The Dread Pirate Xim and the Treasure of Darth Hevel

Hi everyone,

I usually don't post on these forms, but I check in here from time to time. I wrote a fanfic back in 2017 called The Godform Assumption of StarCrow the Wise, and this community was good enough to nominate me for an award.

I've just finished another fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it. I know we can't post websites here, but the link should be in the tag beneath my avatar. Its called The Dread Pirate Xim.

If this community enjoys one of my stories again, and deems it worthy of another nomination, would you be so kind as to swing by my facebook (Michael Kevin Brennan) and let me know, as I don't frequent here often.

I hope this message finds all in good health and Spirits.

Warmest Regards,
Mike.

 

Its 76k words...seems like a bit much, no?

 

To my fellow Star Wars fan,

I hope you enjoy this work of fanfiction.

There are a few topics I’d like to speak with you about before you dive in to my little tale. Allow me to list them here for organizational purposes:

1. In-Universe dating systems within the Star Wars mythos.

2. The idea of “canonicity” as it relates to this story and the Star Wars universe.

3. Influences upon this story, along with special thanks.

In-Universe Dating Systems

To begin, this story takes place five years after Revenge of the Sith, which in this story I label as 3658 ASC. Allow me to explain:

In Star Wars literature there is no calendar or agreed upon dating system in universe. There is the BBY designation that is widely used, and in recent times the BSW4 and ASW4 designation (which is essentially the same thing), but these designations are an extra universe method of tracking time, used for us the readers.

That is not to say in-universe dating systems does not exist: many certainly do. For example, in the Legends material there are six in-univese dating systems: there is the Great ReSychronization, After Artom, the Galactic Standard Calandar, the Sidereal Era, the Tapan Calandar (this one being the most flushed out with months, holidays, and days of the week) and finally the Tho Yor Arrival, which is the date that seems to have the most verisimilitude, and is a clanadar that reaches back into the furthest depths of ancient Star Wars history, going all the way into the year thirty-six thousdand.

What is more, cannonically there exists six different dating systems as well: the Domancion Accord, the C.R.C. dating syste (also called the Hosnian Reckogning), the Galactic Standard Calandar (again), the Imperial Calander (with the abbreviations BFE/AFE – standing for “Before the Formation of the Empire” and “After the Formation of the Empire”) along with the Lothal and Naboo calandars.

There is plenty of imformation online regarding these calandars, and I recommend give each a quick google search to appreciate their nuances.

However, even though there are already canonically asserted in universe dating systems, and Legendary ones as well, there has yet to be one that seems to have “won out the day” as it were. This is where I propose to you, dear reader, the BSC/ASC designation: “Before the Sacking of Coruscant” & “After the Sacking of Coruscant.”

The event I am referring to is from the Star Wars MMO The Old Republic, where Darth Malgus sacked Coruscant. This event is stunnely depicted in the Old Republic video Deceived, which can be easily searched on YouTube.

I think this event is significant enough to be seared into the collective memory of the beings of the galaxy. As far as I know, Coruscant, the central planet and seat of galactic politics, had never been sacked. Its fall would be equivalent to the fall of Rome in our history, and something, I think, that would be a-religious or a-political enough that citizens of the galaxy could agree upon its significance.

We, as fanfiction readers and lovers of the Star Wars mythos, also recognize the significance of this event, because we recognize how long and galaxy expanding the conflict was between Emperor Tenebrae/Vitiate/Valcorian’s Eternal Empire and the Old Republic. The sacking of Coruscant has deep historical roots and causes.

I also think this is a good event to choose because it would set the events of this story—five years after Revenge of the Sith—at 3658 ASC; a number that I believe resonates with us in the year 2021 because it sits within the thousands decimal place—like our own time—and it feels somewhat familiar. The citizens of the Star Wars universe during this story would be living in the 36th century, which lends credence to the idea that the Star Wars universe is old and lived in.

Canonicity

I did my best to make this story as canonical as possible, relying heavily upon Legends material, yet also macking sure it can sit comfortably within Disney canon.

I understand canonicity is a touchy subject amongst our community, but it my hope is that you will add The Dread Pirate Xim and the Treasure of Darth Hevel to your “head canon”. If you feel like I’ve veered too far from the mainstream canon, please feel free to reach out to me on facebook (Michael Kevin Brennan) and let me know where I’ve maybe “coloured outside of the lines” as it were.

Influences and Special Thanks

There are a few fellow Star Wars writers and artists I’d like to thank, and who had an influence in the making of this story. Firstly, I’d like to thank Michael Kogge and his contributions to the story of Xim the Despot from Hyperspace many years ago. Michael, your work is so creative and sophisticated and had an outsized influence upon me. Thank you. Secondly, I’d like to thank the late Brian Daley and his Han Solo trilogy. With Daley’s stories, mine or Micahel Kogge’s work does not exist. Daley’s Han Solo trilogy is my second favoriote set of Star Wars stories, only coming in a close second to Timothy Zahn’s Thrawn trilogy. Thirdly, I’d like to thank the artist Dave Dorman. The Star Wars: Dark Forces: Jedi Knight books are some of my most prized possessions within my Star Wars collection. Dave’s art always leaves me stunned in admiration. I have three of his signed works beautifully framed and hanging in my own home. I’ve tried to mimic the feel of the Jedi Knight stories with this story here. Dave, if you read this, maybe one day you could do a commission for me of The Dread Pirate Xim and his beautiful ship The Fairwind.

Ok, so enough about timelines, and canon, and special thanks, and back to the story at hand:

I had a very simple motivation in creating this tale; I wanted to put an artifact into the Star Wars universe for you, dear friend, to possess and play with. It is my sincere hope that my characters may one day make an appearance in your own tales.

So, without further ado, and for your use and enjoyment, I give you the Dread Pirate Xim and his pirate galleon the Fairwind.

May the Force be with you,

And with your Spirit.

Michael K. Brennan

 

Chapter 1
The Jedi’s dream, The Clone’s Chance, The Pirate’s Doctor

I will have my revenge.
This was John’s pledge. He continuously rolled the phrase over in his mind, and over time the words became coated with his anger and hatred until they formed into a pearl of great value.
I will have my revenge, he thought again as his waking dreams drifted back into his past, where, at the edge of the high and jagged ravine he sat on a boulder looking deeply into his Master’s eyes. His Master, also sitting on a large stone across from him, gazed back.
His hands moved vigorously as he wiped the tables clean, recalling in detail the memory. He stared blankly out the window of the dining hall in the rustic auberge where he worked, his eyes passively fixed on the distant spaceport shimmering in the bright morning sun, the light reflecting off the container ships as they lifted off into high orbit. He dove deep into the daze, cleaning productively externally, his warm and wet cloth leaving streaks of soapy water on the table’s surfaces, while internally remembering clearly the day that changed his life.
A black and violent storm had rolled aggressively in the distance, approaching the two Jedi, collapsing upon them the ceiling of the sky, and carrying with it an overwhelming sensation of spiritual darkness. Lighting had flashed inside the storm and water poured out onto the coniferous forest below. In a few minutes the storm would be over them. Oppressive air pressure constrained itself upon the warriors as they sat in collected moments of silence, staring at each other, John waiting for his Master to speak.
The mystically dark tempest continued to close in on them, yet for the moment where they sat watching it, all was calm. The Master and apprentice, along with their clone contingent, had routed their enemy. The Separatist droids were all but destroyed. For the moment stillness held, but the Force was amiss.
Being high up on a cliff’s edge, the storm’s wind began to pick up and gently stroke their faces. It slithered through the treetops. The apprentice broke the silence:
“I’m afraid, Master. Something has happened. It feels as though the universe itself has torn a hole.”
“Yes, John. Something is wrong.” The Jedi Master looked out onto the treetops below, like he was searching for what was responsible for the feeling of dread.
“Has a Leviathan been roused from its slumber?” the Master whispered to himself. “Has the universe been kicked off kilter?”
“I’m afraid, Master,” said the apprentice again.
I need him alive! called a panicked voice distantly in their minds. The two Jedi locked eyes.
“Be alert and sober of mind, John. The dark side of the Force is prowling about, looking to devour us.”
The Jedi had settled in a small and rocky clearing, horse-shoed by a dense forest of pines. The wind blew and rustled about. Silent and slow-moving time passed and the middle-aged Jedi, desiring not to break the momentary peace, clung to the stillness. But the Force prompted him to tell John the truth. The Force was urgently saying to him time is running out.
“Master?”
The man acquiesced to the Force’s soft whispering wishes.
“We must speak, John. We both feel it. There are some things I need to tell you. Do you remember the day that I chose you as my Padawan?”
The young acolyte wondered how this could have anything to do with the moment of anxiety hanging over them, but he also knew his Master often connected two seemingly disparate things, so he answered sincerely.
“Fondly, Master. You visited me often at the temple, but that day was special.” The Padawan half-heartedly smiled.
“What do you remember?”
“You brought me my chronometer,” the boy unsnapped a leather pocket on his belt to show his Master the platinum chronometer held by a silver chain. He proudly displayed his gift, yet he also looked around nervously, as if something dreadful was creeping up behind them, and fear weighed heavy in his heart. But he continued, “Master Windu was upset with you because you met me before the selection ceremony. I remember Master Windu was often mad at you for coming to see me.”
“Yes, he was. We saw things very differently. There were times when he would stop me from seeing you.”
“Really? Why would he do that?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Master Windu, along with many other Masters on the Council, did not like that I came to see you so often. What else do you remember of that day?”
“I remember, I think, I don’t know, I think I remember thinking that the other Padawans were jealous of me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who’s to tell?”
“But I remember you carefully watching me go through my saber techniques.”
“You were quite skilled, are quite skilled. Much better than me when I was your age. You have a rare and masterful gift of sussing out your opponents’ weakest points and breaking them. But I digress…”
The Jedi Master crossed one leg over the other and, leaning over a little, rested his elbow on his knee and then stroked his beard. A tear fell from the young man’s eye. The Master gave him a hard yet compassionate look, as if to say, steady-up, catch yourself on. The boy understood the look, straightened his posture, and wiped away the tear.
“I feel it too, John. Courage now. We will take action soon; or rather, the tempest will find us, but for the moment, we need to speak.”
A few more moments of silence passed before the Jedi began again. The black storm opened its maw and deep thunder rumbled in the distance. It was coming closer.
“John, what do you know about the manner in which Force-sensitive children come to the temple?”
The boy’s chin wavered a little at this query, but he steadied his resolve once more, and started in earnest to answer his Master’s question. “Much, Master. Biological parents, after having a midi-chlorian check done by the doctors, and seeing whether their baby is Force-sensitive, freely give their child to the Jedi Order for training. It is what is best for everyone.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, Master,” the boy answered without hesitation. He went on, “There is no telling what may happen to a child who is gifted with the Force but does not have the proper guidance of the Jedi Order. They may get themselves into all sorts of troubles. The bronzes of the Lost Jedi are testimony to this, and they had the benefit of Jedi training. If a Force-child had no one to guide them, then the dark side could easily seduce them; then everyone loses.”
The Jedi Master did not like the boy’s answer, but conceding replied, “This is true.”
“Did you think of your parents at all while growing up in the Temple?” the bearded Master asked.
The boy paused to answer, “Sometimes, but also not really. Who they were, or are, is not something I dwelled on.” He paused to think, “well, maybe when I was about seven or eight, I thought about them, but not for a long time. At least not since you became my Master. I’m not sure if any of the other Padawans did. Maybe some, but none of my friends ever openly wondered about their parents. The elder Jedi loved us, and we felt content. Master Yoda was a wonderful grandfather to us all. And Master Nu, one of the many loving mothers. Though, I always knew you would come to see me. I never had anxiety over this.”
The Jedi Master leaned back a little and nodded softly, “This relieves me greatly, more than you know, John.”
“Master Windu and I did not get along,” continued the elder Jedi. “We were comrades, yes, but not friends.”
“That’s odd. I thought all the Jedi got along, much like me and my friends.”
“No. Things are never so easy. Did you know it was Master Windu who first took you in? Your mother brought you to the temple herself, and it was Master Windu who performed the blood test on you.”
A thousand questions poured into John’s mind. He shot his Master a quizzical look. He couldn’t decide which question to ask first, but finally he tumbled out, “Master Windu knew my mother?!”
“Yes, John. Let me tell you about it. Listen carefully to me now. The way you came to the temple was a little different from the other Padawans.”
The boy did not know his origin story, so he listened raptly as his Master spoke.
In the distance, through the trees, their clone contingent was busy with their duties: preparing the AT-RTs, arranging the fuel cells, gathering supplies, and otherwise maintaining the movement of the Republic war machine. While the Jedi spoke, in the distance their clone commander held in his palm a holodisk, and nodded as he spoke to a small, blue, translucent, cloaked figure. The figure uttered a phrase, and the clone replied, “It shall be done.”
In the clearing away from the camp, the two Jedi continued to converse privately. Thunder cracked loudly, coming nearer.
“Your mother brought you to the Jedi temple because she believed your father had died. You were nearly a year old when this happened, and she had not had any communication with your father since she told him she was pregnant. The reason she brought you to the Jedi temple was because your father was a Jedi Knight.”
Tears filled the Padawan’s eyes. His chin quivered.
“She feared the worst and was finally forced by her own father, your grandfather, to give you up.”
The Jedi Master’s eyes also filled with tears, and his voice wavered as he continued, but he caught himself as he spoke.
“She did not know that he was not dead, merely held prisoner on a distant world in a negotiation gone awry. His captors held him for over a year, but through guile and ingenuity he managed to escape and make his way back to the child’s mother, ready to tell her he was going to leave the Jedi Order and settle down with her, only to discover upon his arrival that his son was now a child of the Jedi.”
The boy began to softly weep.
“To be honest, the Knight’s heart was relieved in a most selfish way. You see, his heart was torn. He did not want to leave the Order, for it was his home and he loved it, but he also felt it was wrong to leave the boy without a father, and to leave a young woman alone to raise a child. But, as it was, the Force had other plans. When your mother gave you up to the Order, Master Windu pressed the young woman to reveal the identity of the Jedi Knight who had fathered her child, but she did not speak. Master Windu stopped short of using his powers on her, knowing that such an act would be wrong. Your father’s identity is still officially deemed as “unknown” to the Jedi Council, though I suspect they know full well who he is.” At this the Master Jedi smiled a little.
He continued, “When your father and mother met again, so much had changed and she explained what had happened in his absence. She too had a heart that was torn, desiring not to go against her father’s command of ceasing her relationship with the Jedi. Damion Devereux, your grandfather, thought that since the boy’s father was dead, as they believed at the time, that she should give the child to the Jedi and let him grow at the Temple in peace. The Jedi and the young woman talked at length about the future, and they agreed that this course of action was for the best. So the boy grew up in the Jedi Temple under the secret and watchful eye of his father.”
Through soft tears of joy, the Master and apprentice beheld the other’s face.
“You are my father, Master?”
“Yes, John, I am your father.”
The apprentice leaped into the Master’s arms and they embraced, both weeping tears of joy.
“I always believed it, Master, but never dared dream that such a wish could be true!”
“It is true! It is true!”
“But Mast…Father,” the boy smiled a little, “what of my mother?”
“She stayed with her father on Llanic, to be obedient to him, and to help him run his inn. Her name is Marion Devereux, and she now owns the Admiral Webbon Inn.”
“Marion Devereux,” he said in a whisper. “My name, John Devereux…Devereux.” He whispered again, “I wondered sometimes where the family name came from. But doesn’t that mean I am really a Hawkins, like you?”
“Yes, John. Today you are your father’s son, today you shall be known as John Hawkins, son of Sean Hawkins.”
At this revelatory moment father and son stood by the cliff’s edge, laughing and crying, beholding each other, and circled by a deep and abiding love. But the silent dread of the hour now pressed itself most forcefully upon them; this small and pure moment of tenderness an affront to its own desires, and an arcane and foreboding mystical chord of unheard music struck violently in the universe, reverberating most profoundly in the Jedi’s hearts. Lightning struck with a violent shout just feet from them. The sky opened and water began to rain over them, and all at once their clone contingent poured out from the bush with blasters drawn. Without a word they opened fire on the Jedi.
Sean Hawkins quickly turned his back to protect his son, and just as fast managed to ignite his lightsaber behind him and deflect the oncoming bolts. He spun his saber, and with one hand managed to deflect most of the blue lasers, but many still struck him along his shoulders. He wrapped his other arm around his Padawan son, clutching the boy close to his chest.
With only a moment of hesitation, John also ignited his lightsaber, rolled out from his father’s protecting hold and focused his attention on their left flank as they stood on the high cliff’s edge. A murder of their own clone contingent came forcefully forward, alternating their firing positions between high and low, and John, diving deep into the Force and in his mind’s eye slowing time, watched as each bolt of treason flew from each clone’s barrel. With swift deftness he deflected back to the traitors each of their shots, making sure to aim the bolts back at their chests.
Sean Hawkins pivoted to his right, and along with his son, deflected the laser beams, and the two Jedi, pushed to the brink, refracted the barrage, and refused to die.
For the first few seconds of the onslaught, the Master and apprentice fell to their discipline and training and controlled the fire of their fear as more clones poured out from the cover of the forest, firing madly. But after only a few brief moments of catching the Jedi flat-footed, the clones could see their attack had failed and their brothers on the front line were beginning to fall.
The fear they tried to impose on the ordered warriors now came rolling headlong back onto them. Their own reflected beams, which now pierced their armor, were followed closely by a booming whoosh of invisible energy that knocked them to the ground. At this turning point the Jedi attacked the clones mercilessly.
John bounded forward into the bush with his sight set on the five clones arrayed variously before him. Moving like a fluid dancer, his saber flew forward from his hand and pierced the clone before him through the chest. Flipping over the soldier and Force pulling his saber from his enemy’s body and back into his grip, he cut the next two off at the knees, bisected the fourth, and beheaded the fifth. A quick glance to the right and he could see his father was doing the same, though more of the company was on him.
Grizzled veterans themselves, the clone company took the appropriate recourse and retreated to the camp where they fell to defensive positions, some of them scrambling up the legs of the AT-RTs1.
Two saber throws made short work of the walker’s limbs.
“Fuel cells! Blaster! Behind me!” shouted Master Hawkins, and John knew what his father meant. The Padawan disengaged his saber, picked up one of the fallen clones’ blasters, and Force ran to his father’s position, rolling prone at his father’s feet while the Master Jedi stood as a shield.
The clones focused their fire on the standing Jedi but could not lay a single shot.
Trusting in the Force, John pulled the trigger twice, aiming for the fuel cells which stood neatly arrayed in the middle of the camp, resulting in a deadly explosion of chaos.
At this fiery paroxysm, the clone company lay in complete disarray, leaving the two Jedi the moment they needed to escape into the bush.
Except, it didn’t happen like that at all.
Everything John recalled was true up until the point of the clones’ betrayal. When the clones had poured out of the bush with their blaster’s firing, they had made short work of Sean Hawkins. He quickly rose and was about to ignite his saber, but three bolts had swiftly pierced his chest. He folded forward but managed to grab his son and put his body between him and the clones, and he whispered into his ear, “Jump. Run. Llanic. Your mother,” while more laser bolts speared his back and audible gasps of air exited his lungs.
John, risking a quick peek over his shoulder and past his father’s figure, saw his clone commander, CT-6166, leading the contingent and firing his blaster at his father’s now dead body.
“Do it quickly, men! The boy is still alive! The Jedi have betrayed the Republic.”
“Erragal! What are you doing?!” John cried to the captain.
“Kill him now men! Kill him now!”
John draped his father’s dead body over him as more blaster bolts sunk into the Jedi Master’s flesh. CT-6166, otherwise known to the company as Erragal, fell to a prone position and relentlessly fired. His clone brothers joined him. John peaked over the high cliff’s edge and down at the evergreens swaying in the wind far below…
A deep and reverberating chord struck.
“JOHN!” his mother yelled.
The shout shook him out of his daydream. His mother bustled into the dining room of the inn where John was cleaning and slammed a wooden box of bottled beer onto the floor. The noisy clang of the glass rang through the empty dining room.
“Look what you did!”
She hurried over to the table he was cleaning and aggressively pushed him to one side.
“See what you did! You shattered the window!” she jabbed her finger at it.
“Didn’t those stupid wizards teach you anything?”
John nearly toppled at the push, but he straightened himself and meekly replied, “Don’t call them stupid.”
“I’ll call them what I want,” she shot back. “Look! Now I have to call in the repair droid,” she sighed deeply. “It’s going to cost more money. And the miners will be coming in for their dinners soon.” She lowered her voice and through gritted teeth she spat, “John, you need to control your emotions. What the kriffing bloody hell was going on?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry, Mom. I was just…”
“You were dwelling on the past again. That life is over. You need to stop thinking about what happened. You need to let the past die.”
John clenched his teeth at this, his jaw muscles flexing, but his mother didn’t notice, she just continued to lecture him as she inspected the window, her back to him.
“The Emperor has brought us peace. I’m glad we’re done with those stupid Jedi wars.” She ran her finger over one of the cracks. She gasped and looked at her finger as it started to bleed.
John kept his gaze on the floor as she spoke. He knew she was just getting warmed up, but still he tried to argue.
“The Jedi…”
“No!” she cut him off, raising a bloody finger at him. “You listen to me!” She wrapped her bleeding finger in her apron.
“You shut up about the Jedi. The Jedi were a menace to peace. They even tried to kill the Emperor. He did what he had to do to stop them, and he’s made the galaxy a better place.”
She continued to speak while she made her way over to the inn’s comms behind the liquor bar to call in the repair droid, her words becoming muffled and drowned out as John ignored her verbal assaults. Words like entitled, and privileged, and supremacists shot from her mouth like hot lasers. While she spoke, he slowly tried to make his way out of the room. It was no good arguing with her.
Five years ago, he’d arrived on her doorstep as a boy of fifteen. He’d been half-dead, injured and hungry, covered in filth, and exhausted from running.
The image in his mind he had created while running his way to her, that of a safe home with a patient and loving mother, was just a dream. Over time, it became apparent to the young man that the war and her loneliness had draped her in a veneer of resentment. Her own father was killed when he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in a fight between the droid army and the Republic. Subsequently, she was left to run the inn on her own with no help—the father of her child and her son long gone, safe behind the high, ivory towers of the Jedi Temple, never hearing from them.
After weeks of running, John had landed at the run-down guesthouse on the outskirts of Oztek City on Llanic within the Outer Rim Territories, to find a pro-Imperial mother who had an ax to grind against the Jedi. It also didn’t help that she felt jilted by Sean Hawkins, her endless comments about his uselessness never stopping since his arrival. John also came to realize his mother’s reaction to him was not helped by the fact that he was the spitting image of his father; soft brown hair, deep blue eyes, fair-skinned, and stalwart. She took him in not out of love, but out of obligation.
“You’re lucky to have me, John. You’re lucky to be alive. It’s time you accepted your lot in life. You need to help me run the inn, keep your head low, and keep your powers in check, lest you bring us both before a magistrate, and I’ll tell you what boy, let’s not hope that happens because I’m not sure what I’ll do.”
John was nearly out of the room.
“You need to become a productive citizen of the Empire, not lazing about believing yourself high and mighty,” she called out as he left the room.
John made his way out the back door, slamming it as he went past, and into the forest at the rear of the Admiral Webbon Inn. Oztek City was a circular city, with a large starport at its center. The eight major roads of the city spoked out from the center starport, each ten kilometers in length. The high-walled city was buttressed by an expansive forest on the north, south, and west sides of its borders, with the east side flanked by the coast, and beyond that the Thaisium Sea.
The Admiral Webbon Inn was rooted at the end of Sixth Line Road—the entry point into the city from the planet’s wilderness, which was home to Llanic’s many mining camps. The city’s entire population sat along the speeder ways, with the large slices of the city unoccupied and filled with dense forest. Each road was its own self-contained little city, with its own distinct flavor where the majority of alien groups tended to congregate. Each line held all its own needs, including small business, cantinas, and mining supply stores for the city’s major export: lommite. Sixth Line Road was where most of the humans of Oztek City settled.
Situated at the intersection of the Llanic Spice Route and the Triellus Trade Route, and in addition to being a mining outpost, Llanic was a planet where smugglers and other shady characters could hide to keep a low profile: The Admiral Webbon Inn being the perfect place to bury oneself if one needed to stay out of sight for a while.
Entering the forest, and heading toward his usual spot, John began to talk to himself. As he entered the bush, he levitated a rock over the palm of his hand.
She’s an awful woman. All she does is hate.
He made his way deeper into the forest, where the shadowy canopy of the trees blocked the light from coming in, all the while keeping the rock levitated over his hand.
A deep and reverberating string of chords struck.
I’m better than all of this. I’m a Jedi. I’m not meant for this menial life. Those clones, the Empire, they took everything from me. If I ever…if I ever get my chance, I’ll kill them all.
Tears formed in his eyes, so he closed them. He stepped back from the floating rock and concentrated on it.
I can see every flaw. All I must do is pour the Force into its cracks.
He focused on the stone, compelled his will into its nearly imperceptible defects and, with a physically satisfying effort, blew it apart. He momentarily went weak in the knees as the shrapnel stuck him and left a small cut over his cheek. The pain felt good. It was good to feel something.
With a trickle of blood running down his face, he stood before the mouth of his spot: a cave hidden by the thick trunks and dark shadows of the woods. He entered the darkness, picking up the lantern he left at the entrance and turning it on. The soft orange light illuminated the wet walls of the cave.
A few meters into the cave the floor dropped off. He leaped down and found his spot. He sat cross-legged and pressed his back against the wall behind him. Arrayed before him were large boulders. He began to breathe in and out and allowed his anger to inform his connection to the Force.
I hate it here. I hate her. I hate the Empire. I hate the clones.
A musical crescendo of strings resounded through his heart.
The largest of the collected boulders began to levitate and slowly started to glow. He exhaled all the air from his lungs and stared intently at the large rock. It began to burn internally, and red fissures and cracks began to form on its surface. He found its shatter point in his mind’s eye and poured all of his anger into it. With a sweeping internal intent, he blew it apart. With his Jedi training he deflected the razor-sharp shrapnel from hitting him, leaving behind him on the wall a smooth, sitting silhouette, framed by a pock-marked surface.
Many hours had passed, and the darkness of night had ascended from the forest floor before John left the cave. Exiting the woods, he made for the inn and could sense the ether had been stirred.
In the distance a speeder drove off, and a well-dressed man carrying too many bags struggled his way through the inn’s front door.
***
Emperor Palpatine’s new Empire had no room for clones. Within a few months of the Republic’s victory, and after its transformation into the First Galactic Empire, most of the men who made up the remnant of the clone army were shunted off into obscurity.
Their decommissioning was not instantaneous, as the Emperor knew he needed the clones for a transitional period. But within weeks of the war ending, conscription of regular citizens from around the galaxy began to flood the ranks of the Army, and the order came down from the Imperial command that the clones would be “gifted” with retirement.
Reports floated among the men as to why the Emperor had decided to dismiss his battle-hardened fighting force, the irony not lost on them. They were “too independent of mind,” the actual words used by the High Commission, taken from a classified dossier one of the clone officers had managed to get his hands on and disseminate to his brothers.
The clones’ reaction to their retirement was a mixed bag, giving credence to the report. As it turned out, the clones were not a monolithic group of men who all thought the same way. Some soldiers were pleased, having become battle weary. Some were angry, instantly recognizing within themselves an existential identity crisis. In due course, some turned traitorous toward the Empire, while others simply lost themselves to booze and spice. Nearly all of them, however, were assigned to menial labor in the Inner Rim—far removed from any semblance of their military life.
A choice few remained within the army to train the new batch of civilian stormtroopers. Rumor had it that Clone Commander Cody, one of the most famous soldiers from the Clone Wars, received a plush commission training these civilian conscriptions at the Academy of Carida2.
CT-6166, known to his company as Captain Erragal, returned to the public HoloNet terminal several times a day to check his messages. Located across the street from the factory where he now worked, the retired clone captain would use his breaks from the disassembly line to jog across the dusty thoroughfare to the terminal in the wall. He had become adept at this over the last few years, stopping at his favorite news channels and keeping abreast of all the political maneuverings within the senate. He also closely followed the growing reports of rebel activity throughout the Outer Rim.
“Rebel scum,” he muttered to himself as he filtered his way through the different HoloNet channels.
“If the Empire would just take us back, we could hunt down these anarchists and destroy them.” He lightly shook his head as he waxed to the wind. “We brought order from chaos. These bastards are ungrateful.”
The soft blue light from the holoterminal lit up Erragal’s face as he leaned in closer to the screen.
“Blast Cody. He was one of the lucky ones,” he whispered faintly.
Erragal and his company of men now spent their days in the city of Shaketown on the planet Gorse, working at a starship disassembly plant. The amount of wreckage from the Clone Wars was immense, and five years on the Empire was still cleaning up battle sites. Many of the weapons packages, engines, hyperdrives, and various chips contained within the ships were still very valuable, and the Empire knew it would be remiss not to collect the resources left behind.
He remembered well the day he and his battalion were dismissed. After the Separatists surrendered, and the Jedi were routed for their treachery, the 276th Battalion had been recalled from the Solaceterra system where they had brought law, order, and victory.
Even though the war had ended, it was still a few days before a battle cruiser had finally picked up the battalion from Viridis—a lush arboreal planet. The clones had loaded their walkers, tanks, and equipment, along with the body of Jedi General Sean Hawkins into the ship’s bay. They were greeted by Rear Admiral Screed3, and the Admiral and Clone Captain CT-6166 had engaged in a discussion regarding the whereabouts of General Hawkins’s Padawan—a discussion that had left Screed displeased.
They had arrived at Coruscant where they were ordered into a great open-air hall. Erragal had led his company, and on a stage with Imperial banners waving behind him, had been Marshal Commander Cannon.
The Marshal Commander had thanked them for their service, told them they had fulfilled their obligation to the Empire and to the Emperor himself, and that as a “thank you” for their loyalty they were being retired to Gorse, where a suitable habitat awaited each of them. They could continue to show their love for the Empire by working in one of the many factories or mines on the planet—any wages they were paid were in addition to the monthly retirement stipend they would all receive. Without any more preamble they had been told to hand over all armor and weapons to the requisition officers arrayed at the sides of the hall—new civilian recruits standing beside large bins for the soldiers to toss in the accoutrements of their clone trooper life. They were handed civilian clothes, commanded to dress, and ordered double-time to step onto the next transport headed for Gorse.
Erragal filtered through more holonet pages when his message box lit up. It chimed at him and he answered the call.
A young, fair-skinned man—blond haired and blue eyed—looking all the part of a pristine Imperial officer, tightly wound in his black uniform, with a smart Imperial cap tilted forward and four red squares over four blue squares emblazoned on his chest, snapped into speech as soon as Erragal opened the message light. His pre-recorded message barked:
“Retired Clone Captain CT-6166, this is Major Tuckwar of Jorjun Base. We have received your fifth message in as many rotations. To put it bluntly, Captain, no, we do not need your kind anymore. You are relics of the past, and the Empire has moved on. Do not contact us again.” The holograph of the Major froze at the end of the transmission. Erragal turned it off.
“What a sheb.” He deleted the message and continued his exploration of the HoloNet. Erragal made his way to the Bounty Hunters Guild’s holopage. He knew he could collect his crew—Marduk, Martu, Ky, Sargon, Gibil, and Dagon—to finish a minor hunt over the weekend, but bounty hunting wouldn’t get him back into the good graces of the Empire and it never paid enough. Behind him and across the street on the factory wall an electronic bell chimed. He was ok with being late again.
He went to his last holopage, a soldier of fortune site with jobs from across the galaxy, but he hesitated to scroll through too far because he knew it was a source used by the Rebels, and that the Empire was likely monitoring this corner of the holonet’s traffic. He didn’t want to appear a traitor.
“Why is this holopage even operational?” he muttered. “Maybe we can infiltrate a rebel cell, that would get us back.”
He was about to pull away from the terminal when an ad caught his eye:
Wanted:
Crewman for an Expedition into Wild Space.
High Risk, High Reward.
Possibility of Treasure / Ancient Artifacts.
180 Rotation Contract.
Military Experience Desired
2000 credits a stretch minus room and board
Contact Silvermane
27282927, Corellia

A picture of a sneering, white Togorian, festooned with crossed bandoliers followed the ad, but it was the words “ancient artifacts” that caught his eye, and instantaneously a possibility popped into his mind.
Erragal went to his message center, entered Silvermane’s contact number, and waited for the holorecorder light to ignite on the terminal. When it turned on Erragal recorded his message:
“Greetings Silvermane, my name is Captain Erragal of the 276th Clone Battalion. My brothers and I are interested in your job. There are seven of us and we are veterans of the Clone Wars. We are battle trained and capable of crewing any kind of ship. We do not have our own ship and therefore cannot meet at Corellia, but if you could head to the Inner Rim and meet us in Shaketown on Gorse, at 79’s cantina, I’m sure you’d be glad to have us as your crew. Contact me at 85673087, Gorse.”
Erragal sent his message and quickly flipped to his contacts page. He was looking for a name.
“There he is. Minister Hydan4.”
He punched in the numbers and waited for the holorecorder light to turn on so he could leave a message. Instead, the holocomm rang and a blue-eyed old man wearing a dark hood answered on the other side.
“Hello? Yes? Who is this?” asked the cantankerous septuagenarian. “A clone!? What do you want?”
“Yes, hello Minister Hydan, you may not remember me, but we…”
“Remember you,” he interrupted, “I remember none of you and all of you!”
“Well, yes, Minister, I…”
“How did you get this number? Who are you?”
“Yes, Minister, if I could just reintrodu…”
“All right, make it quick.”
“Yes, Minister, my name is Captain Erragal of the 276th Clone Battalion, I served under General Hawkins in the Clone Wars.” Erragal gave a slight pause in anticipation of the old man’s interruption, but he simply nodded.
“While we were under General…”
“Hawkins, yes,” the old man intruded. “I remember that Jedi. Quiet and humble, soft spoken. Still, deadly threats often seem innocuous don’t they, clone…what did you say your name was?”
“Captain Erragal, sir, of the 276th Battalion.”
“Yes, Captain, how did you get this comm?”
“Elom, sir, if you recall.” The invocation of the planet Elom caught the Minister’s attention. His eyes narrowed with a bit more scrutiny.
“Yes, Captain, continue.”
“If you recall, sir, near the end of the Clone Wars you were investigating some sort of, uh, archaeological site on the planet Elom and requested some military and logistic assistance. We had just finished up some operations near, what was it called…the Korriban system I think, and General Hawkins was dispatched to assist you.”
“Moraband is the proper name, Captain. But yes, the Elom site, a short distance from Moraband. Interesting find indeed.”
“Yes, Minister, I was with General Hawkins as you were explaining to him what you found there, some sort of Jedi ritual site.”
“Not quite that, but yes, I remember all of this, but how were you able to contact me? And why is a clone speaking to me about such things?”
“Well, to answer your first question, sir, I kept all of General Hawkins’s comm contacts, that’s how I was able to call you.”
At this Hydan’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed sharply.
“Interesting, hmmm, a bold and resourceful man, aren’t you, Captain? Go on.”
“Well, yes, sir, I have a job coming up that is an expedition into Wild Space, to search for, as the employer put it, ‘treasure and ancient artifacts.’ I’m contacting you, sir, to ask, if we were able to bring you these artifacts, and if they were of interest to you, could you use your pull in the Empire to have myself and my brothers recommissioned into, um, some sort of military detail?” Erragal laid bare his plan to the Minister, knowing full well the old archaeologist could scoff at it and end the call.
There were many moments of silence between the men. Erragal kept eye contact with Hydan’s holographic image, playing in his mind what he thought was a game of chicken—trying to mask his desperation and bespeak confidence. Finally, the Minister spoke.
“From what system will you be entering Wild Space?” Erragal was stunned. The Minister was entertaining his offer, and the clone did not miss a beat.
“From beyond Mytus VII,” Erragal spat out the first system that came to mind, as if prompted to say it by some unknown force. He wasn’t even sure why he mentioned that system specifically. But Minister Hydan did not need to know that Erragal had not even been hired for the job, he just needed to get him to agree to some arrangement and he’d figure everything else out as he went along.
“And who is running this expedition into Wild Space?”
“A Togorian named Silvermane. He’s on his way to Gorse now to retrieve myself and my team.”
Minister Hydan raised both of his eyebrows, “Hmm, how very serendipitous indeed. How many of you are looking to get back into the Imperial military?”
“Seven, sir.” There was a pause.
“Wait a moment,” the face of the Minister disappeared, replaced by a rotating image of the Imperial seal. He was gone for nearly ten minutes.
“All right, Captain. I’ll bite. I have nothing to lose here, really. When you have more information contact me. I want to know where you are going, and what the specifics of this treasure hunt are. If you manage to retrieve something of value from Wild Space, contact me and I will assess whether the object, or objects, are of import or value. But be warned, Captain, Togorians are a dangerous species, and are known to work with pirates. They are also very strong. He will not take lightly to his hired crew handing over whatever is found to the Empire.”
“Excellent, Minister, not to worry about the Togorian, we can handle him. So, if we are successful, you will bring us back into the military?”
“Let’s hold that out as a real possibility, Captain. Depending on how successful you are I may even be capable of forwarding you and your compatriots’ credentials into the death trooper corps.”
“That would be outstanding, sir.” Multiple years of military service meant Erragal was well practiced at hiding his emotions. It took him all his patience to keep his elation hidden.
“Take this encryption code and use these numbers to get a message to me when the time is right.” Minister Hydan sent the info to Erragal, who then forwarded the code to his wrist comm.
“You will hear from us, Minister Hydan. Thank you for this chance.” The Minister abruptly ended the call. Erragal turned from the HoloNet terminal and briskly made his way across the street. He hurried back into the drab building where the endless task of disassembling ship parts awaited him.
***
A bright light flashed in the distance of space, and with a whoosh of speed, the golden-hued galleon fell out of hyperspace, her engines billowing smoke and her well-crafted wroshyr hull showing pockmarks from repeated cannon shots. The captain of this anachronistic ship that sailed the black seas of space, the enigmatic Dread Pirate Xim, manned her incoming approach to Szin from the bridge.
The Dread Pirate Xim’s appearance commanded as much attention as his ship. He was clad in a full suit of Mandalorian armor, painted solid black save for the white outline of a rose on the right side of the chest plate, and contrasted by a red cape that flowed over his right shoulder and down past his hip. The tattered tip of his cape brushed over his holstered DL-18 blaster pistol, and an ancient Sith sword was cinched low on his other side. But the most prominent and disconcerting feature of Xim’s appearance was the face panel of his otherwise traditionally Mandalorian helmet: a grinning white visage, its black eyebrows faintly furrowed, with rosy cheeks and a black mustache arched upward by the grin, culminating in a narrow, pointed beard running down from the center of the lower lip—this had been the iconic look and aspect of the Dread Pirate Xim since before the days of the High Republic.
Standing before a large, wooden, eight-spoked helm, turning it slightly left then slightly right but always applying gentle downward pressure, navigating his path by way of the massive windows of the ship’s bow, Xim expertly steered the ship’s slope to the second moon of Lok. The captain called out, his voice modulator deep and commanding, “Helmsman, status report.”
Another synthetic voice answered back, “There was a small reactor leak in both of the port side engines, Lord. Maintenance crew one has already locked it down; the R-units handled it with 98% efficiency. Recommend impulse power to Szin’s surface.”
“Recommendation noted, Fiji5, but we have some affairs to attend to. We will be coming to a full stop.” Xim grabbed the throttle on a small console, waist-high next to the helm, and slowly pulled it back. He looked over to his left at the FEG-series pilot droid, seated next to him at his own control station. The droid dutifully kept track of the ship’s systems, adjusting on the fly.
Xim’s bridge was usually neat and orderly, but the skirmish with the Zygerrians6 had sent one of his priceless paintings askew.
“Take the helm, Fiji and await further instructions.” The FEG droid got up from his seated station and stood behind the helm while Xim made his way across the bridge. At the starboard side wall, he adjusted the portrait of the Fairwind by the great master Branolyan—an oil on canvas genius. It was a piece the Pirate Lord took great attention to care for, as it had been commissioned centuries ago.
Little did anyone know the Dread Pirate’s heart was heavy with disappointment. Tackling Zygerrian slavers was not something he had planned on for his penultimate voyage. He had only happened upon them on his return from the surface of Elom, where he had collected his last piece of the puzzle he was intent on solving. The Zygerrians were unexpectedly in orbit, and with Zygerrians Xim knew to shoot first and ask questions second. He believed this idiom was always correct, as it proved to be again, when he and his pirate crew stormed the ship and found Elom7 captives. But the clash had come at a cost.
Silvermane, Xim’s first mate and a towering Togorian standing over eight feet tall, ducked under the door frame as he entered the bridge.
“Andrew’s body is layin’ in the torpedo tube, as instructed, Capt’n. The slaves and the crew are waitin’ yer arrival in the hold,” the Togorian snarled dismissively and turned to walk away as quickly as he had entered.
“Guests, Silvermane. They are not, and never were, slaves. Call them by their rightful status—our honored guests.”
“Uugh…” the Togorian let out a low growl. “Guests,” he rumbled sarcastically. “The crew is awaitin’.” Silvermane left, not bothering to delay for Xim.
“Fiji, you have the bridge.” Xim exited his navigation room and made his way through his dark-brown, semi-circular, wooden halls, which were lit by proportionally placed, soft-yellow lights. Since Silvermane took the lift to the cargo hold, Xim turned his way down the intricately crafted, wrought iron, spiral staircase to the platform overlooking the cargo bay. Standing on what was now his dais overlooking all, Xim’s crew and his guests looked up at his imposing figure.
“Crew and honored guests,” he began, “before we reach the surface of Szin, we must pay our respects to Chief Mate Andrew Woodman—a valiant warrior who gave his life for the righting of the wrongs of the galaxy.”
At the center of the cargo hold was a single torpedo resting upon some metal frames and wheels, its systems hatch open and containing the body of the captain’s mate. Xim quickly slid down the ladder to the cargo bay floor and made his way to the makeshift coffin. Arrayed on one side of the torpedo were Xim’s sailors; a garrison of refurbished Separatist commando droids, super battle droids, and droidekas; peppered among them were the three biologics Xim trusted most: Finnbarr the Mon Calamari chef, George the Human engineer, and Silvermane the Togorian—the heavy who kept everyone in order.
“Stand at attention,” Xim commanded. The droids dutifully formed up, while the three flesh and blood crew stood sloppily in the middle. The dazed and confused Elom stood against the cargo bay wall, still traumatized by the events of the past few hours, not entirely sure about what was occurring—possibly wondering what this dreadful grinning figure wanted. Xim paused a little before he spoke to them all.
“Andrew was a good man. I had high hopes for him. He could fight with the best of us. He could drink with the rest of us. He fought the good fight with us: setting the captives free, murdering the slavers, robbing the rich, feeding the poor, reading deep of history, philosophy, religion, and literature with me. He was a gentleman. A true gentleman.” Turning to the casket, he addressed the dead body. “You will be missed, Andrew—the galaxy will miss what you had to offer. I had plans for you, but the Lord of the Force had something else in mind.” Xim closed the makeshift casket and began to push the torpedo toward the wall of open space.
“Solomon speed you into His kingdom!” The pirate called out as he gave one last heave to the torpedo. It slid on its rollers and penetrated the ray shield separating the cargo hold from open space.
The coffin tumbled into the open black while the collected crew kept a moment of silence.
“Crew dismissed,” Xim said after a time. “All droids back to your stations. George, keep an eye on the R-units and make sure everything in the engine room is at peak performance.”
“Yes, M’Lord,” replied the fat and scruffy middle-aged man.
“Finnbarr, prepare lunch for the four of us. Find out what Elom can eat and arrange a small meal in the mess hall for them as well. We four shall sup in my quarters.”
“Yes, Captain Lord.” The green Mon Calamari exited the cargo hold just behind George.
Xim activated his wrist holocomm and spoke into it.
“Fiji, resume a course to Szin, impulse power. Head the ship down to the spaceport. Forward transponder code number twelve from the list to let Brogan’s Boys know we’re incoming.”
“Yes, Captain,” came the synthetic response.
“Silvermane, let’s make our way to Wolf-Cat One.” The Togorian let out a low growl as he followed behind Xim who was already making strides to the far side of the cargo hold where two crimson Wolf-Cats8 were settled. The shuttles were ancient relics from the Old Republic that the Dread Pirate Xim found and refurbished. They had been in pristine working order ever since.
“You’re in a mood,” Xim commented.
“Never mind my mood,” shot Silvermane. “Ye weren’t the only one what had plans with Andrew, but ye had to engage the Zygerrians, didn’t ye!” Silvermane’s fur prickled up his back. His aggressiveness piqued Xim’s own antagonism. “Yer always gettin’ distracted by rescuin’ pathetic life-forms,” he spat out.
Xim rounded on his first mate who was slightly behind him. “What’s this all about, what plans?” Xim stopped and squared up to the Togorian extending his left hand out to his chest, his right hand slipping slightly to his blaster. Silvermane gained his composure, realizing he had let his own plans blunder too freely.
“Nothin’ Capt'n, my apologies. I didn’t know ye had plans with Andrew. He and I were gonna take our cut o’the treasures and team up once ye released us from service. He never mentioned nothin’ to me about plans the two of ye had made—that’s all.”
Xim looked up and down the wolf-man before him. “Fair play, Silvermane.” He relaxed a little. “In Andrew’s defense, I hadn’t really talked to him about it. I was going to, on our next voyage.” Both men’s postures eased. Xim let the silence fill the void between them and waited for Silvermane to talk.
“Sorry, Capt'n. What be yer orders?” Silvermane fell to his haunches and stared at the floor.
“Well, my tall Togorian friend, everything was coming together for our next voyage, but we’ve come across a snag. Did you do as I asked, Silvermane? Have you found an experienced crew?”
“Yes, Capt'n, I received a message from some…” Xim held up his hand and cut him off.
“Spare me the details, Silvermane. I trust your judgment. No lily men will get past you. Here is what you are to do: load the Elom on Wolf-Cat Two and take them to wherever it is you’re going. Give each of them five hundred credits from your personal vault and tell them they are on their own now.”
Silvermane looked up and was about to protest when Xim stopped him again.
“I will pay you back what you give, plus fifteen percent. I don’t have the time to head to my own vault now.” He continued, “We are going to need those men. Men with real guts, gunfire, and grit; the droid crew will not be enough for what we will be up against.”
“As ye said to me earlier, Capt'n, which I still find surprisin’: the droid crew is a ruthless lot. But I think I’ve got the proper crew lined up. But askin’ truly, Capt'n, what are we going up against?”
“I’ll let you in on all of that later, Silvermane. Suffice it to say, we are going to need some grizzled beings to tackle our next job.” Xim quickly changed the subject again.
“Remember that doctor I spoke of? The one we need for his notes and expertise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, he rebuffed my invitation. It seems he has a prejudice against working with pirates, possibly me specifically. What is more, it appears he has gone to ground. I suspect he’s heard through the grapevine that I was at the Elom site and has probably hired his own crew to look for the treasure, though I’m not sure how he’ll find it, I’ve got what he needs—but never mind that. I’m awaiting word from a hunter I’ve hired to track him.”
And right on cue, the pirate’s wrist comm beeped.
“Speak of the Bogan!” Xim exclaimed. “I tell you, Silvermane, there is no such thing as coincidence.” Xim activated his holo-transmitter. A small blue holograph of a female Frenk appeared. “Twazzi, report,” he said.
The tall hunter replied, “I have found your quarry, Xim. Doctor Visely fled Coruscant University a few weeks ago and I have tracked him to Llanic. He is staying at a small inn on the outskirts of one of the mining cities. I’ll be waiting for you at Oztek spaceport. Bring payment.”
“Well done, Twazzi. A reputation well earned. Sit tight. Llanic is more than a few days’ journey for me. I will contact you when I arrive. In the meantime, keep tabs on the good doctor.” Without a word, the Frenk hunter ended the transmission.
“All right, Silvermane, take Wolf-Cat Two and escort the Elom to a safe harbor. Pay for Brogar’s boys to make repairs and all necessary maintenance on the Fairwind. Get to where you need to go, collect the crewmen, and meet us back on Szin.”
Xim spoke into his comm, and a loud, two-toned whistle echoed through the ship’s intercoms as Xim’s voice echoed through the Fairwind. “Finnbarr, lunch will have to wait. George, you have command when Silvermane leaves. Fiji, take the ship down.”
Xim made his way to one of the Old Republic shuttles. Before he entered, he called out, “Silvermane, don’t forget the money for the Elom,” and boarded up the ramp. Xim powered up the ancient relic and dove the Wolf-Cat One from the galleon’s cargo hold, and with the navcomputer set, the pirate zipped into hyperspace.