Nearing Clakor...

Bedazzled by the swirling starscape, Eryl stood before the single viewing port in the groups small room aboard the luxury starliner Beautiful Dream out of Clakor. His large pink dome of a head bobbing slightly as if drunk, which was in fact the case, with each low thrum of the hyperdrive. The vortex of hyperspace reflected in his large coal eyes.

"S'a funny thin'."

"Wassat?" Replied Ebyl, the stink of lum coming from not just his breath, but likely his tunic as well. "I don't see nuthin' funnty 'bout it."

"Oh... Yeah." Defeated, Eryl returned to staring vaguely out into space. He missed his sister, again.

In exchange for their passage aboard the vessel, the band had agreed to play in the main hall three times daily, preferring to bank their purse from the last stop. Unfortunately, it turned out as it usually did... Save for that in most cases, Esyl was right there along side her kin. Now however, she was not.

The ships captain, a tall gotal with a shiny coat, had taken a sheen to Esyl on the night the band first preformed aboard ship. From then on the two had been enjoying one another's company on a regular basis, dinners in the evenings, breakfasts in the morning and lunches in the mid-day. All a terrible pretense to be together...

Forgoing the inter-species complications, not one of the brothers could honestly recall a time when Esyl had been so... social. While she had always maintained the status as front-person for the band on and off stage, she had never been so flamboyant as they were witnessing, or rather not witnessing, on this voyage. Their courting though, did have its benefits.

Meals, rooms, and room-service were all being coped, though the brothers were still sharing one small suite. They were comfortable enough, however; and when not performing, had found themselves taking greatly of their blessing of drink. By now, all off the bith radiated the stink of alcohol of all sorts. Their suite was a clutter of empty food platters, bottles and so forth; the group choosing early on not to have their rooms cleaned daily. Nope, you never could trust anyone fully.

"Oh well. We're home soon. One hour till hyperspace drop," came a voice from the on-suite bathroom, clearly more sober though less jolly then his brothers. "Clakor, here we come...oh... Ugh."

*
**
*

Mandalore...

"The package?" The speaker was amused, and only partially interested in the answer. He already knew what reply would come.

A diminutive figure, a dug by nature, stood uneasily before the massive desk, addressing a man he could hardly see. Not that he would have had any better a vantage if he were taller... No, even from down here he could tell that the man had his back to the dug, the back of his chair. The above-human senses of the dug told him that someone else was in the room. "Is all well. The Captain is on the payroll."

"Good. Now bugger off, I've got scores to read."

*
**
*

Clakor

Sunlight flooded the plaza and mingled with the scent of spring blooms. It cast its bright glow on a crowd of people gathered before a large stage built into the arcetecture of the plaza. This was a place built for meetings, and vast markets on the weekends, it carried a light, summery charm that virtually stuck to those inside. Sadness was nearly impossible in such a positive environment.

Gyrating slightly, the mass of the crowd was swaying to the rhythmic beat of Esyl and the Pinks, returned home and proud to be. The concert was being held free of charge, not that it mattered... On their home-world the bad was an icon that the people adored. Ahh, home sweet home.

Nearly the population of their whole home-town had come to see their pride and joy, their galactic song-singers, play to their triumphant return home. Or, so the media would write it up. That was the very thing they existed for... Propaganda.

Present for the performance, among others, was the local mayor, a hopeful for the Senate in the next term and person of the people. Though unspoken, most everyone knew he would be a shoo in... The game of politics. But, what the people didn't know, the sort of thing which would destroy such a successful campaign for planetary Senate, was exactly what Esyl did know.

Even as her band-mates dazzled the crowd with their acoustic styling, she was meeting in her private dressing room with that very Senatorial-hopeful while dressing for her grand appearance on stage. Already, the bith male was seated uneasily upon a couch, mopping his brow with the back of his sleeve.

"So you see, Mister Mayor, it really is in your best interest to agree with the proposed terms. I mean... imagine if the people found out what I know. Imagine if they thought that you might do that to their children." Tsk'ing humorously, she gradually pulled the slip up over her hips. She wasn't even giving the male the benefit of her gaze, rather watching herself dressing in the tall mirror.

"You can see that they are really rather reasonable, it is only the 'no' side that presents a problem. You see, we are rather certian that once the news comes out... if it should leak ... that your fall from grace would be swift and painful. Worse yet, it might well drag down your family, and your friends. Such loss." The dress came next, slipping languidly over her supple curves and further distracting the mayor. He was half way between mad lust, and uncontrollable fear, she could tell.

"I'll tell you what, Mister Mayor. Because I like you so much, and revel in the thought of what could be... We will give you until the end of the performance to make your choice. But rest assured that you are being watched... Try and contact anyone and I'm afraid it will be the death of a martyr for you and yours." She turned towards him, fully dressed now and looking the dream of countless young bith

"Well?" demanded Mich. "How's it going?"

His partner, who had just arrived out of a small side door, grinned at Mich's anxiousness.

"Can't you wait?"

"I've been waiting for three years. 'Fess up."

"Favorable, actually, overwhelmingly favorable. The opposition was three."

Mich gaped. An opposition of only three meant that it was a landslide win.

"Y... Y... YES!" he yelled, throwing his hat into the air. A few people paused to look at him curiously, before continuing on their way.

They were standing in a large gallery, right outside the meeting hall of the Congress of Trogan. Today was the second day of deliberations for this Congress, and they had just voted to approve a measure to grant mining rights to Trogan Minerals Unlimited for Trogan Minor, Trogan's sole moon.


*


Maralu of Clakor studied the paper he was reading with great interest. It was an old fashioned paper, made of a durable flimsy, not a phase shifting plasti. The new phase shifting plasti papers were catching on, rather than having to produce millions of copies of their subscription on flimsy, the newspapers simply sold the customer a single sheet of plasti which accepted a signal once daily, and shifted to display the current paper. However, enough people still enjoyed the standard flimsy enough to pay the raised rates for home delivery that it would substantially hurt business to discontinue the 'old fashioned' media. Maralu was a Bith who enjoyed archiving his flimsies at home for future reference, and as such did not mind paying the extra fee for delivery.

"Trogan Minor to be Mined, TMU given exclusive mining rights" blared his paper across the front page. It was the latest news all across Trogan. For decades the special interest group 'Historical Trogan' had resisted any sort of action against the moon. They had blocked all attempts to colonize, explore, or exploit the satellite with their substantial political sway, outright bribery, and other devious methods. Because of their actions, Trogan was one of the last systems in the Anthos sector to still have an untouched, unpopulated, and un-mined moon.

"Future generations would only be able to gaze upon the beauty of an unspoiled moon through the view ports of a holo-cam" claimed Historical Trogan in their weekly newsletters. "Save Trogan Minor for future generations to enjoy," was their rallying cry.

Bunch of lunatics, was Maralu's thought. Who cared about how a moon looked? There were minerals there that could help move Trogan back into the galactic economy, out of the cess pool the planet wallowed in now.

It had taken years of political maneuvering by TMU to obtain permission to exploit Trogan Minor's potential. Historical Trogan had bucked, swayed, squealed like stuck Gamorians at every suggestion, and in general been complete morons about the entire thing. Finally, when TMU's patience with the radical group had worn to its end, it appeared the Congress' patience had worn out as well. In an overwhelming five hundred and twelve to three vote, mining rights had been granted.

Historical Trogan's backlash had been interesting, to say the least. Every single of their bought media sources printed a single, striking image. It was obviously a fake, drawn by some armature artist who managed to get his grimy paws on the trial version of some holoshop program, but it was striking. It was an image of Trogan Minor, covered in scaly, blistering warts, whole chunks of the moon gone, the atmosphere tinted a vomitious green, and columns of smoke rising from various points around the equator.


But alas for Historical Trogan, the public response to the artistic vision was not nearly as great as they had thought. There were a few dozen parades, and protest groups lined up on the streets of various cities, but in general there was a general lack of knowledge about the 'great atrocity' that had been committed.

Maralu smiled to himself, as he folded his paper and stood. Perhaps there would have been a larger outcry if Historical Trogan's newspaper distribution system had not been hacked, and the image replaced with a growth chart of Trogan's economy over the last few years, compared directly to the level of political action taken by Historical Trogan, as well as a theoretical growth chart that portrayed the best, and worst case scenario for the next five years... the worst case scenario involved the Trogan government receiving an incredibly large amount of money from TMU for access rights to the planet. The best case involved the discovery of a long suspected network of minerals that would catapult Trogan back into the galactic economy, and out of the galactic low-levels.

The phase shifting plasti papers were notoriously venerable to hacking, and Historical Trogan had embraced the things whole-heartedly.







Three weeks later the barges began to ship out. They would have shipped out a week earlier, save for a Historical Trogan demonstration that had somehow resulted in a riot, and the subsequent arrest of everyone involved, including many TMU employees.


There were three barges, each filled to the brim with the basics that the miners would need to begin construction of basic living faculties, as well as the basics for initial probing. Trogan had received remarkably little exploration, or mapping, and because of this TMU was going to have to start from the very beginning. These three barges would be the first of probably hundreds of similar ships who's sole purpose was to shuttle equipment from the surface of Trogan to the mining sites.

The journey took a little over ten hours, the engines on the barges powering ahead at full sublight. Battle fleets might have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind and performing a micro jump out of a system on a whim, but the rest of the galaxy was required to practice safe space way habits.


Barge number one contained three insta-shelters, a slew of lightweight vehicles for the prospectors to putter around in, twelve dozen sets of rebreathers and other basic eqipment, as well as five prospectors.

"About time we got moving," said the first, a heavy set man who was trying very hard to grow a respectable beard.

"Yah," replied a slim man who had not only succeeded in growing a respectable beard, but was now having trouble in keeping the beard to stay on his face only. "About time."

"Sure hope we find a vein," continued the heavy man, "I have a lot of friends at home who could use a job."

"Same here," replied the skinny man, "Most people I know need a job of some sort. D'ya really think the discov'ry of a vein would bring t'at many jobs to Trogan?"

"Yes, and more. It's not just minors, friend, we need refineries, more equipment, a steady shuttle system... heck, Trogan Mining Unlimited is nutten but a shell. There's hardly any infrastructure to the company. Saw it on the news last night."

"Oh," said the thin man, nodding as if he understood. "Maybe m'brother will get a job programming."

"Wouldn't you know it!" came an irritated voice from behind one of the insta-shelter packing crates, "They forgot to pack the stakes!"

"Eh?" asked the heavyset man, "Stakes? What are you babbling about?"

"Stakes, you know, the pins that hold the doors together."

"I'm sure they're around here somewhere," responded the heavyset man, as he began to move over to see for himself. "A little thing like that could set us back a whole day... Say, what are you doing in there anyhow?"

By now he had gotten up, and moved over to the source of the annoyed voice. A hole had been cut in the accessories packing crate for one of the insta-shelters, and a young miner was digging through a manual he had found.

"Oh, never mind, they're here, just not listed under 'stakes', but instead 'infrastructure support systems'. Hard to see the names through all these warning labels."

"Never heard of a hinge pin referred to as a 'stake' before," muttered the heavy man, as he returned to his seat.

"Anyone want some food?" asked a hollow, disembodied voice from the front of the barge. "I've got this thing working."

"All I want, is a cup of beer," muttered the heavy set man, stroking the sparse stubble on his chin.

"And a cup of tea," said the thin man.

"TEA?" asked the fat man, in disbelief.

"Tea, a nice hot cup of tea."

"I could go for a thermos of caf," interjected the dark-haired man, the one who had been poking around the insta-shelters. "A whole thermos. This space travel doesn't go well with me."

"I wouldn't mind a cup of caf... Hey, got any Caf over there?" cried the skinny man with a raised voice.

"No," returned the disembodied voice, "Just mineral water."

"Bah."



Barge number two contained a medium drilling machine, who's purpose was to dig exploratory tunnels in search of minerals, and ten miners assigned to keeping the system in working order. A few crates had been squeezed in containing environmental suits and hand tools, but for the most part the drilling machine took up most of the space. Loading the thing up onto the barge had been the easy part, taking it out and setting it up was going to be a pain. True, Trogan Minor had a lower level of gravity, but it was still a heck of a lot of material for ten men to set up without the aid of a crane or two.

"When do you suppose they'll get an injunction to stop us?" asked one of the miners. "I doubt Historical Trogan is going to just sit on their bums and let us rape their baby."

"Oh, I give'em a week at most. Ten we'll be shuttled back, and it'll be another year or two before we can move in again. And by then all the equipment will have been nuked by asteroids and other space debris."

"Meh," agreed one of the other miners. "How much space debris are we going to have to deal with anyway huh? I heard that Minor had a good bit of atmosphere floating around it."

"There's enough atmosphere for us to not have to haul oxygen up, but not enough to walk around without a rebreather. Most small 'stroids are nuked in the atmosphere, but not nearly all of them. We'll get pelted by quite afew 'stroids until we find a good spot, and get a deflector screen set up."

"Comforting."

"Yeah, the deflector screen is scheduled to come in in a month."

"Pity they don't ship important stuff like that when we need it, like, now," grumbled one of the miners.

"Yeah, and have to move it once we find where we'll be working? Like that'll happen."

"You mean we don't know where we're working even?"

"Nah, we're here to explore the areas the prospectors think contain the best chances, haven't you read the news lately? Minor hasn't had a foot set on it since that crazy teenager crash-landed and had to be rescued three years ago. It's never been mapped or even prospected."

"You're kidding."

"No. If it wasn't for the desperate need of money we have, we wouldn't be doing any prospecting now."

"Even with the supplement coming from the Republic our government still manages to screw us over."

"You got that right."


Barge number three contained only miners, their personal equipment, and some more prospector cars. A lively game of strip sabbac was in progress and it didn't look like it was going to slow down any until about ten minutes before landing. Three men had already been kicked out, and were desperately hunting up some of their spare clothing. The pile near the game board was getting larger and larger as miners laughed, whooped, and stripped. Everyone was having a grand old time; after all, they had work now. Their families would have money to spend on more than just food.

Is it true, that no one listens to the aged? Does the new generation scoffs at their wisdom, and spit upon the knowledge that they have shored up over the decades?



Mil b'Ceolvitch was an old man, an old man who was spending the last few years of his life in a pub giving advice to those who would listen, and to those who didn't wish to listen. He didn't care if they didn't like what he had to say, or if they thought him incredibly old-fashioned. He had lived his life to the fullest, and by gum he was going to let them know about it too. Hang them if they didn't want to learn, if they came into his pub they were going to learn.

And so he accosted everyone who looked to possess even a crumb of intelligence, and gave them his spiel -- both barrels at once.

Unfortunately, the last man he accosted didn't appreciate being told that violence isn't the answer to everything. After shoving an (empty, naturally) bottle of booze down Mil's throat, and then breaking both the throat and bottle, he quipped "Well, it solved that problem," and then went about his business ... namely, getting drunk.



Pity the old man who has not learned from his years.

CIN Headquarters - Dorthal

Agatha Fegreen, head of the Counter Intelligence Network for the Anthos Republic sat at his desk, contemplating the most recent report given him. Two other men were present in the room, one Alfred Green, head of Anthos Intelligence, as well as Marcus Barnardo, head of Internal Security. All three men were engaged in an earnest conversation about the report Agatha was reading, which apparently the two visitors had already seen.

"You're going to crucify one of my men!" yelled Alfred Green.

"No! No!," replied Marcus, as equally enthusiastic. "there's nothing about his manner that would otherwise cause us to suspect him, other than the incident last night. We're not going to crucify him, or otherwise hurt his reputation."

"Nothing to suspect, other than a chance meeting last night. Yet you want to set up a twenty-four hour surveillance team around him, one of my men?" said Alfred Green, his voice coming out in a piglike squeal. He had strep throat, or so he said.

"A precaution. He does have high level access in several departments... wouldn't pay to be careless..."

"I agree," said Agatha, quickly. "As head of CIN," he continued, "the responsibility for this comes to me. My men will run the op, 24 hours a day for the next nine days. If nothing turns up after that, it will pass down to you, Alfred.

"Thank you," said Marcus.

"I suppose," said Alfred, slightly miffed. It was one of his men, after all.

“Alright, what’s next on the itinerary?” Said Asakawa , not turning his head to acknowledge his little secretary who was barely managing to keep up with his brisk walking pace.

“Up next, Mr Tyko?” She enquired, pushing her thick glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Well, you are due for a personal run-through of the new Carrier’s functions, and after that we’re due a test run.”

“Test run? Sounds like fun.”


“Yes . . .out for a lunar orbit and back.” replied the quiet young woman.


“Ahh, excellent,” grinned Asakawa. “Finally, we get to the interesting parts.”


Asakawa peered ahead along the docking umbilical at the security guards ahead.

The burly, red-armoured men were the last defence against the prying eyes of the press and any potential saboteurs who might venture to make the final days of this project difficult for Asakawa.

As he approached the docking port, he gave a solemn nod to both men, letting them know he acknowledged all their vigilance for every step of the way.

In turn, they saluted him and parted to the side to let Asakawa through.


As the doors hissed open, a breeze blew by, carrying with it a hundred and one scents to Asakawa’s senses. Paint and petrol fumes floated heavily on the air, bound together with the aftertaste of welder’s torch.


“Sensational.” Said Asakawa breathlessly as he sniffed in the smells around him.


Asakawa stepped forward, out of the circular docking ring and into a corridor, who’s decor was sparse and unfinished.

The familiar clank of his steel toe-capped boots could be heard as he began to wander around.

It was a welcome change of soundtrack to the mundanely regularity of the carpet that adorned much of his administrative offices.

He turned and corner and peered down, following the sound and scent of the welder’s torch from before.


At the end of one hallway, he could make out a trickle of sparks emanating from an open crawl space.

“Excuse me?” He said, obviously not loud enough to be heard by whomever was working.

Excuse me!?” he bellowed, prompting a head to pop out of the tube, hidden behind the a large welder’s mask.


“Can I help you?” came a muffled reply.


Asakawa, taken aback by the ignorance of the speaker, replied, “I’m sorry? Don’t you know who I am?”

“I’m hoping you’re the plumber we called for six times today. We’ve got a thoradide coolant leak in section twelve, half the compartment’s been flooded.”

The voice was recognisably female, and notably pissed off.

“I am Tyko Asakawa, managing director of this project. That’s who I am.”

The welder wriggled out of the small crawl space and leapt to her feet flooring Asakawa with a right handed punch to his jaw.

She peered down at him and removed her welding helmet. “We called for a plumber six times!! SIX TIMES! How do you explain that Mr managing director?”

“I uh . ..” Asakawa attempted to speak but only a minute garble of incomprehensible gibberish emanated from his mouth. He was stunned into silence by the woman who stood before him.


The glorious . . .beautiful woman. She appeared like some heavenly dream, her skin dark and smooth, and her hair was long, brown and intricately braided and flowed like a perfect stream over the shoulders of her dark blue jump-suit.



“Don’t open your mouth mister. I don’t wanna hear it.” She snapped. “I bet you’ve been sittin’ on your ass in the luxury manager’s lounge, sipping synth-a-hol and nibbling on appetisers.

Well, there’s none of that down here.”



“I’m looking for chief engineer Kylesis. Is he around?” He said, propping himself back up against the wall before his jaw was graced with another measured punch, levelling him again.


“You’ve got some nerve! “she yelled.

“Excuse me?” whimpered Asakawa, fearful of another reprisal.

“Are you stupid, or do you not read personnel files anymore?”

Asakawa stared on, dumbfounded.

“I’m Kayla Kylesis, Chief engineer.”

Adam Crystlar," he said as he stuck his hand out in a cordial greeting to the Sienar desk jockey before him. The man shifted a sheaf of papers to his other hand, and took the paw offered him.

"Um.. can I do something for you?" he asked quizzically. "Yeah, actually," said Adam, "I'm supposed to, uh, meet with the president of Sienar, ten minutes ago."

The Sienar employee raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah, but, um, there wasn't anyone to meet me at the door below," continued Adam, gesturing toward the elevator behind him, "I don't suppose you could point me toward the proper hallway?"

"Yeah, um.. for one thing you're on the wrong floor," replied the Sienar employee, once again shifting the papers he was carrying. "You need to be on the thirty-second floor or above to be in the administrative levels."

"Right, right, thanks," muttered Adam in response, embarrassed.

"No problem," replied the Sienar employee, as the two men parted ways. As he left, once again shifting which hand held his sheaf of paper, the Sienar employee wondered how the frell someone meeting with the president had managed to blunder his way into accounting.




Bastasi, muttered Adam as he entered the elevator. How the frell had he ended up in accounting?

"Bad day?" asked the only other occupant of the elevator, a verpine-ish female.

"Getting there," he replied after a moment, not wanting to be rude.

"Been there," she said, with a slight smile, "I just quit."

"Ah..."

The elevator halted on the thirty-second floor, and the female got out only to be replaced with two geeky techies with a large file cabinet on wheels each. Apparently this wasn't the executive elevator.

"Going down?" asked one of the techies inquisitively.

"Up, 36."

"Ok."

A minute later, Adam found himself before a receptionist help desk. He returned the measured gaze the receptionist gave him, she was probably measuring him up and comparing him to a mental 'terrorist, push red button now' profile every employee up here probably had pounded into their brains day in and day out.

"Adam Crystlar," he said, "Here to meet with the president?"

She raised an eyebrow, as if to communicate how utterly ridiculous such a statement was, before turning to hit a few keys on her terminal. A moment later, she smiled and turned back.

"You're four hours early, Mr. Crystlar."

"Oh?" he returned, the realization of his mistake dawning upon him now.

"We have an additional eight hours to the galactic standard here."

Vos, thought Adam.

"I can call Mr. Asakawa now, though, and see if he can ... inconvenience himself to see you early..."

"Please, don't bother ma'am. I'll be back in four hours."

"Whatever you want, Mr. Crystlar."

Adam smiled congenially, and turned away. This time, however, he did not go to the 'bulk' elevator, as he had before. Instead, he headed toward an executive lift that matched his expensive and immaculate suit. Four extra hours? They would be well spent on a self-guided tour of the Sienar faculty...

*

Life aboard the Stalkers was different from that aboard a typical military craft. For one thing, it was quiet. Cook clanging pots together was not, as was the norm, heard hundreds of meters down the craft. The thick, absorbent material on the walls and floor ensured that internal noise was kept to a minimum.

There was also a lot less freedom aboard a Stalker, than aboard its almost identical cousin, the Maruader. Extra systems, not the least of being the massive cloak, prohibited extra movement. The crew was compromised of mostly men of small build.

Orientation with the new systems was a pain as well, especially for the communications men. Their gear was radically different from what they had trained with.

"Far more advanced," mentioned one of the ensigns assigned to a 'listener' station, often nicknamed a 'sonar' station after the sea-based sonar of old.

"With a user interface from the pit of hell," added in his replacement partner sardonically. "I swear, the moment they let me I'm redoing the GUI on that thing, absolutely nothing is where you need it. I can't imagine using it in battle.

The words "Then redo it," made all five crewmen jump, and salute.

"That's what you're here to do," continued the voice, a voice that held authority. It was their Instructor. "Reprogram it, if you wish," he finished, before continuing in his way.

"Yes Sir!" was the reply, before they went to their ease with the superior officers exit.

"You got time to redo the turbolaser targeting systems as well?" joked one of the weapons men.



Johnson, the first officer aboard this Stalker, reached over to grab a wired com from the communications desk next to him. He was aboard the bridge of the Stalker, and several tests were about to be run.

"All hands to battle stations," he said into the mic. "Repeat, all hands to battle stations."

He turned, and looked to the captain of the ship - the Instructor.

"Prepare to initialize the cloak," said the Instructor, noticing his glance.

"Aye Aye, Sir," replied Johnson, whereupon he turned and repeated the order to the duo at the cloak console. They, in turn, replied with their own "Aye, Sir," and went about prepping the cloaking system.

"Prepare to drop shields," said the Instructor, and once again the orders were relayed down the chain of command. Almost a minute passed, as the bridge crew completed their duties.

"On the count of three, drop shields. Raise the cloak on my count of five...

"One ... two ... three ..."

"Shields down," said the man at defense.

"Four ... five"

"Cloak initialized, fifty, sixty, seventy ... one hundred percent."

The entire bridge crew glanced up to the viewports before and above them. Nothing seemed to have changed. Indeed, the entire ship was looking out the nearest viewports - the entire operation had been broadcasted over the ships com system.

"Gentlemen," said the Instructor with an air of finality, "Welcome to the Secret Service."