Beyond - Legends Honor and Armor

Title: "Honor and Armor"
Author: bango31
Timeframe: 16 ABY, with multiple flashbacks to earlier time periods
Characters: Mostly all OCs with some Saga and Legends stuff sprinkled in
Summary: A bounty hunter must face the consequences of decisions made throughout his past as he unknowingly works against forces who seek his demise.

Notes: This was written over the course of about 4 years. As to the best of my knowledge, it adheres to the Legends Continuity.

Table of Contents:
Part I: The Hunt ... Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Part II: Separate Ways ... Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Part III: Old Friends ... Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Part IV: Strange Encounters ... Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 (New!)
Part V
Part VI

Thanks for reading!

***
Part I: The Hunt
16 ABY (Present)
***
CHAPTER ONE​

The blue and green sphere of Corellia greeted the modified freighter Spartus as it dropped out of hyperspace. Jag Girran plotted a course for the night-side of Gus Talon, one of Corellia’s moons, and returned his focus to a recent Corellian Security Force report. He had left the Corporate Sector several days earlier after reading a similar report, particularly because of a few lines of text:

Wanted: Eres Telnor. Chev male. Responsible for the murders of nine Corellian corporate heads. Suspect in twelve additional homicide investigations. Considered Armed and Dangerous. Bounty posted by CorSec; 390,000 cr.

Bounties totaling nearly four hundred thousand credits didn’t pop up every day. Jag had set his eyes on the Telnor bounty the hour it was posted. Given the amount of money he had recently sunk into what he considered “operating costs”—primarily an upgrade to Spartus’ hyperdrive—his accounts could use some padding. Unfortunately, he had had to divert his focus elsewhere before the hunt begin, as Jag had caught wind of a newcomer in the hunt.

Jag now found himself jockeying for control of the hunt with another bounty hunter—a Dug named Rokor—whose skills rivaled that of a novice. The dug, like most members of his species, was brash, stubborn, and unreasonably overconfident. Jag would have to deal with the Rokor distraction first.

Once Jag tucked the Spartus away in the shadow of Gus Talon, he powered down most of the ship’s systems. He was safely out of reach of Corellia's gravitational pull and could remain undetected by sensor sweeps and overzealous patrols. The advanced sensor suite he had installed in his ship would not only give him an edge in detecting ships dropping out of lightspeed, but it would also reduce the risk of detection by any opposing sensor sweeps.

The recent Republic regulations on shipping lanes for the region had rerouted non-commercial access to the system to only a few known hyperspace corridors, and given Rokor’s predictability, Jag was willing to bet Rokor would opt for the less traveled route in an effort to avoid detection. Fortunately for Jag, that course would put Rokor and his ship, Serpent’s Fang, well within the Spartus’ sensor range.

The Spartus, a Corellian YV-664 freighter, boasted military grade shields and a modified hyperdrive, along with a pair of quad cannons. Equipped with the Corellian Engineering Company’s powerful standard sublight engines, Jag would have no difficulty handling whatever Rokor had to offer.

After a few hours, the sensors beeped an alert. Jag smiled as he read the readout on the incoming ship. He powered up his weapons and shields, then eased on the sublight engines and moved to intercept the Fang.

The Spartus’ targeting system acquired a firing solution but Jag refrained from blasting the unsuspecting ship into oblivion. Negotiation was certainly not beneath him, but given the Dug’s propensity to succumb to his emotions, Jag preferred to negotiate from a position of strength. With his dorsal quad cannon locked onto the other ship's engines, he opened a channel and hailed his opponent.

“Serpent’s Fang from Spartus,” he said sternly over the comm. “Reduce speed and stand down or you will be fired upon.”

The comm offered only silence as the Fang continued on its original course, though sensors indicated it had slightly decreased speed.

“Serpent’s Fang, failure to respond will result in your destruction.”

Again, silence was the only response. Jag was typically a patient man, but Rokor had the misfortune of stumbling upon Jag on an atypical day. Jag fired two quick shots from his dorsal cannons just wide of the ship, hoping its pilot would come to his senses.

The message seemed effective as the Fang slowed considerably, almost coming to a complete stop. Jag ran an additional scan of the ship’s systems, making sure no surprises were waiting for him as he brought his ship across the Fang’s bow. Casting subtlety aside, he trained every one of the Spartus’ weapons on the ship’s cockpit.

“Quite the situation we have here,” said the raspy voice on the other end of the comm. “Quite the situation indeed.”

“On the contrary,” Jag replied coldly. “The situation is quite simple. Telnor will soon be mine, and you will be on your way.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at the ship in front of him. “Now.”

“Leaving?” Rokor scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

There was a light click as the channel closed, and the Fang opened fire.

***​

Blasted Dugs.

Jag threw all available power to the front shields and dove out of the Fang’s line of fire. With the Spartus’ engines screaming at full speed, Jag turned his dorsal quad cannons loose on his attacker. A barrage of red pummeled the Fang’s hull, which returned fire of its own. The Spartus’ shields absorbed most of Rokor’s attack but the Fang was not so fortunate. A large crater scarred the port side of the ship, its exposed wiring sparking wildly. Still, Rokor refused to break off his attack.

Jag banked hard to starboard while swinging the cannons around. The Fang, with its superior speed, matched the Spartus’ turn and closed the distance between the two ships. Jag tried to push out whatever additional speed his engines had left and banked back to the right before swinging upwards and twisting around above the Fang. Rokor tried to match the maneuver but was still bringing his ship around to bear as Jag dropped in behind him with weapons blazing. The quad cannons relentlessly pounded the Fang’s aft shields, trying to blast through and disable the engines.

The Fang attempted to break off and its engines flared as they desperately tried to deliver the ship to safety. The blinding flash of the sublight drive’s efflux forced Jag to hesitate for a moment as the cockpit’s viewport adjusted to the light. Those few precious seconds were all the Fang needed to dart out of range, if only for a moment.

Jag reopened his channel with Rokor. “So much for not leaving.”

Rokor’s voice raspy voice sounded as though it was laced with anger. “This isn’t over, Girran.”

Jag chuckled. “You Dugs never do know when to quit, do you?”

He armed his proton torpedoes and locked onto the Dug’s ship while he brought the Spartus up to full attack speed. The heavily damaged Fang couldn’t muster the power needed to evade the oncoming assault.

“You should’ve listened, Rokor.”

Jag turned his quad cannons loose and fired a single torpedo at the heart of the Fang. Seconds later, the stern was consumed in a spectacular flash of fire that doubled in intensity as the fuel stores exploded and consumed Rokor and the rest of the ship.

***​

Following the skirmish with Rokor, Jag took an hour to regroup and drop into Corellia’s orbit. In addition to a false transponder code for the ship, Jag masked any his concealed weapons systems with an anti-sensor configuration he had added several years prior. A failed attempt to slip through an Imperial blockade at Commenor had shown him the value of traveling discreetly.

Despite the bounty posting by CorSec, it was essential that Jag’s presence in the system remain unknown. Having already attracted the attention of the New Republic’s Intelligence’s Illicit Activities Division—the most recent efforts by Coruscant to please the public’s demands for a stranglehold on the galaxy’s growing number of criminal enterprises—Jag opted for discretion when conducting business in the Republic’s more affluent regions, despite the general incompetency of the IAD.

After receiving clearance to enter the planet’s atmosphere, Jag set the Spartus on a course to Coronet, Corellia’s capital city. The night sky covered the city and miles beyond, which provided natural cover for Jag and his ship. The city’s urban and industrial sprawl illuminated the landscape, and speeders, civilian transports, and cargo lifts packed the airspace. It reminded Jag of Coruscant—just on a much smaller scale.

The Spartus glided through the night sky and ducked in line with the rest of the surface-bound traffic. It had been some time since he last traveled to Coronet, and Jag marveled at the progress the city had made in rebuilding the capitol building. Not only had they created a much larger and grander structure, but the commerce in the area had also grown considerably. Although the area had always been quite affluent, the apparent boom created by the architectural improvements was noticeable even from Jag’s current altitude.

After circling the outer merchant districts, Jag located a docking bay tucked away between several large maintenance shops. While he checked his armor and weapons, ArDee read the intel reports he had compiled on Eres Telnor.

“Security files indicate ninety-seven murders in the Soran sector in the last three days,” said the voice of his digitized companion, “though only three matched your criteria.”

Jag nodded. “Thank you, ArDee. Decrypt any files you can obtain pertaining to security details in the area and upload them to my helmet.”

Although Jag had deserted his post within the Imperial Army years ago, he hadn’t left empty-handed. After his unit had been betrayed by its commander, he fled to the Outer Rim with his surviving comrades. They survived by turning to piracy, and it was during that time that Jag acquired AR-D1, or ArDee as Jag preferred.

“Three more dead and all in the same sector,” he said aloud. “Sounds like our boy’s still in the system.”

While the corporations that made their homes in the Soran Sector of Coronet were hardly galactic powerhouses, they had contributed significantly to the economic successes of Coronet’s outlying areas. Still, despite the growth of wealth in the area, crime rates were on the rise and the police presence had not matched it.

None of this surprised Jag; he had seen the same scene play out on dozens of other worlds. More money to go around meant more corruption, and in that system local crime syndicates flourished. Their newfound power and influence made them a threat to the regional CorSec precincts who remained ill-equipped to fix the problem. This also created a dangerous predicament for unwelcomed outsiders like Jag.

Then again, laws and social codes had never kept Jag from doing what he wanted, even if the outcome wasn’t always to his liking.

Grabbing his helmet from the copilot’s chair, Jag sealed the final piece of his armor in place and prepared to head out into the Coronet night.

“ArDee, get moving on those security reports. If you pull what you did on Skorrupon when I call for extraction, I’m wiping your memory and donating you to the first Jawa I find.”

“Very good, sir. The third decryption sequence is already underway,” ArDee responded, his clean Coruscanti accent absent of emotion.

“Good. Monitor our channel, and alert me immediately if I start to move out of range.”

ArDee acknowledged his request, and after stashing his twin blaster pistols into their holsters, Jag slipped through the hatch of the Spartus and sealed the ship behind him.

 

This Jag is an interesting character. But there is something confusing me.

The guy has Boba Fett's armor. This tells me Fett is dead, because how else could somebody get it away from him. But Boba Fett fell into the Sarlacc, so wouldn't his armor be in there too?

 

I will have to clean that part up. It's not Fett's armor, just Mandalorian in general. That's poor wording on my part. Thanks for pointing that out!

 

Glad I could help.

 

CHAPTER TWO​

Despite the spike in murders in the last week, CorSec’s presence was relatively negligible, making the trek from the docking bay to the city’s higher levels an uneventful one. Jag found that curious, but given the pockets of what were clearly syndicate enforcers he passed along the way, it was hardly surprising. It certainly explained why they had opted to place a bounty on Eres Telnor.

Eventually Jag came across a speeder station with vehicles available for rent. As he stepped into the hangar’s office, the Devaronian behind the counter looked as though he was about to faint.

“I swear, I’ll pay!” the horned individual said, visibly shaking as he began to slink away. “Tell him I’ve got the money, I just…I can’t get off-planet!”

Jag cocked his head in confusion.

“Relax, friend. I’m not here for you.” Jag raised his hands to indicate he meant no harm. “And I’m not who you think I am.”

The shop owner hesitated, and then offered a broad smile as the color mostly returned to the Devaronian’s face. “In that case, Ert’an H’lark, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I’m in need of some…discreet transportation,” Jag said.

H’lark nodded at Jag’s armor. “With that outfit, I’d imagine so.”

“I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve seen this kind of armor,” Jag said, knowing full well where the conversation was headed.

“Unfortunately, it’s not. He came for me several years ago when I had a shop outside of Hutt Space,” H’lark said, eyes cast downward, though his face quickly brightened. “Lucky for me, I was wealthier than his employer.”

Jag smiled and nodded. Fett, notorious for his cold-blooded approach to his profession, was equally renowned for his attention to the bottom line. Still, it wasn’t often Fett risked client dissatisfaction for a few extra credits. Either the bounty was less than impressive, or this Ert’an H’lark was far more prosperous than his modest shop suggested.

“I’m also a man who knows a few things.”

Ah. Jag grinned again. So that was Fett’s true reason for keeping H’lark alive. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

H’lark smiled nervously and nodded. “Let’s take a look at the lot, shall we?” The Devaronian started to walk out from behind the counter, eager to get to the sale. Jag stopped him.

“That won’t be necessary.” He pulled a credit chip from a pouch on his belt and handed it to H’lark. “That’s four thousand. Give me something small, fast, and quiet.” H’lark picked up the money and studied Jag for a moment.

“Well,” he began, the satisfaction in his voice obvious. “I think we can arrange something. I think our newest model will suit you quite nicely. The ZRX-36. Very popular among the more—” H’lark paused and gave Jag a quick glance, “—adventurous types, if you will. We have several in the hangar at the moment. What name should we put on the account?”

Jag tossed another credit chip on the counter. “What name?”

H’lark sighed. “I’m sorry sir, but that’s not going to possible. You must—”

In a flash, the bounty hunter had a pistol in hand and aimed at the Devaronian’s forehead. The color again left H’lark’s face.

“I’ve always considered myself a patient man.” Jag noticed beads of sweat had started rolling down the side of H’lark’s face. “But people keeping saying I have far too high an opinion of myself.”

H’lark stammered as he tried to speak. “You know, the name part is really more of a formality than anything. Nothing some creative administrative work can’t clean up.”

Jag holstered his pistol and nodded. “That’s more like it.”

The Devaronian smiled weakly and grunted in agreement as Jag headed out to the hangar.

***​

A few hours passed and the night sky started to give way to dawn while Jag scouted the area and got to work. Once he found a suitable starting point, he piloted the speeder toward one of the financial towers and started looking for a discreet spot to begin his climb. After analyzing CorSec’s recent patrols in the area, ArDee provided Jag with a route that should keep him out of sight of anyone on the ground or airborne

The few traces of sunlight that penetrated area’s metal mountains gleamed off Jag’s crimson and charcoal armor as he climbed an access ladder to the top of the banking complex. The sun crept higher into the morning as Jag continued his climb, and after ascending another ladder and scaling another wall to reach yet another ladder, he stopped to remove his helmet and wipe the sweat from his brow while he admired the view. Jag cursed his malfunctioning jetpack that had been reduced to an armor ornament. He likely would not have used it anyway so as to avoid detection, but that did not keep him from complaining about it.

The banking complex was the largest structure in the area, and it was also the most accessible. Since a variety of banks, both Corellian and intergalactic, made their headquarters inside, a wide array of species could come and go as they pleased. A Chev would have little difficulty—if any—infiltrating the complex. Jag inspected the rooftop and compared it with the schematics ArDee had provided him. The rooftop was scattered with exhaust vents and only a few appeared active

I deserve double for this. Jag groaned and again removed his helmet to wipe his face. The suit’s self-cooling system he had tried to repair over the last week was currently in the middle of a horribly failed field test. In addition to the heat, the exhaust vents’ cover grates had been laser-welded into place.

“It’s always something. Always.” He pulled a smaller lasertorch from another pouch on his utility belt. “Why would things go according to plan? Where’s the fun in that?” He made his way around the edge of the grate, cutting the vent’s entrance as he went. “Nope, I’d rather stand on the roof and boil to death.”

With just a few more cuts to make, the grate partially broke loose on its own and started to fall into the ventilation shaft, and the weight of the metal nearly pulled Jag down with it. He grabbed on to the lip of the vent to brace himself and started cursing at himself.

“Atta boy.” He grimaced and fought to keep from dropping the grate. To make matters worse, Jag had dropped his torch down the shaft and he heard it clang around as it made its way to the bottom.

“Come on, you worthless piece of sithspit.”

He grunted as he dug his heels into the roof and hoisted the heavy metal grate back up over the lip of the vent. Once he had his balance, he made a quick grab for the grate with his free hand and pulled back as hard as he could, trying to bend the metal and snap it. The near collapse into the shaft must have weakened the metal significantly, because after working the metal back and forth for a few moments, he was able to break the grate free.

Jag removed a small metal looped pin from his utility belt and hammered it into the roof’s surface. He pressed a button on the wrist-mounted mechanism of his gauntlet and pulled out several feet of fibercord that he then snaked through the pin’s loop and clamped in place.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the fibercord tight and he climbed into the vent. He braced his feet against the sides of the shaft while holding onto the lip, hoping the pin would hold in place and not send him free-falling to the bottom of the shaft.

He began his descent slowly, carefully and quietly walking himself down the shaft. The fibercord seemed to have no problem supporting his weight despite him wearing his full suit of armor. His visor adjusted to the increasingly dim surroundings, and after lowering himself a few more meters, his feet touched bottom and he released the fibercord from his wrist. While crouched in the shaft, Jag blinked a set of commands at his HUD and opened his link to the Spartus.

“ArDee, upload the readout of this building to my datapad.”

“Copy, sir. You should receive it momentarily.”

While he waited for the plans to arrive, Jag peered around the shaft. It was large enough that he could almost comfortably stand upright. He removed a small datapad from a pocket on his thigh belt and opened up the encrypted package from ArDee. A three-dimensional layout of the banking complex came to life on the face of the pad and identified Jag’s location. He keyed in a few commands and focused the display on his section of the building.

According to the plans, he was directly above some sort of meeting hall or conference room; behind him was the cafeteria along with several large generators which were likely responsible for the smoke and vapor rising through the rooftop vents. Jag headed forward through the vent towards what appeared to be a block of offices. He rotated the building diagram to get a better look; there was large, open room sandwiched between clusters of smaller offices with two long corridors running to each section.

The vent continued for approximately thirty meters before coming to another turn. Jag crept along as quietly as he could, grimacing at every creak and groan of metal. The temperature outside the building had been quite uncomfortable; it was unbearable in the vent. Drops of sweat were rolling down his neck and dripping off his brow. He stopped and crouched down to remove his helmet and wipe his face again.

“Four hundred thousand credits. Four hundred thousand credits.”

Jag slipped his helmet back on and continued down the dimly lit vent. There were slivers of light creeping through gaps in the pieces of metal, but not enough for him to see clearly without the aid of his helmet.

As Jag approached the first cluster of offices, grates start to appear on the floor of the vent, which acted as ceiling vents for the rooms below. Lights were on in the majority of the offices so he slowed his approach even more and stepped as lightly as he could. Based on the glances he made into the rooms below, the area was largely unoccupied. He was approaching a grate whose light was dimmer than the others, then stopped when he heard voices. Jag crouched next to the slats and peered into the room below.

The room was much larger than the previous cluster of offices and appeared to be an executive suite of sorts. A well-dressed humanoid was seated behind a large desk, and seated on the corner of that desk was an attractive human female. It was clear the topic of conversation between the two had nothing to do with banking. Jag shook his head and moved on.

Below the next grate, however, was something worthy of his attention. A Chev with elaborate facial tattoos dressed in janitorial garments had just removed a rather large vibroblade from his pocket. In the other hand was a blaster. Jag’s eyes widened; the Chev was preparing to break through the door in front of him, which connected to the previous room. The Chev had pried open the control panel for the door and was attempting to override the wiring. Jag shuffled back to the grate over the executive suite—the suite with a very rich executive seated helplessly behind a desk.

Telnor was about to strike again.

“Wonderful.” When Jag looked down into the executive suite, he saw the door was still intact, but also found the executive and the attractive female had started undressing each other.

“Oh, come on—”

The door flew open and the room’s two occupants’ heads swung around toward the noise. Eres Telnor burst through, his blaster trained on the executive and the vibroblade menacingly extended out in front of his body. Jag groaned in annoyance as he stood up and stepped gently onto the grate. In one quick motion he hopped up and slammed his feet through the grate.

He shot through the opening and into the room. As he fell, he managed to grab a shoulder of the executive and his female companion, and dragged them both to the floor. Telnor opened fire, trying desperately to land a hit on one of his targets. Jag snatched a blaster from his hip and rolled around the left side of the desk. He popped into a crouch, aimed at Telnor’s legs, and fired off several quick shots.

The Chev was already on the move. The shots went wide as Telnor bolted for the suite’s massive transparisteel window and fired two quick shots to clear his path. The window shattered just as Telnor launched himself through the opening, out of the building, and into the open skies.

For a heartbeat, Jag stared at the shattered window dumbfounded.

“The hell is he doing?”

Jag started after Telnor, but he hesitated when he remembered the executive and the female. He reached into his belt and removed a small holdout blaster he decided he could do without and tossed it at the man’s feet.

“Next time, bring some protection.”

He turned, broke into a full sprint, and leaped out the window.

***​

As Jag plummeted in free-fall towards the street below, his arms and legs spread out to provide some air resistance, he started to wonder what Telnor had been thinking. No one jumped out of a several hundred story skyscraper without some kind of plan.

Maybe he had planned some sort of getaway and jumped into a parked speeder. Maybe he had prepared the night before and had a rope waiting for him. Maybe he was splattered across the streets below.

Those thoughts lasted about two seconds before Jag refocused on the fact he was freefalling toward the streets of Coronet. He hit the ignition for his jetpack once, then twice, and then a third time.

Nothing.

“Oh boy.”

He kept toggling the activator, at first to no avail, but finally the jetpack sputtered to life and his body jerked as the jetpack halted his fall.

Then the jetpack quit. Jag was freefalling again.

“I swear if I survive this, I’m retiring.” Diagnostics kept playing across his helmet’s display, but panic was beginning to take hold and he couldn’t focus on the information.

The ground continued to approach rapidly, and Jag knew his window of opportunity to figure something out was nearly gone. The building he had jumped from had a series of vertical pipes running parallel with it that eventually curved and connected into the building, likely carrying water from wells dug below the city. Some smaller horizontal pipes connected the vertical pipes to the building at various points along the way. He eyed one of the horizontal pipes below him and worked to rotate his body in the air.

Only a few hundred meters separated Jag from the ground. There would be no time for a second attempt. He tried to cant his body and move closer to the building in order to minimize the distance of his shot. He reached out with his left arm and took aim at the horizontal pipe. Jag gave the ground one last look—now less than a hundred meters away—and fired his fibercord grappler at the piping.

He almost waited too long.

The grappler barely reached the pipes. It swung itself around the horizontal pipe and secured a tight hold on the durasteel. Jag kept his finger on the mechanism’s release, trying to use every last bit of fibercord he had left. As the ground continued to draw closer, he started to worry that he had given himself too much slack. He would slam into the ground within a second or two. Jag closed his eyes, felt some of the wind whipping under his helmet against his face, and prepared for the inevitable.

 

CHAPTER THREE
​

Jag’s eyes snapped open and his body jolted as the fibercord went taut. At first, he had had no reaction, partly due to the shock of not being dead. The sudden force of Jag’s body snapped the fibercord from his
wrist and he flailed with his right hand, trying to grab hold. He caught the cord for a moment, but then started to slide down it. He swung his left hand up to grab it, trying to stop his fall. His gloved hand tightened with as much strength as he could muster, and he finally came to a stop—but only because his feet were on the ground.​

Still clutching the fibercord with every last ounce of desperation in his body, Jag looked around, still in disbelief that he was alive. His sudden arrival on the lower street level had startled the twenty or thirty people in the area, but none of them gave him more than a questioning look before returning to their business.

Jag stretched his fingers a few times, trying to relax his hands and forearms. He looked around to get his bearings and regain his composure, checked his weapons, and made sure everything was still in its place. With every last bit of fibercord from his suit hanging above him, he had lost a valuable part of his arsenal. Hopefully Telnor didn’t plan on diving out any more windows.

He headed down the street and ducked into a dimly lit alley, littered with old crates and dotted with receded doorways. His visor again adjusted to compensate for the diminished visibility, which made the darkened alley appear partially illuminated through his helmet’s display. Jag scanned the corridor for his quarry. He noticed the alleyway came to a dead end approximately a hundred meters to his right, with the foundations of skyscrapers blocking any exit in that direction.

Nowhere to hide.

He had barely finished the thought when blaster bolts sizzled past his head. He hit the ground and rolled into a nearby receded doorway. Jag blinked a command at his heads-up display and his visor shifted to infrared scanning.

He saw the Chev before the Chev saw him.

Jag drew both blaster pistols and popped out of the doorway. He aimed at Telnor’s exposed leg and fired four quick shots. He heard a howl of pain as he crouched behind a couple of crates on the other side of the alley. Jag checked over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t an ambush on the way, then confirmed Telnor was still down and emerged from cover.

Jag bolted out from behind the crate and fired two more shots at Telnor’s position. Both went wide but kept Telnor suppressed, who was still screaming curses at the bounty hunter. When Jag was only a few strides from Telnor, he holstered one of his blasters and leaped onto the crates Telnor was using for cover. With another bounding step, he planted and launched himself over the head of the unsuspecting Chev.

His target had his gun aimed at where Jag would have been had he tried to come around the crates. However, his aerial assault caught Telnor by complete surprise. Jag flipped the blaster in his grip and smashed its butt into the Chev’s face with as much power as he could generate, then whipped the pistol around and fired a shot into the hand holding Telnor’s blaster which drew another yelp of pain.

Now standing over his prey, Jag kicked Telnor’s blaster away and drew his other pistol, aiming both at Telnor’s head. His bounty laid helplessly on the ground, cowering with one hand protecting his face, the other holding his wounded leg.

“Eres Telnor. You’re quite popular these days.”

Telnor, still reeling from Jag’s swift attack, could only stutter.

“Who in the blazes are you?”

“The Chief of State as far as you’re concerned. And you shouldn’t be worried about who I am. What you should be worried about is whether or not I need the fifteen percent I’d be docked if I bring you in cold.”

Telnor answered with a confused look. Jag chuckled as he crouched down in front of Telnor.

“Not too privy to how CorSec’s been handling their bounties, are we?”

Telnor shook his head.

“Well, my marginally crippled friend, as per their new policy, anyone cashing in on a bounty with a corpse takes a fifteen percent hit on the price.” Jag cocked his head slightly. “That leaves us with two options.”

With one hand resting on his bent knee, he raised the other to aim the blaster at Telnor’s chest.

“Number one: I shoot you.” Jag glanced at the Chev’s laser-burned leg. “Well, fatally. Number two.” He paused again. “I don’t really like number two.”

Jag had to smile. It was like he was still talking to H’lark in the speeder shop. The color in Telnor’s face had faded and his breathing was heavy.

“What…is option…two?” he managed between breaths.

Jag stood and crossed his arms, still holding his blasters. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Option two is far less fun for me.”

“I’ll take option two!” Telnor blurted, almost before Jag could finish. Jag shrugged and holstered one of the blasters.

“As you wish.” Jag delivered a vicious backhand to Telnor’s head with the butt of the other blaster, spun the pistol on his palm, and smashed him again with the gun. Telnor went limp and slumped over. Jag sighed again and cursed the fact that he would have to carry—no, drag—Telnor back to his speeder.

“ArDee, you copy?”

“Loud and clear, sir. I was beginning to worry you had expired.”

Jag smiled. While emotions were by their very nature foreign to droids and machinery, his computerized counterpart had developed some self-designed programming that incorporated certain aspects of human emotion. As long as those new-found characteristics didn’t begin to wear on Jag, he welcomed them. It was comforting to enjoy something resembling human interaction during his travels.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He bound Telnor’s hands behind his back, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and started to drag him down the alley toward the street he had landed in after his leap from the banking complex.

“I’m going to need you to find me a path back to the speeder. Did you ping its location yet?”

“Yes, sir. It remains where you left it, though I imagine you will find it difficult to return to, considering your cargo.”

“I agree. Any chance you can access the control board of the speeder remotely?”

ArDee stated there would be no issue in doing so, and provided him with a rendezvous point. Jag pulled out the datapad he had used in the vent and loaded a map of the Soran Sector of Coronet, then felt his jaw drop when he saw where ArDee wanted him to meet the speeder.

“What, are you nuts? You want me to stroll out in the middle of a public square dragging a guy with blaster wounds? Dressed like this?”

There was a moment of silence before ArDee responded.

“I concur, sir; my apologies. I am forwarding new coordinates to your display. This should meet our needs.”

Jag scoffed. Our needs. Says the one not getting shot at.

With his destination now marked on his helmet’s HUD, he started dragging Telnor down the street. The fortunate part of being on Coronet’s main street level was that hardly anyone he passed paid him any mind, despite the unconscious body in tow. He had to push through a few groups of tightly packed pedestrians, but for the most part, he arrived at his destination without incident.

The rendezvous point was a plaza enclosed by several one hundred-story buildings. Three walkways intersected, two of which cut through the buildings and connected to the open expanses and concourses on the other side of the enormous structures. The other walkway also led pedestrians into the largest of the skyscrapers, but to an underground shopping complex.

The area was well-lit with several vendors packed near the walking paths. The majority of the commerce in this particular enclosure seemed to revolve around vice. In an area no larger than ninety meters in either direction, there were at least five bars and brothel, along with upwards of ten dining locations offering various types of cuisine from across the galaxy. That there was so much variety in this particular part of Coronet surprised Jag.

He scanned the nearby docking platforms for his speeder.

“ArDee, where’s my transport?”

“Arriving momentarily, sir. Stand by.”

Jag turned his eyes skyward just in time to see the sleek speeder glide into view and begin its descent.

“Don’t bother docking, just drop it in the middle of the courtyard,” he instructed the computer. “This needs to be quick.”

ArDee chirped an affirmative as Jag quickened his pace toward an open seating area between two of the walkways. A large, elegant fountain sat in the middle of the arrangement, surrounded by colorful and polished stones, which seemed rather out of place in such a neighborhood. The large crowd taking holographs of the fountain was apparently too distracted to notice the airspeeder that was beginning its descent into the middle of the square. Jag needed to get airborne and off-planet with Telnor as quickly as possible, and, as he tended to do, ArDee was using caution when Jag needed expediency.

“ArDee, enough. Just put the damn thing down.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The speeder dropped and crushed the fountain with some members of the crowd standing mere meters away. Jag could only stare in disbelief.

“I’m going to deactivate you.”

“My apologies, sir.”

Jag was sure he caught a hint of sarcasm in the computer’s voice.

The crowd near the fountain broke out in panic while many of the other pedestrians in the area had activated their comlinks and were all frantically talking—or yelling—into them. Jag would have to work quickly, both in escaping the area and the planet. He hoisted Telnor’s body into the speeder and climbed in. With the repulsorlifts already running, he started to lift the speeder off the pile of rubble that had been the beautiful fountain only moments ago.

As he started to swing the front end of the speeder around and upwards, the square’s open sky between the skyscrapers filled with speeders loaded with security personnel.

Jag clenched his teeth and cursed. “Four hundred thousand. Four hundred thousand.”

He had only one way out, but there was no guarantee he could minimize property damage. With no other options, he decided the city was prosperous enough to afford repairs, and given the circumstances he felt avoiding collisions with civilians was a much higher priority.

Jag threw down the accelerator and steered the speeder toward one of the walkways that tunneled through the first level of a skyscraper and led to the open sky concourses. Fortunately, most of the pedestrians had deduced what was about to transpire. The several hundred people in the area scattered toward the edges of the walkway while others dove to their stomachs and covered their heads. Jag took a deep breath and headed for the tunnel.

The ceiling of the tunnel was lower than he anticipated. In fact, it was so low that Jag almost took his own head off as he plunged the speeder into the passageway. Pedestrians of all colors and species continued to dive out of the way, but for the most part his path was clear. He pushed more power to the drives as he tried to clear the tunnel at top speed. The howl of repulsorlifts echoed down the chamber as two security speeders dropped in behind him.

The pursuing airspeeders closed the distance quickly and were nearly on top of Jag just as he cleared the tunnel. The sky opened up into the bustling flow of late morning Coronet traffic. Refusing to sacrifice an ounce of speed, Jag darted into the thick flow of civilian air traffic, weaving in and out of the skylanes in an attempt to put some distance between himself and his newfound friends.

“ArDee, I’m in trouble! Keep the ship hot, we’re not going to have much time!”

How he was going to make the transfer to the Spartus was beyond him at this point. He was hoping a solution would manifest itself by the time he arrived at the docking bay.

One of the pursuing speeders had crept up along Jag’s starboard side and its operator had drawn his blaster. Jag banked hard to the left and dropped out of the skylane, then began cutting toward an artificial canyon between two massive spacescrapers. The security speeder dove and cut below the skylane in pursuit, with the second CorSec speeder dropping in on its left flank.

Both of the speeders sported a single laser cannon mounted on the bow, but they had yet to open fire, likely fearing collateral damage. Attempting to use this to his advantage, Jag rocketed into the urban canyon and tried to hug the building to his left as much as possible without sacrificing control of the speeder. The only drawback to entering the chasm—something that hadn’t occurred to Jag previously—was the decreased sky traffic.

The CorSec pilots quickly recognized their new advantage and opened fire. The shots missed wide, burning large holes in the durasteel and transparisteel exterior of one of the spacescrapers. Jag grabbed one of his blaster pistols and prepared to make his move. As he burst out of the canyon, he threw his speeder into a dive that almost launched him and Telnor forward out of the speeder, but Jag was able to grab the unconscious Chev by the arm and drag him back to safety.

Though the speeders were a little slow reacting, once they adjusted they matched Jag’s maneuver almost flawlessly, but failed to anticipate the next one. He slammed the speeder into a full stop and drew his other blaster. As both speeders shot past him, he opened fire.

The first several shots clipped the back of the speeders and each one jolted from the impact. Jag continued to fire, even though the speeders were all but out of range at that point. Still, he had distanced himself just enough. He dropped back into his seat and started to climb back to the primary skylanes.

Jag glanced at Telnor, who was now awake and staring at him with wide open eyes and a look that managed to express panic, fear, and anger all at once. Jag smiled behind his helmet and laughed lightly.

“What’s the matter, don’t like flying?”

Telnor responded in his native tongue, one Jag was hardly familiar with, but judging by the tone and volume, he assumed his own translation couldn’t have been too inaccurate.

“Oh, relax. You won’t have to put up with me for much longer.” Jag paused for a moment before turning to look at Telnor. “After all, you get to meet those guys.” He jerked his thumb back towards their former pursuers. Again, Telnor lashed out with an indiscernible tirade.

Instead of risking another encounter with the local security forces, Jag opted for a longer, less direct route back to the Spartus’ docking bay. After securing Telnor in one of the holding cells on his ship, Jag returned the speeder to H’lark’s shop along with an extra thousand credits, just in case the Devaronian needed some more incentive to forget their business dealings. Soon he was back onboard the Spartus and preparing to take off.

“Initiation sequence complete, ArDee?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Jag nodded in approval as he dropped into the pilot’s seat and double-checked the flight monitors in front of him.

“Raise shields and reroute whatever additional power you have to the sublight engines. I’d love to take the scenic route out, but honestly, I need a drink.”

“Copy, sir. Shall I begin preparing your drink?” ArDee asked.

“In the name of all that is sacred, absolutely not. After all this, you think I’m going to suffer another one of your toxic concoctions?”

There was no answer from ArDee, which suited Jag just fine; he needed to focus on getting out of Coronet. He reached up to his right and flipped a few switches behind him, then checked his system monitors one more time. Everything appeared to be functioning properly save for his weapons systems, which were warming slower than usual due to the power reroutes. He would have to manage without them.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.”

The Spartus’ powerful engines roared to life as he lifted the ship off the floor of the docking bay, and a few moments later the modified freighter was streaking towards Corellia's upper atmosphere. Jag checked the scopes until he broke free into open space, making sure there was no second pursuit.

As he made his way beyond Corellia’s gravitational well, he loaded up the navicomputer and entered the coordinates for the jump to lightspeed. It was ironic, he thought, that he had spent so much energy evading CorSec’s soldiers just to turn over a murderer to one of their higher-ranking officers. While it wasn’t necessarily corrupt, hiring an outlaw to do one’s dirty work was certainly not the most ethical way to put a stop to crime. Still, it could not have mattered any less to Jag.

The hunt was over, and it was time to get paid.

 

Oh that was quite fun.
A little action movie going on here. Quite visual.
I look forward to reading the next chapters.

 

Great action! Also, you're really good at describing the settings, I can easily imagine each scene.

 

CHAPTER FOUR
​

Once the Spartus was safely hurtling through hyperspace on autopilot, Jag headed for the hold and took a seat on a crate near Telnor’s holding cell. He had spent the last hour refilling the fibercord in his suit. The torso plates of his armor were on the floor resting against his crate while the left wrist gauntlet sat in his lap as he tried to force several grapplers into the holding slots inside the piece.

Telnor was slowly regaining consciousness, as he had been unresponsive since shortly after leaving Corellia. Jag had removed the stuncuffs but kept Telnor’s feet secured; the Chev wouldn’t be escaping the electrified cell anytime soon. It only took a few minutes after Telnor woke up for the incessant griping began.

“You don’t have to turn me in, you know.” Telnor’s Basic was broken but still comprehendible.

“You don’t say.”

“I mean it. I can pay double. Hell, probably triple!”

“Doubtful.”

“I had my reasons for what I did, reasons you might even approve of.”

Jag looked up from his task with the fibercord. “Such as?”

“I’ve heard about you. I know how you are—how you’ve got ‘principles’ or whatever you want to call them. Every single person I killed, they had it coming to them.”

“Did they, now?”

Telnor nodded. “That’s right. Every one of them. They stole, they embezzled, they robbed from hard-working people.”

Jag shrugged. “They’re not my concern. They didn’t have a bounty on their heads.”

“But I thought—”

“What you thought is not of any consequence to me, and my principles are of no consequence to you. What does matter is that when I have an opportunity to bring a murderer to justice—and get paid for it—I don’t hesitate. But I’m not a financial regulatory commission. If those people you killed are as corrupt as you claim, then let the Corellians handle it. It’s not my business.”

Jag turned and stared at Telnor as coldly as his helmet would allow. “You are my business.”

The Chev either came to terms with his fate or ran out of ideas with which to persuade his captor. Whichever it was, Jag didn’t care; he was glad that things were finally quiet again. He finished replacing the grapplers and ran the fibercord through the protective sheath that connected to the back plate, where it ran to a feed machine built into the underside of the armor.

Jag strapped all of his armor on and ran a quick check on the suit’s various systems. The fibercord’s mechanism registered as fully functioning, as did the network of sensors imbedded in the armor that alerted him to any structural damage. He pulled his gloves on and holstered his blasters. Jag paused and turned to look at Telnor, who had been quietly studying him since the conclusion of their conversation.

Telnor nodded toward the armor. “Where did you get that?”

“None of your business.”

Telnor flashed a smile, revealing uneven but sharp teeth. “I bet you stole it.”

Jag laughed. “You’re certainly free to think what you want.”

“I bet he doesn’t like you wearing it.”

This made Jag pause. He walked toward the cell and crouched down in front of Telnor.

“You want to know where I got it?”

Telnor nodded, a smug look on his face. Jag couldn’t tell if the Chev was trying to elicit some visceral emotional response or simply irritate him, but it was working: Jag was annoyed.

“You see this? This marking?” He held up his left wrist gauntlet for Telnor to see.

“No—what am I looking for?”

“It’s hard to miss. Just look closer.”

Telnor inched his face closer to the bars of the holding cell, squinting his eyes as he tried to locate the markings. He moved his face closer and closer as he continued to fail to find anything significant.

That was when Jag lashed out with a quick right jab and planted a solid fist against Telnor’s jaw. There was an audible crack as the bone broke, and Telnor yelped in pain.

“Still want to know?”

***​

The mottled blue blur of hyperspace disappeared into the realm of normal space and gave way to the rich pink color of the Hannas Nebula as the Spartus dropped out of lightspeed. The encrypted transmission Jag received from CorSec after confirming his successful apprehension of Telnor had identified this remote section of space as the transfer point. The nebula’s relatively close proximity to Corellia made it ideal for arrangements of the less than legal variety, and was far enough from the system that the prying eyes of Internal Affairs and Corellian bureaucrats would remain ignorant to CorSec engaging in under-the-table deals with bounty hunters.

Jag brought his sensors online and began sweeping the area, though his instruments were partially disrupted by the nebula’s irregularities and electromagnetic discharges. He scanned the magnificently colored space, a cosmic collection of gases and dust. Two stars were in the early stages of formation, and Jag set the ship’s computers to monitor the edges of each core’s gravitational well. The last thing he wanted was to conclude this whole ordeal with incineration.

“ArDee, begin transmitting. See if we can’t find him.” Jag pulled his helmet on and headed back to the hold where Telnor lay sleeping.

Ideally, the transfer would be an unremarkable affair: collect payment, transfer the package, and leave. From there, his exit would include a series of jumps across the Inner Rim followed by a long shot to the Outer Rim, and then he would disappear to the edge of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, his history of dealing with Corellians had taught him that hardly anything ever went according to plan. They were a people steeped in pride, brashness, and arrogance, and rarely hesitated to capitalize on an opportunity that presented itself. Jag expected precisely that from Captain Blaise.

He headed to the cargo elevator to prep the area for the transfer. Jag stashed a few blasters and backup power packs nearby as a precaution then returned to the cockpit. By that time, a ship was visible in the distance against the backdrop of the nebula.

“ArDee, check the transponder on that ship.”

“I already did, sir. Showing as the Ion, CorSec markings. Scans indicate weapons are active.”

Jag exited the cockpit once again and returned to the hold.

“Open a channel as soon as we’re in range,” he said. “And raise the shields.”

ArDee acknowledged the order and went silent as the computer made the necessary preparations for the communiqué. Jag turned his attention to the prisoner still lying in a heap on the deck of the hold.

“Wake up.”

When Telnor didn’t stir, Jag sighed and repeated his command, but again received no response. His patience wearing thin, he grabbed the DC-15 rifle he had racked on the wall and shut down the cell. Entering cautiously, he jabbed Telnor in the side with the long barrel of the rifle.

The prisoner snapped into action: he grabbed the barrel and yanked it towards him, catching Jag off guard. Telnor kicked his leg forward and swept Jag’s legs out from under him. Jag hit the deck with a loud thud and his grip on the rifle loosened.

Telnor seized his opportunity and snatched the rifle from Jag. He swung it around and brought the barrel to bear on Jag’s chest, but the bounty hunter was too quick. His right blaster was already in his hand and he fired quick shots into Telnor’s left hand, arm, and then shoulder.

The Chev screamed in pain but still managed to fire a shot into Jag’s chest. He grunted as the force of the shot slammed him back to the deck. Still, there was no burning sensation that accompanied a blaster wound. He felt his chest plate with his free hand, trying to assess the damage. His HUD confirmed what he felt; no penetration, but significant damage.

Jag lifted his blaster again as he sat up and took aim Telnor’s right arm. He fired another succession of shots and drew another howl from Telnor. The Chev finally dropped the rifle and Jag jumped on him. He bashed Telnor’s face with the butt of his blaster and then crushed his nose with a sharp left jab. The bloodied prisoner finally went limp. Jag tossed the motionless but still breathing body against the cell wall and picked up his rifle.

“Stupid bastard,” he muttered angrily.

Few things irritated him more than those who did not know when to accept reality and face it with dignity. The bloodied, broken, and burned being that sat before him was guilty of crimes punishable by death on any number of planets throughout the galaxy, yet he had tried to justify his actions to a man who made his living hunting for money.

Relative morality mattered little to a man like Jag. He certainly had his principles, but allowing his victims to rationalize their crimes wasn’t something he indulged. Even if those rationales were defensible, Jag wasn’t paid to be a judge. He was paid to fulfill contracts, nothing more. If he had wanted to be an arbitrator, he would have gone to work in the public sector after the Empire fell.

Eres Telnor was guilty of multiple murders by his own admission. While his motives were mildly admirable, especially in the eyes of a revolutionary or activist, Jag made it a point to avoid such entanglements. He preferred things simple; it removed the need for subjectivity—something for which his profession had little use.

ArDee soon informed him the nearby ship had acknowledged Jag’s transmissions and was standing by. He started back to the cockpit and stopped in the hold on his way to check on Telnor, who was just as Jag had left him. Once he reached the cockpit, Jag flipped on the comm and took a seat in the pilot’s chair.

“Captain Blaise,” he said evenly into the mic.

“Jag Girran. It’s been a long time.” Jag could almost hear Blaise sneer on the other end. “A very long time.”

Jag forced a sighed, trying to rid himself of the anger that had already started to mount. “My apologies, Captain. I didn’t realize you missed me. Next time I’ll send a holopic to help you cope.”

Instead of a smart remark, the captain responded by targeting the Spartus with his ship’s weapons.

“Raise shields.” After all Jag had endured over the last twenty-four hours, he was not about to be denied his payment. “Should’ve seen this coming. Knew that price was too good to be true.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Blaise countered. “You will be fully compensated for your efforts. Your payment is being prepared for transfer as we speak.”

Jag glanced at the most recent sensor readout. “Care to explain why you’re paying such close attention to my hyperdrive?”

There was no answer from the Ion at first, but then ArDee reported the change in the ship’s weapon systems before it registered on Jag’s monitors.

“The Ion has deactivated its weapons, sir.”

Jag nodded. “Good. Keep running your sweeps, I’m taking us in.” He activated the comm again. “You will be paying me, Blaise. After the day I’ve had, I’m not leaving empty handed.”

“Relax, Girran.” Blaise sounded more amused than threatened by Jag’s tone. “Your money is on the way. You’ll receive it soon enough.”

Jag brought the sublight engines up to a reasonable speed as he closed the gap between the Ion and Spartus, keeping an eye on his monitors during the approach. Moments later he was only about a hundred meters from the vessel, and could see the Ion’s laser scars suffered during numerous hostile encounters. Jag turned the ship’s controls over to ArDee as he headed back to the hold.

Telnor was still in the same crumpled position, the blood on his face mostly dry, though the large gash above his eye that Jag had inflicted still oozed a dark blue. Jag entered the cell—there was no sudden attack from the prisoner this time—and grabbed Telnor by the collar. He pulled an assault rifle from the wall, clamped it to the back plate of his armor, and headed aft.

Once the Spartus was secured in the Ion’s hangar, Jag lowered his ship’s cargo elevator to flight deck. Even in the hangar of the Victory-class Star Destroyer, the brilliant colors of the nebula reflected beautifully off the otherwise sterile walls of the chamber. Jag shoved Telnor forward and drew his blaster with the barrel pointed down, lest he provoke any sort of hostility from the two security officers waiting a few meters away.

The officers were wearing uniforms similar to those of the men who had pursued him only hours earlier in Coronet. The color scheme differed slightly, as did the cut of the uniform. Although Jag hadn’t exactly studied his pursuers in detail, the dissimilarities were certainly evident. These uniforms had a more militaristic appearance, and the beings wearing them were of considerably more impressive stature than any of the officers from Coronet.

“Holster your weapon,” said the larger of the two, a broad-shouldered Falleen.

Unlike most of the Falleen Jag encountered during his various travels, this one sported a completely bald scalp with no trace of the long, black pony tail that was typical of the species. The human also had a shaved head, and the tip of an exotic but strangely familiar tattoo was barely visible just above the collar of his uniform. Jag had always taken great pride in his conditioning and considered himself one of the stronger humans he knew. Still, he was clearly outmatched against these two officers. If the transfer went less than satisfactorily, escaping the Spartus in one piece may prove difficult.

Jag followed the two guards to the hangar’s turbolift, keeping Telnor between himself and his escort. During the trip to the bridge, Jag snuck glances at the guards’ holsters. His HUD identified and detailed the sidearm each being carried. Each was set to “stun,” which worked in Jag’s favor, as he would have at least some chance of surviving a potential altercation.

The turbolift eventually eased to a stop and opened to reveal a moderately sized bridge. A few of the officers turned to look at the newcomers but for the most part, Jag’s arrival was ignored. The bridge was typical in design, though the walls were painted off-white rather than the utilitarian gray the Empire had used. A dark orange stripe ran the length of the walls and floors, and the lighting on the bridge gleamed off an amazingly polished deck.

The sound of the captain’s boots echoed sharply as he strode purposefully toward Jag and the two guards. The boots struck the deck in an uneven rhythm, as the approaching officer walked with a slight gait. The guards behind Jag snapped salutes which the captain returned as he came to a halt in front of his armor-clad visitor.

Jag stood motionless as the short-haired human looked him up and down. The deep lines on the man’s face hinted at a storied past. The captain offered no handshake or any other exchange of pleasantries. He simply nodded at the two guards who stepped away and took up new positions around the bridge.

“Nice costume,” Captain Blaise said.

Jag ignored the remark and shoved Telnor forward. “If I get paid sometime in the next century, I can buy a new one.”

Blaise nodded and offered a fake smile. “Of course. As I said, your money is already being transferred. Since the Corellian government doesn’t officially condone the activities of bounty hunters or criminal activity in general, you’ll have to excuse the lack of official gratitude.”

Jag scoffed as he crossed his arms. “You sure I’m not just excusing your lack of gratitude?”

“Don’t be so petty, Girran,” Blaise retorted. “You’ve done CorSec an enormous favor. This man was becoming quite the nuisance. Besides, it’s comforting knowing there’s someone around to handle our light work.”

Jag didn’t respond; Blaise was trying to provoke him; he wanted an excuse, regardless of how trivial it might be, to blast Jag into the next star system. Instead, Jag forced a smile behind his visor and tried to remain calm.

“Four hundred thousand credits is a lot to pay for light work,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But maybe that’s why you’re still not an admiral.”

Blaise’s sarcastic smile vanished and Jag noticed a few more heads turn to watch the developing quarrel.

“Get off my ship, you worthless piece of—”

“With pleasure.” Jag smiled broadly before Blaise could finish. He backed into the turbolift, as he wasn’t foolish enough to turn his back on an infuriated and embarrassed Blaise.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he said as he waited for the lift doors to close.

The captain’s face was fully flushed, his fists clenched at his side.

“Watch yourself, Girran.”

Jag chuckled. “I’ll be sure to do that, Captain.”

The lift’s door slammed shut and began its return trip to the hangar. Jag smiled the whole down.

***​

Captain Blaise watched the Corellian freighter disappear with a flash as it made the jump to lightspeed. He stood with his arms crossed at the front of the bridge, his face still flushed with anger. He hated Girran, more than he thought humanly possible, but their past considered, who wouldn’t harbor those feelings?

“Stars alive, Blaise, you better be paying me extra.” Eres Telnor lay on a hoverbed while medical droids tended to his wounds.

“And why would I do that?”

“Look at me!” The Chev used his uninjured hand to motion toward his various wounds. “I’ll end up mostly machine by the time these metalheads get done with me.”

Blaise exhaled and walked over to the hoverbed. He rested a hand on Telnor’s injured shoulder. “Rest assured, we appreciate your sacrifice, Eres.”

Blaise turned to a crewman who had just arrived at his side and waited silently for the young man’s report.

"The beacon was successfully installed, sir,” the officer said.

The captain nodded approvingly. “Excellent. No doubt he’s sweeping for it as we speak.” He turned to look at the soldier and eyed him sternly. “And you’re sure that it will remain active over the distances we require?”

“Absolutely, sir,” the operative said confidently.

Blaise had done his part, and he had done it well. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the one to claim credit for killing Jag Girran, but at least Blaise would go to his grave knowing he had contributed to the man’s demise.

Telnor coughed and winced from the pain. “You wouldn’t have anything without me. Girran would still be running free throughout the galaxahhhhh!”

Blaise squeezed the Chev’s injured shoulder. “You’re right, of course.” He drew his blaster and pointed it at Telnor’s head. “As I said, we appreciate your sacrifice.”

He pulled the trigger and casually dismissed the medical droids. “Jettison him out the airlock.” He pointed to the nearest intelligence officer. “And you, scrub any trace of that bounty from the Holonet.”

He returned his attention to the vast black canvas of space with the spectacular colors of the Hannas Nebula now behind the ship as it set course for Corellia. He did his best to stretch subtly, trying to release some of the pressure in the valve of his prosthetic knee. Blaise smiled, this time genuinely. The galaxy would soon be rid of the bounty hunter—and his former comrade—Jag Girran.

 

CHAPTER FIVE​

After spending the better part of a standard week traveling across the galaxy, the blue, green, and white sphere of Surellia filled the viewport of the Spartus. Jag smiled.

Home.

It had been longer than he cared to remember since he had enjoyed an extended period of relaxation. Between paying for the modifications to his ship and maintaining his operating infrastructure—bribes, informant pay schedules, and so on—his coffers had suffered quite a hit.

He had been forced to pursue a seemingly endless string of bounties, sometimes several at a time, the most profitable of which was the Telnor bounty. It had been almost ten months since his last trip home, which had been spoiled by a particularly vicious winter.

Surellia sat on the northeastern edge of the galaxy, west of Mytus and north of the Hydian Way. Not far from Trian, reaching the planet without knowing its coordinates was all but impossible. The majority species was human, but they certainly were not native to the planet. Although Jag had never dedicated a significant amount of time to studying the planet’s biological history, he was aware of the fact that the human colonization of Surellia happened shortly after the Corporate Sector established a presence in the Mytus system.

The planet was actually discovered accidentally. A runaway hyperdrive on a freighter bringing supplies to the Stars’ End penal facility dropped the ship in Surellia’s gravity well. Of the four planets in the system, it was the only habitable one. Once the freighter’s crew had repaired the hyperdrive, they meticulously charted their way back to known space, hoping to eventually return to the planet.

The ship arrived in Corporate Sector space a week later, miraculously unscathed. Initially the crew of the freighter intended to keep the planet’s location a secret, but during a routine inspection of the ship’s log by an unsuspecting technician, the encrypted navigational files were discovered. Shortly thereafter the Corporate Sector Authority began colonization efforts.

However, ten years after the planet was settled, the unpredictability of Wild Space took hold and the primary hyperspace route became clogged with irregularities. CSA technicians and hyperspace scouts worked tirelessly to find a solution, but the technology of the time limited their success. By the time more advanced systems became available, the planet had been forgotten and the CSA had focused its efforts elsewhere.

Then the Trianii discovered the planet.

The feline-like species, renowned in the region for its adventurous habits, blazed a new hyperspace route to Surellia, guided by technologies unique to their people. Given the troubled past of the Trianii and the Corporate Sector Authority, tensions ran high once they discovered the abandoned humans marooned on Surellia.

Despite several isolated conflicts, the leaders of both groups forged a planetary peace agreement which included granting the human colonists renewed access to the rest of the galaxy by way of Trian. Soon the species intermingled and lived amongst each other without incident.

Beyond the benefit of a shared desire to protect the planet from outside influence—not to mention outright discovery—the humans combined their knowledge of the planet with the Trianii’s advanced technology. While several human cities already existed before the planet’s second colonization, the additional technology allowed for environmental and aesthetic improvements.

Much like the Corporate Sector pilots who stumbled upon the planet, Jag became aware of Surellia mostly by accident. Shortly after leaving Beskade, he dabbled in various enterprises as he tried to find ways to survive. He made most of his money as a mercenary and supplemented his income with some low-level pirating. His preferred targets were in the Corporate Sector, as they didn’t have the resources or sharp pilots the Imperials did.

Throughout his time in the region, he had come in contact with several Trianii and had established an amiable relationship with them. He admired their inquisitive nature and marveled at the designs of their starships, as well as their piloting abilities. Still, it wasn’t until a few years into his pirating venture that he became completely accepted by the Trianii.

Two light years from Fibuli, inside Corporate Sector space, Jag discovered a freight convoy he had been tracking, but also discovered a lone ship under attack by the cargo transports’ escort detail. The standard escort for CSA shipments at that time was three IRD starfighters and a Marauder-class corvette.

The lone ship, which he later discovered was Trianii, appeared to be managing well enough when Jag first arrived, but the CSA ships soon began to overwhelm it. At the time, Jag made his home in an A-24 Sleuth scout ship that he had lifted from a spacedock in Castell a few months after striking out on his own. While light on weaponry, it was heavy on speed.

Jag sided with the outnumbered fighter, if only to satisfy his personal vendetta against the Corporate Sector. The distraction that Jag’s assistance created was more than enough for the other pilot to gain the upper hand. Jag and his apparent ally ultimately overwhelmed their opponents and persuaded the defenseless CSA transports to surrender. Jag relieved them of whatever supplies he could store in his ship.

But Jag remained clueless as to the identity of his ally. The ship’s design was unfamiliar, one he had never encountered despite his visits to the galaxy’s more exotic areas. Still, the pilot provided him a set of coordinates along with instructions to follow them precisely.

When Jag’s ship dropped out of hyperspace, the beautiful Surellia filled his viewport, as did three capital ships and the previously lone starfighter. He was brought aboard the largest of the capital ships, where he was properly introduced to his companion from the recent dogfight, as well as the captain of the battle cruiser. In short, the Trianii pilot and captain were overwhelmingly grateful. At that time, the Trianii were constantly at odds with the CSA, who habitually ignored the boundaries of Trianii space.

In return for his assistance, the Trianii granted Jag access to Surellia. He also acquired a reliable ally and contact in a part of the galaxy where anything more than enemy was rare. Over time, as he amassed more capital, Jag began establishing a home on Surellia’s largest continent. He enlisted some of the locals to assist in excavating parts of the landscape when the tasks grew too trying for a single person, but for the most part, the seemingly nondescript dwelling that sat atop the bluffs along the western side of a massive freshwater lake was his own creation.

Approximately twenty meters below the house, he hollowed out a portion of the bluffs and built a hangar that stored the Spartus, his airspeeder, and a few other small craft he used on occasion when traveling on Surellia. Eventually he was able to afford and install a containment field for the manmade cavern, protecting the expensive hardware within. It was a spectacular sanctuary with a spectacular view on a spectacular planet. It was home.

***
​

Jag glided through the planet’s atmosphere after receiving clearance from the planetary patrol group and descended to a cruising altitude only a few hundred meters above the terrain. The summer season had arrived in full, and the forests were alive with color. He passed over several miles of trees before having to raise the ship well over five kilometers in order to clear an impressive mountain range with snow-capped peaks.

On the other side of the mountains were vast plains, parts of them bright green, others a brilliant shade of blue interspersed with pockets of dark red brush. The diverse fauna of the plains was completely visible, no longer hidden by the massive hardwoods of the expansive forests. Various quadrupeds—some enormous, others unremarkable—along with a herd of bipedal herbivores casually grazed the seemingly infinite fields.

Beyond the plains, nearly one hundred kilometers east, one of the planet’s urban developments stood silhouetted against the horizon. Like most of the major settlements on the planet, the city was modestly sized but beautiful by galactic standards. Jag swung the Spartus around the northern side of the city, which sat along a pristine stretch of coastline.

Jag passed over several more settlements, a vast forest with enormous trees whose leaves changed colors based on the sun’s position in the sky, and a wide expanse covered with irrigation canals and farm land. He had traveled another several thousand kilometers east when the bluff that housed his dwelling finally came into view. He docked his ship in the manmade cave carved into the bluff.

“ArDee, there should be plenty of power available for you to run the usual diagnostics. I also want you to run a scan on the hyperdrive and sublight engines; make sure nothing shorted or blew on our way out of the nebula. Upload everything to the house computer. I’ll check it later.”

“As you wish, sir,” ArDee said. “Though I doubt I will discover any malfunctions in the drives. I monitored their status for the duration of the trip.”

Jag nodded as he activated the ship’s security system and headed down the hatch.

“Figured you’d say that. But do it anyway.”

An hour later, after preparing a large meal that consisted mostly of roasted roshmi—an herbivore indigenous to Surellia—Jag enjoyed an extended sanisteam and laid down to sleep. It was good to be home, if only for a time.

 

***
Part II: Separate Ways
7 A.B.Y. -- 9 Years Earlier
***
CHAPTER SIX
​

“That’s three!”

The man sitting next to Jag Girran slapped his knee and held out his hand for payment as they watched another Star Destroyer dropped out of hyperspace.

“No way,” Jag protested. “There was a dreadnaught before that.”

The man shook his head. “Already in orbit. The bet was on incoming ships only. Pay up!”

Jag sighed and rolled his eyes, and tossed a couple of credcoins onto the table between the two. The two sat on a fairly uncomfortable sofa in front of a broad viewport on the starboard side of their Lancer-class frigate.

The Renegade—a name which perfectly described their crew—had taken up a position near Corulag two standard days earlier. While the size of the ship typically demanded a substantial crew, several weeks’ worth of tedious electrical modifications and system reprogramming had allowed the crew to slave most of the vessel’s systems together well enough to serve the group’s purposes.

Since arriving in the system, the ship had been transmitting an upper-level clearance code, posing as a transport for a variety of hazardous materials required by the scientists working at the Sienar research facility. The ploy served the crew in several ways: it allowed them to remain in the system without attracting too much suspicion, and it provided them an opportunity to study the pattern of the facilities’ patrols.

However, the crew was running out of time. They could only sit in the area with their fictitious cargo for so long before someone decided to pry. Despite the recent appearance of another Star Destroyer—which cost Jag yet another couple hundred credits—the group’s leaders had decided they would make their move today.

The group—they called themselves Beskade as an homage to the ancient Mandalorian weapon—had spent the better part of the last two years preying on merchant and military convoys throughout the Core and Inner Rim. They lived dangerously, but their swiftly executed strikes had helped prolong their survival thus far.

Jag pulled another chair over so he could put his feet up and reclined with his hands behind his head.

“I guess breaking even isn’t too bad,” he said with half a grin.

“You hustled me the last time, and we both know it.”

Jag chuckled and watched a dreadnaught maneuver out of orbit and head for deep space. A few minutes later it jumped to lightspeed.

“Think we’re going to make a move anytime soon?” the man asked. “Whatever happened to the ‘We need to move now’ plan?”

Jag shrugged. “Who knows, Blaise. The way the guys have been running operations lately, I’ve given up trying to anticipate anything we do.”

Blaise nodded. “At least it’s not as bad as you-know-who.”

Jag shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. Any mention of their former leader put him and anyone else in the squad on edge. Years earlier, the man they had been respected and trusted as their leader had turned his back on them and left them for dead.

“Get to your stations, you flots.”

Jag and Blaise both flinched as a short but stocky human barked orders at them. The man, dressed in the same black commando gear as Blaise and Jag, had managed to surprise the two despite his heavy steps that pounded the deck’s grated floor. “Time to mobilize.”

He continued past the pair and turned a corner in search of other crew members in the area. Jag and Blaise exchanged glances and rolled their eyes, each grinning as they stood up.

“Let’s get to it,” Blaise said, clapping Jag on the shoulder.

“Watch my back out there.”

Blaise grinned. “Don’t plan on it. I’m a leader, not a follower, remember?”

***​

The Renegade secured an airlock at the orbital research facility and released its squad of mercenaries into the corridor beyond. After breaking down into pairs, Jag and the others moved through the station quickly but quietly. The station clock was synchronized with Corulag City, and the crew of the Renegade attacked during the middle of the night.

Since the commissioning of the Sienar facility, no one had dared attack it. Although there was a substantial amount of munitions stored there, infiltrating the security was no easy feat. But Jag and his men weren’t typical pirates; they were ex-Imperials. They had access to contacts and data the average citizen or Imperial couldn’t come close to touching. And they knew how to use them.

Blaise, just a few steps ahead of Jag, approached an intersection of corridors slowly, then held up a fist and dropped to a knee. Jag followed suit and raised the barrel of his rifle as he checked behind them. When he turned back around, Blaise had darted across the intersection and was watching the corridor to the left. He nodded towards the opposite corner, and Jag dashed across to the wall and checked the right corridor.

The entire area seemed deserted. They encountered no security patrols, no civilians—not even janitorial workers. It was eerie, and Jag didn’t like it.

“Something’s not right,” Jag whispered.

Blaise nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re telling me. No way should this place be this empty. I know it’s late, but this is just weird.”

They continued to creep through the corridors toward the rendezvous point. Jag and Blaise were nearly there when the station’s silence gave way to blaring alarm klaxons. Jag swore and slammed his fist against the nearest wall.

“Idiots!”

Blaise turned loose his own string of curses. “How’d they manage this? The place is a ghost town and they triggered half the alarms in the station!”

Jag shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know how some of these guys didn’t get us killed in Scimitar.”

“That makes two of us.”

They turned down another corridor which led them past several large transparisteel viewports that looked out upon what appeared to be massive test rooms. The areas were empty, save for a few maintenance droids. The alarms continued to wail, but still not a single soldier or security officer was in sight.

Jag and Blaise turned another corner, hoping it would set them on the path to the rendezvous point. Instead, they found themselves in front of a large set of doors. Having nowhere else to go, Jag quickly sliced the controls to the doors. He and Blaise stepped forward into some sort of laboratory that made them both pause.

It was less of a laboratory than it was an armory. The walls were lined with storage containers labeled with the weaponry that resided within. Large-scale laser cannons rested on the floor near work stations, and a large bank of computers filled a raised platform next to monitors several meters in size displaying ongoing diagnostics.

The ceiling was surprisingly high and a set of blast doors, which were currently open, revealed an adjacent chamber that appeared to be a testing area for the ordnance scattered around the lab. From what Jag could see, it too looked deserted.

Blaise flashed a broad smile at Jag as he took off for the nearest container. “We hit the jackpot!”

Jag shouldered his blaster and walked towards the diagnostics platform, casually inspecting some of the weaponry on the way.

“The hell with the mission, this room alone will pay off better than a month’s worth of raids!”

Jag grinned at Blaise’s enthusiasm. He was like a Hutt in a slimepool, beyond smitten with the firepower waiting to be seized. While a few of the rifles that rested on the tops of the containers certainly appealed to him, Jag preferred to investigate the computer systems and see if he could locate anything a bit more valuable—perhaps blueprints of weapons in development—that would attract a lucrative price on the black market.

He sat down at one of the terminals and went to work on slicing his way into the system. He shrugged his pack off his shoulders and removed a datapad that plugged into the terminal’s access port, then tapped a few commands on the device’s screen and let it run through its programming. A few moments later the terminal’s screen came to life, granting him full access.

“Hello, sir.”

Jag nearly jumped out of the chair. The crisp, Coruscanti-accented voice was certainly not expected. Blaise glanced over at the platform, but returned his attention to his exploration of the weapons crates. Jag studied the terminal for a moment, looking above and behind the monitor for some sort of microphone. Finding nothing, he simply spoke out loud.

“Um, hello. With, uh, whom I speaking?”

“My designation is Ay-Arr-Dee-One. My primary functions include, but are not limited to, starship system management, security, diagnostics, and navigation. My programming is equipped with experimental subroutines which allow for self-creation and implementation of new operational directives pertinent to various circumstances, so long as they do not interfere with my primary functions. Furthermore, I—”

“Alright, alright.” Jag waved his hand to cut the voice off. “I get it.” He looked around the chamber, trying to find another point of access. “AR-D1, how many entrances does this room have?”

“There are three entrances, although only one is limited to approved personnel. The clearances required to gain access to this entrance include—”

“Thanks,” Jag said. “Whoever designed you had quite a propensity for verbosity.”

“Oh, very much so, sir. In fact, the main architect of my primary programming was well-regarded for his mastery of multiple languages and his ability to—”

“Will you please shut up?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jag noticed Blaise’s head poke out from behind a utility bin, but Jag waved him back to his scrounging.

“As you wish, sir,” the voice said before falling silent.

Jag dug through the terminal’s pathways, copying most of what he found to the datapad still plugged into the access port. Thousands of files flashed across the screen as the computer transferred the information. Once the data dump was complete, the computer’s voice reactivated.

“Your transfer is complete, sir. Is there anything else I may assist you with today?”

Jag started to decline but then hesitated. As annoying as the conversation had been, the program could prove useful.

“Do you have access to this station’s security systems? Surveillance cameras, personnel movement, that kind of stuff?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Jag thought for a moment then called to Blaise. “I think I found our ticket out of here.”

“Yeah?” Blaise stepped out from behind the utility bin holding two blaster rifles with three more slung across his back.

“What the—what are you planning on doing? Invading Coruscant by yourself?”

Blaise smiled. “That’s actually not a bad idea. You should see some of the hardware in here.”

Jag shook his head and turned back to the terminal. “Like I was saying, I found our way out of here. If we upload this programming into a datapad, we’ll know where everyone is, every access tunnel, every corridor—we’re set.”

Blaise tossed a light repeater rifle in Jag’s direction, who rushed to catch it before it hit the ground. “Power pack’s fresh. Time to move.”

Jag agreed and quickly downloaded AR-D1’s program into his datapad. He removed an earpiece from his pack and synced it with the datapad before heading out of the armory. Blaise was waiting for him outside, checking the corridor for security. He gave a reassuring nod to Jag, then both headed to down a corridor to the right toward what Jag believed was a shortcut.

“I’m pretty sure that if we head to the next intersection and cut back to the left, we’ll be able to bypass the way we came, and probably dodge security reinforcements.”

“‘Pretty’ sure, huh? Your confidence is quite inspiring.”

Jag rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. They reached the next intersection without incident, but as they headed down a corridor that ran parallel to the one connected to the armory, they rounded a corner and encountered another surprise. They stood in the doorway of had once been a mess hall but now served as an emergency shelter. Unlike the armory, this room was not empty.

It was packed full of people.

There had been some idle chatter when Jag and Blaise first stumbled in, but as soon as the crowd noticed the intruders, the room fell silent. Jag and Blaise exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised in indecision. The way forward lay on the other side of the room. Backtracking would take time and likely end up landing them in some security officer’s crosshairs.

On the other hand, moving through a packed crowd of potentially hostile civilians, who could be armed, was hardly a wise alternative. The pair continued to hesitate, their weapons aimed uncomfortably at the crowd in front of them.

“Any ideas, navigator?”

Jag held a finger to his earpiece, trying to intensify the voice speaking incessantly about the efficiency of the architectural design of that particular portion of the station, as well as which turbolifts offered access to certain levels. Not one bit of it was relevant to the situation at hand, but up to this point, Jag hadn’t the time to put an end to it.

“AR-D1, is there any way to bypass this? Any maintenance hatches, any private quarters, anything?” Jag scanned the blueprints on his datapad, but as the program confirmed, there was no other option. “We’ve got to go back.”

Blaise shook his head and seemed to hold his weapon with more purpose and confidence than before. “Not happening. We’re going through here.”

“Blaise, no,” Jag said quietly. “There has to be at least two hundred people in here, and for all we know, they’re armed.”

“Armed?” Blaise snorted and gestured towards the arsenal strapped to his back. “I think we’ll be okay.”

Jag scanned the crowd uneasily and tried to bury the gnawing feeling that was creeping into his stomach. He kept his blaster rifle raised, but kept his finger away from the trigger. Conversely, Blaise’s confidence seemed so strong that Jag was certain he could smell it.

Then Jag’s reservations were justified by the sizzling shot of a blaster that grazed his left sleeve. The scent of singed fabric hit his nostrils as Blaise opened fire.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN​

The bodies were hitting the metallic floor with a sickening thud that made Jag’s stomach turn. He watched in utter dismay as laser fire erupted from Blaise’s blaster and ripped through the chests of the people in front of them. Those still alive were shouting and screaming, and in a horrifying display of survivalist instinct, they tried to hide behind one another, using the nearest person they could find as a shield.

Laser bolts continued to claim victims as Jag threw himself at Blaise. The blaster rifle shook free of Blaise’s grasp and slid across the floor. Blaise tried to wrestle Jag off of him, cursing him throughout the scuffle. Jag fought back, using his position to keep his counterpart pinned. He winced as Blaise kneed, elbowed, or punched him in the side, but he managed to keep his face clear of any blows. It wasn’t until blaster fire erupted again that Jag launched himself clear of Blaise and tried to find cover.

“See? I told you!” he shouted at Blaise as he brought his blaster to bear on the crowd. “You korked this whole thing up!”

His stomach began to turn again as his finger rested on the trigger, and he tried to fight the resistance he felt from every fiber of his being. What he was about to do was wrong, and he knew it. Still, it was his life or theirs, and he wasn’t about to die. Not here, not like this.

Jag pulled the trigger and unleashed a barrage of blaster bolts into the crowd. Return fire erupted from the back of the room, and more people began to fall to the ground as they fell victim to the crossfire.

The sickening screams roared back to life but twice as loud. Jag fought the urge to vomit, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold it down. He tried to keep his fire clear of those who appeared innocent—or at least unarmed—but some of his shots still connected with unintended targets. Still, Blaise and Jag’s efforts were hardly futile; the enemy fire was dwindling in strength and frequency, and eventually stopped.

Jag looked around the room, which had become nothing more than a smoldering mass grave, and felt his stomach begin to spin out of control. He turned and vomited fiercely, his face turning a dark red and his body shaking from the convulsions. When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and turned to Blaise, who gave him an amused smirk.

“Welcome to the big show.”

Blood rushed to Jag’s face and his vision blurred as he tried to stifle the sudden burst of rage.

“Those people were innocent.”

“The frack they were!” Blaise shot back. “They were Imperials.”

“So were we!”

Blaise shrugged and shook his head. “You’re weaker than I thought.”

Jag’s blood boiled. “Weak?”

Jag swung the butt of his rifle at Blaise and connected with his cheek. He heard a crack as the bone broke, and blood shot out of Blaise’s mouth. Blaise staggered and tried to return a punch but didn’t muster enough power to knock Jag back. Jag felt the material of Blaise’s glove scrape his skin before swinging an elbow back across Blaise’s face. This time, the large-framed Corellian fell to a knee, propping himself up with one of his rifles.

Blaise’s face was already beginning to swell. Blood seeped from multiple lacerations, most notably a gash across his temple, yet he remained defiant. He spit out a mouthful of blood and wiped his face.

He gave Jag a blood-soaked grin. “That’s it?”

Jag reached back and delivered one last blow to Blaise’s cheek, who finally crumbled to the floor and fell silent. Jag composed himself and checked his weapons—then the room again—and headed for the rear door. He made sure AR-D1 was still online and plugged the earpiece back in. He started out into the corridor but then paused.

As much as he wanted to leave Blaise for dead after what he’d been forced to watch—and do—living with the fact that he left behind a comrade would only exacerbate his suffering in the aftermath of the nightmare he was trying to survive.

He trudged back into the room and tried to haul Blaise onto his shoulder, but nearly collapsed under the weight of the Corellian.

It’s like trying to throw kriffing a wookiee.

He gave up on trying to lift Blaise’s body and instead grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and started pulling. It was hardly an ideal situation—he only had one hand to shoot with while the other was pulling a half ton of a human. He managed to evade detection by the security patrols that had started after the alarms by sticking to the utility passages his newfound electronic counterpart not only identified but explained in excruciating detail.

By the time this is over, I’ll be able to draw the blasted blueprints in my sleep.

When Jag eventually emerged from one of the utility hallways, he nearly tripped over the other Beskade members that had entered the facility. The stocky, tan-skinned one of the group shot Jag a look of surprise—and then bewilderment—after he noticed Blaise’s unconscious body.

“What in the blazes happened to you two?”

“Long story.”

The man nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me later—we’ve got to get out of here.”

Jag started to agree then stopped and shook his head. “We’re not leaving this dump empty handed.” He jerked his thumb in the direction from which he had just come. “We found enough munitions to supply a small army. We’d be nuts not to get what we can carry.”

The man raised an eyebrow and shrugged after looking at one of his counterparts who nodded in agreement.

“I take it you know where you’re going?”

Jag nodded. “But I’m not taking him with me.” He laid Blaise down on the deck and swung his rifle around. “Let’s make this quick.”

***​

The pack started toward the weapons storage room, minus Blaise and two of squadmates who had been tasked with carting Blaise back to the Renegade. They managed to reach their destination without incident, but their luck ran out on the trip back to the Renegade’s docking point. Twice they encountered heavily armed security squads but managed to escape with only a few minor casualties.

They found the two men who had carried Blaise standing guard of the Renegade’s dock at an airlock. Their eyes widened as they inspected the hardware Jag and the others had with them. They picked up some of the loose rifles and blaster pistols and carried them on board.

“Did you see this stuff?” asked Jag’s comrade as they helped load the weapons.

Jag shrugged. “I glanced at some of it. I was more interested in some of the programming they had installed to the mainframe. Pretty fascinating.”

The man chuckled. “Programming? Programming won’t save your skin in a fight, pal.”

“But it can help you avoid the fight in the first place. It got me back to you guys in one piece, after all.” Jag flashed a grin. “Besides, you’re the marksman, Shenn.”

Shenn rolled his eyes. “Cute.”

Jag couldn’t help but laugh, nor could the others within earshot. Shenn was possibly one of the worst shots Jag had ever met, but his ferocity and weapons knowledge was remarkable and immensely useful in a fight. He could modify almost any gun, whether it was increasing its cooling system or increasing the output from the standard power packs. He just couldn’t shoot worth a crink.

The squad finished loading their new arsenal and sealed their side of the docking ring. Jag headed for the bridge to check on the preflight sequences, then made his way to the rear of the ship to help store the newly acquired assets. A few of the weapons caught his eye, mainly the repeater rifle that was smaller and sleeker than the usual light model that saturated black markets and supply depots throughout the galaxy. He shouldered the rifle and tossed several power packs into an equipment pack.

Before closing the pack, he noticed the datapad that contained his new computer program. Shenn was the only one he had really discussed it with; besides, their outfit was comprised of ex-soldiers—they wouldn’t have much use for a program like AR-D1.

Jag was getting ready to head back to his quarters when the door at the opposite end of the hold opened and a bloodied hulk of a man limped through.

“You…kriffing…bastard,” he hissed in between breaths.

Jag stopped in his tracks and stared, his legs refusing to move as if they were bolted to the floor. “Blaise? What the frack are you doing moving around? You looked in a mirror lately?”

“You tried to kill me.” Blaise practically spit out the words between labored breaths. Jag guessed at least one of his ribs had to be broken.

“The hell I did!” Jag felt his face flush. “And I’m not the one that opened fire on a group of civilians!”

Blaise rolled his eyes—rather, an eye. The other was swollen shut. Jag cringed as he realized just how much damage he inflicted on his friend.

“Civilians? Civilians? I guess I imagined them shooting at us, and I guess I imagined you shooting back.”

“That was self defense, you skrag, and you know it. If it hadn’t been for your kriffing twitchy trigger finger, none of that would’ve happened. We could’ve left. They could’ve lived.” Jag pointed a finger at Blaise. “Their blood is on your hands, not mine.”

Jag was seething. The nearly uncontrollable shaking that had hit him after the shootout on the facility had returned. He glanced around the hold while Blaise continued to limp towards him. The others in the room exchanged looks as they watched the argument unfold. Jag was no Jedi, but he still swore could sense their confusion as well as their suspicion. Apparently, Blaise could too, because he began to plead his case.

“This traitor tried to kill me!” He grabbed a nearby crate for support. “He hit me…shot me…he practically left me for dead.”

Jag remained silent but clenched his fists a little tighter. He decided it would be wiser to wait his turn to explain himself; besides, Blaise hadn’t said anything untrue so far. Blaise continued to explain what had transpired, detailing the firefight with the stations’ occupants and Jag’s attack against him. What he failed to mention, however, was the all too brief moral debate that preceded the shootout.

Their comrades in the room said nothing once Blaise finished, but their eyes collectively shifted to Jag, and from some of the looks he was getting, explaining his side wasn’t going to be as simple as he thought.

“I’m not going to stand here and tell you I didn’t attack Blaise.” Some of the onlookers raised their eyebrows as they were clearly expecting some sort protest. “What I will tell you is that you haven’t heard the full truth. None of what you’ve been told would have happened if Blaise had just turned around and left the room. We could have bypassed the entire room and left those people alone. But he wasn’t having it.

“I attacked him because he opened fire on civilians. Yes, there were people armed in the back of the room. But the first to die were innocent—at least as far as we know. I don’t care if half the people in that room were carrying blasters. They were scared, and they were going to let us leave.”

Some of the men in the room nodded slowly while others continued to scowl and shifted slowly toward Blaise’s position. There was a subtle alignment of allegiances occurring, and Jag realized very quickly that his supporters were not the majority.

“So, you admit you attacked him.”

Jag turned deliberately towards the voice and then looked the man straight in the eye.

“Yes, Shenn. I attacked him.”

“You’re aware that this violates our code.”

“Our code?” Jag laced his words with annoyance and mockery. “You mean the code we had when we were Imperials? The same Imperials Blaise slaughtered? That code?” When Shenn said nothing, Jag continued. “To hell with the code. And to hell with you if you’re going to condone what he did.”

Shenn’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Jag.”

“He’s right, you know.” Another voice had joined the fray.

Jag looked back to the right side of the room where a tall but strong Fondorian stood with his arms crossed. With a square jaw and bald but scarred scalp, he was one of the more imposing members of the group. And Jag was all but elated that he appeared to be an ally.

“We left the Empire behind for a reason. If you two want to run some kind of a death squad, so be it. But count me out.”

Jag turned back to Shenn, who had moved closer to Blaise, as had the others who were apparently joining his camp. Likewise, those in support of Jag had moved considerably closer to where he stood.

“Stay out of this, Bregen,” Shenn snapped.

The Fondorian’s hand started to slide to the blaster holstered on his hip. “I don’t think so.”

Beads of sweat started to trickle down Jag’s forehead and cheeks. The two tempers he feared the most were starting to flare.

“Look, Blaise, I’m sorry…for whatever it’s worth. You’re my friend—but you almost got us killed. And for nothing.”

Blaise glared at him with a look that sent a cold chill down his spine. “I’m not your friend, you worthless slime.”

Jag nearly staggered as he felt the blood drain from his face. The man he had gone to battle with, nearly died with, and relied on countless times to protect him had just stabbed him through the heart with a vibroblade and was twisting it with all his might.

Jag spared one last glance around the room, taking note of who had sided with whom.

“So this is how it ends.”

Jag whipped the barrel of his rifle around and aimed at Blaise. He heard someone—rather, several people—shout in protest but it was too late. He was committed, he was angry, and he wanted blood. He fired three shots, and Blaise’s body shuddered three times.

The first hit him in the right shoulder, the second in the left thigh, and the third in the left knee. With nothing to support his weight, Blaise collapsed. Shenn and the rest of Blaise’s supporters opened fire.

Bregen already had his blaster drawn and was firing away. Several of Blaise’s men fell, as did the man directly to Jag’s left.

“Girran! Hangar! Now!” Bregen shouted.

Jag nodded and started backing toward the door behind him while he used the lid from a nearby crates as a makeshift shield. Bregen moved with him, as did the others on their “side” who were still standing. Jag spared a glance before ducking through the doorway, then began spraying covering fire for the others scrambling behind him. Their enemies—friends and brothers-in-arms only minutes earlier—were holding their positions, which was perfectly fine as far as Jag was concerned.

This is so wrong.

His focus sharpened as a blaster bolt ripped by the left side of his head and his nostrils flared as the scent of singed cloth stung his sinuses. Jag concentrated his fire on a stack of crates near the center of the room, doing his best to keep the most forward attackers pinned down. Once the last of his allies ducked through the door, he hit the door jam and fire into the control panel. He turned to Bregen, who was wiping his brow with a piece of shirt he had torn off, and smiled weakly.

“Wasn’t so bad.”

Bregen said nothing, but shrugged his eyebrows and pursed his lips. His face was tense—very tense—and his eyes seemed distant. His breathing was still heavy and rapid, and his massive shoulders heaved with each breath.

Jag studied him for a moment then started to head down the corridor toward the hangar where he found some of the group prepping shuttles. He learned the others had set out to sabotage the Renegade’s engines. Jag squeezed Bregen’s shoulder as he went to pass, but Bregen grabbed his arm and stopped him.

As he looked the Fondorian in the eye, an uncomfortable chill ran up Jag’s spine. There were very few times outside of combat that Jag had ever felt that sensation, but there was something quite unsettling about the look in Bregen’s eyes.

“I know why you did it, Jag. I really do. Stang, I probably would’ve done the same thing.” Another chill ran up Jag’s spine. “But if I’m going to back you on this, you have to know there is absolutely no turning back. It’s over. All of it. We have to disappear, every one of us.”

Jag set his jaw but didn’t break his gaze. He knew Bregen was right, but it did nothing to soften the blow of the harsh reality that he would never again—at least for the foreseeable future—see the men he had come to know as brothers.

“I understand,” he said finally, then smiled sadly. “I’d say it’s been an honor, but let’s be honest: we’re just a step above a half-dead nerf.”

Bregen laughed, but Jag knew it was a joyless one. The military was the only life Bregen had ever known, and while Beskade was hardly a sanctioned division of any military, the ex-soldiers had never lost their bond. Fighting to survive and evade capture did amazing things for camaraderie and, in Bregen’s case, stability.

Jorg Bregen had essentially been adopted by the Empire at a young age after his parents were killed during a labor riot in Fondor City and emerged years later from the sector’s Imperial Academy as a top graduate. Along with Jag, Bregen was one of the original members of Scimitar. Though initially he and Jag had been far from friends, the last few years had changed that. Aside from Blaise, Bregen was the only other person Jag could completely trust.

And now, he was the only person Jag could trust.

The moment of sentimentality was shattered as the door they had just passed through shuddered from the detonation of a breaching charge. A thick cloud of debris and dust billowed into the corridor and suppressing fire began to pour through the opening.

“Uh oh.”

Jag brought his weapon to bear and did his best to shove Bregen down the corridor.

“Get your kriffing behind to the hangar, Jag!” Bregen shouted at him, resisting Jag’s shoves.

Jag stubbornly stood his ground. “I started this mess. I’m not letting you get blasted into the next galaxy because of me.”

“Stubborn ass.” Still, Bregen broke into a run toward the hangar, his boots pounding away at the deck. Jag wasn’t far behind him, though he stopped sporadically to return fire on their pursuers. They burst into the hangar at a full sprint but came to a sudden halt when they found themselves staring at an all-but-empty flight deck.

“Uh, Jag?”

They looked at each other, both wide-eyed and pouring sweat, each wearing the same look of dismay.

Their comrades had abandoned them.

So much for camaraderie.

There was one shuttle left, but it wasn’t the Lambda-class they had grown so accustomed to flying. Instead, they would have to flee for their lives in an over-glorified bucket of bolts that even a scrapyard would reject.

Bregen glanced at Jag, his eyebrow cocked. “Could be fun.”

The Merren-class shuttle—if it could even be truly considered a “shuttle”—was hardly in prime condition, though that mattered little to Jag. When it came to his preferred style of ships, the Merrens ranked at the bottom.

“Yeah, I think we’re better off just jumping through the containment field.”

A blaster bolt scorched the wall just behind Jag, forcing him to drop to a knee and dive for cover. Bregen hit the blastdoor’s control panel then fired several quick shots into it to buy them a few more precious moments.

“Escape pods?”

“I’d rather not get blasted to atoms while helplessly sitting in a flying coffin,” Jag said. “But if you’re up for it, I think they’re a couple decks that way.”

“Well,” Bregen said with a measure of resignation in his voice, “at least the Merren’s got a laser cannon.”

Jag nodded and started for the ship. He cringed as he spotted a several rust spots on the hull and hoped that the wiring and drives were in better condition. Given the disaster that was his day, he didn’t expect much luck.

Maybe I should just jump out the containment field.

“Get the systems fired up,” Bregen yelled to him. “I’m going to hold them off.”

“The kriff you are. I’m not scraping your hide off the deck and I’m not flying this slag pile by myself.”

Jorg grinned, and after taking another look at the still sealed blast door, jogged toward the ship. Once onboard, they scrambled around the cockpit, bringing systems online much more quickly than they should have.

“Skip the diagnostics, skip the drive checks…just get us shields and throw power to the engines.”

Bregen gave Jag a mock salute while his free hand’s fingers continued to fly across the sensor boards and control screens. Jag flipped several switches along the pilot’s side wall and checked the status of the drives. He would have to operate with limited information, but at this point, he would rather die in an explosion caused by a faulty fuel line or malfunctioning engine than at the hands of his former squadmates.

“Repulsors are ready to go, but we’re going to need another minute or two before the thrusters and ion drives warm up,” Bregen said. He had barely finished talking when the ship rumbled and a muffled explosion echoed through the hangar. Jag checked the feed from one of the rear security holocams.

“In other words, we’re screwed.”

Bregen glanced at the same holocam Jag was watching and nodded affirmatively. “Yep.”

Jag continued to look for a way to rush the warming of the drives. The canopy began to flash as their ex-squadmates opened fire on the shuttle. He checked the status of the ship’s shields, which were hardly optimal but sufficient, and prepared for a potentially lethal gambit.

“I’m cutting the shields in three—”

“You’re doing what?” Jorg shouted at him.

“Two—”

“You do realize we are going to die if you do that, right?”

“One.”

The shuttle continued to shake as blaster shots peppered the vulnerable hull, but the firing eased for a moment as the shuttle rocked again—this time from the drives roaring to life.

“Ah ha!”

“Girran, you crazy son of a—”

“Don’t jinx me!” he growled. He eased back on the control yoke, trying to get the ship out of the hangar. He could feel the drives firing unevenly; they were clearly not up to the task of a speedy getaway. But he didn’t need a speedy getaway. He just needed to get into open space.

“Jorg, get that cannon going. And seal off the rear compartment!”

Bregen nodded and got to work. The shuttle lurched forward, dipping haphazardly, but kept moving toward the containment field nonetheless. He could hear and feel the laser cannon open fire as it created rhythmic vibrations across the deck of the cockpit.

“Almost there…”

“Rear compartment sealed!” Jorg announced.

“Almost there…”

“Full power to the drives! We’re good to go!”

Jag slammed on the accelerator and cringed as the force of the drives almost threw him through his seat.

“Uh, Jorg?” He groaned as the ship breached the containment field and launched into the vast emptiness of space. “Compensators?”

He glanced at his copilot and couldn’t help but grin—Jorg had fared no better with the rapid acceleration. As Jorg activated the compensators and dialed them back to normal levels, Jag relaxed in his seat but kept the pressure on the drives. He had to assume that those still on the Renegade were scrambling to their stations and, even with a depleted crew, would attempt some sort of a pursuit, and at worst, a shootout. Jag wanted no part of either.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT​

As the shuttle continued to distance itself from the Renegade, Jag and Bregen prepared the navicomputer for the jump to lightspeed. Silence descended upon the cabin as they went about their work, and Jag welcomed the quiet. Though the time elapsed from the start of the shootout in the cargo bay to their escape from the hangar amounted to less than twenty minutes, the physical and emotional toll it had taken on Jag—and apparently Bregen—was considerable.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the small massacre he and Blaise had perpetrated at the Sienar station. The nauseating feeling he had felt while firing into the crowd of civilians crept back once again, and he probably would have vomited had Jorg not distracted him with a status update.

“Renegade’s coming around, weapons are online. No lock yet.”

Jag shook his head in frustration. “So much for the guys taking out the engines.” He doubled checked the output on the drives and rerouted some power back to the shields. “Status on the jump coordinates?”

“We’re all set. Navicomputer’s basing our heading on the ion trails from the other shuttles. I’ve got a pretty good idea of where they were headed.”

“No.” Jag shook his head and his voice softened. When all he received for an answer was a confused look, he continued. “We can’t. It’s over, Jorg. You practically said so on the Renegade. No point in chasing them down to try to keep the unit alive. There’s no going back.”

Bregen didn’t say anything, but his downcast eyes were more than enough to drive the point home.

“We can’t just leave them.”

Jag sighed, but not out of annoyance. He certainly understood Jorg’s objection, but equally understood that to follow their brothers in arms was to doom them all.

“They made it out at least five minutes before we did. It’s been another fifteen since we left the Renegade. Their trail is almost cold. If we follow them, we might as well throw up landing lights and hand out an invitation to come along for the ride.” Jag paused and gave Bregen an apologetic look. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s the only way.”

When Bregen didn’t respond, Jag pressed a bit further.

“We have to go underground. And I don’t mean like what we’ve been doing for the last couple years. I’m talking sever all contacts.” He stopped and locked eyes with Bregen. “All.”

After a long, heavy silence, Jorg extended a hand. “In that case, it’s been an honor.”

***​

Jag stood alone at the spaceport—which was one of the seediest he had ever visited—and watched the ion flux of the Merren-class shuttle’s drives flare as it accelerated higher into the planet’s atmosphere. He felt empty—truly alone—for perhaps the first time since he had learned his father had been killed. No longer was he an Imperial commando. No longer was he a Beskad.

He was just Jag Girran.

But Jag Girran was not simply a hapless citizen roaming the shadowports of the galaxy or a smuggler with a fast ship, cheap blaster, and overdeveloped ego. He was an ex-soldier, and one of the most dangerous the Empire had ever produced. Unfortunately, he was a bankrupt ex-soldier.

Jag continued to watch the sky, his eyes following the glimmer of the shuttle’s engines until it disappeared into the deepest reaches of Axxila’s night sky. Jorg Bregen’s new life had just begun; it was time for Jag to start his. Still, Jorg’s final goodbye was repeating itself over and over in Jag’s mind.

“I’ll see you in the next life, Jag,” he had said. “Just take your time getting there.”

While Jag doubted Bregen could predict the future, Jorg’s tone had been ominous and unsettling. He could only hope it wasn’t an omen of some sort.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, pulled his gloves on tight, and double-checked the power packs in his blasters. He finally turned his gaze away from the stars and began to walk toward a recently landed Ghtroc 580 freighter.

The ship’s crew—a Twi’lek and an Orfite—were too occupied with unloading the ship’s cargo to notice him. His left hand dropped to his hip holster while a vibroblade slid from his sleeve into his right palm.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Jag said politely. The Twi’lek jumped slightly, clearly caught off guard, while the Orfite scowled at Jag. “Er, and ladies.”

The Orfite smiled—at least as well as one could—before Jag continued.

“Impressive ship you’ve got.”

The Twi’lek shrugged. “She’s alright. Better than nothing.”

Jag nodded as he pretended to inspect the hull, his hands still concealed inside his cloak.

“How much?”

The two crewmembers exchanged glances.

“She’s not for sale.” The Orfite as she dropped the crate she had been holding and crossed her arms.

“Oh.” Jag smiled as his hands whipped forward and revealed the hidden weaponry. “I think it is.

 

***
Part III: Old Friends
16 A.B.Y. – Four Months After the Telnor Job
***
CHAPTER NINE​

This was certainly not his first trip to Axxila. Although he did not consider all of his visits to the crime-ridden world pleasant, Jag had found a certain sentimental spot for Axxila in his heart. Half of his arsenal had come from shops scattered throughout the planet’s numerous cities. Unfortunately, half his scars had come from altercations suffered in the equally numerous cantinas located across the planet.

Acquiring weaponry and upgrading the Spartus’ systems became considerably easier once he acquired his Mandalorian armor—thanks to the reputation it carried—but it during the years prior, Jag had beaten several people within inches of their lives. He also had the favor returned more times than he cared to count. Intense and specialized Imperial combat training only served him so well. He had quickly discovered that even a former commando had limits in alcohol-induced brawls.

On this particular visit, he found himself in a familiar and comfortable location: his feet propped up on a table, his rifle in a state of disassembly as he cleaned its various components, and the breeze of the room’s cooling unit filling his nostrils with some damp, unnatural scent.

Perhaps it wasn’t completely comfortable after all.

Jag lifted the mug that had been keeping him company for the better part of the last hour to his lips and took a long sip. He smiled as he savored the smooth, malted notes of the rare Corellian ale.

“This stuff alone is worth the trip, Mech.” The amber liquid foamed a bit as he took another sip. “I still don’t understand why it’s so hard to find.”

“The Corellians’ like their stuff with a bit more bite. And since every self-proclaimed ‘ale connoisseur’ between here and Core likes to pretend they’re part Corellian, there’s not much of a market for the smoother brews.”

Jag shrugged and continued to consume the ale. “More for us.”

He didn’t indulge in his vices with the frequency he had during his younger days, but there were certainly times when he still felt excessive intake was…necessary.

The Mechanic, or Mech—Jag never actually learned the man’s real name—had been working for the better part of three hours on Jag’s armor. After his work in Coronet, he decided it was time to upgrade the suit and replace the faulty climate control device. While the body glove he wore under the armor and the armor itself mostly kept him atmospherically sealed, he could not operate in a vacuum and it did little to relieve him of the humidity of certain locales, which made some of his hunts absolutely miserable endeavors.

The armor was laid out across several workbenches, surrounded by an assortment of tools, soldering equipment, coolant, wiring, and a myriad of other components Jag had never seen before.

“Man, I love this stuff,” Mech said as he guided his welding laser along the inner edge of the armor’s chest plate. “Absolutely incredible.”

Jag took another sip of his drink. “What stuff?”

Still guiding the laser along the armor like a skilled surgeon guiding a scalpel, Mech glanced at Jag. He was wearing thick black welding goggles over his usual pair of glasses, but he grinned broadly.

“Beskar, my friend. Nothing else like it.”

“I certainly can’t complain. Just wish the cooling system worked a bit better.”

Mech meticulously guided the laser along the microwiring he had laid into the chest plate’s underside. “That’s one of the problems this little operation will fix. I’ve also added a few new toys you’re going to like.”

He shut down the laser and removed his goggles, then lifted the chest plate off the workbench and turned it towards Jag. “Now, traditionally, these suits are atmospherically sealed. I know yours is supposed to be, but she’s got a few deficiencies.

“I’ve had to upgrade a couple sets of armor in my day, but I’ve never had to perform an overhaul on the environmental systems quite like this. I’m going to have to weld some durasteel patches to a few areas and replace the sealing mechanisms on each piece of armor. I’m also installing an additional piece to seal the suit at the waste.”

“What about my gauntlets?”

“Ah, yes.” Mech’s thick mustache curled up with the rest of his smile. “I removed the mini-rocket launcher and flamethrower, and—”

“You did what?”

Mech raised his eyebrows and stared at Jag over the rim of his thick glasses. Jag sighed and motioned for him to continue.

“I swapped them out with a couple unique contraptions that I think you’ll find quite useful in a tight situation.”

Jag nodded. “I’ll take your word for it, Mech. You’ve always taken care of your end. Just as long as you get things squared away with the environmental controls, I’m happy.”

“You mean you didn’t come here just for the company?”

“Of course not.” Jag smiled as he raised his glass as a toast. “I came for the ale.”

Mech chuckled as he set the chest plate back on the workbench. “This is going to take a while, you know.”

Jag finished what was left in his mug and started to stand up to refill it, but fell back into his chair as the consequences of his indulgence took effect. His eyes widened a bit as he looked around the room, trying to shrug off the slight blur that started to cloud the edge of his vision.

“Wow.”

Mech grinned at him before turning back to his work. “Tried to tell you it’s strong. You young punks never want to listen to us old timers.”

Jag rubbed his eyes for a moment, shook his head a few times, and tried to pull himself to his feet once again. Using various pieces of furniture for support, he worked his way to the large sink against the far wall. After splashing some cold water on his face, he started digging through a larger cooler for another bottle of ale.

“Dammit, Girran, you planning on paying for any of that? You’re drinking me dry.”

Jag grinned as he popped the lid off the bottle and took a sip. He poured the rest into his mug and returned to his seat.

While Jag sat in relative silence, he let his thoughts wander against the backdrop of the soft whirrs of Mech’s tools. He gently ran a finger back and forth along part of the scar that cut across his brow, nose, and cheek, and eventually nodded off.

***​

After what seemed like several hours, Jag snapped awake and his hand dropped to his holstered blaster. He looked to the workbench where Mech had been standing when he fell asleep, and instead of seeing the older man with disheveled, graying hair still hard at work, he saw nothing—save for his partially assembled suit of armor.

Jag cocked an eyebrow in confusion as he started to scan the room, looking for a clue as to where Mech had gone, when he jolted in his seat and drew his blaster, aiming it at the man sitting in a dark corner of the room with a blaster rifle trained at Jag’s chest.

“Mech?”

Jag kept his blaster level, trying to not to provoke whoever was holding the rifle.

The man stood up and walked towards Jag, the rifled still raised and his finger on the trigger. As he passed under a lamp, Jag saw that it was indeed Mech, but he wore a look that blended concern, confusion, and suspicion.

“Mech, you alright?”

He nodded and stood still, yet he did not lower the blaster’s nozzle.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

Jag nodded.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot in your sleep?”

Jag shifted a bit in his seat. “I have…nightmares.”

“Nightmares. Right. Yeah, I’d say so.” Mech finally started to lower the blaster but he kept his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “By the way, I wouldn’t recommend getting married anytime soon. In fact, I wouldn’t recommend courting anyone, either. I have a feeling that anyone sleeping next to you would eventually end up dead.”

Judging by the dents in the table next to Jag’s chair that had mysteriously appeared since he had fallen asleep, Mech may have been on to something. Jag studied them for a moment then sighed with mild exasperation. He knew from reviewing the Spartus’ security holos that whatever unholy demons lay dormant and repressed in his subconscious occasionally seized control while he slept, but fortunately there wasn’t much for him to damage in the Spartus’ cabin.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mech, I’m not exactly beating women off of me. I wouldn’t worry about me getting settled down.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“And as for my…behavior a few minutes ago, sorry. Not much I can do about it. When you have a past like mine…” Jag trailed off as his eyes went distant. He caught himself starting to drift and snapped his eyes back to Mech, who was still studying him curiously. “When you have a past like mine, there is no such thing as ‘restful’ sleep.”

“You know they’ve got stuff out there to fix that kind of thing, right?”

Jag shook his head. “No thanks. I tried that stuff when the nightmares first started. One of two things happened: I’d sleep for about a day and a half, or the dreams would worsen and I’d get hit with these occasional hallucinations.” He shuddered as he remembered some of the horrors his mind had conjured up. “I’d rather deal with the nightmares.”

Mech shrugged. “Your call, pal.” He grinned sheepishly. “Personally, I’d take the drugs.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Jag stood up and ran his fingers along the dents in the metal table then clenched his hands into fists and flexed his fingers several times to check for any damaged bones. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and he didn’t spot any bruising on the skin. “My suit finished?”

“Yes, sir. The software for the environmental controls is ready for complete integration with the HUD, but ArDee’s refusing to install anything until he gets clearance. Fortunately for you, not even I could slice through his safeguards.”

“Good to hear. I’ll get him started on it once I’m off-planet. I’m assuming the sealing equipment is set to go, too?”

“Yep. Ran the usual tests along with a couple of other custom programs I designed myself. You might as well be putting on a brand-new suit,” Mech bragged.

“Good. I love the way those smell.”

Mech smiled and ducked into one of the connecting rooms. Jag pulled the upgraded torso piece over his head and secured the gauntlets, which he gave a thorough inspection. After playing with Mech’s enhancements for a moment, he grinned.

“You were right. These will come in very useful.”

Jag inhaled and exhaled slowly as a sense of calm washed over him. He hated not wearing the armor. Putting it back on was like reattaching a part of his soul. At times, the suit was certainly impractical or too recognizable, and he would have to leave it behind, which always left him feeling almost crippled.

He had just started strapping on the leg plates when Mech returned with a datapad.

“You’re going to love this,” he said as he handed Jag the datapad. Its screen displayed a list of headlines all reporting the same thing: overnight, the Senate had voted to lift its restrictions on state-hired bounty hunters.

Jag frowned at Mech. “What’s this?”

“Pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think? And cheer up. I thought you’d be happy to hear the news.”

“Oh, I’m happy, alright,” Jag countered. “Just a little irritated—and suspicious. First, I almost get killed extracting some thug killer who somehow managed to dodge CorSec for half a year for that yerti-rat of a Corellian. Couple months later, I hand-deliver the corpse of some mid-level art thief to a Kuati lieutenant, who’s a step below Blaise on my list of people least favorite people.

“This art thief was just like Telnor. Managed to avoid Kuat’s local boys long enough for them to pay someone else to take care of him. I had to drag him out of his ship and dump him on the doorstep of that Kuati lieutenant. Oh, and I almost got killed each time by overzealous local authorities.

“Sure, the pay was great, and you know how much I love taking down idiots—especially the guilty ones. Almost cleared a million credits between the two. But the price was inflated. Both of those planets got credits to blow, less-than-motivated planetary enforcement, and two marginally competent criminals. And now that I’ve shown my face—well, sort of—in two very public systems, the ban is suddenly lifted.”

He stared into the visor of the helmet he held in his heads and shook his head after a moment of contemplation. “I don’t know, Mech. I’m not that narcissistic, but this all seems too convenient.”

When Mech didn’t answer, Jag raised his eyebrows expectantly at him. “I’m all ears if you know something I don’t. Or if you’ve got another theory…”

Mech shrugged. “Suggesting there’s some kind of interplanetary conspiracy involving the Senate to drag you out of whatever shadows you like to play in would be a whole new level of paranoia. And for you, that’s saying something.”

Jag grunted in agreement as he pulled his helmet on and heard the whistle of air signaling a successful airtight seal. He activated the external microphone with a blink of his eye.

“It’s not the Senate I’m worried about. Those fools will vote for damn near anything if someone convinces them they can gain something from it. Supporting a measure allegedly drafted to increase the apprehension and prosecution of mercenaries and outlaws would look absolutely beautiful on any Senator’s voting record.” He tightened his gloves and flexed his fingers. “Knowing Blaise and Campellun—”

“Campellun?”

“Yeah, the Kuati lieutenant. He’s another one of the fine beings waiting in line for a chance to cut my throat. It’s just…I don’t know, Mech. I can’t quite place it. But something’s off. In a matter of months, I went on hunts funded by two guys who would love to see me dead. I don’t like coincidences, and that’s a pretty big one.”

“This Blaise and uh, Campellun—what do they have against you, aside from not caring for your oh-so-endearing charm?” Mech asked.

Jag took his time answering. He felt his face harden as memories of his time with Beskade flashed through his mind.

“We have…history,” he finally said. “The kind of history that guys like that don’t just forget about.”

“Well,” Mech said slowly, “maybe you’re on to something.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I just don’t get their angle. They had ample opportunities to blast me out of existence on several occasions, yet here I am.”

Mech shrugged. “Could be this is just their way of keeping tabs.”

“Doubtful, but I suppose it’s possible. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve crossed paths with Blaise since I left him for dead at Corulag.” Jag shook his head as he considered the possibility further. “I still don’t like it.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘left him for dead?’”

“Pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Things between us went south—and quick.” When Mech didn’t respond, Jag sighed and mentally rolled his eyes. “Short or long version?”

“It’s not like I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Jag spent the next ten minutes explaining how he and Blaise had met as recruits for the Scimitar program, detailed some of their missions and the unit’s betrayal, then went on to discuss how they became glorified pirates and later tried to kill each other. He included the part about him and Bregen parting ways on Axxila, which was what led to Jag finding The Mechanic’s shop in the first place.

And he certainly noticed the way Mech’s eyes flashed, just barely, when he mentioned Bregen by name.

When he finished, The Mechanic didn’t say anything for several moments. Instead, he stared at the duracrete floor as though he would find the answers to life’s mysteries scrawled upon it.

“Quite the story.”

“I suppose you could say that. It’s not exactly one I like telling.”

“This might lift your spirits,” Mech said as he reached for another datapad. “It would appear the New Republic is taking full advantage of their newly rescinded restrictions.” He gave Jag a mildly disgusted look. “Politicians, eh?”

As Jag read—and reread—the bounty posting summary on the datapad, he felt a chill run up his spine as a sense of uneasiness began to grip his insides.

“From the reports the New Republic is putting out, it sounds like Imperial harassment along the Hydian. The Corporate Sector has been talking the ear off of every Senator who has an interest in so much as a parsec of space along the shipping lanes from the Core to the Rim.

“Looks like these guys are real heavy hitters. Very organized. Granted, it’s not like Star Destroyers are popping out of hyperspace, but they do have some frigates that are packing some serious firepower.”

Mech pulled out a second, larger datapad that was in the process of decrypting a file. Jag cocked an eyebrow as Mech handed it to him, then widened his eyes in shock as the scrambled display coalesced into a Navy intelligence report bearing both the Classified and Priority designations.

How does he find this stuff?

“Don’t ask.”

Jag grinned. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

He turned the datapad towards Mech and brought up a tactical diagram of how one of the pirates’ raids developed. “You can see why they’re pegging the Imperials for this.” He pointed to the two frigates then traced the paths of the starfighters. “Classic containment maneuver, textbook fighter intercept…blast, even the opening salvo sequence match Imperial search and seizure SOPs.”

“Those frigates do have Imperial markings,” Mech pointed out, but Jag shook his head in disagreement.

“Old markings. Look at the designation on those things. That fleet hasn’t existed for over ten years, and the Navy knows it. The report practically says as much. Assuming the paper pushers in Navy Intelligence are as corrupt as I think they are, the only reason this report suggests it may be the Imperials is to bait the Fleet admirals into drawing out the Imperials so that they can cripple whatever military the Imps have left.”

Jag set his jaw and stared at the diagram. “These aren’t Imperials—at least not anymore.”

He played some of the holos attached to the report that had been pulled from the logs of ships lucky enough to escape the pirates. The precision with which the attacks were executed seemed all too familiar. There was not a doubt in his mind that these pirates were ex-Imperial.

“That named you mentioned earlier—what was it?”

Jag’s brow creased. “What one? Campellun?”

“No, ‘Bree’ something. Briggon?”

“Bregen. What about him?”

Mech glanced around the room nervously as if he expected to spot someone eavesdropping in the corner. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Jag felt some of the blood drain from his face. “When?”

“Not too long ago. A week, maybe less. Some of my ears on the street passed it along. Apparently this Bregen of yours has drawn quite the price.”

Jag’s eyes narrowed as he tried to crush his growing apprehension. “Bregen’s dead.”

“That’s not what I’m being told.”

“Trillions upon trillions of people in this galaxy. Could be anyone.” Jag did his best to keep his breathing steady.

“Sure it could. I suppose there could be a lot of Jorg Bregen’s who run underground gambling rings along the Spine and have a reputation for a quick right hook and an even quicker trigger finger.”

Jag crossed his arms and stared at Mech. He knew better than to think the old man would be intimidated by him, but he put on the act regardless.

“I don’t remember telling you his first name,” Jag said, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“That’s because you didn’t. And don’t you even start with that.” Mech pointed his finger at Jag. “You know what kind of resources I have. You think I’d waste your time with unconfirmed drivel?”

“No,” Jag admitted. “I just find it odd that, in light of recent events, someone has put out a price on old partner of mine who I thought had been dead for two years.”

He studied Mech closely. He enhanced the magnification of his visor and watched for changes in pupil dilation. ArDee loaded a small thermal-vision outline of Mech’s body in the upper left corner of his HUD, which showed a small rise in body temperature, but nothing overly indicative of deceit.

“I’m not in the mood to be kriffed about, Mech,” Jag said between clenched teeth.

“And I’m not in the mood to kriff with anyone right now. This is real, Jag. If I had known you had some kind of history with this guy, I would have been in contact immediately.”

“I’ll believe it’s real when I see Jorg standing in front of me. You got any leads on where he might be?”

“Terminus.”

Jag groaned. “Wonderful.”

“Thought you might react that way.”

“If this turns out to be a bunch of bantha barf…” Jag warned.

“I know, I know.” Mech rolled his eyes dramatically and held up his hands in mock defense. “You’ll rip my throat out.”

“Yeah.” Jag chuckled, but couldn’t help noticing the odd tone in Mech’s voice. “Something like that.”

He set about collecting whatever personal effects he had brought with him, returned his blasters to their holsters, and attached his rifle to his back plate. Once ArDee completed one last battery of diagnostics on the suit, Jag turned to Mech and extended his hand.

“Thanks.” The Mechanic accepted his offering and gave it a firm shake. “And I’m sorry I got a little irritated.”

Mech waved dismissively. “Nothing to apologize for. I would’ve done the same thing.” He handed Jag a datapad. “This is everything I’ve got on Bregen. Doubt it will be much help once you get to Terminus, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jag nodded, but again noticed the odd tone in Mech’s voice. This time, it was paired with a somewhat distant expression. He cocked his head a bit and studied the man. When Mech didn’t offer an explanation, Jag shrugged it off and started for the door. As he reached the access panel, he looked back over his shoulder at Mech, who stared distantly at the floor.

“Take care of yourself, old timer.”

Mech raised his eyes and gave Jag a chilling stare. “I’ll try.”

 

CHAPTER TEN​

The Mechanic watched as the armor-clad bounty hunter slipped out of the shop through its concealed entrance. The feelings of resignation and hopelessness that had overwhelmed him just moments ago remained so powerful that he almost found it difficult to breathe.

“Be careful, kid,” he whispered to himself.

Judging by the snickering he heard from behind him, he hadn’t said it quietly enough.

“Caution won’t save your friend.” Mech cringed as the sound of boots on duracrete drew closer. “And, thanks to you, nothing will.”

Mech exhaled slowly, and with that breath, so went his dignity. He had lied to a man he considered a friend—at least the closest thing to a friend his life allowed—and in all likelihood, sent that man to his death. He had violated one of his rules of survival; he let himself get close to someone. Sure enough, breaking that rule had been his undoing.

“I didn’t think you were going to hold it together,” the voice said with the same tone of arrogance as before. “But I’m impressed.”

Mech kept his eyes on the shop’s floor and tried to control the shame that was beginning to overwhelm him. He claimed he had heard of this Bregen before—which he had, just not through his web of contacts as he had told Jag.

“What will become of Jiinessa?” Mech heard the click of a blaster’s activation switch, and turned to face the man holding it.

The man wore a dark hooded cloak that was reminiscent of those Mech had seen the Jedi wear many years ago. Still, Mech could make out certain facial features, including a right eye patch and a nasty scar that stretched from the right corner of the mouth toward the ear and disappeared beneath the hood’s shadow. The cloak also did nothing to hide the man’s broad shoulders or general militaristic bearing.

“She’s been taken care of.”

The sense of dread kept growing inside Mech. “‘Taken care of?’ What’s that supposed to mean? We agreed that she wouldn’t be harmed and that she and I would be left alone!” The dread, along with the assortment of other emotions swirling within him, quickly brought him to the edge of nausea.

The man just sneered, making the visible part of the scar even more gruesome.

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

This time, the emotion that erupted inside Mech was anger—white hot, ferocious anger. He started to lunge at the man, his right hand reaching for the concealed vibroblade in his tunic. But his momentum came to a sudden stop, and when he opened his mouth to scream, he found no air to push from his lungs. The scent of burned flesh filled his nostrils, and as he caught sight of the few wisps of smoke rising from the wound, the nausea intensified.

The Mechanic dropped to his knees, clutching at the burned crater in the center of his chest. His eyes began to water as the acrid fumes snaked their way into his sinuses, but the tears that started rolling down his cheeks weren’t a reaction to the smell.

He had heard the old tale that while death prepared to snatch life away from its victims, those on the brink would see their lives flash before their eyes. As far as Mech could tell, that tale was a lie. He saw nothing of his life, only the face of the beautiful dark-haired Jiinessa, a woman he had met only a year earlier.

Her pale skin with its slight blemishes seemed almost real enough to touch, but as the pain of the blaster wound intensified and his vision blurred, so did the image of Jiinessa. He had no feeling left in his extremities, and he fought to find some inner peace, one last time.

The afterlife was never something Mech had given much thought. Like most sentient beings in the galaxy, he had heard of the Force—he had even been fortunate enough to see its masters at work once or twice in his life. Perhaps after death, he would pass into that mysterious energy field’s true domain.

As the clicking of boot heels came to a stop next to Mech, he felt his body start to fall towards the floor. The world seemed to slow to a stop, but he refused to let go of the image of Jiinessa. If what he had been told about her fate was true, he would see her soon—assuming there really was some sort of afterlife.

His eyelids grew heavy and he found himself unable to keep them from closing. His breathing became so labored he feared he had just drawn his last breath. Still, he held onto the image of his wife. Mech smiled weakly, knowing her face would be the last thing his mind would see.

Finally, he was at peace.

***​

The cloaked man studied the corpse of the man formerly known only as “The Mechanic” for a moment, then fired two more shots into the body’s back. After a quick survey of the shop, he grabbed the few items he deemed worthwhile and removed any evidence of his presence.

His mission had ended more successfully than he had originally thought possible. Not only had he sent that fool Girran to the far reaches of the galaxy chasing a ghost, but he had managed to keep the bounty hunter mostly oblivious to the machinations which all but guaranteed his ruin.

Of course, Girran had figured out some of it. The man was a former Imperial commando and an exceptional bounty hunter. Both professions demanded a certain level of intelligence and intuition. But the traitor was still badly outmatched, and his days were numbered.

 

So, I've been on hiatus for a while. Figured it's time to get back to updating this thread!

***
Part IV: Strange Encounters
8 A.B.Y. -- 8 Years Earlier
***
CHAPTER ELEVEN
​

It was probably just an illusion, but space seemed darker in the Unknown Regions. Jag had passed through this sector of space before, though not for any significant amount of time. He found being so far away from what he and the rest of the known galaxy considered “civilized space” remarkably unnerving.

Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown that troubled him. It could have been the whispered rumors he had heard about the strange ships and even stranger species that emerged from regions like this. Regardless of the true reason he found himself sporadically breaking into fits of sweating, Jag had made a point of running constant sensor sweeps in between jumps to lightspeed.

He had spent most of the last five months mapping a route into the Unknown Regions from Reecee. A Dimean had offered the navigation job with a hefty price tag: two hundred thousand credits with seventy-five thousand upfront. Given his recent struggles in the bounty hunting business, Jag jumped at the opportunity to make some money. Even if he decided to duck out on the job, he would still have the seventy-five thousand.

The job did not come without risk. In addition to the natural dangers of mapping a hyperspace route in uncharted space, several pirate outfits were rumored to operate in the region, and the Nomadin was hardly the ideal vessel for any kind of fight. The Ghtroc 720 freighter was quick enough, despite its appearance, but the armaments left something to be desired.

During his travels, Jag encountered several systems, none of which showed any signs of colonization. Within those systems, he discovered eight planets and numerous moons suitable to sentient life should civilization—or crime syndicate—ever push into that region of space. A major asteroid field in the third system he found appeared to contain substantial deposits of hfredium. If he sold the asteroid field’s location to any of the prominent mining operations in the Core, he could make a small fortune.

Despite the lack of contact with any sentient beings, Jag wasn’t exactly alone on the Nomadin. The first thing he did after purchasing the ship was load ArDee’s programming into the computer. After two days of familiarizing himself with the ship, ArDee had managed to increase engine output by nine percent and reduce fuel consumption by twelve percent.

To the right of the control yoke was an oversized monitor displaying the galactic map along with known major hyperspace routes. Jag tapped a few commands and enlarged the portion of space he had been scouting.

“ArDee, insert all navigational data thus far into the map.”

“Yes sir,” the accented voice replied.

After an alert chimed warning that the ship would return to realspace in one minute, Jag glanced at the monitor to check his progress. He nearly fell out of his seat when he saw how far into the Unknown Regions he had traveled.

“ArDee, is this correct?”

“If you mean to insinuate that I have made an error, I assure you sir, all of my programming is operating at peak proficiency.”

“I’m…you’re sure?”

“Sir, thanks to my creator’s programming genius, I possess navigational abilities that surpass virtually all but the most sophisticated computers. Perhaps a bit more trust in my capabilities would serve you well.”

Jag shook his head and prepared to drop out of hyperspace. He watched one of the monitors for the countdown, and eased the lever for the hyperdrive forward as the digits reached zero. As the hyperspace tunnel gave way to billions of distant stars, the canopy’s tint faded to reveal a massive, bright green gas giant with what appeared to be several Coruscant-sized moons in orbit. If these celestial bodies were actually moons in the traditional sense, they were by far the largest he had ever seen.

He raised an eyebrow as he studied the data pouring in on the planet and its moons. ArDee’s preliminary long-distance scans suggested more planets in the system, but due to the distance, the scans were unable to provide anything conclusive. It would take time, but Jag would have to do sweeps of each planet. Perhaps he would even name a few.

Jag dropped the Nomadin into high orbit around the gas giant and set about sorting through the newly acquired data while ArDee ran full sensor sweeps on the moons as they passed by. He was reviewing a new batch of reports on one of the moons when his concentration was jolted by the activation of a ship-wide siren.

He clamped his hands over his ears to drown out the deafening blaring of the siren and winced when the sound continued to pound away at his ear drums.

“Shut that kriffing thing off!”

ArDee responded by simply decreasing the volume of the siren, but its shrieking continued to echo throughout the cabin and the access corridors beyond.

“I said, shut…”

Jag froze after glancing out the canopy. The chill that ran up his spine was so cold he could have sworn his blood had literally turned to ice. His mouth went dry and his jaw hung open as his gaze remained locked on what lay beyond the canopy.

Two large cruisers with glistening silver hulls sat in the distance, their bows aimed directly at the Nomadin. Jag switched one of the canopy’s digital panes to “magnify” to get a closer look. From what he could see, they were slightly larger than a Corellian gunship, and their appearance was far more menacing. Pairs of something that resembled turbolasers hung from the underside of the bows, and dark markings lined the bow.

“Talk to me, ArDee!” Jag demanded as he bounced from the sensor station to the pilot seat to the comm station.

“Inconclusive results, sir.”

“Inconclusive? We’ve got two battle cruisers sitting a few thousand kilometers away and the best you can do is inconclusive?”

“They are apparently capable of limiting my effectiveness, sir. All attempts to scan the vessels have failed. I was able to obtain only basic readings.”

Jag tried to clamp down his growing sense of panic. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got. Where in the blazes did they come from?”

“They came out of lightspeed seconds before I activated the alarm. Long distance scans revealed a hyperspace disturbance, though that data was received far too late for me to issue the standard warning.”

“You don’t say.”

Jag continued to scramble around the cabin, flipping switches and checking various monitors, cursing through all of it. Once the details of the unfamiliar cruisers loaded on a monitor at the sensor screen, he sat down for a moment to scan the information. What he saw was hardly reassuring.

His original estimation was quite incorrect; the cruisers were much larger than a Corellian gunship. The scans suggested an estimated length of just over five hundred meters. Visual data revealed several protrusions on the hull that were somewhat reminiscent of turbolaser blisters on the old Dreadnaughts, though these were certainly unique.

And there were a lot of protrusions.

Jag jumped back into the pilot’s seat, raised the deflector shields, and warmed the topside laser cannon. It was only a few seconds later that he regretted that decision.

A blue bolt of energy shot forward from the left cruiser’s underside cannons. Every muscle in Jag’s body tightened as he watched it slice through space toward the Nomadin’s hull, his sudden paralysis preventing him from piloting the ship. As the bolt drew even closer, beads of sweat started to pour down Jag’s face. He managed to strap in his crash webbing just before the bolt struck the hull and braced for impact.

But the bolt went wide.

Still partially frozen in fear, Jag glanced around in confusion.

“ArDee, status!”

“All systems are normal, sir. Deflector shields remain fully functional.”

Jag snapped out of his daze and threw the sublight engines to full power. He ran the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers as he tried to plot a jump to lightspeed. Unfortunately, he was in the middle of nowhere as far as standard navigation was concerned, and plotting a jump would take time—time he didn’t have.

He did his best to control the ship with one hand while the other danced across one of the screens in an effort to divert more power to the shields. With the engines operating at maximum capacity, the shield generator taxed, and a navicomputer that was about to fry its circuits looking for a safe hyperspace route, Jag half expected the ship to implode.

Then an even, controlled voice broadcasted throughout the ship.

“Unidentified ship: cease operations at once and deactivate your weapons. You will not be warned again.”

Jag brought the Nomadin around to face the cruisers. Where previously there were only two vessels, there were now ten: the two cruisers, something that looked a shuttle, and seven starfighters.

“Uh, ArDee?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Deactivate everything.” Jag wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “And tidy up a bit. We’re going to have company.”

***​

The next thirty minutes felt like thirty days. Instead of boarding the Nomadin, which Jag had fully expected the pirates to do, the starfighters and shuttle simply dropped into an escort position with the shuttle on Jag’s port side and the starfighters arranged in a defensive diamond formation.

Halfway to the cruiser that had fired the single shot of—something—it occurred to Jag that he may not be dealing with pirates. He had developed an eye for most things militaristic during his time with Scimitar, and the style and efficiency with which the starfighters maneuvered suggested the pilots’ training was far more advanced than that of the typical pirate or mercenary.

Then again, he was a mercenary…

There was also the issue of the warning shot the cruiser had fired. It was blue. He had been involved in numerous battles, watched hours of training holos, and had yet to come across any technology that resembled what almost blasted the Nomadin into an atom cloud.

As the distance between his ship and the cruisers continued to close, Jag could see the hull in greater detail. The protrusions certainly resembled the weapons blisters of the original Rendili Dreadnaughts, but were smaller in size and didn’t conceal the massive barrels of the turbolasers within quite as well. However, arranged around each blister were receded gun emplacements that Jag assumed were point-defense cannons. Similar receded constructions dotted the length of the hull, with several batteries built around the hangar on the starboard side.

It was, to say the least, one of the more intimidating gunships he had ever seen. If these were pirates, they were incredibly well funded and had access to munitions suppliers that would rival some of those within the New Republic. The markings on the hall were also far more complex than he first thought; the primary design on the bow seemed to be a seal of some sort. While he was far from fluent in many of the galaxy’s languages, he was well versed in enough of them, and nothing on the ship’s hull had a hint of familiarity about it.

“ArDee, you got anything on these two piles of junk yet?” He rechecked the sensor reports to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

“Negative, sir. I have cross-referenced the design, emissions profile, weaponry, and markings against all known databases. No results for any of my queries.”

“Wonderful.”

The Nomadin was practically in the hangar of the cruiser by this point, and most of its escort had disappeared. As his ship came to a rest on the deck of the hangar, Jag went about his usual departure procedure: shutdown of the ship’s primary systems, double-checked the power packs in his blasters—then thought better of it and returned them to their racks—and inserted the ear chip he used to communicate with ArDee.

“Keep running your scans, and if I need to make a run for it, try to figure out the best way back.”

“I will do my best, sir. As I’ve told you, bypassing the ship’s encryption is proving far more difficult than I initially anticipated.”

“You’ll be fine. After all, you’ve got that superior programming, remember? Keep me updated.”

“Of course, sir. And do be careful; I fear my company would be wasted on these mysterious captors.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Jag hit the control to lower the ramp and took a deep breath. He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected to greet him as he emerged from his ship, but the being that stood on the hangar deck waiting for him certainly was not it.

The blue skin and glowing red eyes shocked him the most, but almost equally shocking was the near-humanness of its appearance. The being was dressed in a crisp black uniform and carried a sidearm that made Jag pause. The shine of the boots was immaculate, and the entire outfit made Jag’s efficient but worn garments look even more ragged than normal.

At least he had the durasteel chest and right shoulder armor plate to add some flare.

Unsure of the acceptable etiquette among these people, Jag just stood still. He studied the blue-skinned being in front of him, who did the same in return. Eventually the being broke the silence.

“Greetings, alien,” it said with a bow of the head. Surprisingly enough, it spoke Basic, and did so a rich, nobleman’s accent. “I am Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar of the Chiss Expansionary Fleet, Executive Officer of the Mirtan’hu.” The being’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You will state your intentions for violating Chiss territory.”

Jag swallowed and quickly ran through one of the many calming techniques he had learned years ago.

“I am Jag Girran, captain of the Nomadin,” he said evenly, trying to match the composure with which the lieutenant had spoken. “My intentions are innocent and our meeting a coincidence. I am in this region of space to fulfill a surveying contract. Nothing more.”

“Hm.” Dens’amo’luldar raised an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen.”

He turned and gestured toward the blast doors across the hangar where four more blue-skinned, black uniformed humanoids had appeared. All four carried the same sidearm as the lieutenant. Jag nodded to the lieutenant and started toward the blast doors while keeping an eye on the four other humanoids.

Jag’s greeting party fell in to an escort formation while the lieutenant walked next to him in silence as they made their way through the ship. Jag tried to take in as much detail as possible. The corridors were a gray color similar to the other warships he had spent time on, but the design of the corridors was different than a typical Imperial vessel, though still familiar.

As they reached the doors for what he assumed to be the command bridge, Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar said something in a language Jag had never heard, and the escort came to a stop. Jag glanced from one guard to the next, then to the Lieutenant.

“End of the tour?”

Dens’amo’luldar turned his head and eyed Jag curiously for a moment before looking forward again. “Ch’grah.”

The escort moved forward once again, and the doors to the bridge slid open. Jag’s eyes widened at the sight before him. Multiple command stations occupied the front half of the bridge, though they sat in a pit about two meters below the rest of the deck. However, the arrangement looked nothing like that of an Imperial Star Destroyer’s bridge. It was far less claustrophobic, and had a walkway through the area as opposed to above it.

The section directly in front of Jag resembled that of most bridges. There was a command chair positioned near the end of the walkway that cut through the station pit, and standing next to it with his hands clasped behind his back was an imposing figure dressed in the same uniform as Jag’s escort. Two of the beings from the escort broke off and took up positions at the entrance they had just passed through while the other two stood behind Jag, with the lieutenant at his side.

“Captain Girran, I presume?” the being asked, his glowing red eyes locked with Jag’s.

Surprised that his identity had already been revealed, as none of the five beings he had encountered thus far had uttered a word during their walk to the bridge, Jag hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Correct.”

“I am Commander Cluh’ack’annotru of the Chiss vessel Mirtan’hu. You have violated the borders of the Chiss Ascendancy with an armed vessel. State your intentions.”

Jag’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t crossed paths with pirates after all. Instead, he had flown straight into a system belonging to an alien government, one which clearly possessed impressive military technology and had the patience of a drunken wookiee for unwelcomed visitors.

“As I told your lieutenant, I am on a peaceful expedition through an area of space considered uncharted by my people.” Jag fought to keep his voice as even as possible. “I know nothing of your Ascendancy, and I assure you, if I don’t know about it, the chances of my people possessing any knowledge of it are practically nonexistent.”

“And I equally assure you, Captain Girran, that you are mistaken,” the commander quipped, though Jag didn’t detect any malice in his voice.

“I…could you please elaborate?”

Cluh’ack’annotru walked toward one of the raised walkways along the side of the station pit and gestured for Jag to follow.

“This is not our first encounter with your kind, Captain Girran.” He offered a smiled and tilted his head in curiosity. “Or were you not curious as to how some of us can speak your language?”

Jag’s eyebrow twitched. He actually had not considered that fact, though it was until only minutes ago that he thought he had simply been dealing with pirates.

“The thought hadn’t occurred to me, to be perfectly honest with you. But now that you mention it, yeah. I’m curious.”

Jag looked around at the rest of the bridge’s occupants, who for the most part ignored his presence. Some, though, carefully watched the exchange out of the corner of their eyes. “I’m also curious as to why some of you understand my language yet others don’t.”

“What makes you think they all don’t?”

He nodded to the crewmen who were ignoring him. “Half your crew hasn’t reacted to a word I said.”

“Perhaps they are well trained and understand the concentration their tasks require.”

“Perhaps,” Jag said with a nod. He turned to one of the crewmen still standing near him, and said very matter-of-factly: “I’m going to kill your commander.”

Before Jag could finish, six of the crewmen in the station pit had their sidearms drawn and pointed at Jag’s chest. Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar and one of the escorts also had their weapons drawn, as did three of the other bridge officers.

Jag looked at Cluh’ack’annotru out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

Cluh’ack’annotru simply cocked an eyebrow and motioned for those with their weapons raised to lower them.

“Lieutenant, escort Captain Girran to Briefing One. We have much to discuss.”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE​

Commander Cluh’ack’annotru kept Jag waiting only a few minutes. He arrived in Briefing One accompanied by two sentries who remained near the door, their expressions stoic and postures perfect. Jag started to rise from his seat when the commander entered the room, but the gesture was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

“Though I’m flattered by your display of respect, it is hardly necessary, Captain.” Cluh’ack’annotru took a seat and smoothed his uniform. “Please, consider us equals for the time being. It will allow these discussions to be more productive. You may also address me as Hackan, and the lieutenant as Samol. It will simplify things a great deal.

“That being said, permit me to be direct: as I previously stated, this is not the first time we’ve encountered your kind, and unfortunately, those encounters have, for the most part, concluded unfavorably for all parties involved. I hope to put an end to that trend.”

Jag’s expression remained neutral and his hands folded in his lap, and he waited for Hackan to continue.

“However, the Chiss do not wish to cooperate with the Empire. While the majority of my people remain oblivious to your existence, there are those within our society who remember our previous encounters far too well.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Before these discussions progress any further, let me be clear: I will not cooperate with the Empire.”

Jag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he fought to stifle a laugh.

“I’m sorry, the Empire?”

Hackan’s expression remained mostly neutral but he cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Are you not associated with the Empire, Captain?”

“Not too many people are, these days. I’m not sure what kind of resources your people have beyond your borders, but the Empire has been toppled.”

Jag caught an exchange of glances between Hackan and Samol.

“How long ago was this?”

“Three years ago. More or less.” Next to Jag, Samol pulled something resembling a datapad from a pocket and started entering commands. “Resistance movement called the Rebel Alliance defeated them and took over. Restructured the government, took back Coruscant, the whole bit. Now the New Republic is running the show.”

“The ‘New’ Republic?”

“Yeah. The ‘old’ one was in the process of collapsing when the Empire came to power. I was too young to remember, but from what I’ve read and been told, it was a nasty time to be alive.”

“The term ‘empire’ rarely evokes harmonious feelings,” Hackan said.

“You’ve got a point. Still, I grew up under the Empire’s rule—even served it for a short time.”

“Interesting. I look forward to learning more about your past, Captain, but in the meantime, if you would allow, I’d prefer to refocus our discussion.”

Jag shrugged.

“I’m curious as to how you managed to locate this system. I’m also curious as to your true intent and allegiances.” He paused and gestured to Samol. “You will have to excuse my caution, but I certainly have reason. Lieutenant?”

Samol handed Jag the datapad he had pulled from his pocket. The screen scanned through three different images: an Imperial Star Destroyer, some kind of freighter, and a massive structure that Jag had only heard rumors about—six dreadnaughts arranged around a storage core.

“Are you familiar with these vessels?”

“Two of them—I guess. One’s an Imperial Star Destroyer, the other some kind of stock freighter. I haven’t seen the model before. But the third—I’ve never seen it before, but then again, not many people have. It’s more of a legend than anything.”

“I assure you, it is no legend. It is Outbound Flight.” Hackan motioned to Samol, who took back the datapad, and after entering a few commands, returned it to Jag with a new set of images displayed, including the head and shoulders of a stern looking Chiss in a black uniform. “This was Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo. He and his ships were responsible for the Ascendancy’s most significant interaction with your kind. It is because of him and these events that I am able to speak your language.”

“I’m going to assume you’re leaving out a few details for the time being.”

“You are assuming correctly.”

“Fair enough.” Jag nodded towards the datapad. “Would you mind explaining the significance of the other ships?”

Hackan nodded. “The smaller vessel we encountered during a patrol. We attempted to establish contact with the pilot, but he declined to cooperate. He opened fire on one my starfighters and we responded in kind.” The commander paused and sighed quietly. “It was finished quickly. An unfortunate encounter; I would have liked to learn of his origins and intentions.”

Jag continued to study Hackan’s face and was certain he caught a flash of regret.

“The second ship, the one you identified as a ‘Star Destroyer,’ proved to be a far more interesting—and deadly—confrontation.”

He casually waved his hand over a portion of the table and a previously undetectable panel slid back to reveal a set of controls. After tapping several of them, the wall to Jag’s left, opposite the viewports on his right, slid open to reveal a large monitor. Displayed on it was a star chart of some sort—most likely that of Chiss space, Jag presumed. Hackan stood and made his way to the monitor.

“This area here,” he pointed to what must have been the Core-side border of chart, “is where we met the alien warship.” He glanced sideways at Jag. “It is a warship, is it not?”

“Oh,” Jag said with half a grin, “very much so.”

Hackan merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to the monitor.

“As I was saying, we encountered this vessel near the edge of our borders. The ship was traveling alone, and at first seemed willing to cooperate with us. In fact, the ship’s commander had explicit instructions to do so.”

Jag frowned. “Instructions? An Imperial vessel had instructions to cooperate with you? I mean—specifically with the Chiss?”

Hackan nodded. “The orders came from my former commander.”

Jag’s eyes narrowed as suspicion began to creep up his spine.

“You see, Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo, or Grand Admiral Thrawn, as he came to be known in your part of your galaxy, had allied himself with the Empire. My people exiled him for disgracing us—or so they claimed—and did their best to remove the memory of Thrawn from our society.

“It would seem the commander did not do the same. While serving the Empire, he created his own base of operations and set out on a mission to ‘pacify’ the more volatile areas of this region. This Star Destroyer was supposed to bring forth his offer of peace and request for an allegiance. However, the man Thrawn sent was a fool. His attempts to negotiate with us were unsuccessful, and ultimately we were forced to defend ourselves.”

Jag leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “You’ll have to excuse my failure to effectively grasp all of this the first time through.” He paused, then leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him. “For the last several years, there has been a Chiss Grand Admiral flitting about the galaxy, completely unbeknownst to the rest of the New Republic?”

“Yes.”

“And you served under this…”

“Thrawn.”

“Yeah, under this Thrawn?”

“I did, though only for a brief time. Unfortunately, my time with Commander Thrawn was short-lived. He lost his command shortly after the incident with Outbound Flight.”

“‘Incident?’”

“Yes, incident. As with the origins of my ability to speak your native tongue, I must insist the details of this incident be treated the same.”

Jag sighed. “Alright. Will you be continuing with the history lesson, then?”

Hackan’s face darkened. “I don’t find this a subject particularly worthy of humor, Captain.”

Jag flinched at the unexpected burst of anger. “My apologies, Commander. Please, continue.”

Hackan regarded him for a moment before his face softened. “None required, Captain. I apologize for my lack of patience. But please, try to understand, these encounters are a very serious matters for those serving on this ship and those like it within the Chiss Expansionary Fleet. When they do occur, they have the potential to be lethal—as was the case with this Star Destroyer.”

Jag simply nodded as he put on his best apologetic look.

“The warship appeared in the next system over from the one in which we found you—near the world we call Cantrosa. We encountered it during a routine patrol of the system. It was broadcasting a message to my small group of ships in three languages: Cheunh, Minnisiat, and Sy Bisti. The former two are trade languages in that area of space and would be familiar to a variety of species, including Chiss, but Cheunh…” Hackan trailed off as he smiled pridefully. “Only Chiss know Cheunh.”

“I’m assuming this instantly raised suspicion.”

“You are correct, Captain. Our suspicion was justified when the ship’s commander, a Captain Eguilan, answered our hails in your language. I believe your people refer to it as ‘Basic.’”

Jag’s eyebrow flinched but didn’t answer. He was started to become more than a little uncomfortable with how much Commander Hackan seemed to know about the galaxy beyond the Chiss’ borders.

Undeterred by Jag’s silence, Hackan continued. “We demanded to know how this…alien—” the word seemed to drip with disgust, “knew our language.” He reached back to the controls on the table and tapped a few more commands, which added a capture from a visual hail of Captain Eguilan to the monitor’s screen. Hackan then tapped two points on the monitor and dragged his dragged his finger downward. As he did so, the relevant portion of the star chart magnified.

“Captain Eguilan brought word from Thrawn. He was embarking on a mission of what he called ‘pacification,’ and sought to enlist our assistance, or at least passive cooperation, with his endeavors. In accordance with Chiss military doctrine, I refused to provide assistance in any capacity, and explained my reasoning to Captain Eguilan.

“He was either ordered to not accept refusal, or he thought himself far more powerful—and intelligent—to be denied by a group of aliens.” Hackan turned to Lieutenant Samol with a questioning expression. “What was the word he used for us, Lieutenant?”

“Savage scum, sir.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Hackan’s eyes narrowed and his face darkened again. “Captain Eguilan discovered just how capable the Chiss truly are.”

“So, you attacked him?” Jag asked, almost scoffing. “Because he insulted you?”

Hackan seemed insulted. “Hardly, Captain Girran. Do I strike you as someone willing to sacrifice principle for pride and pettiness?”

Understanding that the question had only one acceptable response, Jag shook his head. “Of course not. I’m sorry for suggesting that.”

“You need not apologize. But to answer your question, no: my ships did not fire upon the alien vessel. Rather, after persistent verbal berating from Captain Eguilan, a starfighter screen launched from the warship and attempted to engage two of my smaller cruisers. They were dispatched fairly efficiently.

“Then the warship opened fire.”

Commander Hackan’s eyes grew distant for a moment before they refocused on Jag. “Captain Eguilan caught one of my ships unprepared. The ship was ripped apart within seconds.”

He tapped a command on the table’s panel and the two pictures disappeared. “We responded in kind. All available firepower was focused on the warship. The formation we used, combined with our starfighter attack, overwhelmed the ship’s defenses and we crippled it fairly quickly.”

“You said you crippled it? Does that mean you managed to salvage it?”

“The story has not concluded, Captain,” Hackan said. “We offered Captain Eguilan an opportunity to surrender, of which he wanted no part. He attempted to reengage my ships, at which point his was destroyed.”

“All this over a request for help?”

“Hardly.”

“But you said Captain Eguilan—”

“I am well aware of the reason Captain Eguilan claimed he violated Chiss space. However, Commander Thrawn—or should I say Grand Admiral Thrawn—was no fool. Quite the opposite, in fact. He understood the psyche of those around him and those against him far too well, almost to a level that bordered on the supernatural. He did not send Eguilan here to offer peace and ask for assistance.

“He sent Eguilan here for two reasons: first, to inform the Chiss that he was alive and in command of considerable military assets. Second, to die.”

Jag broke into a coughing fit as he processed the end of Hackan’s answer. “He sent the captain to do what?”

“Clearly, Eguilan was a flawed individual whose ability to effectively command was lacking, to say the least. I have no doubt that Thrawn knew this and sought to rectify the situation.”

“Thrawn sounds like quite the character.”

Hackan cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed. Quite.”

Jag sat back in his chair and tried to process everything he had been told. After a few moments of silence, he sighed and leaned forward.

“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I don’t work for Thrawn or the Empire—or the New Republic for that matter. I’d gladly tell you what I can about the new government the galaxy’s stuck with, so long as I get some answers to my questions when we’re all done.”

With only the briefest of hesitations and a quick glance at Lieutenant Samol, Hackan nodded. “As you wish, Captain.” He parted his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Please, let us continue.”

***​

Jag recounted the galactic history of the last three decades starting with the fall of the Old Republic, which, according to Hackan, occurred shortly after the Chiss’ encounter with Outbound Flight. He discussed the Empire’s rise and ultimate defeat at Endor, and as far as Jag could tell, Commander Hackan and Lieutenant Samol were quite unimpressed with the Emperor’s reign and his methods.

“The Empire is gone—at least as a ruling power,” Jag explained. “There is still a mess of warlords hanging around vying for control of the Empire’s remaining assets, but that’s it. The New Republic seized control of the galactic capital and is working toward reversing a couple decades worth of tyranny. Still, the Empire’s got enough warships and manpower at their disposal to be a constant irritant for the New Republic.”

“And Thrawn is still alive,” Hackan added. “I have no doubt that the Empire will again rise from the ashes should he return to lead.”

Jag frowned. “Yeah…I suppose he could still be alive.”

The sly smile that Hackan flashed sent a chill up Jag’s spine. “I assure you, Captain, he is.”

As he tried to shake the unnerving sensation Hackan’s smile had given him, Jag detailed the New Republic’s system of government and offered whatever insights he could on the major figures within the Senate. Hackan seemed confused with the power distribution that the New Republic created.

“How can they possibly hope to maintain order?” he asked. “Surely the architects of such a system understand its inherent flaws.”

Jag shrugged. “I’m not a politician for a reason, but I can’t see how they wouldn’t recognize some of the shortcomings. Still, I suppose it’s better than the autocratic nightmare that was the Empire.”

“Autocracies only fail when the wrong people are in charge, Captain Girran.”

Jag went on to discuss the New Republic’s military assets and capabilities, and emphasized that to his knowledge, the rest of the galaxy remained completely oblivious to the Chiss’ existence.

Using navigational data from the Spartus that the Chiss technicians extracted—Jag had no idea how they managed to bypass ArDee’s security measures—he detailed his expedition thus far and explained how his encounter with the Chiss was purely accidental.

While Commander Hackan eventually seemed willing to believe Jag’s story that he was not a scout for the New Republic or Empire, he did take issue with the amount of geographical data accumulated for some of the worlds Jag had encountered. Hackan explained that the last system Jag passed through had already been scouted by the Chiss, and with preliminary colonization efforts underway, they had no intention of sharing it.

The same went for the current system. The largest of the habitable worlds—the Chiss had named it Aksulunil—was all but fully settled and was protected by a small contingent of the Chiss Defense Fleet, which, Hackan explained, was responsible for protecting existing Chiss assets as opposed to the Expansionary Fleet, which was tasked with border patrol and territorial growth.

Unfortunately for Jag, Commander Hackan was insisting that all information pertaining to those particular systems be wiped from the Nomadin’s memory banks, including the navigational data that led Jag to those worlds. Given that he had spent nearly two and a half months compiling that data, Jag was less than pleased with the decision.

“How am I supposed to get back to my part of the galaxy? It took me months to get out here, and I’m supposed to just turn around and do it all over again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Captain. One of my ships will transport you to the edge of Chiss space and allow you to leave.”

Jag blinked. “That’s it?” He looked back and forth between Hackan and Samol’s expressionless faces. “I’ve answered every question you asked. I’ve done nothing but cooperate—”

“And that cooperation will be rewarded, Captain, I assure you. I understand your hesitancy to trust us, but please try.” Hackan again altered the focus of the star chart, drawing it out so that it displayed most of the western side of the galaxy, and in far greater detail than any chart Jag had previously seen.

He guided his index finger along the western edge of the Core. “Am I correct in assuming your people do not have widespread access to this region of space?”

“That’s correct,” Jag confirmed. “There are numerous anomalies that disrupt hyperdrives and make traveling at lightspeed a very tedious endeavor.”

“I see.” Hackan tapped a small icon along the edge of the monitor and several yellow lines appeared on the chart, some intersecting, others continuing on their own until suddenly terminating. “As you can see, we have no such issues.”

Jag stood and walked to the monitor, his mouth hanging open in amazement. Somehow the Chiss had accomplished that which “known” civilization thought all but impossible for thousands of years. The Unknown Regions was not only inhabited, but it was completely navigable.

Jag could only manage a single word. “How?”

Hackan smiled. “Our technologies are not identical, Captain Girran.”

“Yeah, to say the least.” Jag eyes kept examining the star chart.

“Your reward, Captain,” Hackan said with a genuine smile, “is these charts.”

Jag turned to Hackan, both eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“Your willingness to provide me—a previously and still mostly unfamiliar military commander—intimate details of your own civilization required great trust on part, and it was certainly appreciated.” Hackan shut down the monitor and returned to his seat, motioning for Jag to do the same. “While my people typically look upon non-Chiss as…inferior, I find some of the species we’ve encountered quite intriguing.”

“I certainly hope humans fall under the latter.”

“Most certainly. I would hardly be willing to share such information were the situation any different.” Hackan nodded to Samol, who gathered the two datapads on the table and stood up. “Lieutenant Samol will collect a team and, with your permission, interface with your ship’s main computer and install the necessary information. However, since you are not here on your own accord, at least not entirely, the information will be encrypted and accessible only by your ship’s computer after a date and time of my choosing.”

Jag felt his excitement deflate. “How is that supposed to help me?”

“First, if you’re discovered in Chiss space within the next year, by me or another member of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet, you will not receive the same hospitality. In fact, you can expect the total opposite. Secondly, I am rarely willing to leave things to chance, and even when I do, I prefer the odds be heavily in my favor.

“By withholding our navigational information for a length of time I deem acceptable, I am taking a calculated risk that you will have found another form of employment—or you’ll be dead.”

“How encouraging.”

“You are a mercenary, Captain Girran. The life expectancy for such employment, even in this region of space, is not considerably impressive,” Hackan said coldly.

Jag’s cheek twitched but he grunted in agreement. “Fair point, Commander. And I accept your terms. But how can you be sure that my ship’s computer will actually release the information?”

Hackan smiled. “Captain, come now. I thought you would have more faith in your own systems. ARD-1, I believe is its designation, has truly fascinated my technicians. They’ve actually started working on replicating portions of the primary programming so that we may study it further. I fully expect it to meet my expectations.”

Jag nodded in resignation. “Guess I better start preparing for my departure.”

“Again, Captain: patience. We won’t be leaving for the edge of our territory for several days. There is still much for you and I to learn from each other.” Hackan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Jag didn’t detect any hint of malice. “Perhaps we can start with your involvement with the Empire, and why you failed to mention it earlier.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN​

The discussion about Jag’s career with the Empire essentially came to a halt for two days. Jag was given restricted access to parts of the ship, though he spent most of the time aboard the Nomadin. He wasn’t quite ready to trust the Chiss completely, but the Commander was certainly doing his best to earn a small measure of it. Why Hackan had started trusting him at all remained a mystery, one that he hoped to solve before departing Chiss space.

Hackan remained in almost constant contact for most of the two days, inviting Jag to dine with him in the Mirtan’hu’s main mess hall on several occasions. Their conversations focused on the political events of the last fifteen years, pirating in the immediate region, and the ambitions of the New Republic.

Still, Jag found the interaction considerably uncomfortable. There was obvious tension because of how things in Briefing One had concluded as both parties were doing their best to avoid the subject.

Jag found the food exceptional, regardless of how foreign it may be. It certainly bested whatever he had still had left in storage on the Nomadin. It was unique yet familiar. Some of the meals had more intense flavor than others, but they all shared a certain spiciness that Jag quite enjoyed. He couldn’t help but wonder how such food would fare in the affluent districts of Coruscant, where exotic dishes were all the rage.

On the morning of the third day after the meeting in Briefing One, Jag supervised the tech crew Samol had selected to handle the data upload to the Nomadin. He spent most of his time standing stoically silent behind them with his arms crossed, doing his best to ensure the Chiss technicians didn’t try to poke around in his archives more than they already had.

As he watched the technicians work, Jag brooded over the inevitable conversation with Hackan. He ran the earlier discussion or interrogation—Jag figured it depended on which side of the table one was sitting—through his mind over and over. The talks had taken several turns that he had not anticipated. Then again, he wasn’t sure what he had actually anticipated in the first place, but hearing a story about Chiss forces pummeling an Imperial Star Destroyer into oblivion was hardly what he had expected.

Jag was certain he was still under suspicion of being a foreign agent of some sort. Hackan’s parting words all but said as much. How Hackan had surmised Jag previously served the Empire escaped him, at least for the time being. Regardless, it was clear that his relationship with the Chiss was still a strained one.

Eventually an officer came to collect Jag. Samol was waiting for him at the bottom of the boarding ramp, though the escort that had greeted him when he first arrived on the vessel several days prior was absent. Perhaps the Chiss didn’t consider him that much of a threat after all. Or they knew he had absolutely nowhere to run to and were just waiting to vaporize him and his ship if he made any attempts to flee.

Jag decided he preferred the first scenario.

Instead of returning to Briefing One, Lieutenant Samol led Jag to an observation deck, though the deck was hardly designed for sightseeing. Several monitors hung on the wall and workstations, currently occupied by Chiss crewmen, indicated that the deck served as a forward command post of sorts.

Standing in front of the forward viewport with his hands clasped behind his back was Commander Hackan. Jag remained at the rear of the room until Samol ushered him forward. As he approached, he saw a formation of five starfighters shoot across from starboard, followed by another duo that executed a tight crossing maneuver as they reversed their direction and swung back aft.

He was still admiring the starfighters when Hackan broke the silence.

“Our time together must now come to an end.” Again, the commander was straight to the point. “We have reached the edge of Chiss territory. As we agreed, you will be permitted to leave without incident.”

Jag nodded. “And my nav data?”

“In due time, Captain. There are still a few matters which require our attention.”

Jag glanced at the Chiss out of the corner of his eye. It was about time they got this over with.

“I assume you are curious as to how I know you are involved with the Empire.”

“I’ve already told you,” Jag said evenly, trying not to react too quickly. “I’m not an Imperial.” When Hackan said nothing in return, Jag waited a moment before continuing. “But that wasn’t always the case. I served with an elite unit of commandos for about two years.”

When he didn’t elaborate further, Hackan turned away from the viewport and fixed his eyes on Jag. “Why were you forced to leave?”

Jag hesitated at Hackan’s conclusion. “I wasn’t exactly forced, Commander, though I suppose it’s a matter of semantics. An…incident occurred that made continued service impossible.”

Hackan cocked an eyebrow. “I assume that is all you intend to say about the matter.”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Ah.” Hackan’s expression softened a bit. “Allow me to persuade you.”

He then called to one of the nearby officers in his native language. The officer nodded and approached them with a datapad.

“This is an overview of what we’ve added to your ship’s memory banks. I’ve gone to great lengths to make this information available to you and protect you from further…unpleasantness.”

“What do you mean?” Jag asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Since our original encounter, I have kept your presence a secret from my superiors.” Hackan gave Samol a quick nod, and the lieutenant granted them privacy. “The Ruling Families would not have looked kindly upon our exchange of information—or my crew’s hospitality. However, I’ve found our conversations intriguing. I would hope they’ve been equally enlightening for you.”

Jag nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

“Still, I’m not sure you understand the implications of my actions, though I do not expect you to, nor do I expect any sympathy for the predicament in which I have placed myself and Lieutenant Samol. I do, however, expect a small measure of professional courtesy.”

There was something in the way Hackan said the last bit that grabbed Jag’s attention. He detected no malice or hint of intimidation, though it seemed clear Hackan would only accept a single response. The Chiss commander certainly knew how to get what he wanted.

Kriffing aliens. Jag cursed as he sighed audibly.

“My unit was assigned a mission that was more or less a privately arranged assassination,” Jag said quietly as he felt a deeply embedded anger begin to simmer within. “We didn’t find out what was really going on until it was too late. Needless to say, things didn’t go according to plan.”

Jag paused and bit the inside of his cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hackan studying him intensely and wondered if he was controlling his expression as well he thought.

“Our commanding officer turned on us. We barely got offplanet alive. Not everyone made it out. At that point, our options were to return to the Empire and probably be killed by another corrupt group of operatives, or try to survive on our own. We opted for the latter.

“Unsurprisingly, that plan went barvy fairly quickly. After that situation imploded, I went out on my own. I’ve been scraping money together however I could and doing my best to put my specialized skills to use.”

He turned to face Hackan. “Which brings us to the present situation: me standing on the bridge of an alien ship in a system the known galaxy doesn’t know exists, talking to a commanding officer who has been far too generous for my liking with information about his territory.

“And now, Commander, I would like some answers.”

Hackan said nothing, but continued to stare at Jag unblinkingly. His red eyes seemed to glow brighter than usual and Jag fought the urge to blink, refusing to break his gaze. Maybe it was nothing more than paranoia taking hold, but Jag started to grow tense and increasingly uncomfortable with the silence.

“This information will not come without a cost,” Hackan finally said.

Jag’s forehead creased. “Did I miss something, or does the Chiss deal in Republic credits as well?”

Hackan smiled faintly. “This will not burden you financially, Captain.”

He made a quick summoning gesture to Lieutenant Samol, who promptly obeyed and produced a datapad upon his arrival. “The burden will be intellectual and, in large part, physical.”

Jag felt his stomach tighten with uncertainty and the growing suspicion that the Chiss commander had been toying with him and was about to close the trap.

“In exchange for your timely release from Chiss custody, and for the navigational information we have provided, you will provide the Chiss Ascendancy—more specifically, me—with pertinent intelligence and personal assistance when necessary.”

Jag’s head snapped around and he stared at Hackan in stunned silence. Assistance?

“Exactly what kind of assistance?”

Hackan turned his gaze back to the viewport. “After my encounter with Captain Eguilan, I deployed several agents whose sole mission is to gather information on your New Republic. They will, as you can probably surmise, meet a certain amount of difficulty in unfamiliar territory. You will be expected to assistance them in whatever capacity they require if contacted.

“You will also supply them with whatever military intelligence you happen upon, which will in turn be communicated to me. Communication between you and I will cease. In fact, as far as the Chiss Ascendancy is concerned, this encounter never occurred, and there are no members of the Ascendancy operating outside of its boundaries.”

Jag crossed his arms and frowned. He had to give the commander credit; the Chiss hadn’t left Jag with a choice. Still, there was something about Hackan’s maneuvering that felt borderline sinister.

“I thought the Chiss didn’t believe in preemptive action, or was I also misled in that regard?”

Hackan continued to stare distantly at the vast emptiness of space in front of them. “I would hardly consider information gathering ‘preemptive action,’ Captain. Regardless, while my actions may or may not qualify as a breach of policy—it is not necessary for you to know one way or the other—I believe it is absolutely vital to the survival of my people’s civilization that we be as well prepared and informed as possible.

“I will not follow former Commander Thrawn’s lead by engaging in preemptive military action. However, I refuse to allow my people to be caught off guard by a menace for which we could have prepared. I’m sure a man with your history can appreciate the desire to guard against all potential threats.”

He paused and eyed Jag. “What I expect from you, Captain, is to inform my agents of any potential threats to my people you uncover. I trust you will use your best judgment. You need not bother with crime lords or pirates unless they occupy sectors near Chiss space. I am primarily concerned with large scale military operations. I trust you have some impressive contacts from your time with the Empire. I ask that you use them wisely.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable enough,” Jag said. “The agents you’ve selected speak Basic?”

“They do.”

“Good. Though your men will probably do a better job of monitoring significant developments than me, I’ll do my best to honor your request. However, I ask only thing in return.”

Hackan raised an eyebrow, silently urging Jag to continue.

“If the need should ever arise, I’d like you to assist me.”

The exchange of glances between Hackan and Samol was quick but noticeable. Both Chiss eyed him curiously for a moment before Hackan dismissed Samol with a subtle nod.

Once Jag and Hackan were alone, Jag received his answer.

“Agreed. Lieutenant Samol will have a technician load the necessary command codes into your ship’s systems, assuming you have no issue with delaying your departure for a few hours.”

“No problem at all.”

Jag suppressed a smile. He was going to come out of the job in better shape than he could have ever hoped. While he was returning with zero evidence of his months-long voyage and would, in all likelihood, receive zero payment for his efforts, he had developed an invaluable asset.

Granted, he would have to find a new line of work and keep an eye out for people looking to kill him. As far as he knew, accepting seventy-five thousand credits and then ditching the job wasn’t something most people tended to forgive.

“Well, Commander, it’s been a—”

An alarm klaxon cut Jag short. Commander Hackan’s head snapped around and he barked a question at the nearest officer. The officer in turn asked the Chiss to his left a series of questions while he studied sensor readings. A moment later, Hackan had an answer, and judging by the look he gave Jag was any indication, something was wrong. He barked another order before turning to Jag.

“So, your time with the Empire is no more, Captain?” Hackan snarled.

Jag could only look back with an expression of total confusion with his mouth hanging open.

“Care to explain that?”

Hackan jabbed a finger toward the viewport, where in the distance, a small ship rapidly approached the Mirtan’hu.

Jag leaned closer to the viewport and squinted, trying to make out the basic features of the craft. Chiss starfighters were already on a course to intercept. When he caught a good look at the ship approaching the Chiss cruiser, it became instantly clear why the pilot had refused to respond to any hailing attempts and why he had refused to change course.

The ship was Slave I.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
​

Commander Hackan missed nothing. He seized on Jag’s moment of recognition before Jag had even processed what was happening.

“You know this ship.”

It was not a question, but an indictment. Jag would have to pick his words carefully.

“Yes, I’m familiar with it.”

“Mere familiarity does not typically evoke such a strong reaction, Captain Girran,” Hackan said bitterly. “Why is this ship in Chiss space, and how did it get here?”

Jag gave Hackan a sincere, helpless look. “I have no idea, Commander. Yes, I know the ship. Yes, I know the pilot. Beyond that, I have no information for you.”

“Nuchak!” snapped Lieutenant Samol. He had returned to his earlier position beside Jag, who had not the slightest clue as to what the Chiss had just called him. It certainly did not sound kind. Judging by the way Hackan raised his brow in surprise, it probably wasn’t something that an officer should say while on duty.

“The Lieutenant believes you are withholding information, Captain, as do I. Who is the pilot of this ship, and again, why is he here?”

Jag turned his attention back to the scarred Firespray that had since settled into a holding pattern, as had the pack of Chiss starfighters that seemed far too anxious to jump into action. If the current situation failed to unfold to his advantage, he might find himself on the run from those same starfighters, and he did not see that ending well for him.

“The pilot is a man named Boba Fett,” Jag said. “He’s a bounty hunter—a very, very good, very, very deadly bounty hunter.” Neither Hackan nor Samol seemed overly impressed.

“I know who he is because he led one of my unit’s missions after I joined the Empire. It was fairly simple, just required some specific knowledge that only he possessed.” He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. The point is, yes, I know who he is, but I assure you, Commander, I have no idea what he’s doing this far out of Known Space. For all I know, the man who hired me to come out here hired him to find and kill me.”

Hackan looked at Samol and cocked an eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye, Jag saw the lieutenant return the expression. Hackan then fixed his eyes on Jag.

“We have but one choice.” The commander turned toward one of the bridge officers. “Krommeahs.”

A Chiss officer who looked at least ten years younger than Hackan strode over to them.

“Continue hailing the alien ship,” Hackan ordered. “Notify me when you receive a response, but do not respond.” He turned and stared at Jag. “That duty is reserved for Captain Girran and myself.”

Jag fought the urge to shake his head in exasperation. The situation was deteriorating quickly, and whatever shred of control he had over it was about to disappear completely.

Five minutes passed before Fett responded, and when he did, it was simple.

“Fett. Go.”

Hackan repeated nearly verbatim the command he had issued Jag upon his own arrival.

“This is Commander Cluh’ack’annotru of the Chiss vessel Mirtan’hu. You have violated the borders of the Chiss Ascendancy. State your intentions.”

Fett took his time answering. Either the bounty hunter was not intimidated by the Chiss or he had one of the best sabaac faces Jag had ever seen.

“I’m not here for you or your Ascendancy. But you do have something I want,” the cold, accented voice said. Almost in unison, every set of glowing eyes on the bridge turned to Jag. Sweat started beading on his forehead. Hackan’s eyes seemed to glow brighter than before, as if they were preparing to incinerate Jag where he stood.

“Your turn, Captain.” Hackan stepped aside and gestured towards the comm. Jag inhaled deeply and turned towards the comm’s mic.

“This is Captain Jag Girran, operating on behalf of the Vraa Erun Syndicate,” he announced, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I assume I’m the reason you’re here.”

Instead of a menacing reply, there was only silence. What seemed like hours were likely only seconds, though the interruption of that silence was not something Jag expected.

“Commander…Cluh…Commander. Inform Captain Girran that if he intends to return to the Galaxy as he knows it—alive—it would serve him well to exit your ship immediately.”

Lieutenant Samol muttered something that sounded like a curse while Hackan simply cocked an eyebrow.

“You may wish to rephrase yourself. Threats against the Chiss, however veiled, are not taken lightly.”

“It’s no threat,” Fett retorted. “And it’s certainly not directed at you. I want nothing to do with you or your people. I want Girran, and I want him untouched. Release him now, and you won’t hear from me again.”

“You will have to forgive my lack of faith in an armed stranger, but I have only your word that you’ll not return to this part of space,” Hackan said.

“My word is all you should need.”

Hackan raised his eyebrows and looked at Jag, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Good to see someone’s entertained, Jag thought bitterly.

“Unfortunately, I am not in a position that allows such great investments of faith in one’s integrity,” Hackan replied. “You will come aboard this vessel, and, should I determine your release a prudent decision, it will be so.”

No verbal response came from Fett, though an officer from one of the sensor stations confirmed that Slave I’s weapons were deactivated and the ship was slowly making its way towards the Mirtan’hu. The starfighters slowly started to arrange themselves in an escort formation.

“It would appear you’ve agreed to my terms,” Hackan said into the comm. “Continue your current course and follow your escort to our hangar.”

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice,” Fett muttered.

“Indeed. I suggest you remember that.”



The next two hours went by without incident, at least as far as Jag was concerned. He spent them on the bridge inspecting the list of entries the Chiss technicians had made in the Nomadin’s memory banks. Both Commander Hackan and Lieutenant Samol were absent, presumably spending their time elsewhere with Boba Fett. It wasn’t until Hackan returned to the bridge alone that Jag’s earlier sense of overwhelming anxiety returned, but Hackan’s demeanor eased some of his concerns.

“It would appear Captain Fett is not here to kill you—at least not anymore,” the commander said. “He seems to have taken a far greater interest in you than he originally had. Perhaps you should be flattered.”

“I’m not sure that flattery is the proper emotional response to Boba Fett taking even the smallest amount of interest in you,” Jag said. “I don’t expect you to appreciate the type of man we’re dealing with, but where I come from, most of the people he crosses paths with don’t live to talk about it.”

Hackan gave Jag a mockingly hurt look. “I would hope you had greater faith in my perceptiveness. This Fett is a very calculated man, to say the least. His hardened demeanor speaks volumes to the way he approaches his craft. If our encounter was under different circumstances, I would take care to not anger him. It does not surprise me that you speak of him with such fear and…reverence.”

Jag smiled inwardly at the admiration in Hackan’s voice. It was remarkable that Fett could evoke such a reaction from an alien species after just a few hours. It was even more impressive that such a reaction came from a military man like Commander Hackan.

“I don’t suppose he gave a reason for his newfound interest in me.”

Hackan shook his head. “And I did not ask. It is not my concern, Captain Girran. I can assure you that he will not harm you, but of more than that, I’m afraid I can tell you nothing.” He motioned toward the door. “If you would please come with me, Captain Fett is waiting.”

With only the briefest of pauses, Jag followed Commander Hackan. It was a short walk to where Fett was waiting. Lieutenant Samol stood silently in the corner of the room, while Fett stood with his arms crossed on the opposite side of the long table that occupied the room.

It had been over five years since Jag had last seen the bounty hunter, but time had done nothing to diminish Fett’s presence. Despite being shorter than Jag, the man was one of the most intimidating beings Jag had ever met.

Probably has something to do with the body count he’s racked up.

At first, no one spoke. Fett’s visor remained locked on Jag while Hackan and Samol looked on with curious expressions.

Boba Fett spoke first. “So. You’re Girran.” Jag nodded but said nothing, so Fett continued. “They left that part out.”

“Who left what out?”

“My employers, genius.” Fett sounded impatient. “They didn’t tell me I was coming after you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think I don’t remember you?”

Jag shifted uncomfortably for a moment before answering, ignoring the fact that his body language wasn’t doing him any favors in front of Commander Hackan, whose red eyes were fixed on Jag.

“I thought you might recognize a face, at least,” Jag replied.

“That fresh gash isn’t doing you any favors.”

Jag fought the urge to run a finger along the relatively new scar that ran diagonally across his face, starting above his right eyebrow and down across his left cheek. How it missed his left eye, he would never know.

“So, who did they say you were chasing?”

“Some courier who skipped out with a ship full of spice, weapons, and several hundred thousand credits destined for one of their outposts.”

Jag couldn’t help but laugh.

“If only.” He nodded towards the two Chiss in the room. “As I told them, I’m in the middle of a navigational expedition. For the last several months, I’ve been slowly making my way into the Unknown Regions—and, apparently, the realm of the Chiss Ascendancy—gathering system data and charting potential hyperspace lanes.

“I hardly expected it to take as long as it has, and clearly Vraa Erun didn’t either. I had about a week left before I turned back, but Commander Hackan here had other plans. I had every intention of going back to Erun with whatever information I collected out here, but unfortunately, that’s no longer an option.”

“So you were planning on skipping out with the seventy-five thousand he paid you?” Fett asked.

Jag shrugged. “I figured Erun would kill me if I showed up without his nav data so…yeah, actually, I was going to keep the money.”

“In that case, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold up my end of the bargain,” Fett said. Jag looked at Hackan, who shrugged nonchalantly. “I was willing to let you live, too.”

“Now wait a second.” Jag pointed a finger at Fett. “That’s not what I—.”

“Patience, Captain,” Commander Hackan said quietly.

Jag shot the Chiss an irritated look but Hackan merely nodded reassuringly in response.

“I’m not opposed to compromise. I was sent here to collect both you and the seventy-five thousand.” Fett leaned forward with his palms pressed against the table. “Fortunately for you, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with handing over the son of the Temm Girran.”

It was several seconds before Jag realized his jaw was hanging open.

“How do you know my father?”

Fett scoffed. “Not going to be that easy. I’m letting you live. Be happy with that.”

“Captain Fett, I suggest you watch your tone.” Hackan’s voice was measured and cold. “Do not forget you are currently aboard this vessel as a courtesy. My hospitality has limits.” The glow of his red eyes seemed to intensify for a brief moment. “Do not test them.”

Fett stared at Hackan in silence for several seconds before looking back to Jag.

“So be it. Go home, Girran. Go back to Taanab. Take time to mourn your father’s death—properly.” Fett reached into a pouch on his belt and slid a small datapad across the table. “You’ll need this if you’re as curious as I think you are. Now, if our gracious hosts would permit us a moment?”

The two Chiss in the room nodded and exited the room. Once the door closed, Fett wasted no time.

“Sit down,” he ordered. “First, you should know that letting you live is going to cost me a solid chunk of credits. I’m not happy about it, and I’m not sure I’m making the right decision. Still, I owe it to your father.”

“You keep talking about my father,” Jag said without trying to hide his irritation. “It’s about time you tell me why.”

“You’re in no position to make demands,” Fett shot back. “And if you keep this up, I’ll put a blaster bolt between your eyes and take my chances against your blue-skinned friends outside. May I continue?”

Jag fumed in silence but begrudgingly nodded.

“I met your father years ago, shortly before you were born. Your mother was back on Taanab waiting for you to join the party. Temm—rather, your father—was taking care of some loose ends before going into retirement.”

“Retirement from what? He was a farmer. He’d been one all his life.”

“Think what you want, kid. Your father was a Mando, and a damn good one at that.”

At first, the shock kept Jag from answering. Then it was the doubt and disbelief.

“My father was a farmer,” he said again.

“You think I’m keeping you alive so I can lie to you?” Fett’s voice raised with anger. “I’m doing you a favor, you kriffing fool.”

“Some favor. I’ll be hunted down within days of showing my face at any spaceport any two-bit bounty hunter knows about. I won’t last a week.”

Fett hissed a curse. “You’re a disgrace, you know that? So you served with some clandestine commando unit for a couple years. Do you really think that’s worthy of your family name?”

“You know nothing about my family’s name,” Jag spat back, but Fett just laughed.

“Unfortunately for you, that’s not be the case.” Fett slid a small datapad across the table. “Take a look.”

Jag took the datapad and activated the screen. It contained a holo of a rugged looking man with short cropped brown hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. The man looked like what Jag assumed he would look like in about ten years. The man was his father.

“Where was this taken?” he asked quietly.

“Tatooine. A few people there said some very unkind things about him.” Fett pocketed the datapad after Jag returned it. “They also tried to have him killed.”

“I take it that’s when you two met?”

“Yes. I was doing some work for Jabba the Hutt that had to do with the same outfit your father was busting up. We helped each other out, simplified the job.”

“That hardly explains why you hold him in such high esteem.”

“He saved my life. Twice.” Fett shrugged his shoulders. “Probably shouldn’t have. It was my own stupidity. Got careless. Ended up looking like an amateur. Lucky for me, he was the only one left alive who knew about it.”

“So, what—this is you repaying some debt you think you owed to satisfy your own warped sense of morality?”

“Watch the lip, kid.” Fett jabbed a finger at Jag. “I’ve warned you twice. That’s two more times than you deserve.”

“Fine,” Jag said. “Then let me get this straight. I’m walking out of here, you’re taking the seventy-five thousand, and I’ll be dead in a week once Erun hears I’m alive.” He nodded his head mockingly. “Great plan.”

“If you’d stop trying to impress yourself with your own sarcasm, I’ll explain how this is going to work. I’m taking the credits and you’re disappearing. You’re going to Taanab and you’re going pick up where your father left off.”

“You mean running the farm?”

Fett pointed to the small datapad he had given Jag earlier. “I mean that. Don’t bother tinkering with it now, it won’t do a damn thing for you.”

Jag frowned and regarded Fett suspiciously before studying the datapad for a moment. Not ready to trust the bounty hunter, he tried thumbing the power switch and tried a few other commands but to no avail.

“Like I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jag stood up and pocketed the datapad. “I’ve got my instructions—both sets—and I’m not doing anyone any good sitting here.”

For a moment, Fett said nothing—he just stared at Jag. After Jag cocked a questioning eyebrow, Fett spoke.

“You have my permission to use whatever you find. Don’t make me regret that.”

Frowning in confusion, Jag’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t ask any questions. Like the datapad, the reasons for Fett’s cryptic statements probably awaited him on Taanab.

“Well…I suppose I should thank you.”

“Don’t bother,” Fett said dismissively. “I’ll feel like I did you a favor.”

Jag smiled slightly. “In that case, I’d say our business here is finished.”

They summoned Commander Hackan, who returned with Lieutenant Samol. Satisfied that Fett would not execute Jag upon their departure, Hackan returned them to their vessels. Jag found the Nomadin almost exactly as he had left it, though he knew deep within the memory banks laid an enormous wealth of navigational knowledge. All he had to do was survive and it would be his.

As if that thought weren’t depressing enough, Commander Hackan’s parting words bounced around his head the entire trip back to Known Space.

“Stay alive, Captain Girran. You have much work to do.”