-town filled to bursting with displaced and faceless souls.

The pilot brought the skiff around, setting it down amidst a cluster of tents. Skurge, scenting the air, rumbled at the Gran, “You were right.”

Disembarking the jury-rigged skiff which was also half hover-sled, Skurge stepped in to the much and filth of New Underground. He was soon surrounded by a group of bedraggled Gran. They approached him wearily, eye stalks twitching noticeably. Some held crude, handmade weapons. His contact here, the pilot who had brought him in, had told the others he was coming and why. Just the same, they doubted his intentions.

The Gran controlled a small, yet pivotal piece of turf. Situated near the centre of the camp, they had in-roads with all the neighbouring species. Because of their “landlocked” position in the camp, however; everything that made it as far as their tents was either worn and broken beyond repair or indorinantly expensive. Skurge had chosen this group not only because of where they had set up shop but also because they were motivated and hard working.

One, among the others, came forward.

The Gran was old, haggard even. He moved slowly and with a limp.

“Good,” the old one grumbled at the pilot, thanking him for bringing the bounty hunter.

“Boy tells me you come.” The Gran stopped, looking the armoured giant over. “Change things for us?”

Skurge, a being of few words, got right to the point, “You do for me, I do for you.”

“I need... labourers, workers. You give me what I need, I'll give you what you need.”

The other reason Skurge had chosen the Gran; ruthlessness. They were willing to do whatever it took and they weren't looking to get off the rock either. Skurge had found in them, through their contact with him, a group ready and willing. He only needed to make them able. He planned to do just that.

“Your boy,” Skurge gestured, “talks about gangs. Racial gangs. Can you make a sit down happen? Bring them together.”

The old Gran contemplated.

“Be done,” he nodded. “Yes.”

“Tonight?” Skurge was on a schedule.

“Yes.”

That night, in the Gran camp, a meeting was held. It hadn't been easy to put together but the old Gran, a pillar of the community since before the refugees, had pulled out all the stops. He had offered up parts of his camp, made deals to let gangs pass through their turf and done everything short of selling his own people as slaves to make it happen. It would be the end of their camp if Skurge couldn't deliver but the old Gran, tired of seeing his people starve and die of plague, put his faith in the Gen'Dai and hoped for the best.

The Bothans were present, a cadre of black furred mongrels. Skurge had been told they were from a single family, displaced by the war, they had lost everything and been forced out of their home. He didn't know if it was true or not, but then again, he didn't really care. The Rodians too, kept to themselves. They had been quiet since entering the camp. Squibs, dwarfish and rodent-like, squabbled about. There were a few aquatic species which had banded together, their need for water driving them to extremes. And so on. All of the gangs had sent someone.

Eventually, the assembly came to some sort of order, their attention on Skurge.

“Listen up,” he demanded. “I'm gonna say this once.”

“I'm here to make you people an offer, one you don't want to say no to.”

There was a hush.

“You people, the ones able, are going to come work for me. You'll be paid and your families will be paid. The ones we take, come with us. The rest, stays here. In exchange, we bring the stuff you need, the stuff you want.”

“I'm taking as many as are able.”

Skurge fell silent, arms knitted over his massive chest.

The silence lasted a few seconds, his words sinking in. Once they did, however, the silence vanished. Conflicting voices rose, arguments breaking out among the gangs directed at one another and at Skurge. The mob, an unruly group at best, looked ready to attack. Skurge, arms still crossed, only waited. He didn't have to wait long.

The old Gran, while giving up his camp to the greedy gangs, had made a plan of his own – one with Skurge which was guaranteed to pay out in the short term. His people pressed from the back of the crowd, blaster rifles in hands. He had made a bargain, in the short term, that would ensure his people would either win... or die trying and Skurge had agreed. If the bounty hunters plan failed at the very least the Gran would be able to fight for new turf and if it worked, Skurge's plan, they'd be doubly rewarded.

They pressed their weapons in to their adversaries backs. This got everyone's attention.

The old Gran, speaking up suddenly, redirected it.

“A new order today,” the Gran declared. “We run things. You want listen...”

With a wave he called forward the younger skiff pilot.

“Some will work trades, those that have 'em or can learn 'em,” stated the younger Gran. “Others will get jobs cleaning, or selling stuff. It depends what you're good at.”

The voices started to rise again but, demonstrating a cool head, the young Gran only raised his own and went on.

“The ones that go work will get paid and so will their families back here. The company will send stuff for the families like food and water and other stuff too.”

And so it went for some hours. Eventually the gangs dispersed back to their camps and a sort of order which these beings had not beheld in ages fell over the camp. When the ships arrived the following morning and the hiring began, the people of New Underground accepted it with a calm, resolute grace. Many new that they were exchanging one hell for another. Others genuinely believed they'd have a better future, working for a living. None of it was legal, of course and the only documentation signed was penned at gunpoint. The people, as a whole, seemed to understand; it really couldn't get any worse and even if it only got a little better, it was something worthwhile.

The young and able boarded the transports, Starstriker freighters and liners of surprisingly new vintage. That gave some hope, the idea that with “new” came “reputable”. The others, parents some, children and the aged others, watched as thousands of their ilk were shipped off.

Aboard one of the transports Skurge called out the coordinates. Moments later the transports disappeared in to hyperspace bound for Starforge Station.





Starforge Station


Skurge was not an administrator. Nor was he a man of many words. Thankfully, some of his new staff was.

The Hasheeni had a singular way of dealing with people; their way or you're dead. They were doing a marvellous job with the new hires from New Underground.. Alongside the mercenary pirates and smugglers who had thrown their lot in with Starforge Station by way of Port No Port, they were just the sort of people Skurge needed to oversee a smooth transition for their valuable new employee base, to ensure that those with the proper skill sets were assigned to the proper work areas.

The shipyards would need staffing, and that would demand beings with technical skill and ability, as well as strong-backed manual labour force. Surely there would be, within their “labour pool” on New Underground those with with the necessary skills. But it went so much farther. To see the station brought back up to 100 % they would need people for other jobs, boring jobs and dangerous jobs... the sort of jobs slaves were intended for.

The sheer scope of it was beyond Skurge, and he knew it. So did Pike.

“I need you to maintain order out there, Skurge,” Pike's hologram said. Perched on the wrist of Skurge, the tiny holographic projection was coming from his gauntlet projector. The four inch tall Pike raised his hands at Skurge, “I have another job for you.”

“Soon,” added the hologram. “As soon as Jorel finishes up on Concord Dawn, I need you on Lamaredd...”

“The Landing?” Skurge asked.

“More recruiting,” Beff nodded. “Real talent, this time.”

Skurge chuckled, a deep and disturbing noise.





Concord Dawn


From behind his slit-faced helmet, Jorel Fett studied the assembled Journeyman Protectors.

He had arrived on Concord Dawn and immediately called a meeting of the Protectorate's upper eschlon. The hall in which they met was simply appointed; a large, round table at the centre of a circular room. The table, surrounded by a large number of chairs, bore the crest of the Journeyman Protectorate. Arranged around the table in various suits of armour traditionally ascribed to their organization were over a dozen figures.

They were silent and, behind their masks, stone faced.

None spoke until Fett broke the silence.

“Okay,” his helmet bowed, hands raised. “I'll say it...”

Palms down, pressing against the table, Fett stood, “Fuck your traditions.”

That did it.

“How dare you?” One helmeted figure asked.

“Impudent bastard,” another offered.

It went like this, around the table and back, until Fett put an end to it.

He drew his blaster, ever present on his hip less it be in his hand, levelled it and pulled the trigger.

One of the figures slumped forward, a small, smoking hole in his helmet.

“And I don't even care who,” Fett started as they fell suddenly quiet, “I just killed.”

“Look,” he went on, rounding the table and whirling his blaster. “I don't have time for all the traditional... stuff.”

“I'm on a schedule, and since I never really lost the job... as your boss,” he gestured at the group with the barrel of his blaster, “let's just pretend that everything that's happened since I left just didn't happen.”

“The Devaronian problem is solved. Why? Because we knew we'd be coming back here, working with the Protectorate and we're nice like that. You've gotten lucky with the Cree'Ar and the Reavers, but that could change at a moments notice and your old partners, they're too busy trying to hold the Empire together to really give two shakes.” At this, Fett clapped one of the others on the shoulder, “You've done good work here and we're not trying fuck anything up for you.”

“What do you want?” The armoured figure currently under Fetts grip, asked.

“The Guild is going to set up shop. Think of us like your number one corporation, we're only here for the money. Well, mostly the money. We need a face, you're it. We need a good, loyal population to recruit from. That sort of thing... business as usual, just like the old days.” He released the other, marching back to his own chair. “We just want to let you know, we're moving back in. That's all.”

“That's all very vague,” observed another. “We don't like vague.”

“Well,” Fett kicked back in his chair, tossing his boots on the table. “We do, and that's what really matters.”

“What are you offering?”

Fett laughed. He laughed hard, slapping his palms against the table.

“Offering? Nothing!”

“Well,” he relented, “okay. I'll offer you this...”

“You let us set up shop and do exactly as we want or we'll let... them come back.”

Jorel Fett, satisfied, stood up once more adding, “Think about it.”

And turning, to depart the chamber, Fett brought the Protectorate back on board.

Offered up as a final thank you, and recognition of the new order, someone in the chamber shouted, “Bloody Deathwatch!”





Bartyn's Landing


Skurge was a happy Gen'Dai.

The Journeyman Protectors, arriving on Starforge Station soon after the refugees, were the sign Pike had told him to wait for. The station was in good hands, he knew. Fett, on Concord Dawn, would have found all the old Guild loyalists, shipping them back to Starforge first. The issue of administration was solved; management through order. He was unsure if Fett had stayed on Concord Dawn or not, or was bound for the station. He didn't care.

Pike had left him with one task before leaving for Lamaredd. It was an honour, he realized, bestowed by the grandmaster of the Bounty Hunters Guild. Skurge had steered the station out of the nebula, to the very edge of the Star Forge where, once again, it could access the galactic holo-net and the hyperspace routes which passed near the nebula. It was the final step in restoring the station to functional status, a base of operations for the guild and as real estate to generate income; exploring other revenue avenues. It had also come with a big bonus.

Skurge had named the ship Scourge surprisingly. As a chief envoy of the guild, Skurge would need a reliable ship to get him around while conducting guild business The Starstriker freighter was large enough to accommodate Skurge and whatever he might need to transport yet small enough that he could crew the ship easily. Packed with a few guild goodies, Skurge had plans for the ship. For now, he was intent only on the next phase of his mission. It was also well armed, just in case.

Steering the ship to a soft touchdown on The Landing, Skurge soon had his ship docked and secured.

No sooner had he lowered the landing ramp then a Mon Cal and group of armed thugs arrived, waiting.

“You must be Skurge,” spoke the Mon Cal gruffly. “Fett told us you'd be coming.”

Skurge sized them up figuring he could take them all, easily. “Then you know why I'm here.”

“Sure do. And we're ready.”

For half a second the Gen'Dai thought they were going to draw on him. Instead, breaking, the Mon Cal turned on his heel and started away waving for Skurge to come. “I've got 'em lined up and waiting.”

Following the Mon Cal and his gang of toughs, Star Slammers he understood, in to a large structure near his landing pad Skurge was greeted with a pleasant sight. Lines of beings, sentients of various species, were patiently waiting for their chance. Skurge was glad of this, it meant his time on the planet wouldn't be limited to work. It meant that the gift Pike had left aboard the ship for Skurge was going to be used.

“Work first,” Skurge spoke aloud, though to himself.

“Play last.”





Mandalore


The ship was invisible.

Invisible and undetectable.

It lurked above Mandalore, waiting.

Aboard, biding his time, the man who would be king of the planet below recounted his position.

Starforge Station was back up and running, the guild once again had a home and proper headquarters. The residents of New Underground guaranteed a steady work force, people so close to slaves themselves that they need not be called slaves. In the Port of No Port, on the very edge of the galaxy, the guild had fall back point and valuable resource. So too was Bartyns Landing a resource, a place to recruit from, a junction of opportunity. Concord Dawn, a diverse and culturally rich world, was the face of the guild – a real, viable world that was the guilds connection to the civilized galaxy. And on Orleon, in the Starstriker Corporation, the guild had a silent partner providing the means to spread its influence.

Pike estimated himself a fairly lucky man; all of this at his fingertips.

Yet still, gazing at the planet below....

... more.

“Mandalore,” spoke the grandmaster bounty hunter, the guild president. “You're next...”