Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, Deep Space

The crimson-clad cruiser coasted among the stars, her engines burning a tempestuous orche. Trailing behind the flagship came the motley assortment of converted freighters, old warships, and Inferno Fleet’s own Cerberus-class Cruisers. Among the armada, a score of scarlet starfighters soared among the slower warships like rabid mynocks. Many of the fleet’s weapons were being actively manned with an intense alacrity. It was as if the Fleet was about to jump into battle.

But it did not.

Instead, it reached its designated nav point, and the formation grounded to a halt. Several of the Hunters surged on ahead, and after rounding the nav buoy, flew back towards the fleet. As a whole, the Fleet seemed like an axe forged in a mighty fire and imbued with a bloodlust to many outsiders. But standing on the bridge of the Armageddon’s Hammer, and staring out of the viewport, Commodore Dha’tey felt as if he were watching boys play with toys. They are not hardened yet enough for a full-fledged war with the Empire. Our victories against Fossk are just beginning to wean them from training. But before they can even hope to win a fight, they must know when and how to fight it. Or in this case, not fight one at all…

“Sir,” rasped an alien crewmember, “a ship has just reverted into realspace, about two kilometers from the nav buoy.”

“Identification?” demanded Dha’tey.

“Corellia Star; appears to be a CEC light transport of some sort.”

“Query them for the correct passcodes, if they don’t, prepare to blast them into oblivion.”

“Right…they’re transmitted the correct ones. They’re requesting full-time holo-communications with you Commodore.”

“Very well, I’ll take it in my quarters. I want no records of the conversation, and no other listeners.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” assured Sei’lar, his fur ruffling, “now go take your call.”

Dha’tey barred his teeth in the equivalent of a rueful human smile, and abruptly paced out of the cruiser’s bridge. The bridge foyers opened with a whisk, and as the Bothan strode out, the sound of armored feet marching matched his pace and location. Dha’tey never left anywhere without a pair of his overly loyal Inferno marines. The few crewmembers passing through the hallways gave the alien and his guards wide berth, and within a matter of a few minutes, the Bothan found himself in front of squat holo-projector in the middle of his cabin. He tapped a button on its console, and the device began to incessantly hum. Gradually, a hazy image of a corpulent man in the stained uniform of a New Republic mechanic came into view. The other’s green-blue eyes stared at the Bothan in a mixture of curiousity and disbelief.

“This is your outfit, Bandor?”

The Bothan nodded, his fur rippling with satisfaction. “The crews are a little green, and the ships aren’t the greatest, but it’s something, isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes…I’d ask how you’ve been, but the local holonews and resistance cells have been continually feeding us spins of your fleet’s exploits.”

“Half of which aren’t true,” sighed the Bothan, “but so are politics and war intertwined. How have things been with you, Donahue? Still servicing X-wings?”

The man shook his head. “Be’en building transports at the yards. Gives us a bit of a profit, and enough to support some of the local resistance groups against Fossk. Not terribly interesting, but perhaps that’ll change.”

“Well, I hope so…”

“Don’t get me wrong,” explained the man, “I’d like it to. There’s just a matter of talking things through with the natives…”

“…but my resistance group has already voted, and they assented to give control of the group into Alliance leadership. I didn’t know though, that Inferno Fleet was an Alliance unit…”

“Despite the holos and rumors going about that we’re a mercenary unit, we are part f the Alliance,” explained Kre’fey, “sometimes things need to be covered in something else to disguise their true nature, so that their true ends cannot be seen or deterred. But appearances are deceptive…”

Donahue nodded, “Something you Bothans are good at…”

Kre’fey’s fur rippled, and the alien briefly barred his teeth in a snarl which dissipated as quickly as it had come. The Admiral instead settled on overemphasized squint, and slightly leaned forward; his muddy brown eyes stared into the blue circles of the man’s eyes. The mechanic shuddered.

“I didn’t mean it in an offensive way, honest…” explained the human.

The Bothan relaxed up a bit, and leaned back. Typical Human. Smart enough to understand what expressions mean, but not cognizant enough to use them to their own ends. But he is, at least, predictable and true. That is something nice to deal with; instead of someone like Sei’lar. Bandor gently tapped the side of his desk.

“It’s all right Donahue, we go way back…what has it been? Can it really be twelve years?” wondered the Admiral.

The mechanic began to count on his fingers, “That sounds right; strange as it is. That was in the day when I serviced your gig off of the Reliance.”

Bandor cringed. “It’s a wonder that ship wasn’t in the scrap pile even then.”

Eric flashed a knowing grin. “I know what you mean. I think it only did two more tours before they had to mothball her up.”

“Oh? Just getting too old or expensive to maintain? Can’t imagine finding those antique parts was cheap or easy…”

Donahue’s grin grew wider. “Oh, it’s better than that. The engine block got completely incinerated by the broadside of a Remnant star destroyer.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t fall apart then…”

“Oh, we kept her together fine; I bet we could have kept that rustbucket together for another year.”

Kre’fey nodded. “With your skills, and those of your men, no…expertise, I can believe it. That is why we need you and your people, and that is why the Alliance is directing your group over to us.”

“Because you have antique ships?”

“Because we have a need more technicians, mechanics, and other support personnel. We’re being pressed right now to keep mechanic crews on all ships, and there will be more ships rolling off the lines sooner than we will have replacement mechanics.”

Donahue smiled with pleasure. “I’m glad that we can be of use to the Alliance; but I’m not sure if my teams alone can take care of your demand.”

“But with your expertise, you can teach more mechanics right? Just like you did with the midshipmen on the Reliance when we needed more help? You seemed to be good at that…”

“Well, ah…yeah,” replied Donahue smugly, glancing down at his feet briefly, “yeah, we can definitely try that. I mean, I don’t know how well it’ll work…”

“It will help.”

Donahue nodded. “But it won’t ever happen if we keep on remiscencing about the good old days.”

“True.”

“Do you have some sort of smaller ship to travel on?” questioned the mechanic, “to take a journey groundside? Something less conspicuous, than say, this battle fleet.”

Kre’fey barked a laugh. “Yes, that can be arranged. I can launch in a more civilian transport, if you can wait about five or so minutes.”

Donahue nodded. “I’ll see you out there, then.”

“Right.”

YT-2400 Freighter Nova Flame, Ventil II

The starship jerked into realspace, and Kre’fey found himself tightly gripping the safety restraints of his seat. Silently swearing, the Bothan immediately fiddled with the restraints, tightening them even more. Next to him, the ship’s pilot muttered a few choice words, and pointed at a pair of amorphous gray blobs in the distance. Kolir toggled through several controls at the co-pilot’s station before finally settling on the sensor readout. After deftly wading through the data, he growled.

“Star Galleons. There seem to be several Pacifiers in the area too.”

“Pacifiers?” asked the young human.

“Imperial scouting ships,” informed the grizzled Bothan, “a bit like a large X-wing with laser cannon turrets.”

“Oh great.”

“Give me the comm,” ordered Kre’fey.

“Yeah, sure,” replied the man, handing him a bulb-shaped object.

The Bothan pressed a couple of buttons on the object, and spoke into it, “Donahue, want to tell me what’s up with those Star Galleons…I don’t feel very comfortable with them around.”

“You think I do?” replied Donahue anxiously, “There is an Imperial transport docked at my shipyards now. I think we should go groundside.”

“That’s not going to free your base, or your people. Do you have anything there to, well, you know…”

“Nothing that explicitly links us with the Alliance. But still, if Fossk’s ships are here…”

“All right, we’ll go groundside, for now. Your people aren’t in any danger then.”

“I should hope not, unless we’ve been betrayed.”

The two Corellian craft began to peel away from their course to the Ventil shipyards and towards a ball splashed covered in blues, whites, and green. Several other small starships were scurrying away from the planet and towards open space. Bandor felt a knot in his stomach grow. As the two Corellian freighters were nearing atmospheric reentry, their comlinks crackled.

“Attention Corellia Star and Nova Flame, this is the HMIS Gaspee, by the orders of Supreme General Fossk, you will immediately power down and prepare for boarding…”

“Have we done anything wrong?” questioned Donahue quickly.

The Imperial’s voice came back firm. “Let us hope not, captain. Merely a routine inspection.”

“But…this isn’t Fossk’s planet, what makes you think-”

“Captain,” interrupted the custom’s office, “the Supreme General’s word is law anywhere in the sector. He constitutes the sole legitimate government within the sector. Stand down now, or prepare to fight…”

“There is a Law-class Patrol Craft gaining up on us,” whispered the Nova Flame’s pilot.

Kre’fey glanced at the man, “Any chance that we could take it out?”

“It’s about as good as the Flame in a battle. We could take her, but I’m not so sure we could take care of all its friends…”

“I think it’s best that we run,” advised Kre’fey, “tell Donahue our plans. I’m going to signal the fleet, in case we need any extra help.”

“Gotcha.”

Star Galleon Alert, Ventil Yards, in orbit via Ventil II

“There is no sign of Inferno Fleet activity here, sir,” reported the black-clad lieutenant.

The graying head of the captain bobbed up and down. “Not in the yards, luckily. But there is enough rebel activity. Many freighters have tried to flee when asked to stand down. I fear that we have let the planet turn into a den of thieves when fighting those demons elsewhere.”

The Lieutenant’s lip twitched, and the soldier made an about face.

“I know what you are thinking, Dawson,” mused Captain Hawkins, “It is not the impossible. There is a reason for putting up with these groundpounders on our ship. We will be getting rid of them to their beloved earth soon, I would imagine; and let them fight and die on land.”

Dawson pivoted about and frowned. “Invading Ventil, sir?”

Hawkins nodded. “Why not? The natives pose little threat with their slugthrowers and outdated blasters. We cease another criminal haven, and the criminals are deprived of another port. In fact, the only port they have free reign in.”

“That we know of. The rebels…”

“Yes,” waved away Hawkins, “the rogue provinces. But they will not allow smugglers and criminals of this sort to use their area. Thank the Maker for that. Another spice smuggler in jail, another family saved. This is how Fossk will reclaim his own. Being the family guy has its advantages; especially to those infernal rascals in their red ships. The rogue states will want back in soon, I imagine. Give them but time.”

“Sir,” reported in an officer, “I have the latest holo-feed. It is like you figured; Fossk wants all ships to move in for invasion, and all troops to be deployed groundside immediately.”

“Helm,” demanded Hawkins, “prepare a course to the planet. Dawson, undock us from the station.”

“Is anyone coming back onboard, sir?”

“No,” stated the captain, “We are to leave three squads to keep an eye on the yards. No doubt the rebels will think the shipyard of some value to their cause. Humph. Take us away.”



YT-2400 Freighter Nova Flame, around Ventil II

“Well, frak you!” cursed the pilot, hammering his fist, “You want some of this, huh? Huh!”

The Bothan managed a tight grin as Owen whipped the controls of the freighter to the portside; sending the freighter in a dizzying roll and pushing the Gs which the inertial compensator could handle. As the Corellian freighter danced, red bolts lashed out of the ship’s two laser cannon turrets, manned by plainclothes Inferno operatives. Each steady stream smashed into the vaguely whale-shaped customs craft. The Imperial craft’s two laser cannons fired back, smacking into the Nova’s sturdy shields with bright flares of light. Nearly a kilometer to the starboard of the Flame, the Corellia Star unleashed a steady stream of laser fire from its quad laser cannon. As if to rebuke the tramp freighter, the Gaspee released a pair of blue ovoids; each which swam away from their mother to the YT-1300 as if famished piranhas. The Star immediately began to weave desperately about; its cannon chattered away at the two proton torpedoes, attemptly to prematurely engage them before the freighter’s hull did. But for all of the Corellia Star's efforts, they were in vain; for her gunner was inexperienced, and the craft was simply too slow. The twin missiles slammed into the aft engines in a pyrotechnic shower of sparks and short-lived flames. The freighter’s hull wobbled, and Bandor gave a rare curse in Bothese. He tapped a few buttons on the co-pilot’s chair, and stared at the freighter’s pilot.

“Turn us around; we’re going to made head-to-head run with the Gaspee,” informed the Bothan.

“What?”

“Do you think the Corellia Star is in a shape to move? We need one less custom’s ship right now…”

“Is it worth it?”

“Yes, now shut up and just do it.”

“Uh, yes…sir.”

Frak. I told Donahue too much; no, Donahue knows too much as it is. He knows my real identity, who Inferno Fleet really is. Can’t let the Imps get him. He must either safely come back with us, or die. Even if I have to do it. The Nova broke away from her abrupt series of rolls and variations to loop up at the pursuing custom’s ship. The ship’s viewport suddenly filled the upside down visage of the Gaspee, contorted by a kaleidoscope of colors from both side’s weaponry. Kre’fey tapped a button twice; sending a fiery pair of orange blobs into the mix. The Gaspee seemed to suddenly waver away in a lurch as if pulling out of the fight; but it disappeared before a fiery cloud which engulfed that craft’s visage and flooded the viewports of the Nova Flame. The YT-2400 rocked as it passed through the explosion, jostling its passengers. Kre’fey grunted as forces both pulled him from and to his seat. Thank the Maker for being strapped in.

“Direct hit,” reported Owen approvingly, “Not bad.”

“Well,” shrugged the Bothan, “one has to be able to defend oneself in any case. Or at least one should be able to.”

“Gaspee’s not moving pretty well; probably took out whatever is their bridge or piloting station.”

“Now to take on a bunch more of Fossk’s ships,” sighed Bandor, “Ready boys?”

“Ah, sir,” reported the disembodied voice of a turret gunner, “there are no more bogies around us. Everyone seems to heading to a party groundside; too bad we weren’t invited.”

Frowning, Kre’fey tapped a few other buttons on his console. Several sensor screens came up; all showed Fossk’s forces converging to several points on Ventil II; even the Star Galleon which had docked with the Ventil shipyards. Bandor squinted, and tapped a button.

“Corellia Star?”

“We’re fine, mostly, thanks Bandor,” replied Donahue dejectedly, “but the bastards ruined my ship. So many hours put into tweaking those engines….errr…I want to hit Fossk with a hydrospanner. And I don’t mean a single hit, more like a club to death sort of thing…”

“Not to ruin your lamentations of your ship; I understand that it is dear to you, old friend,” began the Bothan, “but we might have a bigger problem. It looks like Fossk is coming here to stay; all of his ships are headed groundside.”

“What? Oh great…he sends our criminal protectors fleeing, and then he decides to settle in…the King won’t be happy. There’ll be resistance, heavy fighting, but I don’t think they’ll be able to handle it.”

“Why not?”

“No air support, no heavy or modern weapons really; no spaceships or fast transports. This collection of customs ships and armed transports is enough to probably incinerate all of their forces, and maybe even the cities…”

Kre’fey considered. “What about the Alliance forces on site?”

“The cells? We don’t fight here; we make things, sometimes prep recruits before sending them back to their homeworlds to fight the Empire’s remains. I guess we could; but I’m not sure how much dozens of aging veterans and support personnel will be able to do against this.”

“All right; tell your people to keep their heads low for now. I’ll grab us some help,” declared Kre’fey, closing the direct beam communication’s line.

The Bothan turned to Owen, “Take us closer to the planet, and try to avoid any Imperial trouble. I’m going back to the comm. center. It’s time to call in the Fleet.”

“Ah, sure…sir.”

Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, Deep Space

“Signal from the Commodore,” reported an officer, “The fleet is to jump to the Ventil system and engage Fossk’s forces.”

“So drastic? So soon?” questioned Sei’lar, “Why?”

“You’re questioning the Commodore’s orders?”

“I would like to stay alive,” rebutted the Bothan, “and not walk into what could be a trap…”

“Commodore says that Fossk’s forces are invading the system. He also says to say Sacred Requiem to you; whatever the hell that means.”

Sei’lar nodded. I’d rather not have the entire bridge crew know about Bandor’s secret verification phrase; I guess we’ll just have to change it after the fight. After all, never know if one of these people is one Fossk’s men or got bought off after joining us. He reclined a little bit within the ship’s command chair. Several crewmen stared at him. Sei’lar’s creamy fur rippled in embarrassment.

“Ah, right. We’ll make the jump like the Commodore said, and I’ll get out off the command chair. Captain, you know what you’re doing, the ship is yours.”

The lithe Bothan leapt off the chair with a slight spring, and restlessly strolled over to the viewport. His eyes ignored the stars, which captivated most non-spacers. But while he was not a spacer by trade or adaptation, for he only saw what they actually were: fiery balls of gas which would promptly incinerate or blind anyone who become too interested in moving closer to their beauty. Instead, the Bothan picked out the ships within the viewport, and observed the reddish ships of Inferno Fleet with a mixture of admiration and regret. As he did so, a darker-skinned human sullenly stepped up out of the shadows and strapped himself in the command chair. The mixed species crew exchanged looks, and with a single word from Captain Amabo, the fleet jumped into hyperspace.

As the stars flashed by, Sei’lar crossed his fingers, and prayed that they had not fallen into a trap.



YT-2400 Nova Flame, around Ventil II

I’m going to punch this guy in the stomach. Too bad I can’t. Dha’tey stared at the holo of a bulging man in a jamboree of clothes with a twisted amalgam of wistfulness and annoyance. Apparently he was an “associate” of Donahue’s who ran much of the smuggling and shipping in the Ventil system, though if that would continue remained to see given the man’s flee from the planet with most of ships and men. Donahue continued his argument with the man vociferously.

“Look Rogers, you can come back now and return victorious, hailed a savior to the natives and warrior among your people, or keep on running with your tail between your legs and a reputation of shame.”

“Or practicality; money or glory isn’t useful if I’m dead. Now look here youyou’re your power-mongering Bothan. Suicide charges aren’t my specialty, neither is getting killed. Your words are cheap and empty. I want something better than that. Try credits, and a sensible plan; like smuggling guns to the natives. I would do that, if you can arrange it.”

“Out of the question,” replied the Bothan, “Why are we going to pay you money to win back your own base for you? Our interests in seeing Fossk out of the system are mutual. Your gain is the return of your base, your customers. That is your profit. And I think it’s worth more than any amount of credits you can get in a job.”

The man snorted, “So what? You haven’t given me anything suggesting that you’re going to do anything. Heck, you two dolts don’t have a clue to about defeating this Imperial armada. You gotta do it slow and sneaky like. That’s how the Alliance won the Galactic War. That’s why Palpatine is now dead.”

“You know what; most spacers I see in my yard talk more sense than you, scumbag.”

“Hey, you-”

Kre’fey interrupted, “I’m bringing in a battle fleet, set to arrive in three minutes. If don’t want in, fine. Then we take the planet, and your base, complete with your hangar and all of the wares in your warehouse. Everything is now ours, got it?”

“No,” replied Rogers, “even if this magical fleet of yours wins the day. It is my base. Perhaps you don’t understand, power-monger, but Donahue and I go back. Ain’t that so, Hue?”

The mechanic grimaced. “We’ve known each other for maybe a decade. I’ve known Dha’tey here for three decades. I’ve seen his fleet, and on my mechanic’s honor, it’s large enough to wipe out the fleet here in an hour, at the very latest. As a friend, I suggest you take it. You’ll want in.”

“Why do you need my ships then?”

“We don’t, nor do we want them, really,” explained Inferno Fleet’s commander, “we want you on the ground, helping Donahue’s men and the natives in mopping up any resistance from Fossk’s army.”

“You don’t got men enough for that? Must be a pitiful excuse for a mercenary outfit like yours.”

“I’m not interested in spending a lot of time on planet, and neither are my men,” replied Dha’tey slowly, “especially when we know nothing about it, or the layout, or nothing about it. Well, you’re clearly too obstinate to work with, Rogers. I’ll be enjoying your liquor. Maybe I’ll even get your quarters. I’ll finally get that nice long nap I need…”

“Fine. Fine. You got me.”

“There is one restriction though,” added Kre’fey.

“Hey, don’t push me-”

“No slave-running or spice-moving through the planet from now on.”

Roger’s face flushed, “Well, that’s not worth it.”

“I’ll have other jobs for you,” explained Dha’tey, “more lucrative jobs.”

“Ah right, you don’t give me mucha choice, do you. I take it. We’ll be there shortly.”

Dha’tey spared a glance backwards. “Better hurry up: my fleet is already here.”

Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, approaching Ventil II

“We’re reverting…now.”

Captain Carrab Amabo solemnly nodded and moved his hands to his command consoles. One after another, the crimson starships blinked into existence, coasting towards Ventil II. Several of the Torch gunships which acted as the fleet’s sentinels, almost immediately erupted with laser fire. Quad streams of fiery red bolts hammered away at the few patrol craft left by Fossk’s forces in deep space. A single Pacifier exploded under four such streams from one gunship. The surviving patrol craft scattered; some surging away into hyperspace, the others relunctantly retreating to the planet below. But Inferno Fleet gave them no chase, preferring to maintain their oval formation with a leisurely speed. Thus the fleet stately cruised towards the planet to engage Fossk’s navy. Almost abruptly, a quartet of gunships parted from the graceful formation to rendezvous with the Ventil Yards. Crimson starfighters emerged from their holds, surrounding their motherships like flickering sparks off a flame.

On the other side of the orbit, another group of starships emerged from the realms of hyperspace. There was no unifying factor among them. Cylindrical water tankers, motley light freighters with chipped paint, battle-scarred uglies, and pristine shuttles and starfighters all coalesced into an amorphous blob which seemed like an unruly swarm of insects. A relatively new and heavily upgunned light freighter surged towards the planet below, its engines glowing a blue dangerously close to burnout. The other vessels charged forward in its wake, as if connected by synthsteel cables to Roger’s Lucky One.

Kre’fey stared at the odd assemblage of forces mustered to oust Fossk from the Ventil system. His hazel fur rippled back and forth several times. After quickly licking his feline chops, the alien turned to Owen with a wry grin.

“The die has been cast.”

Owen considered, “It is a pretty big gamble, isn’t it?”

Bandor blinked. “Well, yes. Aren’t all things warfare, no, life a gamble on some level? Chance permeates our lives, more than what we would like to think.”

Owen slowly nodded, and returned his eyes to the freighter’s controls.

“Take us closer to our fleet, and put us up with the perimeter vessels.”

The man affirmed the order with a jerk of the head, and without a word shoved the throttle forward; the Nova Flame zipped forward to rejoin its brethren at the Fleet’s vanguard. As his ship sped away, Kre’fey turned back and spared a glance at the misshapen Corellia Star. Don’t worry Donahue. We’ll be back. We will have to retrieve you, if I want to live. If we want to live. We will be back. Owen tapped his shoulder and pointed directly ahead of them. Torch gunships loomed in front of him as scarlet blocks, around them, buzzing specks resolved themselves into the Hunters and Kalrechis which filled Inferno Fleet’s starfighter ranks. In between the size of the starfighters and the corvettes, several larger vessels, most with vague saucer shapes and gun turrets breaking their otherwise smooth lines, soared with the vanguard. Kre’fey nodded. More assault freighters and transports. We’ll blend in easily here. A set of crimson Hunters with dazzling gold stripes popped up into the Nova’s viewport. Mako Squadron. A bit conspicuous of an escort for an assault freighter. On the bright side, it means at least one of my officers wants to see me live through the battle…I think. Owen nudged the Bothan’s side again and pointed straight ahead.

“Take a look at that,” murmured the pilot, “See those specks? Looks like Fossk’s boys are running; don’t want to get licked I bet.”

Royal Palace, Ventil II

Within the stone walls of the Ventillian Royal Palace, the victors of the recent battle met; Fossk’s army elements which had been initially deployed as the vanguard of the invasion had been driven on the ground by the native Ventillians assisted by Roger’s and Donahue’s men. More importantly, the arrival of Inferno Fleet had forced the invasion fleet to abandon its plans and flee from the system. With their mostly bloodless victory, the Ventillian King had invited the offworlders to a feast. The two Bothans, too used to being cooped up in high tech starships and sealed bases, were surprisingly refreshed with the somewhat primitive and feudal culture in which they found themselves immersed. As the guests ate from silver platters and drank from Auradium goblets, Donahue’s protocol droid engaged the king in his alien tongue.

“Fossk may have been driven from the system, King, but there is no surety that he will not return, this time in force. Fealty demands that you look after your people, and those of your allies in order to ensure that their success is not for naught,” implored the protocol droid in Ventillian tongue.

The alien replied in a series of clicks and whistles, and abruptly stopped. The protocol droid cocked his head, and held it there for a few seconds, as if it had been deactivated. The king replied to the gesture by rapidly beating his wings together, forming an odd dual-toned buzz sound. As the wings fluttered to a stop, the droid bowed and turned back to the delegation.

“His Royal Highness, in the most basic terms, believes in maintaining a status quo that existed before Fossk’s incursion. Mr. Rogers, the Trader’s Precinct will continue to be under your direct control. The king does believe, however, that the master of the red ships which so valiantly scared Fossk away, deserves some sort of reward. He offers a monthly tribute of Fifty Qulashes of Kowo Grain and Ten Qulashes of Rxinor Meat, and the right to establish a castle on any unoccupied tract of land. But I must warn you, to accept this tribute within the Ventillian Culture is akin to swearing an oath. In return, he will demand your service in a time of war, as a loyal ally. If one so breaks the oath without forewarning and a significant parting gift, he and his people will everymore seek to kill you as a traitor. Do you accept, sir?”

“What’s a Qulash?” questioned Sei’lar, parting his lips from a goblet.

“I do not know exactly, sir,” replied the protocol droid, “Perhaps an authority on the matter, Mr. Rogers knows.”

Rogers shook his head. “Beats me. I never trade with the locals except in very small amounts, but I’m guessing that’s at least several tons per Qulash, based on what a Kilash is. I’d take the offer, Dha’tey. Free food never hurts. And the gift? Heck, you could win their eternal allegiance by giving them a pair of starships if things go south.”

“Then why haven’t you?” questioned the Bothan, “Wouldn’t you want their eternal allegiance? Domination over their lands?”

“Heck no,” replied the smuggler, “Why would I do such a crazy thing like that? They’d be frakking glued to me, and my home is what, two kilometers away from the castle? There would be issues. Your home is on a starship. They couldn’t get to you if they wanted to. Heck I bet they’ll have to ship out the tribute to you via my spaceport. More money for me.”

“Very well,” stated Bandor, “I will accept the tribute.”

The droid bowed and waddled over to the king to announce to him the news. Rogers wryly grinned at the two Bothans.

“Does either of you want to negotiate the use of my facilities now for the tribute?”

“Well-” started Sei’lar.

“No,” cut in Dha’tey, “Why would I use your facilities when I can set my own up in a ‘castle’ as the Ventillians say.”

Rogers frowned. “Challenging my market leadership on this world isn’t advised…”

“I’m not,” replied Dha’tey quietly, “the base will only be used to exchange the tribute between my fleet and the Ventillians, and whoever Donahue decides to leave behind.”

“You’re leaving?” asked Rogers incredulously, turning to stare at corpulent man.

“That’s right, Dha’tey’s my ticket out of this joint,” announced the mechanic, “our fleet just secured the yards as Fossk ran away. And now the yards are light-years away from here, in a new home.”

“For Dha’tey’s fleet’s work? Are you nuts? You got plenty of business from my people and the legities in the rest of the Sector. You’ll be loosing a lot of credits…”

“I can’t stay here,” replied Donahue, “Fossk has realized that I have some less…well…scrutable business, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds out about my Alliance past. I imagine I’ll be executed if he ever gets his hands on me…”

“Stealing another one of my people, eh Kolir?” growled Rogers, “I might have to vape that castle you build…”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” replied the Commodore, “given that it wouldn’t take much effort on my part to completely vape all of your holdings. Second because I do have some special work for your people. And lastly, because my castle will be underwater.”

“What?”

“You think we can have it here in the open?” laughed Sei’lar, “Fossk would hit it so fast…there are spies among us. Among your people, or your customers, at the very least.”

“I do hate to admit it…”



One week later…

A blob of a barge dropped out of hyperspace and into Ventil’s orbit. The craft’s body was little more than makeshift scaffolding with emergency ion engines and a hyperdrive slapped onto it. Most of the craft was completely overlayed in the cheap alabative mesh used on probot and messenger droid hyperspace pods. But even that material could disguise the bulbous shapes which the barge carried. In the main habitation sphere, nearly twenty men stared at the screens which showed the starry vista and the mottled world below. The base’s commander nudged a new recruit fresh from Entrus.

“Ready for the drop?”

Gunther shook his head.

“Heck boy, you better be. You know you want to fall through the sky in an ‘underwater castle’. I bet I could get anyone else to do it. Besides, it’s not an Inferno product. It’s the best Rendeel Industries, Entrus Resistance, and the Uugo’cor techs could come up with. We’ll be fine.”

“I’ve got a pretty promising location on my screen, sir.”

“Hm…” considered Colonel Lorington, “That does look pretty good. Let’s take it. Let’s drop.”

The barge nudged itself forward with its engines, and the barge began its frightful free-fall to the surface. Gunther watched in motionless horror as the craft bulleted through the cloud layers. As the last cloud layer disappeared, the base members were greeted by the roaring waves of Ventil II’s Quekka Sea. Gunther let out a groan. At the last minute, the barge’s and the globalur module’s repulsorlifts kicked in, dramatically decreasing the pre-fabricated base’s descent. The barge hit the waves and immediately began to sink. Several of the men applauded, while the base’s Mon Calamari contingent stared at the viewscreens intently, watching the native creatures swim out to the sinking mass curiously. The water’s hue was in continual flux, but always growing darker.

“We’re at twenty kilometers below the surface…based on sensors, we’ll be hitting the bottom in another ten kilometers,” reported the sensor operator.

“Pssh…no problem. I’ve been in these at much deeper depths. These things are based on the original Rendeel Type 07034 deep-sea plant, even though they’re designed to be deployed anywhere, in any environment with a few modifications. We’ll be fine.”

The hull of the base hit the bottom with a dull thud, sending minor reverberations throughout the base.

“Barge status?”

“Barge is out of commission, as planned. Most of the alabative plating has been burned up by reentry; maybe by laser shots if Rogers shot at us…it is wonderful armor, you know..”

Several people laughed, fully aware that while the alabative plating did protect against reentry, it did not afford it much protection from enemy fire. But each module was as armored as an AT-AT, meaning that the base itself could shrug off most starfighter attacks with arrogant ease.

“Rest of the components, engines, the like, don’t seem to be to badly damaged by the landing. We can probably recover them and restore them with a little work in the machine shop.”

Lorington nodded. “Grab a mini-sub from the hangar module and go grab them. I’d like to take care of that before we permanently place the base’s module and lay it all over with Fabritech’s glorious CN-15 Camou Netting. And after that, see if you can scrap some mud and what not to cover up the modules once we’ve moved them into place.”

“On it.”

“And Shira, take your team and get our weapon’s emplacements out of storage and set’em up around the base. Fit them in with the landscape as best as you can, but keep them in a general circle, and near enough that we can put the camou netting over them without too much trouble. Thank’s missy.”

“Yes sir.”

“Gunther,” ordered the Colonel, “come with me. We need to make sure that both of the fabrication modules are working correctly. We have one for catching and processing any sea critters around here, and another that collects minerals and turns them into manufactured goods. Oh, and the sensor blind. That’d help us a bit if anyone gets around to exploring our little neck of the woods...”

“Right…Colonel.”

“And then our little underwater castle will be complete, and Dha’tey will be happy.”