| abstract
| - Coruscant always teemed with activity. The hustle and bustle of millions of sentients working, walking, breathing, going places, and doing the thousands of things that people do every day filled the massive city. As the political hub of the galaxy, thousands of offworld people arrived and departed every day, leaving the world’s population in a state of constant flux, and just to get enough sunlight to make the planet comfortable required the use of orbiting solar mirrors. The scale of the traffic and infrastructure needed to support all the inhabitants and visitors would be considered overwhelmingly staggering on almost any other world. On Coruscant, it was taken almost entirely for granted. Fortunately for Selu and Sarth, the massive population also made it easy to disappear. The brothers awoke early, their memories still jarred from last night’s brush with death, each trying to deal with the experience in their own way. Sarth freshened up first and prepared breakfast while Selu, who rose earlier to meditate and exercise, a difficult feat in such crowded quarters, finished and cleaned up in time for both of them to break their fast. Selu was calm, any anxiety buried in a massive reservoir of Jedi reserve and serenity. Then again, were those techniques not available to him, the emotional stress of the last week or so—which seemed like a lifetime—would have rendered him catatonic. Selu was grimly determined not to let anything befall his brother. Having just started to learn about and experience his family, he was not about to let that go. He’d already lost too much. Sarth was still a bit jumpy, as the kidnapping attempt had unnerved him. His usual sense of pragmatism hadn’t completely returned, and the sight of his brother casually dishing out pain and death had been disturbing to him. While he had been in combat before, it was in space, against pirates, not up close and personal. Space combat was much cleaner. No blaster-charred faces staring back at you. No cloying smell of burned flesh tainting your clothes. The two brothers were both cleaning up the remains of their morning meal when a loud knock sounded at the door. Sarth looked up, startled. Selu looked at him in return. “Don’t worry, Selu,” Sarth said. “I have no intention of repeating last night’s adventure.” “That’s good,” Selu replied. “I’m sure the Mistryl aren’t either.” Sarth approached the door, cautiously. Flattened on the wall next to the door, Selu stood ready, his blaster in one hand and his lightsaber slipped out of sight into his jacket’s inside pocket, but still comfortingly close to hand. As the visitor knocked again, Sarth carefully hit the door release and stepped back. Should the arrival prove hostile, Selu was ready to show him or her why Jedi combat prowess was famed across the galaxy. “Sarth, good to see you!” boomed a loud voice as the door slid open. “Captain R’hask!” replied Sarth in an equally cheerful tone. Upon hearing the recognition in Sarth’s voice, Selu slid the blaster back in its holster and tried to look casual. “Well, my lad, are you ready to—who’s this?” asked the captain, a large Bothan male clad in a dark red shirt and pants, topped off with a plain dark blue jacket. “Captain R’hask Sei’lar, meet Micor Kraen, my cousin,” said Sarth. “Nice to meet you, Micor,” said the Bothan. “The pleasure is mine, Captain,” said Selu. “Captain R’hask is my employer, Micor,” said Sarth. “Are you still looking for a pilot, Captain?” “Actually, yes I am. What with all the confusion and all the plaguey mess around here recently, I haven’t been able to find one at a reasonable rate. I figure Jorge and I will just have to handle that.” “Micor here is quite a good pilot, sir,” said Sarth. “Really?” “You’ll find that I’m more than qualified on anything from a starfighter to a Consular-class cruiser, Captain.” “What kinda pay are’ya askin for?” asked Captain Sei’lar suspiciously. Selu shrugged. “Oh, not much. How about 600 credits per standard month?” “600?! Boy, you are crazy. Try 400.” “550, and you’ll find I’m well worth it.” “450, and that’s more than I’d normally pay, but you’re family of Sarth’s, here.” “Fine. 500 credits per standard month, final offer,” Selu tried to sound exasperated, but really wasn’t. He’d been prepared to accept even 350 or 400 per month, if necessary. “Done,” the captain said, and they shook on it. “All right, Micor. We’re clearin’ space soon, so get packed, eat something and meet us at the ship in uh, two hours.” “Aye, sir,” Selu said, not able to resist imitating the captain’s nautical mannerisms. “Good to have you on board the Hawk-bat, Micor.” “Thank you, Captain Sei’lar.” “Think nothin’ of it, and call me Cap’n R’hask like the rest of the crew.” “Got it, Captain R’hask.” With that, the captain gave Sarth a datacard with the ship’s docking bay on it, and then turned and left, leaving Sarth and Selu to pack. They left the purloined weapons and armor they had taken in the rather ordinary-appearing carry-bags the Mistryl had been using. Selu figured that they had some method for defeating scanners. In the one functional helmet that they had managed to keep, Selu carefully deposited his lightsaber, along with Skip’s and Serra’s blades and Master Windu’s belt clasp. Wrapping the holocrons in the remnants of his cloak, he stuffed those into the helmet also and sealed the bag shut. Other than the two large bags of military gear, Selu only had a small bag with a spare change of clothes, his datapad, toiletries, and a few other necessities, most of which had been bought for him by Sarth. Sarth had a couple bags, both larger, and one of which was filled mostly with tools, tech gear and datacards. “Do you think Captain Sei’lar will ask about the two bags?” asked Selu. “I hope not. I trust him, but I gave him a false name for you because he knows I have a Jedi brother and I don’t know where he stands on that issue,” replied Sarth. “In that case, I’d better put something in the bags to resist casual inspection,” said Selu. Opening them again, he placed a cluster of food packs, the medkit, and some towels on top, disguising the contraband underneath. Now bulging, the bags were resealed and readied. After everything was packed, the two brothers walked to a nearby Alderaanian restaurant and shared one last meal. It was largely flatbread and salad, but Selu also ordered braised nerf and found he liked it. Thankfully, he had plenty of time to enjoy his savory meal. Walking back, they retrieved their bags, but this time took public transport to the docking bay. Like most of the rest of Coruscant’s lower levels, the spaceport was of drab construction, most likely built years ago. It was marked by a decently sized sign that once read “Dukanis Spaceport” after its developer, but now read “Dkans Spacepot” due to some of the glowing characters having either burnt out or damaged deliberately or in some accident. As Coruscant spaceports went, it was relatively small, with only one level, but boasted ten fully enclosed hangars for medium or light freighters and its own guarantee of security while ships were docked there and twenty professional security guards on staff. The air taxi pulled into a long loading and unloading zone that ran through the entire building, stopping at a small parking zone. Selu and Sarth unloaded their bags and headed for Hangar Five, where Captain Sei’lar had told them the ship was docked. The large door to the interior was closed, but sliding the datacard Sarth had been given gained them access to a large hangar, at least ten thousand square meters. Parked inside was a light freighter, about forty meters from its narrowing bow to its crescent-shaped stern. If this was the Hawk-bat, then it truly resembled its soaring namesake, save that its neck was longer and its stern was much more curved rather than tapering into a tail as hawkbats did. Sarth walked up to a boarding ramp extending from the side of the craft and entered the ship, Selu following with the bulk of the luggage. “Welcome aboard, Kraens,” called Captain R’hask, meeting them as they headed down an access corridor to the rear crew cabins. “Feel free to explore the ship, Micor. Sarth will show you around, I’m sure, while I get the rest of the crew.” “Thank you, Captain.” Sarth was an excellent tour guide, leading Selu through the ship after the two stowed their gear in one of the three crew rooms. He showed him the crew quarters on the starboard rear wing, the cargo hold that occupied the majority of the port wing, the engine room where he did most of his work, the bridge in the fore of the ship, the wingtip-mounted vacuum-sealed cargo pods, the two escape pod hatches, one on each wing, and the main cargo ramp. Selu was impressed. Though the ship was not a luxury yacht, her captain kept her clean via several cleaning droids, and even decorated with flatscreen panels of famous locales and vistas from the galaxy on the walls, albeit sparsely, and it didn’t look at all like a smuggler ship or tramp freighter. Sarth and Selu were examining the engine room when the captain’s voice was heard. “I’m back, Sarth and Micor,” he called over the ship’s intercom. “Come back to the lounge and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.” Sarth and Selu went up to the crew lounge, located on the starboard wing by the cabins, found Captain R’hask with two other people, a tall brawny brown-haired man in his mid thirties, Corellian if the mannerisms and garb were any indication, and a smallish young woman with short, dark blond hair wearing a deep blue tunic and jumpsuit. “Micor, this is my first mate, Jorgesoll Knrr. We usually call him “Jorge” around here,” said Captain R’hask, indicating the tall man. “He’s been with me the longest of all my crew. You’ll take orders from either me or him. Jorge, this is Micor Kraen. He’s Sarth’s cousin and if he’s half as good a pilot as his brother is engineer, we’ll be in good hands.” “Nice to meet you,” said Selu. Selu and Jorge shook hands and Selu was unsurprised to find that Jorge’s weathered hand had a strong grip. “And this is Cassi Trealus. She’s new, like you, Micor, and she’ll be the cargomaster. She’s worked in spaceports for a couple of years and is fluent a number of languages.” “Only nine, though I have a degree in Zabraki. I was going to be a teacher at a university on Coruscant until the war changed everything and I was released from duty,” said Cassi. “Which nine?” asked Sarth, shaking her hand. “Basic, obviously, Bith, Bocce, Huttese, Ithorese, Shryiwook—I can’t actually speak that one very well—Sullustese, Twi’leki, and Zabraki. Also, a little trader’s argot also that I picked up from the spaceport.” “Wait—you speak Bith?” said Sarth, incredulous. “Sure.” “That’s impressive. I tried to pick up that one and found I’d bitten off more than I could chew.” “Thank you.” “As you can see, Cassi will be quite helpful to us when we’re in spaceports making deals with stingy merchants,” said R’hask. “Now, I hate to push things, but Cassi, you’re needed to supervise the droids loading our cargo in the hold, and Micor, you might want to check out the controls. But first, quarters assignments. Sarth, you and Micor will bunk in the same cabin. Jorge and I will take the other double cabin. Cassi, ordinarily the single cabin is mine, but Jorge and I are used to bunking in the same room and you’re the only female, so you’re assigned that one. I suggest we get moving- ship lifts off in an hour.” The other crewmembers nodded and went to their respective stations on the ship. Selu went forward to examine the bridge layout, with Jorge accompanying him. Sarth went back to the engine room to check their fueling status, and Cassi and R’hask ventured to the cargo hold, where she checked off the items on a list while he directed the droids ferrying the cargo to position the crates in the appropriate areas. An hour later, Captain Sei’lar returned to the bridge with Cassi following. While Jorge and Selu occupied the two forward pilot’s chairs, the captain and cargomaster took the two rear seats. “Freighter Hawk-bat to Dukanis Control, requesting permission to depart,” said Jorge. “Dukanis Control here, Hawk-bat. We’ve verified your flight plan and cargo manifest, and it checks out. Opening bay doors now.” As the massive bay doors leading out into Coruscant’s air traffic opened, Selu finished priming the engines and activated the repulsorlift coils. The ship lifted off, hovering a couple meters above the ground. Selu eased the control yoke forward, and the Hawk-bat slid out of the hangar, barely wobbling, into the sky. Feeding more power to the repulsorlift engines, Selu pitched the nose skyward, sending the freighter soaring on a space-bound vector provided to him by Coruscant’s central space control center. Clearing the atmosphere, he fired the ion engines and the Hawk-bat rocketed through space on a trail of blue ion exhaust. “Good takeoff, Micor,” said Captain R’hask. “Thank you, sir,” responded Selu. Selu personally could easily think of half a dozen parts of the takeoff that he could have done better, but considering it was his first time at the controls, he felt he managed to do a decent job. “Set a course for Bespin, Micor.” Selu turned his attention to the navicomputer, and after a few minutes of calculation, entered in the correct parameters. The computer whirred and blinked for a minute, and then projected a hyperspace course. Selu checked it against what he knew of hyperspace routes, and then carefully engaged the hyperdrive. The space around them transformed into a tunnel of blue light as the Hawk-bat achieved super-luminal velocities, bound for Bespin. Tellanroaeg “Attention.” Spectre stiffened and assumed the correct military posture as Commander Trip approached. It was the first time he’d seen the commander since his return from his scouting/penetration expedition to the Separatist base, but this was his first day back in the barracks—he’d spent the first few hours getting checked out in the medcenter. “Alpha-28, you have performed deeds above and beyond the call of duty, single-handedly eliminating a threat to the Empire. You have shown courage and valor under fire.” “Thank you, sir.” “You have also been insubordinate, modifying your orders without permission and showing undue favoritism to a confirmed traitor.” “Permission to speak, sir.” “Granted.” “On the first charge of insubordination, sir, I did not contact base as I didn’t want to tip off the Separatists’ listening posts that we were scouting as far across their lines as we already were. Once I had determined that the Separatists’ listening posts were inactive, we were already out of comm range, sir.” “I figured you would say that. Do you have as clever a defense for your actions regarding the Jedi traitor?” “Sir, this trooper has nothing to say regarding that, sir.” “Well, you had plenty to say about it earlier, to the other soldiers who were with you. You even got them to help you, didn’t you?” Spectre thought for a moment about reminding Trip that the orders had never said that the Jedi didn’t deserve decent burial, but decided against it. It would only make things worse. “Sir, I didn’t order them to.” “Answer the question, trooper.” “Sir, I did do that, sir.” “Don’t ever let me hear of you doing anything like that again, trooper. Regardless of the situation, we obey orders. Got it?” “Yes, sir. I obey orders, sir. Except when they contradict common sense and my instincts.” “Your instincts are irrelevant, but your mouth has just sunk your career. The black mark from this incident will prevent you from ever advancing, which is a shame, because you showed a lot of promise. You’re dismissed.” “Yes, sir.” Spectre turned and left to go retrieve his gear. Clad in a tunic and pants commonly favored by clones when they weren’t in armor, he carefully took apart and began cleaning and touching up all his gear, especially his weapons and armor. As he removed the carbon scoring from his helmet with a cleanser-soaked rag, he wondered about why he had ever made such a large deal out of the Jedi’s body. His ingrained training told him that once Order 66 had been given, he should have instantly carried out that order, to the point that if Yoda himself had been standing next to him when he received it, he should have instantly, personally, blown his little green head off. However, his independent side encouraged by Jango Fett during his advanced training told him that his instincts and sense were rarely wrong, and that honor was priceless. That training had served him well in the Battle of Kamino, where he and his brothers had battled to defend their half-grown brothers. It had saved his life on Muunilist, where he and nine brothers had been trapped behind enemy lines. It was his actions there that had gotten him his promotion to captain. It had earned him the respect of the Jedi on Hypori, where he had narrowly survived an encounter with the dreaded General Grievous while rescuing and covering the retreat of a group of Jedi. He thought about what he would do now that the war was over. Trip was right about one thing. With a black mark like that on his career, he’d never get far in the Imperial military, especially if it became political. Also, there was the matter of his rather short life expectancy. All clones, ARCs included, had been growth-accelerated to bring them to maturity, but it also meant that Spectre couldn’t expect to survive beyond forty or fifty standard years. As it was, he was theoretically in his late-twenties in biological years, though he was a little more than half of that chronologically. Maybe he’d retire and go native on some little world. Maybe he could be a militia instructor or something. However, for the moment, his service was still pledged to the Empire. Spectre finished up the cleaning of his armor and gear, and put it on, piece by piece, finishing by sliding the metal helmet over his head. He left the barracks and found that it was evening on Tellanroaeg. The two moons had just barely risen over the horizon and the sky was partially obscured by patchy clouds. Walking out in the dusk of the day, he went to the camp where the local recruits he had trained were billeted for a few hours. Despite their relative inexperience, they had fought well and helped repulse the droid attack, albeit with high casualties. Gazing across Tellanroaeg’s horizon, Spectre first felt rather than heard the blast. The ground rumbled as he turned to see a geyser of flame and oily black smoke jet into the sky from the command center. Turning back, he sprinted back to the burning building. Part of the three-story building had been completely blown open, and even more had collapsed after being weakened by the explosion. By the time he got there, emergency crews were arriving with fire-fighting gear. Armored and unarmored clones lay strewn about, some in various stages of consciousness, others trying to pull their comrades out of the hellish fire, some already departed on the final run. Spectre switched his helmet lights on full, sealed his helmet, and plunged into the burning building in search of survivors. Some of his comrades were still alive in there, and it was up to him to find them. Oblivious to the raging flames, he found an armored clone lying prone on the ground, bleeding from the head. While any medical professional would tell him that moving an unconscious man with a head wound was taboo, Spectre made exceptions for when the building he was lying in was engulfed in flames. Spectre scooped up the man and slung him over his shoulder, and then raced out of the building, picking his way over collapsed beams and wreckage while avoiding the flames that licked at his boots. Reaching the edge of the building, he handed the man off to a medic and plunged back in. This time, he found a technician trapped inside a room when the fire cut out the electric circuits controlling the door. The air inside the room had heated enough that the man’s clothes are starting to smolder and ignite. Spectre pulled out a breaching charge and armed it. Waving a hand through the smoke-streaked transparisteel viewport, he waved the tech away from the door and, crouching a safe distance away, blew the door in, letting the tech out. Unfortunately, the technician didn’t get very far before his clothes burst into flame as they reached the combustion point. Screaming, the tech began flailing about. Spectre tackled him and stripped off the burning shirt before half-dragging, half-carrying him out to the medics. Looking down, he noticed in horror that his gloves were leaving hand-shaped burns on the man’s skin from the heat they were conducting. Ordinarily, he would have tried to be gentler to a civilian, but even through the roar of the flames he heard more screams from inside the building, and haste was of the utmost importance. Spectre ran in one more time, keenly aware of the structural failings happening around him. He could hear the groaning of metal, overloaded by the collapse of other support beams and trusses, and the popping sound as joints failed. Smoke blackened his visor and loose permacrete flooring and wall crashed around him. Once, he nearly escaped being buried under a couple tons of ceiling. Only a desperate leap got him out of harm’s way, though his kama was pinned under a large beam, sending him sprawling painfully to the ground. Using his vibroknuckler, he cut himself free and pressed on. His helmet sensors indicated that there was a faint life sign at the end of a corridor. Spectre started down the corridor, ignoring the warnings his armor suit was trying to give him, ignoring the beads of sweat rolling down blistered skin. His sensor had peaked out at over 500 degrees before failing. His coolant systems were extremely overloaded, but were the only things keeping him from literally roasting inside his armor, and his air filters were also not going to last much longer. Spectre finally found the goal of his search: a clone, lying stunned, apparently knocked unconscious from blast. Judging by the indentation in the wall, he’d been thrown into it with considerable force and concussed. Fortunately for him, he was still wearing his armor. Spectre bent down to check if the clone was still alive and was surprised to find that it was Commander Trip, unconscious but breathing faintly. Part of Spectre, the creative, independent part, considered leaving Trip here. The journey into this inferno had been hard enough without a large body to bear, and Trip had already shown his dislike and hostility towards Spectre. It would be easy to say that he was already dead before Spectre got to him, and would satisfy the desire for revenge Spectre had at Trip for ruining his career. “Make your choice, then live with it.” Maybe it was the heat or the dehydration, but Spectre thought he heard Jango Fett’s voice prompting him to action. His mental debate cut out rapidly. Cradling Trip in his arms, he picked up the commander and began lifting him out of the building. Trip wasn’t a personal enemy of his—he was a commanding officer and a brother, even if they did disagree on the issue of orders and proper respect. If Spectre left Trip here, he would never able to live with himself no matter what he did. There was no other choice he could make, and deliberately failing to save a brother went against every microgram of training that had been distilled into the ARC’s mind and body. Struggling forward, Spectre went slower, keenly aware that his overworked cooling and filtration systems were on the brink of failure and that Trip might die in his arms despite his efforts. Spectre rounded a half-shredded corner only to find a massive permacrete pillar blocking his way. While he could clamber over it, it would be almost impossible to get Trip over the obstacle. Yet another golden opportunity to ditch Trip had just presented itself to Spectre. However, rather than take it, he planted his last two breaching charges on the pillar and blew a deep enough groove through it that he could drag Trip through. Spectre regretted the rough handling, especially since Trip’s diagnostic system on his suit had failed and wasn’t displaying any medical information whatsoever, but he had no choice. Grunting and straining, he lugged Trip through the groove and kept on going. Several minutes later, Spectre was dazed and rapidly becoming disoriented. His arms felt like lead and he was vaguely aware of his suit’s air filters failing, limiting the supply of clean air to him due to all the smoke particles clogging the filter. Finally, utterly unable to place one foot in front of the other, he collapsed next to Trip, his armor smoking. Valiantly struggling to rise, he managed a crawl, still pulling Trip along with him. Some part of Spectre’s mind noted in an oddly detached manner that surviving the Clone Wars to die in a fire was a rather ignoble end for an ARC. Gasping for air that was more smoke, carbon monoxide, and carbon dioxide than anything else, he realized he was hallucinating. That was bad—it meant his brain was oxygen-starved and that he would soon pass out. But there was no other explanation for why there would a thunderstorm, complete with flashing lightning inside a burning building. Only belatedly did he realize that it was no thunderstorm, but a combination of water and a blink code signal. A team of firefighters had pushed their way into the building, trailing a large hose spraying a potent mix of water and other fire suppressants into the blaze. Coming upon Spectre, they had tried to use a GAR blink code to signal him, but had gotten no response. Pressing forward, they doused Spectre and Trip with fire suppressants and called for a stretcher. One of them, recognizing the ARC’s failing air systems, pulled off his helmet and, unfastening Spectre’s helmet, placed it over him. Spectre realized that someone was trying to take off his helmet. He tried to fight, but his air-starved brain couldn’t figure out the necessary motor impulses to force his arm into an effective punch. Then his helmet was off and his already scorched face and lungs were exposed to the searing heat of the fire. Suddenly, a different helmet was down over his head and a stream of cool, fresh air was flowing into his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he signaled his thanks to the firefighter and took several more breaths before handing the helmet back. Assisted by one of the firefighters, he staggered out of the building as two others led Trip out on a stretcher. He was quickly sat down by a medic, who insisted that he wouldn’t be going anywhere until Spectre complied. Swabbing his face with a burn salve, the medic glanced at a medisensor from time to time before finally calling an aide over. Laying Spectre down, they sedated him and inserted a small tube down his throat and began pumping oxygen and an anti-burn agent down his singed bronchial passages. After half an hour of therapy, they removed the tube and woke him up to inform him that he was being moved to the medcenter. Spectre, on the other hand, disagreed. His trip to the world of the unconscious and the therapy he had received had made him feel much better. Plus, he was close enough to the top of the chain of command that he might be in command until Trip recovered. He pushed aside both the medic and his orderly, knowing he would be more use on his feet than sitting in a bed somewhere. Finding the firefighter chief on the scene, who was containing and pushing back the blaze, Spectre was able to obtain an initial casualty report. He was pleased to find that a non-clone major was now the ranking officer, sparing him the burden of command and freeing him up to investigate the cause of the fire. Tellanroaeg was still technically a war zone, and Spectre was not about to rule out terrorism as the cause of the fire. It was time for a hunt. It was time for payback.
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