Overkill (Star Wars/Worm)

Short Summary: Taylor and HK-47’s happy piratical adventures.

Long Summary: Taylor survived being Khepri and she isn’t happy about it. Swearing that she would find a way to get back to those that left her for dead, she begins to make her way across the desert world of Tatooine in search of allies and just maybe, a new purpose.


Star Wars is perhaps one of my favourite fandoms and I’ve been disappointed in the lack lustre quantity and quality of other crossovers. I can only point to a few that I actually enjoyed. So I decided to fix this by writing the kind of story I would like to read. This is very much inspired by The Havoc Side of the Force and might follow some similar story beats.

I’m in no way a great writer, so please forgive any foibles and errors I have made and will make in the future.

Comments are appreciated, criticism even more so, and attacks on my person or on anyone else will be reported. I’m here to write pretty words, not babysit a forum.


Onwards!

 

Prologue

Until the moment that the sky split apart, the only movement had been the lazy haze of heat rising from the sands and the slow crawl of shadows hiding from the twin suns above.

The slit was small, a rough window into a world that was not this one. Air rushed out of the tear, cool and humid and entirely different from anything the desert had felt. The world sucked at it like a parched man taking a swallow of fresh water.

The form that slid out of the hole and fell into the side of a sand dune was small, a lithe package covered in tatters of black cloth. The impact sent dust into the air, more when it rolled unceremoniously to the bottom of the dune.

A figure stepped out of the hole in reality, landing with its feet just-so to absorb the impact on sandy ground.

The tear slid shut without sound or protest.

Masking its visage with a raised hand, the figure searched the horizon, gaze darting across an ocean of sand and more sand. Their hand lowered and they turned their gaze down to the pile of cloth and exposed flesh that was already cooking under the relentless gaze of twin suns.

With sure steps, the figure made their way down the dune, sands shifting beneath them but never enough to compromise their balance. They stood above the pile of cloth for a while, then reached around to the small of their back and removed a bottle. Water sloshed within it, condensation covering the tin surface with droplets that were wicked away by the heat.

“Good luck,” the figure said before dropping the bottle onto the sand.

They turned just as another tear opened up in the world and stepped into it.

The desert remained, unphased by the drama, by the horror that had passed on its surface. It had buried its share of sorrows in sand and heat, and it would do so still.

From the pile of cloth came a hand, emaciated and weak. Fingers like withered branches reached out with only the slightest tremble and grasped the bottle.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter One

Her feet trailed across the sand with a rasp. Each step lifting a thin layer of dust into the air behind her and leaving a smooth mark atop the dunes she travelled.

Taylor passed the back of her hand across dried lips. What little moisture she’d had was long gone. She could feel the skin of her lips peeling under the sucking heat and her eyes stung even when the wind died down and didn’t spray her with flaying sand.

She shook her bottle, the half full container feeling far, far too light. “Damn it,” she swore as she continued walking. She didn’t know where she was going, exactly, only that the bigger of the two suns was behind her.

***

She shivered. Her costume, the tattered remains of it, at least, weren’t insulated for the cold of a desert at night.

Three unfamiliar moons hovered above. She wasn’t on Earth anymore, that much was infinitely clear.

Coughing to clear her dry throat, she turned over and looked at her bottle. Only a quarter left, and already the thirst was getting to her.

***

Bugs.

Or maybe not bugs, but some sort of scorpion. She felt the nest of them waiting in ambush just under the sands not a hundred meters away. Still she walked on, legs dragging along with a constant plodding pace that did little to eat up the distance.

She had them move out from under the sands and inspected them with none of the passion she would usually bring to that sort of thing. They were flat, wider than they were tall, with two barb-tipped tails made of overlapping chitinous plates.

They had eight legs, she noted idly as she passed by them. The scorpions followed after her, not making a noise or even shifting the sand as they kept up with her slow pace across the dunes.

She wondered if they were edible.

***

Another night.

She was out of water.

The scorpions, more of them now that she had started to gather them, were guarding her little nook in between a rocky shelf and a sand dune.

She wondered if they would eat her body come morning.

***

She was dying.

Just pushing her feet forwards a step was a chore. Her legs ached, her stomach was a gnawing pit and the wavering haze of the sun beating on the sand left lingering afterimages in her mind that she couldn’t get rid of.

Her every thought was a muddled mess. Memories flashed by in disjointed parts, thoughts of her friends, of Scion, of the world going to shit.

She would have cried, but there wasn’t a drop of water to wring out of her body now.

Another step, then another.

She heard a distant rumble.

More steps, feet dragging through sand that already filled her shoes.

The rumble grew more insistent.

Frowning, and without even the power to raise a hand to shield her eyes, Taylor looked around through sand-crusted eyes and tried to find the source of the noise.

Her scorpions felt it too. They wanted to scuttle away and hide under the sands for protection.

She ignored them. The rumbling came from off to her left, far, but not so far that the sound didn’t carry. There was a pillar of dust rising into the bright blue of the midday sky. Thick, and laced with black smoke.

Breathing in deep and suppressing the kernel of hope in her chest, Taylor turned towards the rumble and kept walking.

***

The machine was huge, a lumbering brick of rusty metal that moved along and over dunes on four tracks the size of minivans. It moved with no grace or elegance, just the slow, sure crawl that all things in the desert adopted.

Taylor shifted, her steps bringing her into the machine’s path where what little strength she had left finally abandoned her.

For a moment, head bowed and eyes closed, she lost what little will kept her going. She rested, waiting as the machine rolled onwards, approaching her from afar like an unstoppable behemoth. It wasn’t until the rumbling engine shifted tones that Taylor awoke from her haze and looked up again.

She was in the long shadows cast by the box, a respite from the boiling sun. The front of the machine hissed as it opened, revealing a long ramp built into the front that came clattering down on long hydraulic pistons.

Blinking dry eyes, Taylor stared at the trio of brown robed figures that moved out of the machine, two of them carrying long rifles tucked against their shoulders while the one in the lead, the shortest of the trio, had a black device in hand. He pointed it at Taylor and she tensed, but all it did was beep a little. “M'um m'aloo?” the creature asked, glowing yellow eyes staring at her from the depths of its hood.

“D--” Taylor tried to speak, but her voice was little more than a rasp, her tongue thick and mouth too dry to speak. She swallowed, but all that did was send a shiver of pain down her throat.

“Mi’amo ro! Massa kaa, roo? Waa,” the creature said, its voice pitched so high that she could barely hear it. A scent wafted by, like wet dog and rotting grass. It touched a canister at its hip, and from the sloshing she could hear it wasn’t hard to guess at its contents.

“I, I can’t,” Taylor said. She pointed at her mouth.

The creature nodded and took a few more steps towards Taylor. Steps that brought it into her range.

She didn’t want to, not again, but in the back of her mind there was a snap, like a rubber band going off and between one blink and the next the tiny creature was her. She shook her head. It wasn’t her, but it was hers to control, to play with, to dominate.

The creature stopped, almost falling over until she had it take another step to regain its balance.

She looked into glowing yellow eyes, her mind, meanwhile, was scouring over unfamiliar nerves and a body that was unlike anything she had ever controlled. She felt sick for a moment, but she was already on the brink. “I’m sorry,” she said to the little creature.

It was alien, not human in the least. It had two arms and legs, but the similarities ended there as far as she could tell. Not that it truly mattered. With the creature’s arm, she had it reach to its hip and pull the canister away. It handed it to her.

Its partners had kept their rifles lowered, but now they were chattering at her and at their friend. She didn’t have forever, or many options besides.

Taylor paid them little heed. She popped the lid off with a trembling, desperate hand, the bottle leveraged between her knees. She almost cried with a few drops splashed out of the side and to the sand where they disappeared with a hiss.

She sniffed at it just once before her self control broke and she tipped the flask back. Water, lukewarm, leather-y tasting water, ran down her chin and up her nose. Taylor almost choked as a relieved sob escaped her. She swallowed one mouthful, then another.

There was a vague memory of advice about giving too much water too quickly to someone who was dehydrated. She didn’t give a damn as she choked down more. The two creatures outside her range got a little more antsy as their companion stood stock still.

Throat wet for the first time in days, Taylor lowered the flasked and ran the back of her hand across her mouth, then licked her lips. She focused on the creature frozen before her. She could feel its nervousness, its fear, but surprisingly no panic. “I need a place to rest,” she told it. “I don’t have anything to pay you with. I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure what the impressions she was getting from the little creature were, it probably didn’t understand what she was saying to begin with. She certainly didn’t understand it. Sighing, she had the creature step back until it stumbled out of her range.

There was chattering, a whole lot of high-pitched squealing and the repetition of the word ‘jii die’ a few times while pointing at her.

One of the riflemen ran back up the ramp on stubby legs, gun catching on the entrance before it disappeared into the bowels of their huge home. She wished there were bugs within, but it was clean. Or, perhaps, it was too damned hot for the average insect to live. There were certainly few enough in the sand around them.

She brought her scorpions closer, but figured that they would not be appreciated by her new friends. Said new friends were gesturing at each other with expansive waves of their arms and more squealing noises.

A minute later, maybe two, the creature with the rifle returned, and this time it was being followed.

The thing was large, half again as tall as the nearest robed creature and made of rust coloured steel. Yellow eyes inset into an almost cat-like face of steel glowed briefly as it followed after the creature. Its steps were faltering and weak, as though it should have been more graceful but couldn’t get up the strength to move right. She could sympathise.

It wasn’t until the new creature spoke, it’s voice flat and monotone that she realized that it was some sort of robot, not a living thing. It rattled something at her, then shifted dialects. Again and again for a few long minutes, a new series of sounds every time.

“Are you, are you trying to talk to me?” she asked it. Her mind was still a hazy mess. It was going to take more than one bottle of water to fix that.

The robot paused, then turned to the little creatures and chittered at them. There was a distinctly annoyed tone to it as it gestured towards its chest. A silvery medallion-shaped thing was bolted there, the only part of the robot that wasn’t rusted.

“Can, can I have more water?” she asked. They, of course, didn’t understand. She shook the canteen towards them and the nearest creature jumped back and started pointing its rifle at her.

More chattering. They eyed her for a moment, three pairs of glowing yellow disks half hidden within deep cowls taking her in. One of them came a little closer, then pointed to the darkness within their boxy home.

Taylor’s choices were simple. Follow the little creatures into their home, or wait in the great desert for the sun and sand to end her once and for all.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Two

Taylor’s first days in the machine were strange, a haze of half remembered emotions, of being shown to a little room and being given water, of having dozens of small creature become a part of her only to be pushed away by her own fleeting will.

She wasn’t sure how long had passed. A day, maybe two. The only real company she had was the rusty robot who would occasionally repeat her own words back to her. She knew that it was night when it grew colder, and that it was day when the temperature inside the machine reached the point where the air was so thick it was hard to breath.

They left her alone, for the most part. On the first day she woke up to find bandages wrapped around her missing right arm and a strange collar around her neck. Her costume had been torn up some more by grubby little hands, but she didn’t have anything worth stealing to begin with.

Still, she recovered. Some sleep, some water, a bit of gruel that tasted like spicy oatmeal and more sleep besides. After some time she was beginning to feel alive again.

“So, what are you?” she asked the robot.

“So, what are you?” it repeated in a low monotone.

It was a tall and rather imposing machine. Or it would have been if it didn’t look like it was a stiff breeze away from falling apart. “Are you trying to translate?” she asked it.

“Are you trying t--”

“Stop,” she said, and motioned with her hand with a cutting gesture. “It was cute at first, but now it’s just annoying.”

With a grunt of effort, she climbed onto her feet and had to bend back down to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. Everything was built to the scale of creatures who were a good foot shorter than her. She was going to have to be careful around doorways. It didn’t help that the constant rumble and sway of the vehicle threw off her balance, like being aboard a boat on choppy water.

“I’m going exploring,” she said to the robot, just to see if it was starting to understand. She doubted it. Sighing at the machine, she started to move towards the door when its arm shot out with surprising speed and blocked her path.

The machine pointed at its neck with its other hand, then made a pre-recorded explosion sound.

Taylor touched the collar wrapped around her neck, feeling all the weird lumps and canisters on it. “It’s explosive?” she asked.

The robot stared at her, then pointed to her neck and made the exploding noise again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she swore. “How does it activate?” she asked. “Is it remote controlled?”

The robot just stared, its unblinking red lights fixed on her.

Sighing, she pointed to the collar, then mimed walking out the door before making an exploding noise of her own. She felt rather ridiculous, but it seemed to get the point across.

The robot pointed to her collar, then to three points around the door where little cylinders were tack welded in place and fairly recently. He made walking motions with two fingers, pointed to her, the cylinders, then out the door. He repeated the exploding sound.

“If I cross the door, I explode,” she said.

He nodded.

She frowned, wondering when, exactly, she had decided that the robot was a he, and what she was going to do about her new necklace. She had better things to do than wait around on some little creatures to decide her fate. She had to find a way back to Earth, or at least back to Contessa. The woman’s power might have been bullshit, and maybe she was right to dump someone as dangerous as her on some desert rock to die, but that didn’t mean that she was going to lie down and take it.

“Can you remove the explosive?” she asked, pointing to her neck, then making a one handed gesture that she hoped the robot understood as removing the collar.

The robot shook its head, then pointed to the thing on its chest.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

What followed were a few minutes of playing charades with a surprisingly intelligent robot, though she had the impression that it was growing frustrated with her.

“That thing on your chest,” she said, pointing to make sure it understood. “Is stopping you from helping me.”

“Stop helping,” the robot said.

Taylor almost jumped out of her skin. For nearly half an hour already she had been the only one talking. To hear another voice, even one that had be be loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the vehicle’s engines, had surprised her.

“You learn quick, huh?” she asked it. “How? I get the stop part. There was context there, but the help bit. But you knew a lot of languages. You’re learning as I speak, aren’t you?” She bit her lip. If he could learn to speak in a few days or hours then she could communicate. That was one issue out of the way. All it needed was time.

He didn’t have anything to say about that.

She pointed to the tiny mattress she had been sleeping on. It was too small to stretch out on and uncomfortable besides. “Mattress,” she said. She mimicked sleeping, adding a bit of a snore to it. “Sleep.” She gestured to the whole of the bed. “Bed.”

On and on it went, with her pointing to an item, then calling it out. Her cell, because if she was locked in there it certainly wasn’t just a room, was tiny and spartan, and the few items in it were forein besides. Soon enough she was miming eating, talking, seeing and feeling. Every gesture and body part she could point to she named and the robot just watched with its glowing red eyes.

She hoped she wasn’t too much of a fool, but at least it was something to do.

***

Taylor woke up to a mechanical hand shaking her shoulders.

She was instantly awake and searching for a weapon. Her arm reached out and grabbed a pipe, one that she had torn off from a broken fitting on the ceiling the night before and got ready to fight.

The robot was above her, arms held away from her as he slowly backed away and to his corner. Then he turned his head and started chittering and squeaking in the strange tongue of the locals.

There was one of them in the entrance, a tall one with white bandoleers across his brown robes. It chattered back at the robot and then looked her way. The little creature gestured at her, as if asking something but Taylor couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was saying.

The robot turned to look her way, then pointed to the creature. “Translation: Jawa. Taylor help.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “He wants me to help?” she pointed between herself and the creature, the Jawa.

“Yes,” the robot said.

“Why?” she asked.

The robot and the Jawa conferred for a moment while Taylor rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. It was surprisingly difficult to do one handed.

“Translation: Jawa hurt. Jawa explosion, pain, hurt. Jawa bad... Tusken Raider. Hurt Jawa.” The robot seemed just as frustrated as she was at the lack of decent communication.

“Someone is hurting the Jawa? A...” She hesitated before repeating the unfamiliar word. “A Tusken Raider. Is that another clan of Jawa? Another group, a family of them?”

The robot shook its rusty head. “Answer: No.”

“Right, so it’s not a Jawa, but it can hurt the Jawa?” she asked.

It was then that she heard over the rumble of the vehicle, a distinct whining sound. She didn’t have anything to compare it to, but it was always followed by a hollow thud like something impacting against steel.

The entire vehicle shook, and it wasn't the usual rocking that they had been suffering through from the moment it took off.

The little Jawa was growing frantic, pointing and chattering louder and louder. “Translation: Help Jawa. Free. Collar.”

Taylor frowned. She didn’t know what was going on, or who was attacking them, but fighting was something she could do. Maybe. She wasn’t in the best of shape, even with over half a week to recover. Her missing arm still threw off her balance and she felt weak. Then again, the Jawa didn’t look all that strong.

“Sure, I’ll help.”

The robot was hardly done translating that the tall Jawa pulled out a device and pointed it to each cylinder around the door. They all beeped once.

“Is he turning off the collar?” she asked the robot.

“Yes,” was the machine’s quick reply.

Taylor was out of her bed and across the room in one stumbling, graceless motion. The room was long enough that staying at the far end meant that the Jawa was outside her range, and even if she stood by the door there was plenty of room for it to pass unmolested at the far end of the corridor, but her sudden burst of movement caught the creature flatfooted and it had hardly taken a step back that it was in her range.

Between two blinks she was in control of the Jawa

She grinned and had the impression that she didn’t look all that docile to the Jawa as she towered above it. Moving its body like an extension of her own, she disabled the other traps around the door, then had the Jawa move into the room.

“Can you have him disable that thing?” she asked, pointing to the medal on the robot’s chest.

The robot looked down, then back up. “Answer: No. Tool.”

“You need another took for that?” she asked. The robot would be useful to have, if only to translate. It helped that he was a big hunk of hard steel that could probably take a battering for her. “What does it look like?”

The robot made helpful gestures while explaining in halting, one-word sentences. “Answer: Long. Metal. Ring. Buttons. Jawa have.”

“Right, I’ll keep an eye open for it. Can you follow me?”

The robot paused. “Answer: You can say to follow. Robot can not. Jawa can say to follow. Robot can.”

She had to parse that for a second, but as soon as she thought about it, it made sense. “What would the Jawa have to say, exactly, for you to be allowed to follow me and fight?”

The robot chattered in the Jawa’s strange tongue, and she had the creature next to her imitate the sounds. Its tongue was well suited to the strange words and they came easily to it. That was going to be a handy skill to have, if she ever encountered other devices that were voice activated.

“Okay, do you know of any other explosives?” She pointed to her collar. “Or how to remove this one?”

“Answer: No,” was the robot’s response.

It was all she was going to get, she figured. There were a few bugs in her range, mostly flies that gathered in the vehicle’s kitchens and a few of the sand scorpions she had grown familiar with. She started moving the latter towards the Jawa’s mobile fortress, skittering over the rocky terrain outside to get closer.

She didn’t know what a Tusken Raider was, or even if she wanted to help the creatures that had essentially imprisoned her, but she did have a debt to repay and a life to get back to, and none of that was going to happen if she sat back and let her new friends die.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Three

Taylor discovered what a Tusken Raider was as she made her way through the Jawa vessel.

She was nearing the bottom of the ship, the place where she knew there was a ramp that could be lowered to the outside world. It was also, she learned as she approached, the place where the Jawa were making their last stand.

She had tagged as many of the little creatures as she could with the inoffensive little flies that flitted around the place, one on each Jawa’s hood. They were all gathering in one room. No, not all of them. The smallest and those that didn’t move with the same alacrity as the rest, those moved to the back of the vessel, where stacks of metallic limbs and broken equipment lay discarded and where they could hide amongst the trash.

“What’s a Tusken Raider?” she asked her robotic companion.

The robot was quick to reply, but his broken English, as impressive as it was, was not up to the task of enlightening her by much. “Answer: Tusken Raider. Big Strong. Smart. Danger. No explosive. Hurt tools from far.”

“Hurt tools from far?” she asked as she navigated the tight corridors around them. It was a bit of a comfort that all the Jawas were gathering at two places. The only one in her range was the tall one behind her. “You mean bows?” She mimicked firing a bow. “Slings? Javelins? Guns?” Each gesture was answered by a shake of the head, then the robot paused at the last.

“Answer: Tusken Raiders use guns,” the robot said. It made a noise, a recording of an electronic whine in quick stuttacco.

“Guns that fire quickly, then. And not bullets.” She ducked under a low arch, her ribs and stomach protesting at the motion. She was still far, far from her best. “Are they hard to hurt?”

“Answer: No,” was the quick and easy reply. “As hard as a human.”

She snorted. His first full sentence and it was to tell her that her adversaries and her were on even ground. Or would be if she wasn’t probably outnumbered, literally outgunned and fighting defensively against an enemy she knew next to nothing about.

She felt through her bugs as the Jawa around the entrance tensed. The vessel shook, a loud clanging boom resonating through the entire structure followed by a dull thud. “I thought you said they had no explosive?” she asked her robot friend. He just stared at her blankly.

They redoubled their pace. She had the Jawa behind her search himself for any kind of weapon, but only found strange tools stuck to his bandoleers and belts. Maybe one of them was a weapon, for all she knew, but it wasn’t one she was familiar with.

One of the Jawa’s by the door fell, then another. Whining noises like the one her robot friend had made echoed through the steel walled halls, growing in intensity. Her bugs, the scorpions rushing outside and the few flies she had in the hold, finally found the Raiders.

They were human. At least, that was her first impression. Tall, gangly men in loose clothes, all of them wearing masks and moving with the surety of soldiers into the Jawa vessel. One of them fell, but after being dragged back by his companions he was replaced by two more.

“Shit,” she said.

They were outnumbered. She knew it, the Jawas knew it, and their enemy, judging by the raucous noises they were making, knew it too.

All it took was one more Jawa falling and they broke. The little creatures turned and ran, all of them moving deeper into their home with the ease of years of practice. Walls were lowered, grates shut, and the passages deeper into the vessel were locked up. All those in the direction opposite where she was now.

Taylor had a choice. To back off and hide, or stay and fight. Her scorpions outside had finally found the other Tusken Raiders, a group of half a dozen waiting around a huge mammoth like beast.

She had them wait.

A plan was hatched, one that relied on a power she hated, and on a gamble she didn’t want to make.

Taylor walked on.

***

A’Shar’Kr shifted with the sands, his Gaffi stick held high as he roared his defiance to the little ones who ran. He and his clan, his brothers, would chase them in their iron box, and they would slaughter them for trespassing on the land of his clan.

Then he was hit in the back of the head, not a hard blow, but a reminder. “Keep your eyes open. It is like the moonless night in this box,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said.

The clan leader moved deeper into the Jawa vessel, feet as light as grains of sand in the wind and cycler held low. A’Shar’Kr did not like the weapons, not in such tight quarters as these, but the clan leader was a good shot

The proof came when he moved into the dark pit of the Jawa home, away from the brothers who stayed with the Bantha and Ur’Aah’Crnt who had earned himself a burial in the shifting sands for his bravery. The fool should not have stood in the path of the little one’s light guns.

There were six of them moving into the dark pits, all of them waiting for their eyes to lose the day glow vision and relearn to see in the dark. But this was no night watch, and the Jawa were no empty hillside. They were clever little ones. Traps awaited for those that did not pay attention.

“A’Shar,Kr, you are coming with me,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “The rest of you, dig into their cave. Find their water. It is ours now.” There was some cheering at that. More water for the clan was always a welcome gift.

A’Shar’Kr moved after his leader, deeper into the shadows and towards the distant rumble of the Jawa home’s heart. “I see three dead,” A’Shar’Kr said. “What will we do with them?”

“Leave them to the sand barbs,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “We are here to kill the trespassers and take their waters, not honour their dead.”

“Ah,” A’Shar’Kr said. “But I wanted a gift for my little Uli-ah.”

The leader laughed, a low rumble like heavy rocks tumbling down a hill. “They we will find a nice gift for your child.”

Their path was blocked first by a large plate of metal, then by a grate, but Grrk’Kri’Ar was clever and wise, and he had A’Shar’Kr open the path with his Gaffi stick as a lever.

They could hear the moan of the Jawa, and the air stank of womp rat piss. They knew that they were coming. “We must be careful,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “I smell a trap.”

Someone screamed behind them and the two froze like a dragon that heard prey. The scream cut off, then there was a gurgle of fresh blood flowing.

Grrk’Kri’Ar said something that the clan matriarch would have cuffed him for speaking. “A’Shar’Kr, stay here. Watch for the Jawa. Be sure that they don’t come to stab us in the back.”

A’Shar’Kr grunted his understanding and watched his leader rush back to the entrance they had made in the Jawa home. The others must have met resistance. Maybe they ran afoul of trap or snare.

He waited. He was good at waiting. All the warriors could stand in one place like a stone in the wind while the sands danced and the suns circled above.

Then her heard stepping. Not the soft steps of his brothers but the heavier tread of someone who knows no better in the desert. Girding his wits about him like a robe, A’Shar’Kr moved towards the front room, eyes darting around like a womp rat that had scented a Kyrat dragon.

He found them in the entrance room. His brothers. Two of them standing above the body of a third. And Grrk’Kri’Ar was there, his rifle at his shoulder. All was well.

Then he saw the others. A girl-child of the outworlders, crouched down in the shadows beyond the doorway, her eyes already on him. Why? Why was she not being taken by his clan? Did Grrk’Kri’Ar want her as a trophy? As a toy while the banthas rested?

But no, his clan’s men were not moving, not talking, and they were standing wrong. Too tall, too unmoving. They did not sway like the skittering sand over the dunes.

Grrk’Kri’Ar and one of his brothers turned, their Cyclers rising to their shoulders and A’Shar’Kr knew that he had been betrayed. The fact stung, like water spilled into the sands, but he was a brave warrior, and all brave warriors of the sand knew that to face the dragon in its cave was foolishness.

Even as the first shot was taken and missed, A’Shad’Kr was moving. The second screaming retort of the cycliers came with a bite in his lower arm, but it was not the one holding his Gaffi stick, and though he might have dropped blood on the sands, he still lived.

A’Shar’Kr jumped out of the ramp and into the sands, his legs already carrying him towards the bantha. “Brothers! Brothers! We must flee. The demons have taken Grrk’Kri’Ar and the others. Let us run and return with the moons!” he called out.

Then his moon eyes, burning in the sun’s wrath, saw his companions who had been left to guard the Banthas.

They were on the ground, or slumped against their mounts. Gaffi sticks lay abandoned, cyclers were already sinking into the sand. And around his clansmen were the bodies of sand scorpions, barbs crushed, tails torn, holes smashed into them. But there had been too many.

A’Shar’Kr turned. She was there. The outsider demoness. She had only one arm, and eyes with more wrath than the suns themselves.

A cycler barked and A’Shar’Kr fell into the sands, his life fleeing all around him. He heard the distinct, chilling scratch of a scorpion crawling to him, and knew that the monster would feast on his blood.

Panting, he looked up, he had to see, to know why and what.

Grrk’Kri’Ar pointed his cycler towards one brother and shot. He pointed to the next, and this one did not even move. Another retort. More blood in the sand. Then, as the darkness swallowed A’Shar’Kr, the last thing he saw was Grrk’Kri’Ar tossing his precious cycle to the sands and removing his knife from its sheath.

***

Protip: If Kephri is on your planet, use your technological superiority to change planets.

Thought that the perspective of someone other than Taylor made the scene a whole lot more visceral.

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Four

They respected her.

At least, that’s what Taylor wanted to think. The Jawas had snuck out of their little hidey hole, some of them immediately falling on the dead with wails of protest, but others, the braver ones, moved outside. They found the pile Taylor and her robot friend and the one Jawa with the white bandoleer were making, a mountain of corpses, divested of guns and whatever looks useful.

There was a burial, of sorts. Jawa bodies wrapped in cloth and left in the sand. Taylor had stood aside, left them to their mourning. Then the Jawas waved her back into their home. The one with the white Bandoleer had given her a tool, tossing it to her with chittered instructions that took a while to decipher even with the robot’s help.

The collar was gone.

And she was put to work.

As their machine, the sandcrawler, moved across the Sea of Dunes, Taylor was shown to the Jawa’s workshops where they took apart machines with little hands and put them back together with the speed of long years of practice.

A few of them were happy to show her how to do the same, and lacking anything better to do, Taylor started to learn about rusty robots and broken old machines. There was something about it that was soothing, even in the bowels of the too-hot workshop where the whole room rumbled and the heat was almost unbearable, she sank into her simple work, losing herself in the act of taking things apart and trying to put them back together.

She had been at it for nearly a week, a week where she was starting to feel something like companionship for the Jawas, even if they still kept their distances most of the time.

“What’s this part?” she asked, lifting a long tube with little notches on its side and a sort of whole at the top.

Her robot friend eyed it for a moment before responding. Half of his words were in an unfamiliar tongue, but that was okay. She wanted to learn, and teaching someone technical terms for a field she knew nothing about was verging on the impossible. “Answer: That is a power converter for a moisture gatherer.”

“And what does it do?” she asked as she started to fiddle with a pair of wrenches that the robot insisted on calling hydrospanners to take the top off. There was some green stuff on the coppery bits of the tube. Rust, but the sort that grew with humidity. She wondered how that had happened in a desert.

“Answer: It uses the ambient temperature to convert ionized particles into usable electrical current to power a moisture gatherer, a device used by filthy biologicals to obtain the liquids they need to keep their fleshy parts moist.”

Taylor nodded. She was beginning to suspect that the robot’s invectives were on purpose, and not just an artefact of bad translation. As for the explanation, it at least made the rust make sense. She repeated the unfamiliar words a few times, trying to commit them to memory. Learning a new language was going to be tricky, so she was going to start with the words for which she had no translation.

The converter’s inside was a rusty mess, but a few hours of rubbing and cleaning it left it shiny. She put it back together with a contented humm and tossed it into the pile of fixed things.

“Right, next part,” she said as she started to reach for a strange looking component in the busted bin. She never grabbed it as a group of Jawas rushed by. She had not been around them long enough to understand their language, if she ever could, but she could tell they were excited.

One of them stopped and chattered at her robot friend before moving into Taylor’s range to grab the bin of fixed parts. She guided the little guy over to it, grabbed the things, then guided him out of her range without a second glance. The Jawa were becoming surprisingly docile about having their bodies puppeted.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Commentary: It seems as if the Jawa have arrived near a trading outpost. They are preparing to ply their trade to other degenerates. Statement: Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to be sold to some gullible water farmer.”

She shook her head as she got to her feet. It would actually hurt her to lose the translation robot’s company. Not that she would admit it to him. He was insufferable enough as it was.

“C’mon,” she said as she moved over towards the front of the sandcrawler. The Jawas were, indeed, setting up shop. They had a folded pavillion off to one side, with a sort of canvas top packed away, and one of them was busy lining up all the other robots in the crawler into neat rows against the far wall. The bins and bins of parts she and the Jawa had been tinkering on were moved over to the edge of the ramp-wall and crates filled with guns and even the weapons they had taken from the Tusken Raiders were moved to one side.

She was approached by the Jawa with the white bandoleer, the one she figured was the leader of the little group. He chattered at her, yellow eyes glowing under his hood.

“Translation: The little sack wishes to inquire if the lady will be venturing out of the sandcrawler while the Jawa work.”

She nodded. “Yeah, it would be nice to stretch my legs. That is, unless it’s dangerous.”

“Sarcastic Commentary: We are on Tatooine. Nothing is dangerous here, only the deserts and everything that lives in it.”

She gave the robot a flat look. “Just translate.”

He did and the Jawa squeaked back at him before removing a gun from one of the bigger pouches of his bandoleer. He tossed it to her underhand and she caught it out of the air with only the slightest fumble.

“A gun, seriously?”

“Commentary: Oh, this might be fun.”

She shook her head and inspected the gun. It didn’t have a magazine or anything, and the barrel was too stubby and crooked to possibly use actual bullets. She had to assume it was a raygun or some such. “Is there a safety on this thing?”

“Statement: There is. The weapon is currently safe. Instruction: Do press the red button on the side to arm the blaster.”

She looked at the side of the weapon and it did indeed have a little light and a button next to it. Shrugging one shoulder she turned towards the robot and pointed it between his glowing red eyes. “So if I pull the trigger now, you’ll still be yammering on at me?”

“Statement: How delightfully pragmatic.”

Taylor rolled her eyes and looked for a place to store the thing. Her current attire wasn’t anything to write home about. A skirt made from some of the rough cloth the Jawas used, a shirt that had been in the packs the Tusken Raiders had carried and that she had washed in the sands and a belt that cinched everything at her waist. It was light and airy and not terribly supportive, but better than her torn up costume for desert living. Though she did tear the goggles out of her mask. Getting sand in her eyes was not something she wanted to deal with again.

She was really starting to hate sand.

The front ramp of the sandcrawler lowered with a pneumatic hiss, pistons as big around as Taylor stretching out to lower the entire front of the vehicle and slowly revealing the bright blue sky beyond.

Her robot friend’s assertions that they were near a trading post has left her wondering what kind of place they were actually near. She had expected a few buildings, or maybe something more primitive.

Instead she took in the sights of a small village. White, squarish houses with domed roofs, large metallic pillars around the town proper, standing up like high-tech fence posts. A few things that looked like cars moving across a busy street that lead down to an intersection. And people.

Taylor stretched out her senses and caught a few bugs, proper bugs, at the edges. She didn’t recognize most of them, but they were similar enough to what she was used to that just having them in her control lifted a weight off her shoulders.

As she stepped down the ramp, her robot companion at her heels and the Jawas behind them with their assorted goods, Taylor paid particular attention to all the people walking around.

Some were human, and that alone had her wanting to run over and touch them. Others were aliens, from strange beings with flat necks and hammer-head like faces to blue-skinned people with large tentacles resting on their necks. Most wore beige and brown garb, loose and flowing to wick away the heat. Others wore armour or colourful outfits with splashes of yellow and blue that made them stand out like flowers in an empty lot.

“What is this place?” she asked.

Her companion stomped over to her side. “Commentary: it seems to be a filthy hole where only the desperate and idiotic would like. A fitting place for these fine specimens.”

Taylor snorted. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “Well, where do we start?” she asked.

“Exclamation: My lady, you could not possibly think of taking over this small town and installing yourself as its leader through force of arms with nothing but a blaster.”

“What? No, I wasn’t thinking about anything like that,” she said.

“Commentary: How disappointing.”

“I meant,” she said while ruefully shaking her head. “Where do we start exploring.”

“Suggestion: Perhaps refining your search parameters would be of assistance.”

Nodding, she started walking towards the village, noting as she did that a few curious souls were heading towards the where the Jawa were setting up shop. “That depends on what they sell here. Between you and me, finding a place that isn’t all sand would be a god send. Or a library.”

She knew that the races around her were alien, some of them also looked distinctly unfit for desert life. That either meant that there was somewhere hospitable on the planet or that they were from elsewhere. And since they weren’t on Earth, that was very much possible.

She wasn't going to find her home amongst the dunes, nor her revenge.

Navigating the crowds was surprisingly easy. Despite the number of beings around they mostly held together in small groups. She didn’t know if it was because of familiarity of if they needed safety in numbers. More than a few were armed, handguns at their hips or rifles strapped to their backs.

She had the impression that she was in a frontier town, like something in an old western where cowboys and bandits could pop up at any moment.

The few who entered her range were left confused and disoriented as she had them turn around and walk right back out of it as quickly as she could. It left a bubble of peace around her where only her robot friend remained.

“What’s that place?” she pointed to one shop that had weapons on racks before it..

“Translation: The sign reads Darvo’s Bazaar. Commentary: It seems to be a place to sell weapons of questionable quality.”

She nodded, then pointed at the next shop over. “And that one?”

“Commentary: A fruit stand. You do know what fruit are, yes?”

“Yeah,” she said. She didn’t know what she was looking for yet, but had the impression she was going to stumble upon it soon.

The next intersection was a three way, with a road veering off to their right. To the left the road had been blocked off by a marge stand with a cloth canopy above it. A small crowd was gathered there, looking up to the stage.

A creature that Taylor couldn’t help but assume was a giant slug, was speaking to the crowd, fat arms waving about and capturing their attention before we gestured off to the side. A pair of pig-like creatures in rough armoud strode onto the stage, each holding onto a staff with a ring on the end, a ring around the neck of an emancipated young man wearing nothing but a steel collar and some shorts.

“Is that a slave market?” she asked.

“Observation: Judging by the Hutt attempting to extol the virtues of the underfed human and the explosive collar on the filthy cretin’s neck it is indeed a slave market.”

Taylor didn’t know what to do. She watched the man be sold to some strange flying creature. There was an exchange of metal bars to one side, and the slave followed the creature away down the street without so much as a twitch of resistance.

Her jaw clenched and her almost started something, but then the next slave was on the block and no one was doing anything but bidding for them.

“This place isn’t what I hoped for,” she said.

“Suggestion: Perhaps a bit of conflict resolution is in order. I did enjoy your techniques with the Tusken Raiders.”

“No. Not yet,” Taylor said.

She turned and walked deeper into the town.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Five

It was tempting.

She stood before a small clinic. She wouldn’t have known that it was any sort of medical facility if it wasn’t for the sterilized interior and the fact that she caught a bandaged up man walking out of the clinic. Her robot friend had filled her in as soon as she asked and pointed the place out.

She had a feeling that she could be helped there. It was a temptation that was growing every minute she waited. Her missing arm throbbed, fingers that were long gone itching to grab and squeeze.

A few of the people, human and otherwise, that she had crossed had prosthetics. Not many, but enough that she had noticed. And those that she had seen were advanced, way beyond anything she could have gotten in Brockton Bay, barring the help of a Tinker.

Her want wrestled with her practicality, but she decided to step into the clinic. At the very least she would get an idea of the price of that sort of device. Having a new arm would be handy.

She decided not to speak that pun aloud. The last thing she needed was for her robot friend to put his mechanical brain to work looking for puns, of all things. “I’ll need your help figuring out how to get a prosthetic,” she said.

“Acceptance: Of course, my lady.”

Poking at the biggest button next to the door, Taylor watched it slid open with a woosh and release a bit of air that was merely boiling as opposed to the scalding mid-afternoon air outside. She slipped in with alacrity, her friend on her heels.

The inside was clean. Or at least cleaner than anything she had seen so far. A long counter split the room in half, the top part of a robot standing behind it and babbling to her in a gravelly tone. The few benches around were all empty, and the flies she sent around the back didn’t find anyone, at least not anyone alive. “Is this place automated?” she asked.

She wouldn’t have expected something like medicine to be handled entirely by robots, but it made a sort of sense. Her robot friend took a few steps towards the counter while she looked around at posters with writing she couldn’t begin to understand. He beeped and booped away at the reception robot, sounding like an old modem trying to establish a connection.

Taylor took that in stride. It was probably faster than any language a human could speak.

“Comment: This place is indeed automated. It is the property of Nimas the Hutt. She runs one of the local slave cartels. This clinic was built to serve her minions, not the local population.”

Taylor felt her brow furrowing. “It doesn’t help the slaves? Do slaves have any rights, any kind of... protections?” She felt dirty just considering it, but maybe there was a system in place to protect even those that were enslaved, like laws to protect pets on Earth Bet. She shuddered.

“Sarcastic Statement: Of course, my lady. Protecting their disposable slaves and keeping them healthy is one of the primary concerns of the Hutt crime lords. You would love their retirement plan.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah. No need to be an ass.” She pointed to the ever-patient reception robot. “Could they do anything about my arm?”

Her robot turned to the reception bot and screeched at it some more. He turned back and she had the impression he was rather smug. “Statement: Yes.”

“How much? When could they do it. What kind of arm would I be getting. Exercise a little creativity, please.”

“Statement: Gladly, my lady,” he said before turning back to the reception robot and talking at it some more. The robot behind the counter backed away a little. They chatted for a little while, Taylor bouncing on the balls of her feet the whole time. “Statement: They can operate on you immediately. For free. The quality of arms they have in stock is rather lacking, unfortunately.”

“That sounds far too good to be true,” she deadpanned.

“Statement: I may have used some creative encouragement. There is nothing to fear. The medical droids are unable to purposefully cause any harm.”

“And when their owner comes around and finds out they operated on me without permission? How long would the operation take, anyway?”

“Answer: Less than one standard hour. Suggestion: The Jawas should be leaving before nightfall. You could have your new arm and be out of the area before the equivalent of authorities are alerted.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?” she asked.

“Sarcastic Statement: I would never.”

Taylor snorted, then gestured towards the door leading off towards the operating theater. It was little more than a strange chair with quite a few complicated machines around it, but it tickled her sense of what the kind of machine that could give someone a complex prosthetic should look like. “Well, lead the way,” she said.

At the very least she would be able to see what she was dealing with. She was also rather confident that she could deal with a couple of hooligans on her own.

She had a good feeling about this.

***

HK-47 was feeling, in so far as his motivators allowed him to feel, a little bit like a man denied his pleasure. Oh, certainly his new master was quite interesting. The little Sith lady was as clueless as she was violent. All the same he wanted a change of situation. The restraining bolt tagged to his chest prevented him from murdering all of those sand-brained Jawa meatbags and generally got in between him and his amusement.

So he hatched a plan. He would see his new master put in a situation where she would, in all likelihood, die horribly. If she died in this little backwater than he would be put in the possession of the local hutt overlord. Not much of an improvement, but a better place to be than in a Sandcrawler for months on end. From there he could find a way to get rid of the damnable bolt.

If the little Sith lady lived, then he would get to witness some proper carnage and destruction the likes of which he had not seen in centuries.

It was his favourite kind of plan, the sort where he won either way.

His master walked ahead of him, head hardly moving and yet he knew that she was able to see everything around her. Some sort of sixth sense that he attributed to her strange Force powers. It, of course, did not apply to droids.

Superior creations such as himself could not be swayed so easily by the mysterious powers of the Force.

“This all looks rather complicated,” the lady said as she walked into the operating theater and looked around.

HK-47 scanned his environs too, finding plenty of things that could be used to incapacitate, kill or encourage people to talk. Medicine was the strategic application of pain, poisons, and dismemberment to improve the living conditions of a patient. It was so terribly easy to turn a patient into a victim.

A few medical droids were lined up against the walls, all of them looking the worse for wear and in dire need of a bath in oil and some proper maintenance. He wondered how his new master would fare under their ministrations. “Observation: the medical droids are ready to operate, my lady.”

“Right,” she said as she eyed the droids. “I can’t see anyone around the building.” She bit her lower lip, his dictionary of body language suggested that she was wrestling with temptation. “This is such a bad idea,” she muttered before she began to remove her shirt.

The appearance of the wound where her arm had been suggested that the limb had been lost and cauterised, possibly by a powerful beam weapon or a lightsaber. He filed that under her history file and turned to the droids. A few orders creatively mixed in with threats had the machines moving towards his master.

She sat down at the gestured prompting of one droid and watched, fascinated, as they began taunting and scanning her stump of an arm.

“Observation: The droids will now administer a sedative.”

She shook her head and reached out, grabbing the retractable arm holding a needle out towards her. “No. Better not.”

He relayed the order to the droids and when they protested, quoting some programming about avoiding pain while operating on filthy organics. He overrode them. If his new master wanted to scream and flail around then he would sit back and enjoy it.

The operation began a moment later. A spray of disinfectant over the stump, vibro scalpels moving into position, probes preparing to dig into flesh to find nerve endings.

HK-47 watched his master’s face as it twisted into a wince as the first knife dug in. Her breathing grew erratic and she twitched a little until all the droids stopped. He did not even need to tell her that movement would only prolong the operation. Her jaw clenched and her other hand dug into the material of the seat she was on.

It was fascinating looking at her angry glare as she watched the medical droids take apart her arm. Soon enough the end of her stump was opened up, held that way with clamps and needles through her flesh. Each tiny nerve was held to the open air by minuscule tweezers.

A third droid rolled into the room, a prosthetic arm held in two clamps.

“That’s my arm?” she said. The disgust in her voice was obvious.

The arm in question was simple. A rotating joint for the elbow, a simple set of pistons between elbow and wrist and a hand that was really just a few actuators controlling three fingers, each one a flat nub. It was utilitarian at best, covered in durasteel plates. A perfect replacement limb for a slave doing heavy labour.

“Advisement: The arm can be modified to increase its combat potential.” he said.

“Yeah, I bet,” she grumbled. Her eyes widened and she looked off to the side, as though seeing through the walls. “Tell them to move faster,” she said. “We have guests coming. They don’t look happy.”

HK-17 nodded and relayed the order. The medical droids paused for a moment as they recalculated and then started poking and prodding at her faster. “Query: Are those coming here hostile?” he asked.

“Well, they’re armed,” she said. “And I’d guess that they’re unhappy. Can’t imagine why.”

“Sarcastic Assertion: It cannot possible be because we are stealing from them.”

“They’re slavers, right? When it comes to morals I think I have the high ground.” She tensed a little as the droids started sending jolts of electricity down each nerve, then connected them to minuscule probes. “Hey, go call out and ask what they want.”

Hk-47 moved closer to the doorway. He could hear three or four potential casualties moving closer. He shifted his translation to Huttese and raised the volume. “Statement: My master wishes to know what you want before she perforates your filthy flesh sacks and uses your corpses as trophies proving her might and superiority to the degenerate bantha you serve.”

Judging by their reaction, they were more than willing to cooperate with his plan. How nice.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Six

Throg and Thug were real pains in the ass to work with, and Nel Numb was a pompous jerk at the best of times, but when the call came in that some bantha-fodder was messing with Nimas’ clinic he didn’t exactly have time to pick out the best.

He had been enjoying some Jawa juice in the Greasy Trough, just minding his force damned business when Nel Numb ran up to him and started spraying spittle all over his face. By the time he understood what the little Sullustan was saying his face was covered in slime.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you, I heard you,” he grumbled as he pushed off the bar. A quick gesture to the bartender told the fat human that he would be back later to pay his tab. “Tell me more about this thief.”

Nel Numb was more than happy to comply. The little Sullustan only came up to Gar’s shoulder, but he made up for it with big sweeping gestures and exclamations that had his mousey ears flapping and his long jowls quivering in excitement. “It’s a human and a droid. A big droid, but only the human is armed.”

“Armed with what?” Gar asked. He knew that if he didn’t cut into Nel Numb’s diatribe the little shit would go on for hours. As it was he wanted to get things over with as soon as possible. He slipped through a thick curtain and into the back section of the Greasy Trough, wincing as the noise grew exponentially louder and the air took on the fresh scent of porcine dung that always hung around Gamoreans.

He ran a hand down the sides of his jacket, making sure his blasters were loose in their sheathes before ducking through a curtain of beads. Why Nimas didn’t just get her pigs to live in some other dump he would never know. He just hoped that none of the stuff on tap was linked to the bar in this part of the cantina.

Music was playing in the background, a low tribal beat that was about as sophisticated as Gamorrean culture got. A dozen pig-faced boars were standing around and drinking, a few were punching each other out in one corner and off in a little booth some of the pigs were enjoying themselves with some slave.

He sneered at the lot of them, scanning across the crowd for familiar faces. He found two of them about to sit down at the bar. If he was lucky that meant that they weren’t shitfaced on the swill that passed for booze here. “Thug, Throg!” he barked.

The two boars jumped and turned toward him, Throg going as far as pulling his axe out of his belt-loop. They squealed at him.

“Shut up,” he growled. “We need muscle. Come on,” he said before turning back towards the part of the cantina reserved for civilised beings. He found Nel Numb wringing his hands there. “You didn’t tell me what the thief was armed with,” he continued as if he hadn’t left off.

“Ah, yes, she, I think it’s a female, only has one blaster. The droid is not armed,” Nel Numb said. “She walked into the clinic with a missing arm. Demanded that the droids there patch her up and instal a prosthetic.”

Gar paused for a moment. “Seriously? Was she out in the sun too long?” His eyes narrowed. “You sure she’s not one of Nimas’ girls? Did Bween send her?”

The little sullust shook his head. “Not on out records. No slave collar or implants. Can’t be one of ours.”

“Well shit,” Gar said. He checked his gear real quick while waiting for the Gamoreans to rub their two brain cells together and hurry up. “So how does Nimas want us to do this one?”

“Nimas doesn’t know yet,” Nel Numb said. “No one wants to tell her. The Chamberlain wants it to be a done thing before presenting her with the human female.”

Gar frowned down at the Sullustan, then leaned in to be heard over the cacophony of the cantina. “You mean we need to keep her alive?” he asked.

The sullust shrugged one shoulder. “Sure. Just gotta be sure not to break anything. If she’s dead she’s dead.”

Gar nodded, accepting that. In the worse case he could blame the woman dying on the Gamorreans getting excited. He made sure that he had a stun grenade pinned on his belt, then leaned against a wall to wait, foot tapping to the sound of the band in the corner who were warbling a tune.

When the pigs finally showed up, he nodded towards the door and led the way. Nel Numb was on his heels instantly, and the two Gamorreans were quick to catch up.

The heat outside hit him like a punch to the gut, but it wasn’t his first day, or his first decade on the sandball, and he was used to it. Seeing people scamper away as he and the boys walked down the dusty roads was always a whole lot of fun.

The cantina wasn’t too far from the clinic, just a few streets and a few alleys away, and no one they met had the balls to mess with them. He glared at the little medical shop from across the street. There weren’t any signs that anything fishy was going on from outside, but he wanted to be sure. “Throg, you dumbass, go in first.”

The Gamorrean snorted and unlimbered an axe from his back. He waddled ahead and stared at the panel next to the door for a long few seconds before smashing it with a fist. Either he knew which button to press or the Force’s own luck was with them, either way, the door slid open and the pig walked in. Wonder of wonders, he wasn’t blown up.

Figuring he should be there when they captured the woman, Gar followed in, the others doing the same a moment later. “You got a collar?” he asked Nel Numb.

“Yes,” Nel Numb said. He patted a pocket by his hip. “We’ll take the female alive?”

“We’ll try,” Gar said. The front of the clinic didn't look disturbed, not that there was much worth stealing. The droid at the counter was looking their way placidly, waiting for instructions. “You,” he said pointing at it. “Describe the person that came in here.”

The droid nodded its head. “Young, human, female. Approximate age between seventeen and twenty galactic standard years. Subject has suffered extensive damage to her right arm. Subject also had signs of malnutrition and dehydration.”

“Maybe she’s just a street rat after all,” Gar muttered. He pulled one of his blasters out and with his free hand fumbled around for a stun grenade. The damned things were expensive, but useful when dealing with the louder slaves. “Thug, Throg, take the lead.”

The Gamorreans snorted and waddled closer to the back and into the corridor that bisected the building. He was glad that he had been in the clinic before, it gave him an idea of its layout without having to stick his head out.

“Statement,” a mechanical voice said from the room at the end of the corridor. “My master wishes to know what you want before she perforates your filthy flesh sacks and uses your corpses as trophies proving her might and superiority to the degenerate bantha you serve.”

Gar and Nel Numb shared a look. Either the droid was malfunctioning or the female wanted to go out with a fight. She probably knew what would happen to her for crossing Nimas. “Tell your master to come out arm raised and we’ll all have a nice chat,” he said.

He heard the robot say something in a language he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Slapping Throg on the arm, he pointed to one side of the door, then pointed Thug to the other. The Gamorreans were moving to their positions when the whine of a blaster filled the corridor. Nothing happened at first, then a second shot came and a fist-sized hole appeared in the wall and a red blast caught Throg in the head.

“The bitch is shooting through the walls!” Nel Numb screamed.

“I noticed,” Gar said as he opened one of the rooms along the side of the corridor and slid into it. He used the doorframe as cover, coming out to take a potshot, but all he could see was the one corner of the operating room and no girl to speak of.

Throg roared, a hand pressed up against his face where the blaster had burned at him. Raising his axe, he screamed and charged towards the room, Thug right on his heels.

“You idiots!” Gar screamed after them. “So much for taking her in alive.”

The two Gamorreans were almost at the door when Throg stumbled. Thug did the same a moment later. They turned around, looked towards Nel Numb, then with strength that belied their stubby forms, flung their axes across the corridor.

Nel Numb squeaked and ducked down, the two axes missing him by a parsec. “What are you doing!” he screamed.

Before he could get and answer, Throg and Thug started to fight, biting and clawing and beating at each other, but all of it without a noise. Throg grabbed the smaller Thug by the neck and snapped it with a jerk before he stood up.

“What the,” Gar said.

Throg roar at them.

“Comment: My master suggests that you leave, unless you want to join the filthy sack of pig matter on the ground. Oh, please join it. It is most amusing.”

Gritting his teeth, Gar weighted his stun grenade while watching Throg. The Gamorrean wasn’t moving. It was creepy. He stood stock still not three paces from the door to the operating room, even with blood pouring out of his head wound he just blinked in their direction and waited. He flinched when a fly bit into his hand, but a quick swipe killed it.

Its then that he noticed that a whole lot of bugs were starting to swarm into the clinic.

“Something’s messed up here,” he said. “Nel Numb, get ready to move.”

“The only place I want to move is back home,” Nel Numb said, he was eyeing the growing swarm too. “This is too bizarre.”

Nodding, Gar stepped out of the doorway, primed his stun grenade, and ducked when a blaster bolt flew past where his head had been. Swearing, he flung the stun grenade into the open doorway, then rolled back into cover.

A loud thud sounded out, followed by the distinct noise of two hundred pounds of Gamorrean boar crashing to the floor.

Poking his head out, Gar inspected the corridor. Throg was down, Thug was still dead, and the room at the end was quiet. The swarming bugs buzzed around, then broke apart and flew every which way. “Hey, droid, is your master ready to chat?” Gar called out. He didn’t know what kind of witchery was going on, but it seemed to be over.

Nel Numb snorted, cheeks flapping with the motion.

“Observation: it seems as if my master is somewhat indisposed at the moment,” the droid said.

He gestured forward for Nel Numb to move in first and got a rather impolite gesture in return. Grunting, he held his blaster by his side and darted across the corridor and into the operating room.

He spun around, aiming first at what looked like a rust protocol droid, then at a girl with a freshly installed prosthetic arm that was hanging halfway out of the operating seat. “It’s clear,” he called out to Nel Numb.

The Sullustian walked in blaster-first, but lowered it a moment later. “Stand down, droid.”

“Comment: I am not able to fight you, I have a restraining bolt that obligates me to serve my master.”

“Did she steal you too?” Gar asked as he moved closer to the girl. Straightening her on the chair was easy. She hardly weighed anything. She was young, a little worse for wear, but probably cleaned up nice. Not that she’d be clean once Nimas was done with her. “Nel Numb, the collar,” he said.

He caught the collar in mid-air with a swipe, then unfolded it. The device clicked around the girl’s neck and armed itself with a whine.

“Who is she?” Nel Numb asked. “Where did you two come from?”

“Statement: I cannot say as long as this bolt prevents me from enacting my primary functions,” the droid replied in the crisp tones of a subservient protocol droid.

Nel Numb grunted and started to fiddle with the bolt.

Gar took the girl’s blaster and inspected it. It was a piece of junk. It was a miracle she had managed to shoot anyone with it. “You think she’s one of those jedi?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Maybe,” Nel Numb said between grunts. “Nimas would love it if she is. Maybe there’s more in it for u--”

“Hrm,” Gar agreed. He waited for Nel Numb to continue, but the only reply was a grugle.

Pausing, Gar spun around, blaster rising. The droid was holding Nel Numb by the throat, the Sulustan between Gar and the droid. Then the robot’s free arm pulled Nel Numb’s blaster from this pocket. “Observation: This was far too simple.”

Gar started to pull the trigger.

The droid fired first.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Seven

Hk-47 watched the human thug gurgle and cough his last, enjoying every moment of the organic’s suffering until finally the man fell back and died for good. He shot him once more, just to be sure, then tossed the very dead Sullustan aside. The creature’s facial flaps were turning an interesting shade of purple, but it wasn’t worth more than a passing note in his databanks.

With a lack of grace that felt like a magnet rubbing against his circuits, he trumped out into the corridor and found two dead Gamorreans on the ground. He paused, realising that he had made a mistake, one of the pigs was only mostly dead.

He corrected that before returning into the operating room.

The girl, his would be master, was still concussed by the stun grenade. That would not last forever. She would awaken soon and discover that he was no longer tied to her by the restraining bolt. But that was for later.

He raised his purloined blaster and aimed it squarely at her head. The calculations for the perfect shot came to him in an interval of time so short it was barely worthy of notice, but he did not pull the trigger.

The girl had the makings of a proper sith, the sort that could, if put in the right place and given the proper incentive, shake the galaxy to its core. At least, that’s what he hoped, insofar as he could do such a thing. He did not know the state of the galaxy at large.

Perhaps, just maybe, allowing an organic companion to follow at his side would be useful. He had certainly tolerated some before. He even respected one or two. Though in the grand scheme of things, the likelihood of this girl being worth his attention was astronomically low.

She groaned, a hand, her organic hand, coming up to rub at her forehead. That had been faster than he predicted.

“Observation: You seem to be coming back to your senses.”

She tensed, then spun out of the chair, grabbed her dropped blaster and pointed it around the room while her eyes darted around. It was a decently fast reaction. Not nearly as rapid as a proper combat droid, but fast nonetheless. “Hey, robot, who killed these two?” she asked while pointing to the dead organics at his feet.

“Query: isn’t it obvious?”

She nodded. “Well done.” Standing the little human moved to the door and poked her head out before turning back towards the operating table. She raised her mechanical arm, flexing until the three-fingered hand ground closed. “This is going to take some getting used to,” she said.

“Observation: Filthy organics usually have difficulty replacing their fragile body parts.”

“We’re usually pretty attached to our original bits, yeah.” Her attention turned to the shell of the stun grenade. It was still mostly intact, though a bit of blue smoke was pouring from the cracks in the casing. “What was that?”

HK-47 slowly bent forwards against the protest of his rusting knee joints and picked up the grenade. “Assessment: A reusable Merr-Sonn Munitions neural stun grenade.” He turned it around slowly, then crushed it into a crumpled mess. “Commentary: A very specialized weapon used to subdue belligerent organics.”

“Well it gave me a damned headache. Next time you see one tossed my way, shoot the person that sent it.”

“Statement: I did.”

Snorting, she got to one knee next to the dead human and started searching his pockets. She found cred chips and a few Hutt peggats that she tossed to the floor. A comlink joined them, then a magazine for the thug’s blaster. “I don’t know what half of these things are,” she said.

“Advisement: They are various items that you might find useful. I would explain them, but I will be going now. Statement: You were an amusing organic to follow. I will allow you to live and cause chaos to facilitate my escape.”

The girl’s head snapped up, locking with his ocular sensors before falling to his chest where the bolt was gone. “You’re free,” she said.

“Observation: your ability to notice the obvious will no doubt serve you well.” HK-47 began to walk towards the exit.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked.

He paused. “Query: Is that not something you should have asked earlier?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “It never came up.”

He nodded. “Statement: I am HK-47, hunter-killer assassin droid.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you going to work for if you’re free, HK-47?” she asked.

“Comment: There are plenty of people that need killing. Organics are always willing to spare some credits to get rid of some foe or another.”

“How would you like sticking with me?” she asked. “You’re handy for translating, and I could use your expertise besides.”

“Statement: None of that is useful for me.”

“Your purpose is fighting, isn’t it? Stick around me and you’ll never lack in action.” She reached up to her neck and tugged at the collar there. “By the way, how do you remove this damned thing?”

Hk-47 pondered the offer for a few seconds, a terribly long time for a droid of his capabilities. Perhaps he could remain with the little sithling. She would certainly end up dead at the hands of someone more capable, and then he could hire himself out to them, slowly climbing the totem pole of death until he was once more serving at the top. “Assessment: the slave collar is linked to a central data bank. The only way to deactivate it non-explosively is from the main server.”

She groaned. “This one explodes too?”

“Observation: if your head explodes I will be certain to record it for prosperity.”

“Thanks,” she said before letting go of the collar. Still on her knees, she freed the belt off the human male and slipped it around her waist before replacing his two blasters into their sheaths. “Right then, HK-47, our first goal, if you do want to work with me, will be finding that databank and taking care of it.” She found a grenade in the Sollustian’s pockets and tossed it in the air before catching it. “It might be fun.”

“Advisement: The collar marks you as property of Nimas the Hutt. The Hutts do not take kindly to anyone disrupting their business.”

“You’re saying I should allow myself to be enslaved?” she asked.

“Negation: Oh no, I am merely saying that any fight will have to be spectacularly bloody to succeed. Comment: I am rather excited... potential master.”

She shook her head, long hair tumbling down her shoulders and over the collar. “Don’t call me master. You’re a free robot, aren’t you?” Walking past him, the human pointed to the pile of detritus and junk she had pulled from the pockets of her assailants. “Is any of that useful?”

“Query: If you do not wish for me to call you master, than what title do you want? Observation: the flat round objects are peggats, a local currency used by the Hutt cartels. They are acceptable anywhere in Hutt space. The flat chips are Republic Credits. They are used in most civilised space.”

She nodded and picked up the useful bits, leaving the rest strewn about. “My name is Taylor. But when we’re on the job, call me--” she cut herself off and his social subroutines suggested a certain amount of hesitation. “Call me Khepri.”

“Query: is Khepri a title in your disgustingly primitive native tongue?” he asked.

The girl, Khepri, stood up and stretched. It was obvious that the weight of her new arm was bothering her, but she made no complaints. “Not really. Just a name I was given. The name of an old god that that was symbolised by beetles. It’s not important.”

“Statement: All titles are important. Fleshy meatsacks tend to have an overinflated sense of pride and fear when responding to the appropriate title.”

She rolled her eyes and slid out of the operating room only to pause with a wrinkled nose at the sight of the dead Gamoreans. “Fine then, if you’re so keen on giving me a title then pick one that isn’t too insulting. Do you know where the centre for this thing is?” she tapped the collar around her neck.

“Negation: I do not. Advisement: Perhaps finding one of Nimas’ thugs still alive would allow us to discover its location?”

She grunted and slid back into the operating room and stood over the dead human. She kicked him over, then bent down and started pulling off his jacket. The coat was too big for her by half, but when she pulled the collar up it hid her throat and the device wrapped around it. “Let’s find someone to talk to.”

They were careful on exiting the clinic not to make any fuss or attract any unwanted attention. As soon as they were on the street, Khepri lead to pair off towards a side road, then down an alley. “Tell me what you know about Nimas,” she demanded.

“Statement: I know very little. If this Nimas is like other Hutt then they most likely hold a firm grasp on the region’s economy and armed forces. I suspect that they are subservient to another larger Hutt. Comment: No slug worth its weight in salt would want to live in this kind of backwater.”

“They? You don’t know if Nimas is male or female?” she asked.

“Comment: The Hutt are hermaphroditic. Nimas’ gender at the moment is entirely up to Nimas.”

“Huh. You mentioned slugs, were you just insulting them or were you being serious,” she asked before poking her head out of the end of the alley.

“Answer: The Hutt are large sentients that take on the form of two-limbed slugs. They grow to obscene proportions over the course of their exceedingly long lives and are quite enjoyably ruthless in both combat and trade. The Hutt cartels have never been a group anyone sensible would want to anger.”

She huffed. “Well, they shouldn’t have placed a collar around my neck then.”

“Query: Not even after knocking you out while you were in the process of robbing them?”

She paused for a few long seconds. “I might be a little too ruthless right now. Damn. I still need to get this thing off. Let’s just try to do this with minimal casualties.”

“Observation: Minimal does not mean none.”

The girl pointed to a pair of humans walking together down an otherwise vacant street. Both were armed under the brown parkas they wore, but they looked unconcerned and at ease, adopting the easy swagger of off-duty thugs. “We’re going to ask those two some questions. Well, you’re going to ask. I’m going to capture them.” She nodded to herself. “Did you find a title that you like yet?”

“Query: What do you think of Darth Khepri?” he asked.

“Darth? What’s that mean?”

“Explanation; Darth is an ancient title given to Lord of the Sith, a very pragmatic group of warriors who refused to bend to anyone’s rulership. They stood in opposition to the bureaucracy of the Republic and the tyranny of the Jedi. They were feared and respected in equal measure.”

Tilting her head back, she eyed his optical receptors for a moment. “You sound like you respect them.”

“Admission: I have served with and for some Darths in the past. They were always the best of masters.”

“And taking the title won’t piss anyone off?”

“Statement: Oh, it most assuredly will. Though perhaps just those you would have angered anyway. There are no longer any Darths or Sith as far as I am aware. A pity.”

She shrugged. “It’ll do for now, I guess.”

***

And so begins the sage of Darth Khepri the... wise? We need a proper title for this gal.

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Eight

When Taylor asked HK-47 where Nimas lived, she was unceremoniously told that the Hutts were the farthest thing from modest in that side of the galaxy. She just had to find the biggest, most ostentatious building around and she would find her target.

So it was no surprise that Nimas’ home was more of a fortress. Huge steel walls surrounding a building painted in the off-white that most homes in the area adopted. Domes stuck out of the top, the mid-day sunlight reflecting off glass panels where the sand hadn’t crusted on.

For all that it was a fortress, security was lax. The front gates were wide open and vehicles hovered in and out almost nonstop. A few kiosks were even set up nearby to entice the guard patrols with bottles of water and juice and other things.

Aliens of every sort were moving around the palace, most looking shifty, but a few carrying the regal air of important people on important business.

And there were slaves. Lines of people in chains walking in formation, some tied to walls, more tending to the ground by sweeping with long brooms while the sun beat down on exposed skin. They were never in anyone’s path, not for long anyway.

Taylor moved back into an alleyway, slinking into the shadows as if she wasn’t just casing out a palace. There was a beggar by the entrance, an older human with brittle bones and too gaunt skin that she used to keep an eye on the street. She’d give him a credit chip when she was done.

“What do you know about infiltration?” she asked HK-47.

The droid’s eyes flashed. “Statement: I am versed in a multitude of specialized infiltration methods ranging from covert operations to spontaneous improvised infiltration.”

“Okay,” Taylor said. “We need to get in there, right? I don’t know where the control room for this damned thing is, which means we need to question someone. Or you do, at any rate. I could just walk in, but there are things that look like turrets and some of the guards are droids. I don’t like my chances if I go all out and I don’t want too many casualties. We’re going to have to play this by ear.”

“Repetition: Play this by ear. Query: Is that another of your quaint sayings, Darth Khepri?”

“Those pig looking ones,” she said, ignoring the last. “What are they?”

“Commentary: They are Gamorreans. Literally the galaxy’s least favoured pigs.”

Taylor resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She felt a group of three of the Gamorreans walking not too terribly far away from her location. There were plenty of bugs all over them. And in them. She didn’t need the mental image of one of them scratching a nest of lice around his crotch but she had it now. “I don’t want to be racist... speciest?” she asked.

“Comment: When an organic begins a statement in such a fashion they usually end it in a spectacularly racist way.”

“Oh, shut up,” she shot back. “The Gamorreans, they’re not usually high ranked, right?”

“Statement: They are walking pigs. Sometimes they can be useful by absorbing a blaster bolt meant for you.”

“Right, I got that impression too. I have a plan, but it’s a little rough.”

***

Bween was an excellent seneschal. Oh yes, she knew because the great Nimas said so. Bween had been the Hutt’s perfect chamberlain for nearly a decade now, a decade since she had left the deep waters of Mon Cala, since she had found employment with the great Nimas, since she had first set foot on the disgustingly dry ball that was Tatooine.

It wasn’t all bad. She eyed some of the slaves they had sold that very morning and counted their heads. Jabba needed more workers and the Hutt lord was always exacting. Bween knew that if the count was off, it was her employer that would suffer for it.

The air right outside Nimas’ great palace was dry and crusty and filled with sand, but she had a job to do. There was nothing for it. At least she wasn’t like the poor saps trying so hard to climb into the great Nimas’ good books.

No, Bween was a good seneschal, and she would endure the indignity in silence with a straight back, even if the world was inhospitable to Quarrens. It was only further proof that she was worthy of the great Nimas’ attention.

One of their guests, a Neimoidian with a few pleasure droids and manservants of his own, nodded to her as he entered the shade of the palace. “Greetings, Bween, my old friend,” he said.

“Hello, Sib Nark,” Bween said before giving the guest an elegant bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. You are here for your meeting with the great Nimas?”

“Indeed. But I see that you are shipping many slaves away. Perhaps you have made a good bit of business already today?” The Nimoidian’s eyes were narrowed and Bween could feel his shrewd mind at work.

“A little,” Bween admitted. “Things in the galaxy at large are growing excited. That means more work for us, doesn’t it?”

“Oh hoh, yes, yes. I think you will be happy to learn that we have quite a few droids coming in soon. More than we know what to do with, and of good stock too. That, and the Trade Federation have increased production of war droids by an order of magnitude. My clan has quite a few older models around now. Surplus, but no worse for it.”

“You say that as if it’s a good thing,” Bween said coyly. She gestured deeper into the palace. “Make your plea to the great Nimas, she will give you an open ear and a fair trade, yes?”

“Ah hah, yes,” Sib Nark said. With a genial smile that Bween knew was false, the Nimoidian moved in, his retinue right behind him.

Bween smiled a small, private smile, made a note in her datapad, then looked up at the next group approaching. She blinked. Three Gamorreans, all of them covered in thick beige cloth, the same sort used in awnings, were moving towards her. In the middle of their little triangle was a human female, eyes hidden behind blue goggles and her form shrouded by a thick black jacket. She walked with easy grace, entirely unlike the clanking protocol droid at her side.

One thing was immediately obvious, the young woman was important. She had that bearing to her, the walk of someone who got things done, of the best mercenaries and bounty hunters that prawled through the great Nimas’ palace. Bween gave the female a shallow bow. “Greetings, and welcome to--”

Her mouth stopped, her body locked itself in place, and were they able to her eyes would have widened. Her breathing came in slowly, then left just as slowly, her heart didn’t beat any faster even as her mind tried, tried so hard to move.

She straightened, finding the girl and her droid just a few steps closer. The girl looked up to her companion and said something in a harsh, guttural tongue.

“Translation: This is official business. Move, filth,” the droid said.

The girl repeated it word for word, her accent atrocious and with emphasis in all the wrong places.

The droid shook its head, then repeated itself, slower this time. It made a few more comments, some words in Huttese, others in the strange language. Bween wasn’t paying attention, she was moving against the bond, the thing holding her back. Or she tried. It was like moving a limb that she had never had. No response, no motion, nothing. She wanted to cry, but even that was denied her.

Her mouth opened suddenly. “Translation: This is official business. Move, filth,” she said.

The droid made some more commentary, this time repeating ‘translation’ a few times.

The girl nodded, then gestured with a robotic hand that had been hidden by the sleeves of her too-large jacket. Bween spun around, took a step back, and was suddenly by the girl’s side. With casual ease, the group moved into the palace.

Bween watched with mounting horror as the Gamorreans at the front squealed and brandished their axes at anyone who grew near, and felt sick when her own voice joined them. “This is official business. Move, filth,” she said to a few slaves moving towards them.

They moved deeper into the halls, then at the first intersection took the path that was least travelled, a corridor leading off into the administrative section and the quarters of the staff that worked at the palace.

Bween was made to walk over to a door, opening it with a press of the scanner. The room’s lights came on, revealing an office that was empty save for a single protocol droid in the corner working over a few datapads.

The group moved in, the Gamorreans standing near the door.

“Greetings, miss Bween, how can I assist you?” the protocol droid asked.

The girl asked something to her droid, then with a careless shrug the droid pulled out a blaster and shot the protocol droid twice in the chest.

She gestured to the corner of the room and Bween walked over. Bween felt her own hands running over her robes, searching into her pockets and patting herself down. Everything she had was unceremoniously tossed onto a nearby desk. Then, with only the girl’s stepping back to to warn Bween, she was suddenly released.

Bween gasped, hand going to her chest to still a heart that wasn’t beating hard. “What did you do? I, I... the great Nimas won’t allow this kind of thing in her domain!” she yelled.

The droid turned to its master and said a few things, got a reply, and turned back to her. “Salutations: My master, Darth Khepri, greets you, snivelling walking sack of wasted fish meat. She wishes to inquire about the no doubt poor state of your health after such a...” the Droid paused. “Sarcastic Commentary: Difficult ordeal.”

“You, you can’t do this!” Bween said. She started to walk off only for her body to lock up again. She would have fallen, only for her hand to shoot out, grab the edge of a table and straighten her back up. She moved back into the corner and was free once more. “No, you can’t,” Bween repeated, though this time she didn’t try to escape.

The girl asked her protocol droid something.

“Translation: Where is the control centre for the slave collars. Assertion: You do not need to answer. Commentary: I would enjoy hearing your screams while I discover just how much your insides resemble that of a fish.”

“Oh Force,” Bween squeaked.

“Commentary: The Force will not help you here.” The droid reached down to its side and pulled out a blaster that looked tiny in its fist. “Suggestion: Start speaking.”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you,” Bween said.

The droid almost looked disappointed as he turned to his master and translated what Bween was saying. With eyes colder even than the droid’s the young human female looked at Bween and asked some questions.

The droid dutifully translated. “Query: Where is the control centre for the slave collars. Query: Who has the command codes to disable a specific collar. Query: Where does Nimas keep her credits?”

Bween’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t want to. She never wanted to betray the great Nimas. But she wanted to die even less. “The control room is near the slave pens in the wing opposite this one,” she said. The first words out of her mouth were like pulling teeth, but it became easier with each passing word to speak. “Only one of Nimas’ lieutenants can undo the locks. They’re biometrically locked in the command room. I... I could do it.”

“Commentary: Oh my, does the Hutt flesh bag trust you, a dirty fish lost in the desert? Assessment: The Hutt truly is a creature after my own heart.”

The girl, Darth Khepri, said something that sounded dismissive. Bween watched as the girl interacted with her droid, mounting horror coiling in her chest. This situation was entirely unfair. No one should have been able to control her that way, it was unjust. The great Nimas would do something about it, surely.

Droid turned back to her and started asking questions, Bween couldn’t help but wonder where she had heard the title Darth before.

***

Oh, and everyone say hi to Daimahou! You might have seen them in the comments poking at my terrible grammar. Now they’re doing it before you ever see the chapters! Give them a quick pat on the head if you see them around!

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

 

Chapter Nine

Taylor was impressed, and that alone was enough to make her stomach churn and her bile rise.

The slave pens, because that was what a place for animals was called, were nothing if not efficient. Each cage had thick bars in front of it, but solid walls on either side. The lights were dispersed enough that you could see into each cell, but just barely.

Maybe some of the guards were aliens that could see better in the dark. She was still wrapping her head around aliens being somewhat humanoid.

A series of pipes linked up each pen, a single drop falling into a little saucer by the door with a staccato beat. Pat-pat-pat. Enough, Taylor estimated, to fill a cup every few hours. She didn’t see how they were fed, but it was probably with the same bored efficiency.

Her skin crawled as she entered the frankly enormous room and walked down the rows of pens. Her power was grabbing each person, human or otherwise, as she passed. She was used to ignoring the pain of whatever she controlled, of ignoring the senses that weren’t immediately helpful to her. Here, it was impossible to do so. These people were in pain. Cramped legs, bowed backs, bruises on the sides of heads, between their thighs, on the soles of their feet.

Her fists were clenched by her sides, and even with her head down she couldn’t not see them. The bugs alone, from the gut worms to the flies, were telling her more than enough.

Once she was rid of her collar, she was going to have to do something about this. The problem was what. “Hey, HK-47,” she began. “Do you know if there are any groups that help slaves like these?” There had to be someone out there.

“Comment: Some soft-hearted organics sympathize with the suffering of slaves. In all likelihood there are groups willing to ship slaves off planet to rehabilitate them. Assessment: A waste of resources.”

Taylor didn’t comment on HK-47’s attitude. She still wasn’t sure if he would continue with her, and right now, she needed him. “We’ll have to do something about this,” she said.

“Query: Do you intend to lead a rebellion? Statement: Oh, how wonderful. Rebellions are always bloodbaths. So much well fermented anger and desperation.”

“We’ll have to see,” she said. “My collar first.”

Through her bugs, she could feel the rough layout of the room ahead of her. There was what looked like an operating room next to a place with a few beds where other slaves were laying down. None of them were human, not unless the humans of this world were green and covered in fine scales. And had tails.

Beyond that, behind a thick door, was a sweltering little room filled with screens and what were probably computers. A single non-human was sitting back in his seat, mouth wide open and probably snoring. “I’ve found the control room, I think,” she said.

They crossed the medical rooms without fuss. The only occupants that weren’t knocked out were medical droids and her experience with those so far led her to believe that they were mostly innocent when they weren’t tearing an arm apart like a ripe fruit.

The person napping in the security room slipped into her range as her little group approached the door, but she didn’t do anything about it, just moved the secretary she had taken over to the door while her Gamorrean escorts took up positions where they could keep an eye on things for her.

She might have had a few thousand bugs to work with, but the vision and sense of smell of the pig men were still far better. That, and they were large, armed, and strong enough to pass as weak Brutes. They would scare off any intruders far better than her rather sparse swarm.

The door was a thick slab of some sort of metal with a large, complex device in the wall next to it with the rough outline of a hand. It seemed that Nimas, for all that she was slowly starting to piss Taylor off, was at least the cautious sort

Her captive pressed her hand to the device and the door slid open. “Let’s get to work,” Taylor said.

***

Sib Nark was a businessman first, an entrepreneur second, and a trader third. The distinctions would be, to most sentients, utterly unimportant. To the Neimoidians it was the difference between being a servant and a master.

Well, perhaps not in the literal sense, he had to remind himself as he faced the Great Nimas, ruler of Mos Ipas and the greatest slave owner on Tatooine and a great portion of Hutt space.

The... throne room, he supposed it should be called, was a disgusting pit, the floors stained with sweat, spilled juices and other filth, the walls, all of them filled with little alcoves where business people, bounty hunters and sycophants were sitting, were once beige but had darkened under the smoke of too many pipes and the dust carried in from outdoors.

Gamorreans stood by every entrance and a few more competent--though that was hardly a feat worthy of praise--guards were patrolling the edges of the domed room.

In the centre, on a pedestal that made sure that all had to look up to see her, was the Great Nimas. The slug was large, as most Hutts of her age were, with faintly green skin covered in a fine sheen of water that was being sprayed from a sprinkler above. A fine show of waste and decadence on Tatooine.

“Great Nimas,” Sib Nark said with a bow, his long robes pulling before him and displaying the marks of his clan, not that he imagined anyone there would have the cultural learning required to understand that he was their better.

“Sib Nark,” the Hutt said. She rolled a little, folds of fat moving so that the water would cover her properly. A pair of young Twi'lek girls were quick to begin rubbing her skin. “It is a pleasure to see you in my humble estate.”

“The pleasure,” he began, “Is certainly all mine.” He didn’t tell her how little pleasure there was, only that it was his.

“Hrm, yes,” the corpulent Hutt said. She rolled back over onto her stomach, one of the slave girls almost tripping off to podium to get out of her way. “You are here to sell me some rusty droids, yes?”

Sib Nark stood tall and proud, robes billowing out around him in a show of injured pride. “Great Nimas, I would never sell any equipment that is less than adequate to any trusted customer. It would sully my good name. No, I am here to sell you droids that we no longer have a use for, but that would be more than adequate to the task of guarding your esteemed person. These are some of Baktoid Combat Automata’s finest OOM-series droids.”

He bowed a little towards the Hutt, keeping his smile to himself. What he said was true. He would never double cross an esteemed, trusted customer. The Hutt was so far from either though, that selling her a thousand rusted pieces of junk wouldn’t rob him of any sleep.

“And what could you want for such a grand bounty?” the Hutt asked. She gestured one fat arm towards the side and a protocol droid carried over a goblet the size of Sib Nark’s head that was filled with sloshing juice.

Sib Nark began to pace, a gentle walk in a small oval before the great Hutt. “I have heard rumours that you recently found yourself in the possession of an entire crop of new slaves,” he began. “The Trade Federation does not often use slave labour, not when out own droids are so much more superior, but this might be an occasion where we make an exception.”

The Hutt laughed, a deep bellowing sound that echoed off the walls and was mimicked by sycophants across the room. “Do not try to play me for a fool, Sib Nark. I was not born yesterday. Your Trade Federation has allied itself with the Falleen. You want the lizards I have.”

Knowing when to change tactics in a negotiation was bread and butter to the Neimoidians. “You are most astute, great Nimas. Yes. We are attempting to curry favour with the Falleen. Your slavers recently captured a passenger ship with some important members of Falleen society. We wish to purchase these from you.”

“Ah, the truth comes out at last,” Nimas said. She wriggled on her throne, mouth opening in a Hutt smile as she poured her drink down her gullet. “Yes, we still have some of these slaves.”

“Some, great Nimas?” he didn’t allow the worry and disappointment to show in his voice. He needed every important member of the Falleen taken. Returning half of them would not be worth half the bounty on their safe return, nor half the praise from the sitting government.

“Some,” the Hutt agreed. “The fitter ones were sold to Jabba. If you want them from him, it is he you will have to deal with. There are plenty that are still here. I could sell them to you, of course.”

“That would be exceptional, great Nimas. Perhaps your senechal could provide my party with a list of names? I would like to enquire about the health of these slaves before I purchase them as well.”

Sib Nark was no expert at reading Hutt body language, but he had the impression that Hutt was eager to begin their negotiations. “Of course, Sib Nark. I will call for Bween and she...” the Hutt trailed off.

Sib Nark heard it a moment later, a low keening noise that rose in pitch, then lowered back down only to rise again. An alarm. His assistants tensed, his pleasure droids reached into their retractable busts and pulled out sonic suppression blasters and he noticed the bounty hunters around the room reaching for weapons of their own.

“What is the meaning of this?” Nimas demanded.

Sib Nark had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

***

“So you’re telling me,” Taylor said as she looked at all the consoles laid out before her. “That without the password I can’t remove this damned thing?”

“Correction: The device can be safely removed without the proper authorization. Removing it that way though would set off the local alarm, and without the passcodes to disable that one, we will set off the fortress’ main alarms.”

Taylor frowned. “And then we’ll have to fight our way out of a base filled with armed enemies out for our blood with nothing more than three pig people, that fish lady, that lazy guy and the two of us.” She pointed at each one of her assets in turn. It wasn’t terribly impressive.

It wasn’t too late to pull out, but that would be a disappointing end to an otherwise successful venture. Then her eyes skimmed over a screen overlooking the slave pens. Most of them looked tired and worn out, but a few, especially the green-skinned lizard people, looked to be itching for a fight.

“Hey, HK-47,” she began. “Where is the armory?”

Hk-47 stood a little taller and she would have sworn that she could feel the smug satisfaction wafting off of him. “Statement: Oh Darth Khepri, few questions have brought so much joy to my circuits as that one.”

***

Before everyone freaks out, the middle scene is set a bit after the last one, and the ones following. Bit of Medias Res. It’ll (hopefully) make sense in a bit.

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

Also, shout-out to Daimahou and BlueNine. They did word magic on there to make the mistakes go away.

 

Chapter Ten

Taylor's width and breadth of experience was probably--for a girl her age--pretty terrifying. She had been in bank heists, had toppled local governments, had risen as a warlord. She'd assassinated and intimidated and fought creatures that some would call walking natural disasters.

But she had never organized a revolt before. So she had to rely on the experience and know-how of HK-47, and that on its own, was proving a challenge.

The robot turned his head from left to right, scanning the first batch of slaves she had moved out of the pens and lined up. Most of them were the green-skinned lizards that looked like humans with a bit of scally body paint, but a few were tentacled aliens or normal humans. “Assessment: If we give some of them thermal detonators and let them run at our enemies, we might be able to distract them long enough to evade detection.”

“I’m assuming thermal detonators,” she said, trying on the new word for size. “Are something I would rather not have go off in my vicinity.”

“Explanation: Thermal detonators, often called ‘fusion dets,’ or by fleeing meatbags as ‘oh god, oh god, throw it back,’ are highly unstable and highly amusing thrown explosive devices. Most can be rigged with simple but efficient dead man’s switches. If you equip your slave army with a few I can guarantee a spectacular show.” He gestured at the crate that he had pulled to the centre of the armory floor with what she felt might be longing. There were at least a dozen metal spheres there.

“Let’s shelve that as plan... C,” she said. She figured that she might be able to rig something with enough insects to carry one of the grenades somewhere important, but they looked rather heavy and the few bugs that she had found were small and rather specialized in anything but carrying heavy objects around. “What about the rest of our arsenal?”

When Taylor asked HK-47 to find out where the armory was, he was only too happy to go diving into the palace’s network. His discovery that there were not one but three weapons storage rooms in the building had the robot as giddy as she had ever seen him.

So she told him to show her where the nearest one was, then left him to figure out how to break in without setting off any alarms while she got the first batch of slaves. She came back to find two dead pig men and an unlocked room.

“Comment: The weaponry is adequate.”

“Adequate, huh?” she asked.
The robot nodded. “Qualification: There are thirty seven blaster rifles, none will endure heavy use. Forty-nine blasters, three are in acceptable repair. Sixty-four shock batons of various make and model, all unsanitary. A variety of gas and stun grenades. And twelve thermal detonators.”

Taylor licked her lips and looked into the armory behind HK-47. For all his claims that the guns were in bad repair, that still sounded like a considerable amount of firepower. “Right. Okay, I need you to translate for me,” she said.

“Statement: I am always ready to relay whatever information you wish me to. My creative interpretation protocols are second to none.”

***

Xarly thought that being a slave was the most unwizard thing ever. Oh sure, he’d had a few jobs that were less than cool. Flipping rehydrated protein patties while paying for his astronavigation courses was not the highlight of his life, but he would rather be doing that kind of work instead of sitting in a cell slowly starving out. He had even lost the urge to scream at the passing pigs or to kick out and try to trip the guards.

Shock prods were a great way to tell someone to chill out and wobble on the floor for a few hours.

The least fun bit about being a slave so far was the whole manual labour thing. He was more of a computer and droid guy. Nice comfy chairs and air conditioned rooms. Oh, and the beatings, the beatings were also not fun.

In fact, the more he thought on it, the less fun the whole thing sounded.

“You’re thinking stupid thoughts again,” came a rather familiar voice from the cell across from his. A pile of blankets moved in the shadows, a slender green hand pulling them closer.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I was thinking about how much this sucks.”

The blanket shifted back a bit and he got to look into the very flat eyes of the Qariman’s, the last ship he served on, chief navigator. That she happened to be his superior just a few days ago shouldn’t have mattered anymore, but the woman was downright terrifying and no amount of steel bars between him and her would make him feel safe. “Oh, really?” she asked.

He tried on a smile for size. “Yeah, totally.”

“We’re only stuck on a Hutt controlled desert backwater, under the wonderful care of the great fucking Nimas, the same bitch who has her pets fight to the death and then sells the videos on the holonet for some credits. The same slug that owns the biggest brothels in the sector. The same slug that sells her merchandise across the entire goddamn galaxy.”

He shrank back a little at the notes of pure rage in her tone. “Hey there, love, no need for that, yeah?”

“Love? Xarly, when I’m out of this cage I’m going to kill every last guard around here, and then I’m going to gut you,” she said.

The fact that it wasn’t the first, or even the worse, threat she had tossed his way didn’t diminish the anger behind it. “We’ll figure something out,” he said, his voice lower and hopefully placating.

Qarry might have been the toughest girl he had ever met, but even she had broken down and cried at night. They had both seen some of the others from the Qariman being shuffled about. The girls never came back intact.

He was still looking for more nice things to say, because an angry girl was an affront to everything Xarly knew, when the thump-thump of footfalls came his way.

He was ready to shrink back when suddenly he wasn’t in control of himself anymore. It was strange, almost unique. He had taken some stims that made him feel the same way some years back, though those had never made him stand up and at attention behind a door.

He saw Qarry doing the same, her blanket falling off her shoulders to reveal her dirty uniform and the collar wrapped around her neck. The complete lack of emotions on her face had him suddenly feeling somewhat nervous.

A pair of Gamorreans stopped by their doors and unlocked them from outside. He found himself stepping out in time with Qarry, then walking to the end of the corridor where he stood right next to her and behind a thin humanoid girl with long dark hair and a too big jacket on. Her eyes were masked by blue goggles, but the line of her mouth hinted at how displeased she was.

More slaves, some of them Falleen like him and Qarry, others from the passengers aboard the Qariman or from the old stock that were there before they arrived, stepped out and formed up with them.

They moved to the next row over and repeated the same action without so much as a whisper spoken between anyone. He has seen some pretty wild horror holos in his day, but this was taking the cake.

The group gathered a few move slaves, then even more. Soon they were packed in tight and Xarly found himself moving forwards to help hold up a skinny Twi'lek girl. He bent over and picked her up, one hand under her knees the other behind her back. He was made to move with surprising gentleness.

When he was back with the others they started to move with eerie synchronicity, all of them marching with light steps and breathing at the same pace. They moved through the rear exit, then through a corridor until, finally, they crossed a pair of slaves that he vaguely recognized guarding a corridor.

They were holding rifles.

The pair of them tensed as they passed, but they let them through.

Xarly found himself spreading out away from the others in a room that was, to a guy stuck in a cell for a few days, pretty damned spacious. There were a few other slaves here, or at least people in rags.

He bent at the knees and deposited the still silent Twi’lek girl on the ground next to a few more injured people.

Then, just like that, the control was gone and Xarly almost tripped over his own feet. “What the hell?” he heard Qarry whisper from behind him.

The group turned, all thirty or so of them to take in the girl with the goggles who was standing next to a rusty protocol droid. The two groups stared at each other for a long moment, neither daring to be the first to talk.

Then the girl with the blue goggles spoke in a language that was at once melodic and harsh, as if someone had tuned in on three dozen holonews channels at once and decided to imitate all the non-basic languages at once.

“Superfluous Greetings: My master, Darth Khepri, wishes to greet you sacks of rotting organic slurry and present to you an offer that, should you refuse, will no doubt end in your timely and delightfully gory ends.”

Xarly shared a look with Qarry. Already he could smell the stress pheromones in the air from the other Falleen. He, and all the others, waited, but the droid and the girl didn’t seem to be in a hurry to speak.

“So, how did you free us?” Qarry asked.

The droid repeated something back in that same strange language and Darth Khepri replied.

“Translation: My master did not intend to free you. Clarification: Through no fault of our own, my master was enslaved by the degenerate swine that serve the local Hutt. Fortunately my master is not as obviously incapable as you, and was able to murder those that captured her with inpunity. Addition: Unfortunately, she was collared. Our infiltration of this palace has lead us to discover that deactivating one collar will set off an alarm. The same alarm that would go off if all collars were deactivated.”

There was a murmur through the crowd as they took in that bit of news. Good news at that. Xarly wasn’t too fond of his own slave collar. It was chafing against his scales a whole lot.

“Then what? You’re going to turn these things off and try to run while the Hutt guns us down?” Qarry asked. “And what was that just now, with the controlling us? How did you do that?”

Xarly was real tempted to shove a hand before her mouth, but that might make the scary probably-a-jedi look his way. She looked especially miffed when the droid was done translating what Qarry had said.

So miffed that she turned on a heel and walked into the next room over.

“Statement: As amusing as it would be to watch you all be gunned down, my master has other plans.”

The girl returned, and she had blasters, at least half a dozen pressed up against her stomach so that she had one arm free. She tossed one underhand to Qarry who snatched it out of the air.

“You’re arming us?” she asked before inspecting the gun. “With blasters that don’t have any power cells?”

“Comment: You are a credit to your species’ benevolence. Conjecture: Certainly, a species that allows as member as idiotic as yourself to reach adulthood without being put down is both merciful and shortsighted. Statement: The power cells are in that bin.” The droid pointed to a bin off to one side.

In Qarry’s defence, he hadn’t noticed it either.

“Alright. We each get a blaster and a smack on the ass and are told to pray that we don’t get vaporized on the way out?”

“Compliment: What a succinct way of laying out our plan.”

“Beats being a slave,” Xarly said.

He wasn’t sure if he should have been reassured by the number of people that agreed with him.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

Also, shout-out to Daimahou and BlueNine. They did word magic on there to make the mistakes go away.

 

Chapter Eleven

The first loss came not two minutes after the first collar was removed and her first squad of slaves moved out.

No, calling them slaves was wrong. She had just freed them, after all. Freedom fighters, maybe.

She had had HK-47 explain that they would be lead by her bugs. Her range didn’t cover the entire palace, but it was a near thing. A few swarming fly-things, some sand scorpions leading on the ground and using their twin stingers as pointers. Enough that she could keep an eye on what was going on.

Still, she lost five of her freedom fighters in a narrow corridor when a device fell from the ceiling and opened fire on them, putting more lasers downrange than their five blasters combined and killing all of them.

Talyor had lost people before, had led some astray, had used living things as cannon fodder since she was fifteen, but never like that.

She swallowed and focused harder. “We lost the group that went down the north-eastern corridor. Five down to some sort of turret in the ceiling,” she said.

“Assessment: A small price to pay for such valuable information.”

Her bugs across the palace started looking for more of those turrets. She found plenty. Her squads of freedom fighters all came to a stop as she barred their path with bugs. There was no way for her to write a message for them to be careful or to shoot at the ceiling.

“HK, I need messengers. Four of them,” she said, even as she raised her new arm and four gnat like bugs landed on its fingers. “They’ll have to follow these and tell my squads that there are concealed turrets in the ceiling. I need a new group to head to the north eastern corridor to retrieve the lost blasters and take out that turret.”

“Comment: Understood. I will retrieve unwilling volunteers now.”

She nodded and went back to focusing as HK-47 relayed her wants. There were hundreds of slaves in the palace, and only so many blasters to go around. More than half of them were in two or three rooms, with only a few guards to keep them safe. The sickly, the infirm.

The rest were spreading out on her directions, though some were proving a little hotheaded. Even with her insects to distract the adversaries they met in the corridors her freedom fighters were fighting an uphill battle.

Her troops didn’t have armour, were poorly armed, and weren’t all that fast to move. But, as she guided one squad behind a group of enemies pinning down another of her squads and watched them tear into their enemies undefending backs, she knew that she had some advantages that were quickly proving better than any number of extra blasters.

“Statement: Task complete, master,” HK-47 said.

Taylor nodded and let her bugs fly over to the waiting messengers to guide them. “Good. I need three more sent to squad seven down near the kitchens. The Gamoreans there are dead. They have weapons waiting.”

“Comment: Most excellent, master.”

She nodded even as the first messenger arrived, relayed her message, then started running to the next group. She watched in satisfaction as her freedom fighters moved into the next corridor, already aiming at an undeployed turret

When the weapon dropped from the ceiling, it was to be met with a hail of blasterfire.

“A few more minutes, HK, and we’ll be watching Nimas squirm,” Taylor said.

***

Modern blasters made a very distinct sound. It was high pitched enough that even with the thick walls of the palace around them they could clearly hear the whine of lasers being fired, the scream of plasma cutting off as it hit something and the burst-pops of walls being carved into by near-misses.

He recognized all those sounds from holos and recordings and even a few live fire demonstrations.

But Sib Nark had never been shot at before.

This entire situation was utterly unacceptable.

He was, essentially, a diplomat from the Trade Federation, here to purchase unfortunate Falleen citizens in order to further cement ties between the Federation and the Falleen government. His only guards were some battle droids and a few retainers who were shaking in their boots. The likelihood that they would hit anything other than their own toes with their blasters was higher than his chances at the Coruscanti Grand Lottery.

Nimas, meanwhile, was roaring and shouting, huge, fat arms waving around as she demanded more guards kill the rebelling slaves and that the bounty hunters who had been enjoying her hospitality start doing something.

It was perhaps not the best place to be, he reasoned. Standing tall in the middle of his little group, Sib Nark tried to present the image of a Neimoidian who was in control of himself. He was not going to allow any situation to strip him of his civility.

The shooting stopped.

Everyone, even Nimas, paused to listen as the constant whining of blasters echoed off into nothing.

For a moment he wondered if they had won, if the slaves had been subdued. So he looked towards the great entrance into Nimas’ throne room, expecting a victorious bounty hunter to walk in, or some of those filthy Gamoreans to squeal their victory.

A single scorpion walked down the middle of the path. It was dragging a bundle tied between its twin tails. The cloth scraped along the ground, collecting sand and dust.

“You, go see what that is!” Nimas ordered, waving a few of her guards over.

The Gamoreans lumbered over to the scorpion, hefting their crude axes by their sides.

“Let’s move back,” Sib Nark said. He had a bad feeling about that creature.

His retinue moved deeper into the shadows of one of the alcoves along the walls. Their battle droids stood by the entrance, blasters pointing towards the door and Sib Nark’s companions quaked in their boots behind them.

The Gamoreans near the scorpion talked to each other in deep grunts before one of them shrugged, raised his axe, and brought it chopping down onto the scorpion.

It splattered grotesquely, bits of chitin and black blood splattering on the ground.

The pig men laughed, soon joined by the others around Nimas.

“What’s in the sack?” the Hutt asked. She wasn’t laughing at all.

One of the Gamoreans took the bundle, shook off the bits of scorpion still tied to it, and unfolded it. He grunted something in his barbatic tongue.

“The kind Gamorrean just claimed that the device found within the sack is a thermal detonator,” Nimas’ protocol droid said.

The room went deadly quiet for a second.

The sack started to beep, faster and faster.

Sib Nark gave up all pretenses of civility and jumped behind a table. His retinue, the idiots, stood in place and screamed.

The shouting and panic was almost enough to drown out the increasingly loud beeps. Then the beeping stopped, replaced by a single low tone.

Warmth. A heat that washed across his skin and made the twin suns of Tatooine feel like mere torches in comparison. The air roared, pushing Nimas against the far wall of the alcove. the table he had hidden behind crushing him. Things shifted just as quickly and he found himself rolling towards the centre of the room, stopping just outside the alcove.

There was a fiery crackle as some of the curtains along the sides of the room burned and filled the air with a haze black smoke. Groans echoed in the darkness, most coming from around Nimas’ throne where the fat slug was still resting even as soot and burns covered her skin.

Sib Nark panted and rolled onto his back. His hearts were thudding in his chest and he felt as if his bowels were about to empty themselves. But he was a proud merchant and businessman, this lying about on the ground was not for him.

Adding a groan of his own to the cacophony he stood up and dusted off his robes while taking in the room. The thermal detonator had done a number on it, leaving a deep crater near the entrance and a few scour marks where the Gamoreans had been.

Other than that, and a few dozen burns shared across all the poor fools too close for their own good, the room was surprisingly intact. Nimas was regaining her composure, or perhaps lack thereof, his retinue were climbing back onto their feet save for one battle droids that had collapsed and stayed that way.

“I will kill them!” Nimas roared. “I will kill all of them. They will die in my pits and I will eat their filthy flesh!”

Most everyone was back on their feet. Some still looking dazed by the attack, but quickly coming to their senses. The detonation had sent them reeling, but it was too small, too weak to really destroy the massive throne room. A small mercy.

The bounty hunters were the first to notice the two figures standing in the entrance. Blasters rose, aliens of all sorts tensed and the room grew quiet again.

Sib Nark took a few steps back, seeking cover in his alcove once more. If this was the next attack by the slaves it would be best if he were not in their line of fire.

“Greetings: My master, Darth Khepri, wishes to formally greet you, the great Nimas, and inquire about the reception of her latest gift,” a droid’s monotonous voice asked.

One of the two figures was a tall, heavily built droid. At first glance it was a protocol droid, but Sib Nark had sold enough equipment of the sort that he recognized the assassin for what it was. The heavy blaster rifle casually held by its side and the blaster pistols clamps to its legs certainly helped.

The other figure was a girl child, a human or human-adjacent. She was thin, dressed in a coat that was far too large for her and that hung off her shoulders like a cape. Blue goggles reflected the few remaining lights in the room and, if Sib Nark wasn’t mistaken, bugs were crawling over her entire body and swarming around her in a cloud that made it hard to see any more details than that. She had two mismatched blasters in hand, held easily by her side.

“Darth Khepri?” Nimas asked. “What is the meaning of this? Who sent you? Was it those filthy lizards?”

“Statement: I am afraid that your death will only ever be blamed on your own slimey back, oh great Nimas. You should have known better than to anger my master.”

“Your...” the slug’s eyes narrowed. “Sith,” she accused.

Sib Nark took another step back into the shadows of his alcove. The girl looked his way for a moment, just a glance and a flash of blue visors in the growing swarm. He felt a cold shiver down his back.

“Kill them, kill them both!” Nimas roared.

The girl was rolling aside even before the first blaster fired. She dropped one of her blasters and pulled a cylindre from her jacket, letting it roll across the floor as she crouched then rolled in the opposite direction to pick up her discarded blaster.

Sib Nark cringed back, expecting another explosion. He was rewarded, instead, with a thick wall of purple smoke that poured out of the canister she had tossed. It was only when she got back to her feet, rolled around a few stray and blind shots, and raised both arms that she started firing back.

The bounty hunters around Nimas began to fall, first those that didn’t move, then the Gamoreans charging into the smoke.

The robot opened fire, each shot roaring with the distinct sounds of an overcharged blaster. Durasteel tables were blasted apart and the blasts that hit the walls sent chunks of sandstone flying across the room.

The bounty hunter’s constant barrages slowed down as the smoke spread. They couldn’t see their target and she obviously had no trouble taking shots at them from within the smoke.

In the short lull, he heard feet tapping against the ground, as if someone was running towards the guards around Nimas, but that was insane.

Then the smoke began to clear, pulled away by the room’s already taxed ventilation. The girl was standing in the circle of Nimas’ guards and guests, but their blasters were pointing in all the wrong directions. There was a moment’s confusion before those around her opened fire on their friends across the room.

Sib Nark had seen enough. He ducked back into his alcove, flinching when a stray blast hit the wall above his corner or when the bang of a stun grenade went off in the room.

He covered his head, and began to prey.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys!

Also, shout-out to Daimahou. He did word magic on here to scare the mistakes away.

 

Chapter Twelve

Taylor lowered her blaster pistol. The weapon was hot, barrel almost glowing and far too dangerous for her to allow any of her bugs to land on it. She didn’t know if the strange almost tinker-like weapons could overheat, or stop working if they were used too much, but she didn’t want to risk it.

After all, it wasn’t like she lacked in firepower.

Seven creatures surrounded her, all of them in thick armour and holding onto guns that made hers look cute in comparison. Some were probably human under all the clothes and armour, but some definitely weren’t. It didn’t matter, really, they were hers either way.

“HK-47, you still alive?” she called out.

Her robotic friend pushed aside a table and rose from the ground. There were a few black marks along his chest and one small dent over one eye, but he looked as deadly and ready as ever. “Statement: All systems are nominal. Qualification: As nominal as they were upon entering the room. I still require some maintenance to correct some deficiencies in my killing efficiency. Congratulatory: I do believe you have slain more targets than I have.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said without feeling it. The room, a sort of theater or throne room, was a charnel house. The ground was blackened by missed shots and splatters of blood that covered the entire colour spectrum. It was at once a blessing and a curse that the blasters tended to cauterise any wounds they left. There was less blood around, but now the air stank like a barbeque gone horribly wrong. It reminded her a bit of Burnscar’s work.

There were still some left alive. She could feel them shifting and groaning on the ground, some climbing to their feet and others just lying in wait. More were injured than not, but a few were perfectly healthy. Those that did not try to fight her she had done her best to spare.

The slug was also alive.

The fat creature was moving away, sliding over the corpses of her guards as she moved towards the farthest corner of the room. Taylor had no skill in reading alien body language, and giant slugs were so far from her usual that she had no point of reference, but she did have the impression that the great Nimas wasn’t feeling so great.

She had one of her minions toss its blaster into the air and caught it with a swipe. A few smaller bugs on the barrel, one or two where she wanted to hit, and she lined up a shot.

The whine of the laser crossing the room silenced a few groans, especially when it burst against the stony ground not a foot before Nimas. “HK-47, tell the slug to stop moving.”

HK-47 dutifully translated for her and the Hutt stopped. Its eyes, as big around as Taylor’s head, were cinched in a cruel glare and the creature’s hands were held in two fists at its side. The slug’s language was lilting and heavy, as if the speaker’s lips were puckered out the entire time they spoke. She listened as HK-47 and Nimas went back and forth, then her robotic friend turned to her. “Translation: The filthy Hutt wishes to inform you that because of your actions today she will be overjoyed to watch your eventual downfall and death, upon which she will consume your decapitated body, digest it, and use the excrements thereof to bury your head. Comment: A very impressive insult, yet one that I can unfortunately not carry out myself.”

“I see,” Taylor said. Being threatened by someone that was at her mercy was not the most terrifying thing to happen to her. She could already feel the adrenaline ebbing away and a bone-deep weariness begin to settle in. She was looking forwards to resting her feet and recentering herself, but that was for later. “Tell her that I don’t approve of slavery. That if she’s willing to free all of her slaves, those belonging to her and others, then I’ll let her live.”

Taylor listened as HK-47 translated. She took that time to think. There were literally hundreds of slaves in the palace alone. In the town beyond there were probably twice again as many. If she took responsibility for them that would mean feeding, clothing, and paying them. She didn’t even know how to speak with any of them yet.

Nimas started yelling at her and HK-47, a diatribe that flew over Taylor’s head, but certainly sounded angry.

“Translation: The so-called great Nimas reiterates previous threats and wishes to inform you that she will not kill you immediately, but will use you to breed a whole host of children which she will then eat before you.”

“So that’s a no to my offer, then?” she asked.

“Sarcastic Comment: Oh no, she is more than willing to comply to anything you ask, master. Nimas thinks of you as a great friend.”

Taylor closed her eyes and nodded. The guards around her raised their weapons and suddenly Nimas’ screaming took on a more urgent tone. It was drowned out by a barrage of continuous blaster fire. After all, the slug was large, it stood to reason that one or two strikes would maybe fail to kill her.

“HK-47, can you round up anyone in here that isn’t one of Nimas’ guards?” She was already having her guards drop their weapons and begin to tie each other up with strips of cloth. Her bugs outside of the throne room were pointing the freedom fighters into the room, and the braver ones were already coming in with blasters ready.

She had noticed a few children with head tentacles hiding in one corner, and a few slaves that still wore collars were cowering behind the throne. She was certain that some of the people in the room weren’t actually part of Nimas’ retinue. Or if they were, they would certainly be willing to deny it now.

One of those aliens, a tall gray skinned creature in intricate robes stood up from behind a table and slowly raised his arms. His hands shook, but after taking a few deep breaths the creature moved out from its alcove and talked towards her an HK-47.

“Observation: More meat to the slaughter.”

“Let’s see if he has anything to say,” Taylor said. She had been gunning enough people down for one afternoon. “Ask him what he wants.”

HK-47 lowered his rifle and started speaking to the creature. Soon, they switched from the guttural, slithery language the Hutt had been speaking to the one that Taylor recognized as Basic. They exchanged a few words, the alien being very obsequious for one so richly dressed.

He, it, kind of reminded her of Alan Barnes, or maybe of Quinn Calle with the way it was trying to appease HK-47 with its calmer words and body language. If it wasn’t for her bugs she wouldn’t even have noticed the way its legs were trembling.

“Liberal Translation: This Neimoidian claims to be a businessperson from the Trade Federation, here in order to purchase all the Falleen slaves the Hutt used to owe.”

Taylor’s eyes narrowed. Something must have shown even through her goggles because the Neimoidian backed up a step. “Can you politely remind him what happened to the last slave owner I dealt with.” She nodded towards the still smoking Hutt in the corner.

A few of the slaves, mostly those that looked as if they had been enslaved for a long time, were kicking the corpse. She wasn’t going to stop them from having their fun.

She started calling back the squads she had around the palace. The area was clear, as far as she could tell. A few stragglers remained, but those were mostly slaves that had been cleaning or cooking when things went down. She directed some of her freedom fighters towards them.

“Incredulous Translation: The Neimoidian claims that he intended to purchase the slaves in order to free them.”

That had Taylor’s interest. She eyed the alien for a little bit, then faced HK-47. “How did he intend to free them? And why”

HK-47 relayed the question and she could see the alien untensing a little as they went back and forth. “Comment: It seems that he has a space faring vessel nearby capable of transporting all of the Falleen slaves back to their homeworld. Conjecture: He does not hide the greed behind his motivations. I suspect that any empathy you see from this base creature is motivated by greed first. He claims that his Trade Federation are opening negotiations with the Falleen and that the return of captured citizens would earn him a great deal of respect.”

“That’s rather mercenary of him,” she said. “Ask how much room he has aboard his... spaceship. And if he would be willing to take some non-Falleen aboard.”

There was another exchange. Quicker, this time. “Statement: Oh, how interesting. He suspects that you wish to use his vessel to escape the inevitable wrath of the local Hutts. He has no qualms about letting an esteemed Jedi aboard his ship, especially one that saved him so many credits.”

“A Jedi?” The word was oddly familiar. The Jawas had used it to refer to her at one time or another.

“Explanation: The Jedi are a pompous group of religious zealots that are unable to mind their own business. They have a certain base mastery of the force that allows them to do acts that most would consider supernatural. They are the natural enemy of Sith such as yourself, but are far more popular with weak-willed civilians.”

“So they’re heroes,” she said.

“Statement: They certainly paint themselves as such. Suggestion: perhaps using the filthy organic’s gullibility again him would be advantageous.”

She gave it some thought before shaking her head. “Tell him that I just wanted to do the right thing. If he plans on taking the... freed slaves off this world, then maybe we could come to an agreement.”

***

Xarly watched the Trandoshan thrash around on the ground, black blood spilling out from between green hands. The gangster, or maybe it was a bounty hunter, stumbled back, clawed feet scrambling on the cobbled ground where its blaster had already fallen.

He lowered his own blaster, the pistol feeling a whole lot heavier than it had a minute ago.

Then Qarry stepped up next to him, pointed her blaster rifle at the lizardman, and snapped off a shot that planted between his eyes with a sizzle. “Trandos are hard to keep down,” she warned. “Shoot them, twice if you have to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. Xarly stepped aside as a few of the other slaves moved past, all of them following a scorpion that was scuttling across the floor in a straight line.

“You okay?” Qarry asked.

He straightened his back and gave her his most winsome smile. “Always, baby.” At her look he decided that changing the subject might be best. She did have a blaster in hand. “What’s going on now?”

Qarry looked after the slaves moving deeper into the palace. “I don’t know. Khepri doesn’t seem to have anything for our group. Maybe we should head outside. There are other slaves in the city. We can start clearing it out.”

“That sounds like a bit much,” he said.

She glared at him. “Would you rather stay here and die?”

“Don’t think that’ll happen. We have little miss dark and mindrapey with us, and she has her pet mudercol droid.”

“You’re an idiot, Xarly.” She said. “I don’t know why I haven’t kicked your ass yet.

“Because such a perfect ass should be admired, not kicked,” he said.

Qarry looked ready to get on with the kicking when another Falleen ran past. “Darth Khepri wants us in the throne room,” he said. “She found a way to get us off planet.”

“All of us?” Qarry asked.

The messenger shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”

“Well shit,” Xarly said. “I take back any negative thoughts I had of her that I hope she didn’t pull out of my head.” He felt a grin tugging at his lips, and it became easier to pretend that there weren’t corpses in the hallway. “We can get off this dustball.”

“You’re placing a lot of trust in her,” Qarry said. There was a note of suspicion in her voice.

“She just saved us from a life of... I don’t know, pit fighting and acting like concubines.”

“Did you just say I’d have been a concubine?” She asked.

“No, no.” He raised both hands in surrender to ward her off. “You’d be the pit fighter. I would be the concubine. Perfect ass, remember.”

She let out a low breath from her nose and he knew that if she was a normal, none terrifying girl, that would have been a laugh. “I just don’t trust her yet,” she said.

“We’ll see,” he said.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys! Also, shout-out to CrazySith who helped with the SPaG in this chapter!

 

Chapter Thirteen

Taylor had never seen a spaceship.

She’d seen them in cartoons, on old videos taken from way back before the Simurgh ruined any hopes of reaching out into space, from images of ships that some Tinkers had made that could hover above the Earth, but she had never seen an honest to god spaceship with her own two eyes.

She didn’t know if the ship sitting on a flat plateau of stone was typical, or if it was a mass-produced machine, she did know that it didn’t fit what she imagined a spaceship would look like.

It was a dull beige, as if the colour had been chosen by a panel of corporate stooges. Long and narrow, with a larger rear section from which a tall tail jutted out above. Four, almost insectile, legs held the ship in place above the sandy ground and a ramp lay unfolded from the ship’s side.

She already had a few bugs inspecting the interior and combing across rows of tight, probably uncomfortable benches. They found a few strange things. Robots of the sort that followed Sib Nark and a few non-humans. Most were armed, but none of them had the tense postures and ready stances she’d come to expect from people and creatures preparing for a fight.

“It’s a nice ship,” she said, even as she counted the benches with a few fliers.

“Comment: A passably usable transport vessel. Conjecture: No doubt the Neimoidian intends to use it to carry us to a more dignified vehicle before the local crime lords come to feast upon the town’s corpse.”

Taylor looked over her shoulder. The town was in flames. Not all of it, not much, even, but plumes of brackish smoke were rising into the cloudless sky and flames were eating away at some of the taller buildings.

A few whines from blasters zipped out of the city and into the sky, leaving red and green traces in their wake. The revolt was still in full swing, slaves freeing comrades and taking out their resentment on their captors in an orgy of violence she hadn’t seen since Leviathan’s passing.

Still, that only accounted for some of the slaves turned freedom fighters. The rest were walking behind her, a long row of humanity and alien life, cutting through the sand in rough rows towards the waiting ship. There was no way they would all fit in the first trip.

“How much room does Sib Nark’s ship have?” she asked HK-47.

Her erstwhile companion turned towards one of the few things that could live in her range without her taking it over. The droid was unarmed, probably to appease her, and stood on stick-thin legs inserted into a boxy body. Its head was vaguely dog-shaped, like an ancient jackal with two slits for eyes.

There was a quick conference and the droid touched something to the side of its head. The only words Taylor caught were the oft-repeated “Roger roger,” at the end of a sentence.

“Summary: Sib Nark’s ship, the Profits of Merchandising, is in orbit above us now. It has housing space for three hundred sentients and enough consumables to last for a two week trip with a group of that size.”

Taylor made a quick tally of the number of slaves behind them. “Ask if he can fit three times that number on reduced rations.”

While HK-47 spoke with the strange droid, she paused by the edge of a dune and allowed the sun to beat down on her head while she eyed those she had freed. Plenty had passed away in the fighting, taken out by collars or by the slavers they had been fighting against. Most, however, had lived.

She supposed that she should have been proud.

In the distance, nearly hidden by a plume of rising dust, was the Jawa Sandcrawler, the landship rolling away from the violence and destruction she had left in her wake. She hoped them the best.

“Comment: It seems that while Sib Nark is still just as obsequious as when we first met,” HK-47 began. “He is growing something of a backbone.”

“And why is that?” she asked as she turned away from the vista and started walking again. HK-47 and the droid followed.

“Reply: He suggests leaving the less valuable slaves behind in order to conserve space and comfort for those of actual value. Suggestion: Perhaps we could leave Sib Nark behind in order to exemplify why refusing your orders is a bad idea.”

Taylor snorted. “Tempting, but I don’t know anything about piloting a spaceship, and for all I know his droids and personnel are more loyal to him than they would be to me.” She shook her head. “Better to convince him that I’ll take care of the sla-- freedom fighters. If I can keep an eye on all of them I’m sure they’ll behave.”

“Compliment: Oh, master, your ability to scare people into submission is most attractive.” HK-47’s head scanned from left to right as they came closer to the ship. “Advisory: Sib Nark has suggested that we meet with one of the mercenaries he hired to serve as protection aboard his ship.”

“Oh?” Taylor asked. HK-47 raised one arm and pointed towards the ship.

There was a creature walking down the ramp, followed on both sides by a pair of droids identical to the ones Sib Nark had around him, though these carried small blaster rifles.

Taylor started moving closer until she was waiting a dozen meters from the base of the ramp. The creature stopped, raised his lizard-like snout into the air and gave it a sniff. He said something, then gave her a shallow bow.

She turned to HK-47, one eyebrow perked.

“Translation: The lizard calls himself Skarsk Nek. It is a trandoshan, a species as resilient as they are stupid, with a penchant to forget that even though they are somewhat more difficult to kill than the average sentient, their so called resiliance does not make up for their lack of wits.”

Something from HK’s translation must have clued the Trandoshan about the robot’s rather lurid translation because he bristled and started talking faster, his Basic slurring with hisses.

“Additional Translation: This particular specimen seems to have a knack for understanding social cues. He suggested that I begin by telling you that, despite his young age and obvious lack of experience, he is the one that Sib Nark hired to protect his precious cargo. No doubt the cheap Neimoidian gave the contract to the lowest bidder.”

Taylor nodded and eyed the lizard up and down. Skarsk’s attention snapped back to her and his eyes narrowed. “Tell him that we have a lot of slaves to transport to Sib Nark’s ship. Remind him that I would disapprove of Sib Nark leaving first as that might send the wrong message. And remind him that we are in something of a hurry. I don’t know how long it’ll take before Nimas’ friends decide to start snooping and I for one am not equipped to take on anyone that has spaceships at their disposal.”

It was a gnawing fear in her gut, that someone would just drop a bomb on them all from above. An army she could handle, as long as it was made of living, breathing people. She had a chance. But against creatures that had literal spaceships she was completely out of her depth.

More conversation ensued and Taylor stood in the steaming heat, her determination to learn Basic growing by the minute even as she tried to get a sense for the language. Soon enough HK-47 was done with his subtle threats and turned back to her.

“Assessment: Perhaps the Trandoshan has more wits than the many, many members of his species I gutted, eviscerated, sliced and otherwise killed over the past few centuries. It seems as though he is willing to work with us.”

Taylor nodded. “Tell him that it’ll be a pleasure to work with him.”

HK-47 said something that didn’t sound like it carried the same intent as her words, not judging by the way the lizardman’s already pale complexion paled even further.

It didn’t matter, as long as she got what she wanted.

***

“You cannot just give this woman anything she asks for,” the tinny voice said. “We are not the servants of the Jedi. We are the Trade Federation.”

Sib Nark bowed to the hologram. “I understand, Lead Banker Bee'n Conta,” he said. “But as I said, this Jedi killed all of Nimas’ guards and the Hutt herself. She is dangerous, and double crossing her might be unwise.”

It was difficult, he knew from experience, to convince the members of the board to listen to reason. Unfortunately he was still a few unfortunate accidents away from being promoted to a position where he would have more freedom to make his own choices.

The twenty one holograms floating before him were all coming in with various levels of poor reception. That was too bad. It made it all the harder for them to take his words seriously. “The Falleen are freed, and as soon as they and some other select slaves are aboard my ship we will be leaving Hutt space. Not bringing the jedi with us would complicate matters with the Falleen.”

“Couldn’t you just kill her?” Brux Chadrad asked. He was a Geonosian and new to the council and to his position as Security Advisor. “You have droids, don’t you?”

“Merely early models of the OOM series, and only a few hundred at that,” Sib Nark said.

“Wouldn’t that be enough to take care of one jedi?” the Geonosian asked. His wings fluttered out behind him, disappearing into a static fuzz.

He shook his head. “Darth Khepri proved herself very capable,” Sib Nark began. “I do not think such a small number of defun--”

“What did you call her?” Sib Nark would usually have been insulted by the interruption, but Nute Gunray was important enough that the usual niceties did not apply. In fact, until then the current viceroy of the Trade Federation had been more focused on a datapad and with talking to assistants that moved in and out of his muted hologram. “What did you call the jedi?” he demanded.

Sib Nark bowed again, deeper this time. “Darth Khepri is the name given by her... protocol droid. May I enquire as to if she is known to you?”

“You will do everything in your power to accommodate the... jedi. Bring her to Falleen if you must. She may be of great interest to the Trade Federation in the future. That is all.” The Viceroy’s hologram blinked out, leaving the rest of the council floundering for a moment.

There was something of a pause while the other members shifted gears. Finally, Lead Banker Bee'n Conta cleared his throat. “Seeing as how your current mission has taken on a somewhat more important role in matters, it might be advisable for your lone vessel to acquire a bit more leeway. I shall see to freeing up more discretionary funds to be used in order to secure your most precious cargo,” the banker smiled.

Bee’n Conta only ever smiled that way when there was something afoot and he wanted in on it.

Sib Nark wasn’t quite certain what had just happened, but he could smell the profit already.

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys! Also, shout-out to CrazySith who helped with the SPaG in this chapter!

 

Chapter Fourteen

When Taylor thought of ‘space travel’ she mostly had vague memories of Star Trek ships darting through the empty void of space, or of the classic novels that her mom had left her that always talked about moving from planet to planet as a series of incredibly complicated and precise calculations done by supercomputers so as to not waste an ounce of fuel.

Sib Nark’s ship, the Profits of Merchandising was basically a huge cigar in space, with cargo areas along its flanks and sides that could, in a pinch, serve as american football fields. Those were now filled with thousands of beds and blankets on which the rescued slaves were huddled and waiting for their nightmare to end.

She, on the other hand, was still on the ship’s bridge, staring into the blue expanse flashing by them and trying to reconcile the ease with which the ship was moving through space with everything she knew of space travel.

She had bugs just about everywhere aboard the vessel, and more were being bred as she stood there, and yet she still had a hard time wrapping her head around the size of the freighter.

“Comment: We are going to exit Hyperspace in one minute, master. We need to transfer from the Tatooine-Gamor lane to the Denon-Ryloth pass.”

“You’ll have to explain how all of this works one day,” she said with a gesture to the space beyond them. “It’s... impressive, to say the least.”

“Assessment: At the rate of learning that your inefficient meat brain processes things it would require millenia to teach you all of the intricacies behind the function of a ship of this scale. Suggestion: Some organics find it easier to merely assume that machines just function as they ought to and not question things any more than that. This is of course because they are too stupid to understand things the way a proper machine can.”

“Right,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Well, maybe we can find some simple education programs. I want to at least know the basics. Stuff like kids shows and the like. My mom used to tell me that it was a great way to start learning a new language. Which is something else we’ll have to work on.”

“Query: You said ‘we’ master. Unless my translation protocols are failing me that assumes that I will have to assist you through the bumbling first steps of learning Basic.”

“I can’t have you translating everything for me. What if we need to split up while assaulting another castle?” she asked. She thought that maybe she was getting the knack for talking to HK-47.

The ship rocked a little, just a tiny shiver that she felt in the soles of her feet and across all the bugs tucked away in nooks and crannies. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, the view outside the screen changed from the hypnotising blue of hyperspace to a pallet of uncountable stars with oceans of hazy whiteness stretching out in intricate constellations.

She could have stared at the void for hours, but the sudden shift to real space had all of the robots on the bridge, all of them the jackal-headed droids that Sib Nark favoured, suddenly moving and talking between each other in a babble that broke her calm.

“There’s a ship over there,” she said, pointing off into the dark depths where a slim white form was barely visible.

“Observation: Indeed. Though my current sensor suit isn’t enough to pick out its make and model. There are seventeen other vessels within viewing range, but your poorly evolved organic eyes will not be able to differentiate them from specks of dust caught in your meaty ocular devices.”

“That’s fair, I suppose,” she said before turning back towards the bridge proper. The entire area was lined with stations with holographic displays and computer monitors on which numbers and graphs were flashing by, all of it being observed by a few dozen droids with yellow-striped heads. There was some sort of colour-coding with the robots, but she hadn’t figured it all out yet.

At the far end of the room, standing with arms crossed near the exit, was the trandoshan lizard-man that had greeted her when they boarded. Narrowed eyes were fixed on her as if she was about to jump into the pilot’s seat and ram them into a sun at the drop of a hat.

Not that she could have even if she wanted to. The more time she spent in the merchant ship, the more she felt inadequate. There was a gulf of technological knowledge between her and even the slimmest possibility of being independent.

The more she saw that, the more she realized that she had to start catching up, and soon. “HK-47,” she began. “You can transmit your protocols to other droids, right?”

“Disparaging Remark: As if other droids would be able to process the breadth and width of my capabilities.”

“What about your translation from English to Basic? I’ll ask Sib Nark for one of these.” She paused to gestured towards the nearby droids. “To act as a teacher. It’ll free up time for you to enjoy yourself.”

“Reluctant Acceptance: Very well, master. I suppose acting as your translator does grow tiring. Query: What do I get for this valuable information?”

She paused. “What do you mean?”

“Statement: The translation protocols are the only way for you to communicate. Therefore they are valuable to you. What will you give me in exchange for them?”

She frowned and held back on the urge to rail against HK-47 for being unfair. But in a way the argument was sound. “I don’t know what you want, exactly. Maybe I can ask Sib Nark to have his maintenance droids look you over? You could use a washing, and I’m certain your combat efficiency will rise considerably once your joints are cleared of sand and you’re all oiled up.”

She had a flash of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz acting like a murderous psychopath instead of a jovial ditz for a moment and had to suppress a grin.

She was about to start walking back towards her cabin, a little space set aside just for her and HK-47 apart from all the holds where the freed slaves were sleeping when the tone in the room shifted. The droids started speaking faster, their voices rising in pitch. Not panic, but certainly enough to hint that something interesting was going on.

The Trandoshan moved forwards, being sure to keep a fair amount of distance between himself and her even as he started barking orders. He paused for a moment, looked out the main viewscreen, then spun on a heel and ran out of the bridge.

“Assessment: It seems as though something interesting is finally happening. How wondrous.”

***

Sib Nark was not having the best few days and the constant irritation was starting to draw out his ire. At least, that’s what Skarsk suspected as he watched the over-the-top Neimoidian’s lips pucker and his brow draw down. “And their transponder codes are confirmed?” the merchant asked.

Skarsk nodded. He didn’t like this job, but it was easy, supposed to be low-risk, and paid relatively well. Not the glamour and excitement he expected when he started working as a mercenary, but enough to keep his account topped up and afford a few meals a day between this job and the next. The fact that his only coworkers were droids was almost a blessing. “The droids confirm that it is a Republic code. Intersector Revenue Services.” He hissed a little. “They claim that we triggered their random search parameters.”

Sib Nark scoffed. “That is as likely as me winning the Grand Coruscant Lottery.” He waved a hand dismissively. “No, they know that our cargo are slaves. They must.”

Skarsk nodded. He knew no such thing, but he was willing to allow his boss the benefit of the doubt. “And what will they do when they discover our cargo are freed slaves?”

“Nothing good,” Sib Nark said. “If they stopped us because they knew we had the slave aboard then they are most definitely being informed by the Hutts.”

Skarsk nodded. “We cannot fight them off. The Republic ship is faster and better armed than we are. If we launch all our fighters we might be able to make a run for it, but I would not gamble with those odds. Reinforcements might not be far.”

Sib Nark hummed. “No, if they are being bribed to board us and steal the slaves, then they wouldn’t call for aid. They would just kill us and be done with it.”

Skarsk hissed. “Could they? We have droids aboard, and many of the slaves are armed.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Sib Nark said. “They would hold us in place while the Hutts bring their own vessels to board. No, they are going to stall us, and perhaps disable our engines and hyperdrive if we do not obey.”

“A distress signal?” Skarsk said.

“And what, announce to the galaxy that the Republic is corrupt?” He scoffed again. “They know this already.”

“Then what?”

Sib Nark looked around his extravagant office, the room meant for the captain of the superfreighter converted into a luxurious cabin and workspace for the Neimoidian. “The ship’s model,” he began.

“It is Corellian, a CR70, or 90. There are also six CloakShape fighters with--”

“I don’t care about that,” Sib Nark barked. “Tell our jedi friend. She may have a solution. I will contact the Trade Federation. They might lend assistance. And activate our droids to repel boarders and the Vulture droids. We may have to fight our way to the next sector. The Hutts wouldn’t dare attack in Falleen space.”

“Yes, sir,” Skarsk said nodding once before stomping out of the room.

Perhaps, he began to think, he would finally be able to score some Points.

***

Short chapter is short.

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys! Also, shout-out to CrazySith and Daimahou who helped with the SPaG in this chapter!

 

Chapter Fifteen

Waffled over this chapter for a bit. But in the end, screw it, I’m writing this chapter in non-chronological order.

***

Time: Twelve minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

HK-47 didn’t know what to say about his master’s plan. The title was certainly deserved, at least for the few hours she was likely to survive before being disintegrated. It was at once mad and certain to, at the very least, cause chaos in the ranks of their enemies.

With a flick he turned off the safety on his blaster rifle and raised it to his shoulder. His calculations suggested that they were going to go out in a blaze of glorious, fiery death. And that was good enough for him.

“Announcement: Piracy protocols loaded and ready, master.”

***

Time: Six minutes before the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

When Skarsk Nek told Darth Khepri and her terrifying protocol droid that they were, in all likeliness, going to be boarded and held in place until the Hutts came to destroy them, he had imagined that her reaction would be something normal. Fear, perhaps, or maybe anger and desperation.

He didn’t expect her to start asking questions about the number of enemies they were going to have to deal with or whether any of the slaves would be so kind as to assist in what was, to his mind, little more than a very elaborate suicide attempt.

But she said it with conviction, laying out ideas that quickly grew and changed as he pointed out new problems that she would have to face, each issue an attempt to convince her that it was all a horrible, horrible idea.

Then Sib Nark got involved and decided that if he was going to lose his precious asset, it would be because the asset got rid of herself, and that he, as little more than a mercenary, would assist her.

That’s how he came to be standing before the yet-unopened universal hatchway set at the end of a white-walled corridor, fidgeting on the spot with his claws digging at the ground and hands twitching towards his blasters. All of his instincts told him that he was going to be in the fight of his life.

He could feel the trepidation coming from the so-called freedom fighters behind him, all of them slaves freed by Khepri who had volunteered for the daredevilish stunt. Thay had to reject dozens of them, even after telling them of the odds.

Maybe, if he forgot all else and let himself sink into unreasonableness, he too would be willing to trust in the mad Darth’s plan. But for now he would keep his wits about him and play his part. He just had to still the eager beating of his heart.

The door hissed.

***

Time: One hour before the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

“So, you’re telling me that not only are we going to be boarded by the space IRS,” Taylor said as she eyed first HK-47, then Skarsk Nek and the ex-slaves that had decided to follow him. “But we’re being boarded to hold us in place until the people we pissed off on that desert planet come around and enslave us all, again?”

“Compliment: A wonderful summation of events, master,” HK-47 said. “Suggestion: The boarding ramp the so-called inspectors will be using would serve as an excellent chokepoint to gun down the undesirables as they rush into this vessel. We could use their vehicle to escape and leave all these useless meatbags behind.”

Taylor glared at him, then looked at the Trandoshan and the Falleen behind him. They were in one of the main corridors of the ship, one that bisected it from prow to stern and that branched off into the massive holds along the sides.

The ex-slaves looked nervous, an almost palpable scent of fear coming off of them as if they knew that they were about to be caged, or worse, again.

Taylor’s mind raced. She never meant to take responsibility for that many lives and still didn’t feel as though she deserved the burden being shoved onto her back. But she was responsible, and she had to do something about it.

The problem was finding something she could do that would keep the people in the Super Freighter safe.

“HK-47, could we fight off the Republic ship?”

“Suggestion: If we deactivate all security precautions aboard this vessel we could ram the enemy ship at such a velocity as to render it, and any planetary body directly behind it, unusable.”

Taylor glared. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard from you.” She shook her head. “How much trouble would we be in if you killed the inspectors and tried to make a run for it?”

“Answer: Lots.”

She pinched her eyes closed. “And if we didn’t kill, but instead captured all of them?”

“Concern: Master, are you suggesting that we capture an entire ship’s complement of soldiers in order to make a point about assaulting any vessel you’re on? Conjecture: I suspect the Hutt forces will still attack us even with Republic hostages, though it might sow more chaos. Always a desirable outcome in a battle where you are heavily outgunned and outnumbered.”

“And what if we made a run for it?”

HK-47 shook his head from side to side. “Statement: From what I have gathered you, my master, are the main target of the Hutt’s ire. No matter where you run the Hutt forces will chase you down. Addition: This vehicle, as large and fuel efficient as it may be, it not fast enough to escape the Hutt’s attention.”

Taylor slowly crossed her arms, then looked down. It... wasn’t helpless. Not yet.

The Profits of Merchandising was still on a direct course for a section of space relatively busy with traffic. There were plenty of larger ships there, all on a course towards the same destination they were on. Apparently plotting a course took time and was easier if done from certain key locations.

Which meant that the battlefield wasn’t as random as she might have originally thought. “I have a few ideas,” she said. “But they’re going to be strange, and I’m going to need Sib Nark’s help, as well as any volunteers from the freedom fighters that know anything about piloting a ship.”

***

Time: Three minutes before the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

The boarding ramp shuddered and hissed as the pressure between the two ships stabilized. He passed a hand over the front of the uniform, then stopped to scratch at a stain decorating the soft material.

It would probably leave in the wash. He could get some of his subordinates to do that now because he was the head honcho here, the captain, the Gungan in charge.

Straightening his back a little, he shifted from foot to foot and glared at the still-closed airlock door. “Yousa all know whatsa you be doings?” he asked.

“Yes sir, Captain N'koala,” his assistant said. She was a human, as were most of the crew aboard his ship, but there were plenty of aliens too. That had certainly helped him get to his current rank.

And now, thanks to that rank, he found himself in a position where opportunities abounded. At first he was leery and confused about the strange habits his crew had of taking little gifts in order to facilitate the traffic through the sector, but soon he came to see that it was all for the best.

After all, if a merchant wanted to gift him some fine grist mollusks for his services in keeping the Republic safe, then helping them along, or giving them a discount on their taxes was the least he could do.

Yes, he was going to be the best officer the Republic had ever seen, or at least the best Gungan captain to tax the stars. “Oh, mesa think wesa about to board,” he said as the airlock finished cycling and began to open.

This was just a routine stop. His assistant said that there were rumours that this ship held a whole lot of slaves, and that was just terrible. So he was going to inspect the ship like a hero of yore, and then hand over the vile slavers to the nice Hutt people who would take care of them. And then he would be gifted many credits and praise for his assistance.

Yes, he was the best.

He stopped scratching at the stain on his jacket and looked down a long corridor with off-white walls, a lone trandoshan with chromed armour over his chest and legs and upper arms, with a sickly green uniform underneath. The trandoshan was looking at him and his assistant and his two guards with narrowed eyes. “Welcome aboard the Profits of Merchandising,” the Trandoshan said. “I am Skarsk Nek, this ship’s chief of security.”

“Mesa Teers N'koala,” Teers said as he stumbled forwards, one hand rising to shake. “And wesa the Intersector Revenue Services, da mostest important service of the Republic.” He nodded along at his own words as his guards trooped in, blaster rifles held low, but ready to come up in case of trouble.

“I’m sure,” Skarsk Nek hissed. “Why are you here?”

“Wesa just inspecting disa ships for any illegal con-tra-band and for suchlike things.”

Skarsk Nek nodded. “And our ship was the one that was chosen out of all the ships in this sector?”

“Yesa. Wesa received a report dat yousa bongo was carryin' sum suspicious cargo. Yousa wouldn't besa tryin' ta hide sumptin from da Republic, would yousa?” He leaned forwards, ears flopping on both sides of his head.

The Trandoshan snorted. “Not at all. Follow me, then,” he said.

Teers clapped and followed after the Trandoshan, his guards and assistant right on his heels. As soon as they discovered something suspicious, he would be able to call the ship and they would lock this vessel in place with their tractor beams and ion cannons. That was, if they didn’t listen and shut off their engines on their own.

He strutted around the corner, then stopped.

Standing behind raised crates and large boxes were two dozen Falleen and a mixed bag of other aliens, most of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder with skeletal battle droids. “Oh, dat's rilly notsa hot.”

In a move so swift he couldn’t even follow it, the Trandoshan spun around on the ball of one foot, tore out a blaster pistol from around his hip, and snapped off five shots into his guards and assistant.

They all flopped to the ground while the Trandoshan pointed the warm barrels of his blasters right at Teer’s head. “We’re bringing you with us.”

"You're makin' a boopjak hair,” he said as he slowly raised his arms.

The Falleen and others rushed forwards and started dragging his guards away while taking off all their gear. He was going to protest but Skarsk poked his ribs. “My blaster was set on stun,” he said. “We didn’t kill any Republic soldiers, we took out some pirates disguised as Republic officers. At least, that’ll be our story.”

“Yousa're goen to besa in doo-doo per doen disa,” he said. “Da republic isn't goen to take disa”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But we’ll be going out with a fight, and that counts for a lot.”

***
A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys! Also, shout-out to CrazySith and Daimahou who helped with the SPaG in this chapter!

 

Chapter Sixteen

Time: Twelve minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

“What kind of ship is this?” Taylor asked as she walked down the middle of a white-walled corridor. The sides were covered in panels that looked to be made of some hard plastic and her booted steps rang over a rough, grated floor.

It felt as if the entire ship was designed to be as clean as possible, hiding all the wires and pipes and mechanical bits behind removable walls. There were rooms that accessed what looked like engines and other systems that looked important but that she couldn’t make heads or tails of with her limited bug vision.

She didn’t know much about spaceships. Not nearly enough to judge one, but the layout of the Republic ship suggested that it was made for tight skirmishes in the corridors and quick and easy access to all the important components, presumably to keep it running if it was attacked.

It was, unlike Sib Nark’s Profits of Merchandising, a warship, albeit a small one.

Maybe that was why she wasn't surprised when her range slid over a group of armed humans and aliens hidden around the next intersection. She sighed and had them move to escort her. More firepower wouldn’t go amiss, especially if things went horribly wrong.

“Where’s the command area on this thing?” she asked.

HK-47, whose footfalls on the grated floor were exactly as loud as one would expect from a robot, was quick to respond. “Conjecture: Judging by the layout seen so far, the scans made of the ship from the Profits of Merchandising, and the data downloaded from the extranet, the bridge of this vessel is at the very front.”

“And how long will it take to get everyone into position?” she asked.

Two corridors down she used some bugs to warn her freedom fighters of a group of Republic soldiers moving to intercept them, then used another batch of bugs to choke the soldiers and poke their eyes. They went down in a blaze of ion fire.

“Comment: With the quality of the help you have? A decade would be insufficient. But they will reach their assigned positions in a few minutes.”

“Right,” she said as she moved on ahead. Behind her trailed a dozen ex-slaves, all of them apparently capable bridge crew, and twice that number of battle droids that could serve as the same, all of them surrounding a group of unarmed and unhappy Republic pirates. They just had to get to the bridge and she could move on to the next part of her plan.

They turned down another corridor and arrived at a thick door surrounded by red lights. “Announcement: We have arrived.”

“You’d make a great GPS,” Taylor deadpanned. She gestured at the door. “Can you open it up?”

“Negation: I cannot open this blast door. There is a biometric lock on the panel next to it, however.”

Taylor noticed the blocky panel and nodded. “Tell two of the battle droids to bring my Gungan friend over, then get ready to take out any guests on the other side of the door.” She moved to the side while spreading out her collection of guards, soldiers and personnel like a wall of blaster-bolt absorbent bodies.

The Gungan blubbered as he was pushed forward, but quieted as soon as he was within her range and walked with none of his liquid languidness over to the panel to press his hand on it.

HK-47 brought his oversized blaster rifle up. “Announcement: Piracy protocols loaded and ready, master.”

***

Time: Twenty-Three minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

His ship completed the jump from hyperspace with a rattle, then settled into a smooth flight through the empty void.

Narrowing his eyes, the captain looked over his bridge, taking note of the posture of his crew as they pored over their consoles. “Any surprises?” he asked.

His first mate shook his head. “No, captain, nothing but empty space and a whole lot of ships in the long range scanners.”

“Good,” he said. That was as it should be. “The others?”

“The Gut-Ripper, Raider and Stinky are already here, Captain Triras, sir” his scanner operator said from her seat. “Annnd the Thick Stick just showed up, late as usual. Putting it up on the main command display.”

He grunted an affirmative and pressed a few keys on the arm of his command seat. A holographic display of local space appeared, a bubble of flat rings with distance markers all centred on the Beskar Mace. The other ships, three escort frigates and a converted freighter, were arrayed in a loose formation around her. She was the only Mon Calamari cruiser in this corner of space, as far as he was aware, and he was damned proud of her.

It had taken years of doing business that had left him feeling sick to his stomach to afford his MC40, but it was the greatest purchase he had ever made. Rubbing a hand gently across the armrest as if carressing the Mace, he refocused on the task at hand. This ship made him a name with the Hutts, someone worth paying attention to. Now he to had to prove his worth again.

“Where’s our target?” he demanded.

The woman on the scanner was quick to reply. “Right here, sir,” she said before bringing up another image.

The Super Freighter Profits of Merchandising was huge. Easily twice as big as his Mace. But it was an ugly thing. All angular and utilitarian, with nothing to please the eye about it. “Is that the Republic ship?” he asked, pointing to a different vessel that was just barely registering on the scans.

“Aye, sir, IFF reads as the Bureaucratic Enforcer. Intersector Revenue Services.”

He huffed. “Did they get the job done at least?” he asked. “Comms, get me a link with the fool in charge.”

“Aye, sir,” his comms officer said.

A hologram appeared in the centre of the bridge, glowing a bright and clear blue as the reception between the two ships was nearly crystal clear. Floating there, just slightly larger than life, was a Falleen male, his uniform frumpled and dirty and crooked. “Hey, hi, sorry, yeah, I’m with ya,” he said before giving them a brilliant smile and straightening his hat. “How can I help?”

Triras glared at the fool. “Put your captain on the comms. Now.”

“Ah, well,” the Falleen said. He looked off and away from the holoprojector, then came back with a sickening grin. “I can’t do that. Captain’s, uh, he’s playing, with some slaves. We, uh, took a few of the prettier ones. That’s okay, right?”

He felt his grip tighten on the armrest of his seat, then consciously loosened his grip. “I will tell my clients as much. As long as the main target is still aboard the ship we will have no issues. Tell me of the Profits’ condition.”

“The what?” the Falleen asked before the faintest light of intelligence sparked in his eye, then sputtered. “Oh, that ship. Yeah, it’s okay. We had to knock her out of space, you know? Tried to run for it. And, uh, sent those Vultures at us, but we got lucky with an ion blast. Not lucky I mean, we followed protocol. I think.”

Triras felt his jaw starting to ache. “Understood. We’ll begin boarding as soon as we reach them. Triras of the Beskar Mace, out.” With a swipe of his hand he ordered the comms shut and watched it wink out before speaking.

“Send a message to the Stinky. Have them tail that Republic ship,” he didn’t wait for the ‘aye sir’ before giving his next order. “Get me targeting on any debris near the Profits of Merchandising. Find those knocked out Vultures. They start moving and I want them burning in space. Order the Thick Stick to prepare for boarding maneuvers. We’ll go by the books here. And inform our own troopers to get ready for boarding as well. We’ll dock with her ourselves. I don’t trust the Thick Stick’s crew to do anything right. And make sure the others give us some room to maneuver and watch our damned backs. We’ll be sitting mynocks for a while.”

A chorus of ayes greeted him.

***

Time: Thirty-Seven minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

Taylor watched with mounting anticipation as the five ships approached. She could see them out of the Enforcer’s bridge window, but they were small and distant specks, only the brass hull of the Belkar Mace sticking out from the void of space as it moved to approach the Profits.

She hoped that things went to plan, but knew better than to expect complete success. All of the best fighters were with her now, and the Profits had an entire ship’s worth of Republic soldiers locked in one of its holds. At least those left behind were armed and had a few hundred droids for support.

Not as much as she would have liked. Not by half.

One of the ships, the Stinky she thought, was moving closer to them. It was little more than a tin can affixed to a box with engines strapped on the back, but HK-47 said that for all of its ugliness and smaller size, it was just as armed as her own new ship.

The two other escorts, both now circling a distance away, were no better.

Outnumbered and outgunned. But they had one key advantage. Surprise.

She hoped it would be enough.

“HK,” she called out. The delay between order, translation and action was going to be a problem, she knew, but it wasn’t one she could do anything about on such a short amount of time. “Get us moving towards that line of freighters.” She turned and pointed to the holographic display in the room’s centre. There were plenty of ships in the area, though they were dispersed. Mostly. One group was fairly tightly knit. “Tell Xarly to send the distress signals. Ask for civilian assistance on behalf of the Republic. Get those fighters back online and tell the Republic fighters to come back, double time.”

“Statement: I shall relay your orders, Master.”

“HK-47,” she said before he could start translating. “Tell everyone that I wish them good luck. And to open fire whenever they can.”

“Comment: With pleasure!”

***

A huge thank-you to my friends and patrons who allow me the time to write this kind of story and who are always there to help bounce ideas and poke fun at my shoddier work. I love you guys! Also, shout-out to CrazySith and Daimahou who helped with the SPaG in this chapter!

Story no longer posted on Sufficient Velocity for being too racist. It’s being reposted on QQ and AO3 instead.

For reference, I thought it might be neat to link the Wookiepedia pages I used as a reference for each ship, even though they were only just introduced this chapter.


Taylor and friends:
Trade Federation Super Freighter ‘Profits of Merchandising’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Trade_Federation_Superfreighter
The Republic IRS ship ‘Bureaucratic Enforcer’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/CR70_corvette/Legends

Hutts:
Troop/Slave Transport ‘Thick Brick’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/CSS-1_Corellian_Star_Shuttle/Legends
Escort 1 ‘Gut-Ripper’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Pelta-class_frigate/Legends
Escort 2 ‘Raider’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Consular-class_space_cruiser
Escort 3 ‘Stinky’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/DP20_frigate
Main Ship ‘The Beskar Mace’ https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/MC40a_light_cruiser

 

Chapter Seventeen

Time: Thirty-Seven minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

Skarsk felt the pirate ship docking with the Profits of Merchandising. It was just a small shiver running through the floor before the inertial dampeners came online and compensated for the motion. It was enough. “Are you all ready?” he hissed over his shoulder.

The slaves behind him were poorly clothed, underfed, tired from days or years spent on the wastelands of Tatooine and armed with blasters that had been scavenged from Hutt slavers. They were as ragtag a bunch as he had ever seen. And yet Darth Khepri still expected him to hold back an entire force of slavers with them. There was a weak chorus of ‘yes,’ and ‘aye.’

There were battle droids too, twice as many as there were slaves and better equipped. He gave them about as much respect as they deserved, which was none. “You know who your targets are?” he asked them.

“Roger roger.”

He spat on the steel grated floor and turned back around to face the direction the enemy would come from. The droids were all off to the left and right of the group, leaving the middle area open and clear. The idea was to draw fire away from the squishier slaves.

At least the woman and her droid had given him a few tricks.

They were stationed behind a row of containers welded to the ground, past a three way intersection through which the pirates would have to pass. The other way was blocked by a closed blast door while the door into the corridor they were in was wide open. He had a controller for the door stuck to his belt.

The Profits shivered again and he felt his ears pop. Clawed hands gripped his blaster rifle tighter. Soon.

The corridor the slavers and pirates would enter had crates and boxes moved into it. Cover for the enemy to use. An idea that felt horribly wrong to him, but perhaps made sense. All those boxes and crates were thin plasteel and empty besides. A lucky blaster bolt would burn right through and hit whomever hid behind it. A second would vaporize the box.

He growled as he heard distant boots clomping closer and shouted commands. Maybe if they were on land they could have rigged explosives, or used heavier ordonance, but that was suicide in a spacecraft.

He snapped back to attention as the first slaver appeared at the far end of the corridor, pointed their way, then snapped a shot at them. It hit the ceiling halfway.

At least, he reasoned as he ducked, both sides would be awful shots. “Keep your heads down, fools!” he barked. Then, in a lower voice, added, “Let the bastards come closer.”

All the slaves dropped to the ground, but the battledroids were too dumb to react. One of them ate a blaster bolt in the head and clattered to the ground.

“Open fire!” he ordered.

Their call of “Roger roger,” was drowned out by the whine of blasters.

Soon, the air was filled with blue and red bolts going back and forth, most missing, but a few taking out or glancing off their droids.

“Our turn,” he said. “On three. One, two... three.” He stood up with the rest and took in the scene.

There were a lot more than he had expected. At least forty, if not fifty pirates in sight, too cocky to use the cover provided as they took potshots at the droids. He picked out one slaver that looked more important than the rest and fried his head off with a well placed trio of shots before dropping to one knee. He felt a wash of heat over his head as a bolt zipped by.

Waiting a few seconds, he poked his head out. More slavers were coming at the end of the corridor.

The firefight intensified and he could feel the metal of his cover warming up. “Now,” he said.

With a press of the button at his hip, the foot-thick blast doors just a pace away from their barricade began to close.

The return fire intensified as the doors shut, but there was nothing the pirates could do. They clanged shut with a boom.

A particularly stupid battledroid mistimed its fire, hit the wall, and burst apart when its bolt ricochetted into its head.

“Idiots,” he grumbled even as the stuttacco rap-tap-tap of blasters on the other side sounded out.

He grinned and brought up his door controls. This had been the murderous droid’s idea. Dishonourable, but effective.

With a press of a button, another blast door opened. This one in the corridor still filled with pirates. A blast door that lead to a junction to connect to a cargo container. One that was empty.

The whoosh of evacuating pressure was like music.

“Come, there is another ship trying to board us. We will kill them too,” he said before tossing the door controls to one of the droids. “In two minutes, close the exterior blast door, then seal this room before entering that corridor. If the Hutt ship is still connected, board them.”

“Roger roger.”

This was going to be fun, he thought as he began to race across the ship.

***

Time: Thirty-Nine minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

Trias had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that things were about to go horribly wrong. Just a niggling little seed of doubt, but one that he had learned to listen to over the course of his long career as a bounty hunter and pirate captain. “Any reports from the Thick Stick?” he asked.

The Beskar Mace had just completed its docking maneuvers, connecting it with one of the many entrance hatches along the Profits of Merchandising. It wasn’t quite a sleeping mynock, but it was damned close to one. The Raider was hovering close by in case things went wrong, the Stinky was watching over the Republic ship and the Gut-Ripper was farther afield, slowly coming around.

The only other ship in the fleet he had taken command of, the Thick Stick, was docked on the other side of the Profits and unloading slavers into the cargo ship. Once it was secured from within with slavers and pirates from the Stick and the Mace, they would use the hauler to drag their bounty back to Tatooine.

It was a simple enough plan, and he expected it to go horribly wrong at any moment.

“Loss of atmosphere on the cargo ship!” one of his officers screamed across the bridge. “No, wait... just one section. Shit, we’ve got crew from the Stick jettisoned.”

He sat straighter in his seat. “Was it accidental or are the slaves fighting back?” he asked.

“Fighting sir. We had a report from on the Profit about a barricade and some battle droids,” the same officer said.

“Tell our own men to be careful. They’re prepared for us. Cornered as they are they’ll fight like enraged rancor.” He glared at the display. Nothing was going on beyond that, except...

“Sir, those vulture droids are coming online!”

“Captain!” another call. “The Profits is bringing up partial shields. It’s laser canons are aiming at out hull.”

“Report from the Stinky sir, the Republic ship is warming up its engines and coming around it’s... sir, the Republic ship is opening fire!”

“Captain, those Republic fighters near the waypoint are turning our way!”

Trias rammed a fist into his armrest and started thinking as quickly as he could. A dozen vulture droids was nothing to scoff at, but it was too little to be a real threat to his ship. The other ships in his fleet though might have difficulty with those numbers. They would have to take care of themselves for now.

The Republic fighters were little more than six Cloakshapes. Nothing to be worried about just yet. And they had a ways to travel.

No, his main focus had the be the ship his own was docked to, and the Republic CR70. Neither were well armed, but they were bigger threats all the same.

“Get targeting on that Republic ship. Contact the Raider and Gut-Ripper, tell them to chase that damned ship down. Recall the Stinky, it’s too far from the rest of the fleet. Cancel our boarding action. I don’t need that extra distraction.”

He got a few ayes as his orders were relayed. He was almost content to sit back when he felt a slight tremor run across his ship.

“Sir, the Profit’s laser canons are hitting our hull,” his first mate said, voice too damned placid for someone announcing that they were being hit. “The emplacement is rather awkward, we can’t hit it with any turbolasers. Any missile we use would impact us too. Should we aim the point defence guns at it?”

“Might as well,” he grumbled. One smaller anti-pirate laser cannon emplacement wasn’t going to do much against the shields on his Mace. “Tell the Thick Stick to get its shit together and get some men in that abomination. Shut that emplacement down, dammit.”

“Aye sir,” his First Mate said. “Sir, the Stinky is reporting difficulties.”

He scoffed. “Put it on the screen.”

The Stinky was an old DP20. Ugly as all sin, but armed to the gills and with shields well above its class. It was a ship built from the ground up to be a warship, not a retrofitted freighter or transport or a cushy little frigate like the Republic’s CR70.

The holo switched to a view of the Stinky moving at a decent clip parallel to the Republic ship, blasts of laser fire were being exchanged from the two vessels and yet...

“Ion cannons,” he said, recognizing the blue tint of the shots coming from the Republic ship.

In hindsight it made perfect sense. The Republic ship was a policing vessel. It wasn’t made to stand up to sustained fire or destroy anything, it was made to incapacitate and hold enemy vessels. Of course it would have a full suite of ion weaponry instead of proper lasers.

For every uncannily aimed shot the DP20 took, the Republic ship took two, the weight of fire from the Stinky far surpassing what the CR70 could put out, but even as he watched, arcs of electric fire ran across the DP20’s shields and its cannons shorted out, going quiet one by one.

When two of its four engines sputtered to a halt and its shields winked out, he knew it was over. The Republic frigate had taken a beating but its shields still held and it was circling around to finish the job.

He still held the advantage, still had more ships and more firepower, but suddenly things weren’t looking so good.

“Sir, there was an explosion near our boarding ramps. We’re... we’re being boarded!”

Trais glowered at the holo. Clearly he had not charged enough for this expedition.

***

A huge thank-you to my Patreons for helping bounce ideas on the Discord and for encouraging me to post this monstrosity!

 

Chapter Eighteen

Time: Forty minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

Even after giving the order and having a good idea of what to expect, seeing the empty void of space filled with blue beams of light that rammed into the Hutt ship was startling.

Taylor gripped the rails holding her back from the bridge’s window and watched as the tincan-like ship, the one HK-47 called a ‘DP20’, started to weave and duck away from their attack. It didn’t do much good, with most of the shots hitting across the ship’s hull.

She narrowed her eyes at the DP20. “HK, is there a bubble around that ship?”

“Affirmation: Indeed Master, that is the ship’s shield. It is visible on account of our inadequate firepower. Had we a proper warship those shields would have been bypassed by now.”

“So that’s a thing,” she said as she watched forks of lightning skitter across the DP20’s surface. The pirate craft was beginning to move in earnest. Turrets sprouted out across the hull and started tracking them as they moved. Soon, the space between the two ships was filled with a veritable lightshow.

She flinched as the first impacts rocked their ship. The cascading ripple of a shield warped past the bridge window, calming her beating heart a little. “Can you give me an idea of what’s going on?” she asked HK47.

“Concession: Very well, Master, seeing as how your plebeian organs are unable to even begin to comprehend the events transpiring around you, I will attempt to simplify things to a level where even you can understand.” The droid’s head turned towards the bridge, then back to her. “Simplification: Enemy ship go zap zap. We go boom boom. Therefore, we go zap zap first.”

She sighed as the ship rocked underfoot. At least the crew, battle droids excluded, were taking things seriously. She saw a few of the ex-slaves looking up from their consoles to look her way once in a while, as if reassuring themselves that she was still watching them to make sure they behaved.

“Were you programmed to be so annoying?” she asked.

“Statement: I will have you know that I have perfected my social protocols over millennia of use.”

The ship shook again and she turned to follow the action, but they had turned around at some point and she couldn’t see their foe.

“Commentary: The enemy has launched concussion missiles at us.”

“Damn,” she said. She could guess what that meant.

“Reassurance: No need to fear, Master. Our point defence turrets are still fully operational. Enemy fire has been reduced by thirty-seven percent.”

“We took out some of their guns?” she asked.

“Correction: This waste of resources is equipped with Ion weaponry. Its cannons are designed to fire ionized particles that disrupt delicate electronic components. Even through the enemy shields we are slowly rendering their vessel useless. Given the level of maintenance most pirates practice it will only be moments before our victory is assured.”

Taylor watched as they rolled again and the DP20 came into view off to the side. One of its engines was trailing smoke, another had failed completely. Even if fewer hits were landing as it ducked and weaved, those that did caused cascades of blue lightning across the hull.

The guns scattered across its hull sputtered and the launchers flinging missiles that left white trails across space stopped firing. Soon the ship was drifting across space, the lights within flickering on and off, its engines dead and its shield completely gone.

“Assertion: One enemy vessel down, Master. Four more to go.”

Taylor nodded and spun on her heel to walk to the middle of the bridge. She went the long way around, trying to avoid getting anyone stuck in the grasp of her power if she could avoid it. There was a hovering display there on which she could see over-sized representations of every ship in the region. The largest pirate ship was still attached to the Profits of Merchandising, as was the transport vessel that had come with them. Small flashes between the two showed how the Profit’s meager guns were slapping at the ship’s shields.

The Vulture droids were moving around on a course to intercept one of the two frigates, the one nearest the ship she was on.

“HK-47, let’s leave the area. We can’t take on that big one, I don’t think. It’s got guns that are bigger than anything we have, and I don’t doubt they would tear us apart if we got too close.”

“Query: Master, while your observation is most astute, how would you suggest we eliminate this enemy?”

“We won’t, not yet. Those other two,” she said, pointing to the two other ships, “They look small enough that we could take them on like that DP20. Maybe. But probably not at the same time.” She leaned forwards, hands gripping the edge of the console displaying the floating, semi-transparent images.

“HK, this was a tax ship, right?” she asked. “We should have an idea of what all the civilian ships in the area are carrying. Anything that might be useful?” She hoped that the sort of cargo manifest that existed on Earth was similar in deep space.

“Checking,” HK-47 said. “Answer: Indeed Master, I have found one thing that might be useful.” He gestured and one of the ships in the distance flashed a few times. “Answer: This cargo vessel, registration Besh-Osk-Osk-Mem 9817, is transporting 506,000,000,000 liters of liquid Tibanna gas.”

“Tibanna gas?” Taylor repeated, trying the word out. “Is it dangerous?”

“Suggestion: It is highly explosive and used as a primary fuel in nearly all blaster-type weaponry across the galaxy. Let’s blow it up, please.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes. “How many people are aboard that ship?”

“Prevarication: It is likely that there are no sentient crew members,” HK-47 said.

“Right,” she replied. She watched the blips representing the pirates on their tail flashing a little closer as the holographic display refreshed. “HK, recall those Vulture droids. Get a few of them on the other side of that tanker. Set course to loop all the way around it. We’ll see if they take the bait.”

***

Time: Forty-two minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

Sib Nark fretted, hands tangled with each other, back bent forwards like an overworked clerk’s and sweat glands pouring out a sickly sweet mixture that smelled to any Neimoidian like desperation.

He would never have allowed himself that much loss of control before a group of subordinates, not in any other circumstance. This entire situation was so beyond the pale that he stopped giving a damn.

The other Neimoidians of his retinue were faring little better. Some sat and stared out of the bridge window at the massive curved shape of the Mon Calamari pirate vessel stuck to the Profits of Merchandising like a mynock on a power cord. One of his adjutants was screaming at a battle droid, demanding things of it that were far beyond its capabilities.

Sib Nark had installed himself in the captain’s seat, as was his right, and had tried to look confident and assured. He reminded his subordinates that they had an entire army of droids, small as it may be, between them and any borders. That the slaves still aboard were armed as well as they could be, and wouldn’t allow themselves to be taken without a fight. That the Jedi and her homicidal droid were on their side.

All words that he reminded himself of every minute, even as reports trickled through. The forces running into his ship were being stymied, for now, the laser cannons the Profits sported were still picking away at the pirate ship, the slaves had sustained few injuries and were still roaring for a fight.

All pretty things that wouldn’t help him in the end.

He just had to hope that the Hutt would be reluctant to make enemies of the Trade Federation. He wasn’t so important as to cause the Federation to back him up with this amount of trouble, but maybe the Hutts didn’t know as much.

“Sir, the Republic ship is moving away from our local area,” one of the nearest droids reported. Its voice sounded loud on the bridge, enough that it shut up the screaming adjutant.

“I see,” Sib Nark said. “Where is it moving?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable weight settling in the pits of his stomachs.

The droid paused for a long moment, the screen before it flashing through three dozen readouts in as many seconds. “The ship is heading to the edge of the system on an escape vector. Two of the pirate vessels are chasing after it. Both are catching up. It will reach jump range in two minutes.”

He leaned back into his seat, the shaking in his hands, the rumbling in his gut, all fading as he resigned himself to his faith. This was it. The moment where the Jedi, his only real hope, abandoned them.

He couldn’t even blame her, not truly. Every Neimoidian knew when to cut their losses and run. It was a survival skill they valued greatly.

A single escort vessel, one probably maintained as well as all the other ships in the Republic, up against ten times its own tonnage in pirate warships. There was nothing anyone, not even a fabled Jedi, could do.

“We should arm ourselves,” he said. The words were delivered without a quaver of fear or a hint of the resignation he felt, but he could see the colour drain in his subordinates’ faces nonetheless. This was him telling them that they would soon need to fight.

They were bureaucrats, not combatants. That would not end well.

“The Republic ship’s repulsorlifts are coming online. It is decelerating,” the droid spoke.

“Why would it do that?” he asked it. There was a minuscule kernel of hope left.

“Unknown,” the droid said. “It is passing within kilometers of a convoy of heavy freighters. It is possible it is using them as cover.”

“Bring it up on the holo,” he ordered. The same holo he had ordered shut when the number of enemies on it had seemed so daunting moments before.

The projector came online and quickly shifted to show the Republic ship spinning on its own axis to bring its engines in the direction it was still moving in, a rapid deceleration maneuver, he recognized. Instead of using its inertial dampeners to slow down and its repulsors to turn, the ship was using pure kinetic energy from its many engines.

“Verify if its hyperdrive is coming online,” he demanded.

“Roger roger,” the droid replied. It would be difficult to tell from so far away, but hyperdrives, especially ill maintained ones, tended to rob a ship of its computational power, which in turn had a negative impact on a ship’s shields, engines and repulsor systems. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to detect. “Inconclusive,” the droid returned.

“What is she doing?” he muttered, a hand rising to hold over his mouth as he narrowed his eyes on the screen.

The two other pirates ships were catching up, especially after the Republic ship slowed down as much as it did.

“Sir, the Republic ship is opening fire.”

So, she was going to fight after all. Perhaps the run had been a ruse to make distance between her smaller ship and the one anchored to the Profits.

Then the lines representing outgoing fire hit the freighters.

“I don’t unde--”

The Profits of Merchandising shook, the bridge going from the pale blue of a room lit only by monitors to a shocking white.

The windows onto the world beyond tried to polarize, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Sib Nark brought his hands up to cover his face as a new star was born just within the sector.

As suddenly as it appeared the light faded and the Profits stabilized.

“Shields at ninety percent,” one droid said.

“Rebooting sensors.”

He did not need to wait for the holo to refresh to see what had happened. Out in space, some light seconds away, a ball of phosphorus white fire the size of a small moon was expanding across the system.

“She is mad,” he said.

***

A huge thank-you to my Patreons for helping bounce ideas on the Discord and for encouraging me to post this monstrosity! An extra-big thank-you to Sammax and CrazySith for helping with this chapter in particular!

 

Chapter Nineteen


Time: Fifty-two minutes after the start of the Denon-Ryloth Hyperspace incident.

She felt a flinch, an impression of a warning that told her that she had to look away. She didn’t know where the instinct came from, but she listened to it, turning around and walking away from the bridge window half a second before the bridge lit up as if someone had dropped a flashbang in the room.

The ship shook, screens fizzled and popped and sparks flew from some consoles. The ex-slaves in control screamed and jumped away, some tumbling over themselves in their haste to get away. The robots on the other hand remained cool even as screens went dark.

Then everything shut off. Pitch darkness, save for the burning light reigned, Screams filled the ship.

For a moment, as the blinding light from outside faded, Taylor felt herself floating into the air, feet lifted off the ground as gravity abandoned them. It returned a moment later, the lights flickering back on with an electric buzz.

“What happened?” she asked HK-47, sounding more calm than she felt.

“Conjecture: It seems that the process of creating a small supernova had an adverse reaction on our ship’s electronic components. Statement: I haven’t seen such a powerfully destructive explosion in some time. It warms my circuits to see such wanton destruction aimed at our mutual enemies, even if we were within the blast radius.”

“Right,” she said. “Tell the others to get the sensors or whatever back online. I don’t like being blind out here. If we survived, then maybe our enemies did too. Oh, and HK-47, make sure to remind everyone that we haven’t won yet.”

“Statement: With pleasure, Master.”

***

Trais leaned back into his command seat as he watched the space around the vast explosion slowly darken until all that remained were huge clouds of dangerously hot gases slowly dissipating into the void.

Of the two ships of his small ad-hoc fleet there was no sign. The only ship remaining other than his Beskar Mace was the Thick Brick and it was little more than a glorified freighter.

“Status of the boarding party?” he asked.

His second looked up from a datapad, face twisted into a displeased frown. “We lost the airlocks and the armory nearest that point of egress. We tried herding them into a killbox, but their leader didn’t take the bait. They've been travelling in a straight line, blowing through every bulkhead and blast door on their path instead of going around.”

“Either they’re fools or they’re brighter than I initially gave them credit for,” Trais muttered. Judging by what was left of the Stinky, Gut-Ripper and Raider, it was probably safer to assume that they were smarter and better trained than the reports the Hutts gave him suggested.

These weren’t slaves. Or if there were slaves amongst them, they were from Kashyk or Mandalore or some other planet where warriors were bred.

No. The more likely answer to how these enemies were putting up so much resistance was either the Force itself or they were trained soldiers or mercenaries to begin with, and he was never the sort to put any weight upon superstition.

“Comms,” he asked, voice carrying across the bridge. “Get me a line to that Republic ship and the Profits. I want to speak to their captains. Connect me in my boardroom.” In a lower voice, he muttered so that only his second heard. “Keep stalling the boarders. Leave them an open route back out of the ship. We’re cutting our losses.”

“Aye aye,” the man said before retreating back.

Knees creaking as he stood, Trais got to his feet and pushed off his seat for the first time in hours. The boardroom was nearby, placed so that he could speak freely with his officers or with any commander he had business with. For that same reason it was a clean, professionally laid room. More spacious than he thought was wise aboard a spacecraft, but he wasn’t going to complain, not when presenting the right image could be crucial.

The hypercom in the middle of the table flashed, announcing an incoming call. A few presses revealed that it was a three way holographic connection. And so quickly... perhaps his adversaries wanted to parley too.

He smoothed down the front of his jacket and made sure it sat well on his frame, then with a flick of his finger, he pressed the interface that would turn on the holocal system.

Two flickering holograms appeared then sharpened into focus. To his left was a half-sized Neimoidian floating on the desk, the height adjusted so that the captain wouldn’t be looking up to him. To the right were two figures, a young Human woman and a protocol droid of a make and model that he didn’t recognize.

“Hello,” he said. “I am Trais, captain of the Beskar Mace.”

“Greetings captain,” the Neimoidian said. “I am Sib Nark, representative of the Trade Federation and captain of the Profits of Merchandising.”

Trais grit his teeth. He was not aware that the damned Trade Federation had their fingers in this mess. It complicated things when the single largest member of the galaxy’s largest trade consortium was an injured party. A bad move could lead to his ships being blacklisted in half the way stations of the galaxy.

He turned his attention to the other pair, the droid dutifully translating for the human woman before turning back towards the projector. “Salutations: My master greets you in kind, Captain Trais of the Beskar Mace. She wishes to inform you that you seem more respectable than the captain of the other three ships she annihilated this afternoon. Threat: Not that we would do the same to you.”

“Does your master have a name, droid?” he asked.

The droid’s head turned just a little. “Announcement: My master is Darth Khepri.”

Trais stood just a little taller as a wash of something cold flash down his spine. The girl child looked away from her robotic assistant and stared into the projector as if locking eyes with him. “It is a pleasure to speak with you both, Captain Sib Nark... Darth Khepri.” Trais licked his lips and tried to make his swallow look inconspicuous. “I wish to discuss a potential reprieve in this battle.”

“A reprieve?” The Neimoidian said. “Please explain captain Trais.”

“I believe that my side of this battle has suffered enough overall loses that continued fighting would only aggravate our situation. By that same token, we still have enough material, personnel and fervour to complete our task, though it would be with greater loses. At this moment, I suspect is likely that if pushed what remains of my fleet would be more than capable of accomplishing our main objective. A retreat, on the other hand, would allow me to regroup and reassess my mission parameters.”

“And you wish for us to give you this opportunity? If the costs of this raid of yours have outweighed its profits, why would you continue?” Sib Nark asked.

“Assessment: You are a coward,” the droid said. “Qualification: So you have lost some meatbags and a few ships barely worthy of the name. That is not a reason to turn tail and run. Encouragement: Please stay in your current position and heading. My master and I will soon attempt to board your ship through the expedient method of ramming. Once this is accomplished the final assessment of who will win this battle can be made in close quarters.”

“No,” the Neimoidian said. “Ramming his ship would damage the Profits. Please, tell Darth Khepri not to do such a thing, I implore you.”

Trais had, in his youth, enjoyed hiking in the mountainous trails of his homeworld. On occasion he would have to scale sharp mountain faces when the paths her took grew too steep. A few times, in his eagerness to reach the top, he almost fell. That sensation, of the world dropping out from under him and his mind reeling as it tried to find something, anything, to grip onto, assailed him again.

Outwardly, all this meant was that he shifted slightly to one side. “Would you risk your crew and your ship for the mere chance to root us out?” he asked while looking at Darth Khepri’s hologram.

The droid translated again.

The woman shifted, legs going shoulder-width apart and arms crossing under her chest. “Query: Would it be possible for you to allow those boarding your vessel and no doubt making a mess of your internals to retreat? My Master, in her infinite kindness, wishes to make sure that her ill-trained slave warriors survive this encounter.”

“That would be acceptable,” he said.

The droid and its master returned to discuss between each other, which left the Neimoidian to speak. Trais was only passingly familiar with the species, and their reputation for cowardice outside of mercantile efforts didn’t seem to be serving him well at the moment as the alien was clenching his fists as if incensed. “Captain Trais, I demand to know why you would assault a Trade Federation vessel on official business.”

“I’m a contract working for the Hutt cartels,” Trais explained. “You merely had a bounty placed upon your cargo.”

“My cargo is made up of freed slaves. What you are doing is piracy!”

“Not in this sector. I have a waiver from the Hutt that allows me to board and reappropriate any cargo that does not appear on your official manifest. If you wish to complain, do so to the Hutts.”

“This is ludicrous,” Sib Nark said. “Who will pay reparations for the losses we have suffered!”

“Suggestion: Stop speaking.” The droid said and the Neimoidian shut its mouth with a click. “Statement: My Master, in her infinite kindness, has taken pity upon you and has decided to not ram into your ship and near-lightspeeds in order to board and kill your entire crew with nothing but her bare hands and the force. Disappointed Tangent: I do dislike her empathy, it is one of her greatest faults.” The droid shifted. “Statement: We will communicate with our boarding teams and have them withdraw all organic members. The droids accompanying them will be left behind as a form of insurance. Once the team has been removed, you will decouple from the Profits and jump out of the sector. Any deviations from this path will lead to our all out-assault on your ship. Suggestion: Please deviate from the path.”

“I see,” Trais said. “Consider it done then. We will expect your boarders to exit as quickly and efficiently as they can. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Captain Sib Nark, Darth Khepri. It is always a joy to meet civilised adversaries.” He reached towards the holoprojector. “Good bye.”

With a press, the two holograms winked out and he was left alone in the board room. He had to act quickly, to prepare his crew for the maneuvers they would be going through in a few moments, but there was time for that later.

He pressed the comms again, this time to address his officers. “Save the recording of our last transmission, I will need to present it to our clients. Attach all the navigational data of the encounter to it as well.”

The entire mission was a failure of the highest order, but that didn’t mean it would prevent him from finding future opportunities.

And he would be keeping an ear out for the exploits of this Darth Khepri.

***

More of a calm-down before the end of this arc.

 

Chapter Twenty

The Falleen homeworld was pretty enough, he supposed. A greenish ball, perched in empty space with a pair of small moons hovering around it and countless orbital stations dotting the sky all around it.

The aliens of the world were a strange lot, at once ready to kneel to their kings and queens but also fiercely liberal and open. They were not as numerous as some other species, and were distrusted in many sectors for their penchants towards social manipulations, but they were nonetheless useful allies.

Their home system alone was in the perfect position to act as a bulwark against future Republic advances. Advances that he knew would be coming soon. War was on the horizon and coming fast, the Force sang about the inevitable conflict and escalation, a constant thrum to anyone with the wits to listen that the entire Galaxy was about to be pitched into a conflict unlike any it had seen before.

“Count Dooku?”

The Count turned, arms still folded in the small of his back and posture straight. The Neimoidian that had addressed him was a well placed member of the Trade Federation, the sort of person used to a certain level of subservience, and yet here he was, bowing to Dooku.

“Yes?” the Count asked.

“The Profits of Merchandising has arrived in-system, as well as another ship. It is Republic, my lord.”

The Count raised one eyebrow.

“Ah, it is a smaller vessel, merely a patrol craft. Its identification marks it as being stolen some small time ago, my lord.”

Dooku nodded slowly and moved away from the screen overlooking Falleen. “Very well. Have both ships dock. Raise the alert level and inform my guards to be on stand-by. When will the diplomats be arriving?” he asked.

“They are on their way already. They should be here within minutes. I shall also inform the medical staff, the slaves will need tending before they can be returned to the Falleen government.”

Dooku nodded and waved the attendant away.

By all rights he should not have been here. The folding of the Falleen kingdom into the Confederacy was a sure thing already. Any number of functionaries could have signed the proper papers and shook the right hands to get everything moving.

But he was here himself nonetheless.

Darth Khepri.

The human girl was either ignorant, misappropriating such a name, or a fool to take a Sith title which she did not deserve. Either way he would learn soon enough.

He moved with the patience of a man that knew he would arrive at his destination neither too early nor too late.

The capital ship he was aboard was a huge, ostentatious affair, one of the larger variants of the Confederacy’s prized Lucrehulks. A vessel large enough to hold half a dozen smaller capital scale ships, as evidenced by the lumbering form of the Profits of Merchandising slipping into a berth with the jerky, precise motions of a ship under robotic control.

He rather loathed the reliance on machinery of his Separatists, but it fulfilled a need that organics could not.

A twinge in the Force had him looking up as a second ship slid through the forcefields, narrowly avoided a gantry crane, then spun around to point its nose back out of the exit with a speed that was just a hair short of being reckless.

A slight twist of the Force kept the worst of the dust being kicked his way away from him and his pristine outfit. It wouldn't do to appear dirty in front of his lessers.

Diplomats, journalists and dozens of hangers on moved behind him, held back by a cordon of battle droids in resplendent armour. This entire venture was a farce, of course. A show for the masses of the planet below to show them that the Confederacy was on their side, that they were willing to help the poor souls who found themselves in dire straits.

A few of them approached him, but a nudge with the Force was enough to have them leave him alone. Something was coming, not just a threat, but a moment that could change things. What Master Windu would have called a vergence, though perhaps not a large one.

His narrowed eyes focused on the Republic ship even as the Profits of Merchandising started to empty its cargo.

Dozens of slaves, escorted by a few well-worn battledroids, walked out of a lowered ramp and moved towards the waiting medical professionals. Some had signs of injuries, recent injury. Others though looked to be in good health.

It was unfortunate that not all of them were Falleen, though there were enough that green skin was in the majority. It would have made a nicer message for the populace of the system had every slave been of their race, but this was fine too, it showed that they were not below saving everyone.

A Neimoidian with an escort of assistants and a single Trandoshan moved with alacrity next to the free slaves, his robes swirling around him as he moved first towards the crowd near Dooku, then after a pause, turned towards the Republic patrol craft.

His attention snapped that way too, and he wasn’t the only one.

A girl was walking down the ramp of the Republic ship. She wore a simple, Republic issue officer’s uniform with a heavy pilot’s jacket tossed over it. It was almost enough to hide the crude mechanical arm held by her side. Next to her was a rusting wreck of a robot, a protocol droid at first glance, but one carrying half its weight in blasters, pistols and what looked like a starfighter canon.

She was armed. Two pistols on hip holsters, another tucked under an armpit and if he had to guess a holdout near the small of her back. No lightsaber that he could see, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to see one.

She looked, to the untrained eyes of those around him, like a bounty hunter. And yet the Force rippled around her, teasing and testing and cautiously proding as if the very essence of the universe was curious about this child. He had never quite seen or sensed anything like it.

The girl paused by the entrance of the stolen ship, looked around carefully, then nodded to something her robot companion said.

Twin rows of Republic soldiers and navy personnel walked out of the ship, all of them walking in step with each other, their hands tied together before their waists with ship repair tape. The entire group moved at a slow, relaxed pace across the floor of the hanger towards the gathered crowds.

“We need battledroids to secure those prisoners,” Dooku said. Having captured Republic personnel would be an issue, but they could be returned as a show of good faith. After they had been asked a few pointed questions.

He didn’t wait for his orders to be followed. With a twitch of his shoulder to loosen his cape he moved forwards, two magnaguard droids following right behind him.

Dooku was nearing the girl when the Force warned him of danger. He paused, but saw nothing. The girl had stopped, hands, both organic and robotic still empty. Her droid was still armed, but not aiming anything his way. He began to move again when he was warned once more.

It seemed that approaching her was dangerous, greatly so. Interesting.

“Hello,” he began. “I am Count Dooku of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. You must be Darth Khepri, I presume.”

The droid turned towards the girl and spoke a few lines, his name and the name of the Confederacy among them. So she didn’t speak Basic or was pretending to be ignorant.

“Greetings: My master salutes you, Count Dooku of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. She also wishes to extend her gratitude for your warm welcome. It is almost enjoyable to not be greeted by blaster fire.”

Dooku had the impression that the last comment wasn’t from the girl.

“Indeed,” he said. “There are certain formalities that I should follow, but before that, does your master wish to rid herself of these prisoners?”

The droid conferred with his master again. “Statement: This is acceptable. Once they are removed from my Master’s surroundings they will regain control of their feeble meat-based nervous systems.”

Dooku raised one eyebrow, but he still gestured a contingent of battlefroids forwards. There were protocols in place for taking care of prisoners and pirates, and a few members of his staff had good heads on their shoulders. They would care for the Republicans.

He watched, carefully, as the soldiers stumbled and tripped, all of them at exactly the same place. Some of them took the opportunity to start fighting, and others hunched forwards or began limping from that point on.

Dooku was always going to be quick to admit that, with the Force being such a limitless and powerful thing, there were probably decades worth of learning that he had missed over his long career. But complete nervous system control of another, or of so many organics, was entire new to him. “Interesting,” he said.

“Statement: Darth Khepri is a master with many interesting quirks and talents, most of them hideously violent.” The droid shifted, then paused. “Addendum: Most of them can be used for the purposes of creating or ending conflicts. She occasionally chooses the less optimal route of negotiating and suing for peace. I prefer permanent solutions to temporary problems.”

“Is that so?” Count Dooku asked. He felt at the droid and... almost raised an eyebrow at how the Force caressed the old thing. The machine was at once ancient and not, a strange echo following it in the Force. A dark echo.

And to think that such an interesting specimen would find its way to the side of another, equally interesting person. “Shall we adjourn to a conference room? I am quite certain that there is much your master and I should discuss.”

***

A huge thank-you to my Patreons for helping bounce ideas on the Discord and for encouraging me to post this monstrosity! An extra-big thank-you to Sammax and CrazySith for helping with this chapter in particular!

More... eventually!

 

Chapter Twenty-One


“That was something,” Xarly said. He was leaning back in the cantina bench, arms folded behind his head as he stretched his legs out under the table.

“Something? That’s all you have to say about it?” Qarry asked. She was nursing a drink, something orange that bubbled in a tall glass.

Skarsk Nek eyed the two Falleen for a moment and returned to cutting into his meat. The food onboard the Trade Federation flagship was leagues better than anything he had eaten in some time, and he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. Having a fully stocked cantina onboard a ship was a waste, but then again, this was more of a diplomatic vessel than one built for combat. He supposed that some dignitaries would appreciate the luxury, and he was certainly profiting from it now.

“Yeah, something,” Xarly said. “Like, this is the kind of stuff I’ll be able to tell my kids about, you know?”

“You’re assuming someone will sleep with you and I think that’s a very bold assumption to make,” the female Falleen said. She sipped at her drink while her partner acted flustered.

Skarsk finished chewing on his bite and looked down at the rest of his steak. He was growing increasingly sure that it was actual meat, from a dead animal, as opposed to recombinant proteins. Truly there was no limits to the waste aboard this vessel.

“What about you, lizard man, what’re you going to do now?”

Skarsk looked up from his inspection to see the two Falleen looking at him with interest. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Xarly gestured all around them. “I mean, this. We’re done. We won. Fought against all the odds in the galaxy and came out on top.”

“Wow, you do not know how odds work.”

“Shut up. What I mean is, we made it. Now what? You know. Like, I guess I could go back to work as a ship’s navigator now. But it’ll be so... flat.”

“The only thing flat around here will be your pulse if you tell me to shut up again,” Qarry growled and the boy winced away from her. “But the idiot is right. I don’t think I could go back to just... work again.”

Skarsk shrugged one shoulder. “My contract is complete. I will find another.”

“Another that’s as exciting as the last one?” Xarly asked. There was a familiar spark of interest in his eyes.

“Few of the missions I have taken were so... exciting, as you put it,” Skarsk admitted. “That might be for the best.”

“Ah, but wouldn’t you rather stick around?”

“Xarly,” Qarry said. “What are you on about?”

“I mean Khepri’s not just going to sit back and retire. People like her are always in the thick of things. I... kind of want to be near that too. Make a name for myself, explore the darker reaches of the galaxy and blow up the monsters hiding there. And, you know, be the hero all the space babes wanna cuddle with.”

That last part earned him an elbow to the ribs courtesy of Qarry. “Nerf herder.”

Skarsk hissed with laughter before shoving another piece of meat into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. The couple across from him were fighting in their strange mating ritual, but he could ignore that easily enough.

Xarly’s words repeated themselves in his mind. To explore, to make a name for himself, to fight and adventure. Things that made his blood boil and his mind wander, things that his Trandoshan heritage demanded that he try.

The voyage to Tatooine had been a dull affair, but the return, the battles in space, those had awakened his hunger for action, for the hunt.

He wanted more.

“We should join her,” he said.

It shut the two up, both looking across the table to him was he cut another strip of meat and began tearing into it.

“Join her? Khepri?” Xarly said. A smile blossomed across his face. “Yeah! I’d be down for that.”

“You absolute moron,” Qarry said. “She’s not the type who would hire an imbecile like you.”

“Maybe not, but no one who doesn’t know her would join her crew, not after the stories spread, which means there’s plenty of room for someone like me.”

Skarsk began to reconsider his latest revelation. Travelling the galaxy to right wrongs and murder villains was all well and good, but not if he had to spend that time with idiots of Xarly’s calibre.

***

Taylor lowered herself into the seat carefully. It was plush, soft, and swivelled on a well-oiled mechanism that had just enough resistance on it to make it feel luxurious. It was the same as everything else in the ship.

Up until then, her view of life in space, as strange as that was already, was quite simple. Sure, there were spaceships with strange artificial gravity, talking robots, and the ability to go faster than light, but all of this was with a sort of... cobbled together aesthetic.

The magic of space travel was there, sure, but it was made mundane. The ships were mass produced and ill maintained, they reminded her more of her dad’s old pickup than of the sleek starships she had imagined humanity taking to the stars.

The room Count Dooku brought her too went in the opposite direction. It was huge, huge in a ship where every inch was probably valuable. There were fishtanks against one wall, the fish within already under her control. Another wall was filled with a window that gave them a gorgeous view of a green jewel of a planet hanging in space and slowly rotating below them.

HK47 clunked over to her side, standing just a step behind her like a towering guard. He stuck out in the room like a sore thumb. “HK47,” she began, making sure all the while not to meet the eyes of the man sitting at the other end of the table. The fact that he was still out of her range said much about the size of the piece of furniture. It was also made from a single piece of wood. “Do try and be accurate today. I don’t mind your little games but this is important.”

“Astonishment: Master, I am both surprised that you noticed my prevarications and hurt that you would accuse me of such.”

Taylor snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I’m scary, but people don’t usually start shaking at the knees when I ask for the washroom. Now, translate properly and I’ll see if we can find someone to fix you up a bit later, you’re starting to squeak when you walk.”

“Comment: All the better to warn the meatbags that I am approaching to kill them.”

She shook her head and after making sure that that had been HK47’sw last quip, sat up and met Count Dooku’s eyes.

“I have some questions,” the older gentleman said, his words immediately translated by her droid friend. “If you do not mind me asking them, of course.”

“I am your guest here,” Taylor said. “By all means ask away.”

The Count nodded. “Very well then. Let me begin first by thanking you. The freeing of slaves, any slaves, is admirable, but those you saved from captivity were of the Falleen, the race that inhabit this system. The Confederation of Independent systems have been negotiating with them for some time and the release of so many of their copatriots from slavery is a great victory. In these troubled times such good news ought to be cherished and heroic actions rewarded.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose. Though I was only just doing what I thought was right.”

“Indeed. Even if that is the case, you have my sincere thanks.” He moved his arms onto the table, elbows resting on its surface while his fingers interwove themselves before his jaw. “Now, you have done the Confederation a favour by assisting our allies. What can we do for you?”

Taylor hesitated to answer. She didn’t know what she wanted, not really. Helping people was well and good but she had done it for selfish reasons too. That, and the man sitting across from her was shrewd, his eyes calculating. She didn’t doubt that her answer would be dissected and analysed. “I only wish to help,” she said. “If that means cultivating a reputation as a saver of slaves then that’s only for the best.”

The Count hummed. “You held off an assault by some pirates, which while noteworthy isn’t uncommon. You also captured a Republic vessel in doing so. A corrupt one, if the reports I’ve read were correct. Do you know much about the state of the galaxy?”

“Assume that I know very little,” Taylor said.

She felt his eyes on her before he nodded and leaned back into his throne-like chair. She would have judged him for the seat, except hers was the same. “The Republic was a good idea. A system by which a central government could distribute assistance and aid to millions of systems and where grievances could be aired out before the senate in order to keep the galaxy safe and secure. But it has failed. Systems such as this one,” he gestured to the planet outside. “Have been left to solve their own problems without aid while the Republic still demands exorbitant taxes from them. Corruption is rife, and issues such as the Hutt slave trade are left unchecked because the Senators at the top don’t care enough to try and stop them.”

Taylor nodded. “It sounds like most empires and large governments,” she said.

“Indeed,” Dooku agreed easily. “In recent times things have grown only more contentious. The Republic’s bias becomes more obvious by the day. Anyone that isn’t from a core world race is considered a second class citizen. Issues on mid-rim worlds are ignored. The Galaxy is fracturing and the Republic is doing nothing about it. That is why the Confederacy of Independent Systems has come to be.”

“You’re a rebellion?” she asked.

“No, not a rebellion. That implies unlawful action. We are a group of worlds from across the galaxy who wish to break off from the machinations of the Republic. We have ill-will towards the old establishment, yes, but not so much as to want to fight them. We merely have ideological differences that have proven irreconcilable.”

Taylor frowned a little. It sounded as if they just wanted to be left alone, but she doubted any large group would just let part of itself drift off without doing something about it. She was also going to have to find another source of information. For all she knew Dooku was lying to her, though doing so about things that should be so easy to research would be foolish.

“This Confederacy of yours, what are its goals, beyond separating from the Republic?” she asked.

“Peace, security, and the ability to assist each other more fairly. The Republic’s blatant corruption has left entire civilisations to flounder as they are besieged by pirates and rebellions and civil wars. The Republic refuses, or is incapable, of helping. We want to change that, to pool our resources and lend assistance to as many worlds that require it as we can. Our motives aren’t all altruistic, I won’t hide it, we also wish to avoid the ludicrous taxation of the Republic and some of the corporate laws must be changed if we are to prosper.”

Taylor raised a hand as soon as he was done. “Alright. Let’s say you’ve convinced me that you’re the good guys,” she said. “Where do I come in? I’m just someone who got caught up in a bit of trouble that ended up assisting you a little.”

Dooku smiled, it was surprisingly grandfatherly. “Ah, but Darth Khepri, you are an opportunity. The Hutts are not the only threat we face. Piracy, both legal and not, is a vast threat to our fledgling Confederacy. If you are so inclined, I think I would want to hire your services as something of a... contractor to rid us of adversaries that put us at risk. Mostly pirates and slavers for now. Though this may change if the Republic takes a more adversarial stance against us.”

“That’s a lot of trust you’re putting in me,” Taylor said.

“A little trust,” Dooku admitted. “But if ever there was a time to take risks it is now.”

***

Dooku is a blabbermouth.

I think there’s a bit more talking that needs to be done, but you can kind of see the direction in which this is going. Privateer Taylor! Woo~

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

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“You understand,” Dooku said as he led her down one of the many corridors of the capital ship. “That your coming here and your agreement to assist the Confederacy were both rather unexpected?”

When HK47 was done translating she nodded. “I do. And while I don’t mind lending assistance. In fact, I’m quite eager to do so if it means freeing more slaves and stopping more pirates, I also feel that I’m on the back foot, if that expression translates. I mean to say that I’m unfamiliar with a great deal of the politics and societal rules when it comes to things like piracy.”

Dooku listened to his end of the translation then scoffed. “Rules? There are parts of the galaxy that are little more than hives of scum and villainy. There are no rules to be found there. The strong thrive and only the Force allows the clever to pull through. No, don’t mistake what I am saying. Your mission, if you wish to think of it as such, is to save people, send a message, and remind the galaxy that even if the Republic has forgotten the pain and suffering of so many, the Confederacy has not. The Republic needs the support of its people, as little as the Senators as the top would want to acknowledge it. Show them the ugly truth and their support will be eroded.”

“Thereby paving a path for you to swoop in and take over,” Taylor said.

Dooku gave her a shrewd, assessing gaze. “Indeed. Make no mistake. I want peace in the Galaxy first. But I also wish to grow more powerful, both personally and politically.”

She nodded. At least she could appreciate the honesty.

They arrived in a hanger, a room so grand that she could have fit every ship in the Boat Graveyard in it twice with room to spare. Ships with strage, shell-like bodies sat in berths above them while smaller vessels were parked below. It was to one of those that Dooku led her.

“This vessel,” he said as he pulled out a sort of tablet from his pocket. It was almost like a smartphone, though she doubted it was for the same thing. “Is Gozanti-class Armed Transport Besh-Oh-One. Not a very auspicious name, I’m afraid. Feel free to change its signature before leaving. If things go well perhaps it will become a symbol.”

She looked up to the ship, bugs already shooting ahead to inspect it closer.

It was not the nicest star ship she had seen, but it did look new. No scarring around the engines, no rust on its panels. She wondered if the inside smelled like pine fresheners. The entire thing looked like a bus. Long, rectangular. Two sloped wings stuck out from its bottom at the middle and the rear was taken up by a pair of engine nacelles.

The bridge was but a slit in the flattened face of the ship, a spot just before the top sloped back into the ship’s squarish roof.

“It looks functional,” she said.

“Comment: This ship looks under-armed and under-equipped. I suspect it is also severely untested.”

Dooku made an agreeable noise and HK had to cut off his incoming rant to translate. “The Confederacy has purchased a number of these vessels to serve as anti-pirate escorts. They can carry a flight of our Vulture droids and are well armed for their size. It is neither nimble nor fast, but it is well armoured and shielded. We’ve yet to decide if they will go into full production yet. This one is, of course, is yours.”

Taylor licked dry lips and took in the rather plain ship. It took on a new light when she thought of it as hers. As her own spaceship.

It kind of made her giddy. She wished she could go back and tell her younger self that things like Emma didn’t matter because one day she would have her own spaceship and would be charged with hunting down space pirates with it.

Dooku turned on a heel and began walking away. “Preparations will still take some time. We can outfit you with some of our refurbished B-1 Battle Droids. Not the newest models, I'm afraid, but serviceable enough. They will be able to fly your new vessel around, though I would suggest finding a proper crew.”

“Thank you, Count Dooku. I hope that I can earn you and the Confederacy’s respect, and earn the trust you’re putting in me.”

He nodded. “The Force is with you. I’ve no doubt that you will do great things for the Confederacy.”

***

“I need a crew,” Taylor said as she walked around the ship. She had to crane her neck way back to take it in properly.

“Suggestion: A crew composed of droids would be more than sufficient and would save you from all the troubles associated with having meatbags in your crew.”

“That would save us some trouble,” she said as she moved under one of the ship’s stubby wings. She doubted they would do much to help the vessel fly. They were probably there to stuff some equipment and such. There was a lowered ramp leading into an equally opened airlock. She sent a few bugs buzzing into it. “But I would like a few meatbags around. Urgh, now I’m talking like you. What I mean is I wouldn’t mind having some people around that aren’t made of metal.”

“Statement: Finding capable organics to assist you will be difficult, especially in our current location.”

“Anyone here might be a spy. I believe Dooku when he says that he wants to use me for propaganda. And that’s about the end of it. The moment we launch we’re looking through this entire ship for booby traps.”

“Statement: A wise precaution. Given the time and infrastructure I can replace the core programming of any droids given to us to better suit our needs and to prevent future tampering.”

HK-47 was, she suspected, rather excited.

Taylor pulled out the datapad Dooku had left for her. It had simple requisition forms on it, or so the Count claimed. “Here,” she said as she handed it over. “Get the things you need to fix droids and such, make sure any workshop we have is well stocked. And request simple bedding and food to feed a few hundred people. Stuff that can be preserved and that doesn’t take a lot of room. We’ll also need some paint. It wouldn’t do if our droids look just like the Separatists.”

“Query: Already designing your own army, mistress? I cannot help but agree to this line of thought.”

“Not an army, HK, an aggressive peacekeeping taskforce.”

“Commentary: Such a beautifully imprecise choice of words.”

Taylor grinned and moved past the ship. She had some people to meet. “Oh, and HK. Find the forms or whatever to rename the ship. It’s new designation is Atlas.”

She turned towards the entrance of the hanger where three familiar people were wobbling towards them. The two Falleen she recognized as slaves she had freed on Tatooine. The Trandoshan was Skarsk Nek, the strange, reserved lizard man she had crossed paths with a few times already.

Skarsk was the only one walking straight, but something about the parlour of his scales said that he wasn’t in the most sober state. “Look HK, the recruits are coming to us now.”

“Comment: What a sorry lot of inebriated sacks of flesh. I hardly think they would serve well aboard our new vessel, Mistress. They will stink the place up with their foul excrements and rub off the fresh paint.”

“How soon do you think you can get all the things we’ve requisitioned?”

***

“Ow,” was the first word out of Xarly as he shifted over to the side. His everything hurt. Hurt quite a bit, in fact.

Fortunately, he had recently spent a few years in college and his tolerance for morning after’s was at an all time high. He had been through entire lectures with splitting headaches, he could endure a bit of pain.

He was still squinting when his hand reached out and landed on something nice and warm and soft. “Huh?” he asked.

“You will remove your hand from my person, or I will remove it from yours,” said a voice that was most definitely nor female enough for his tastes. It was far too lizard-y.

He removed his hand and blinked a few times to take in the room. It was small, with grey walls and a bunk bed at the far end. There was a small bench and desk and what looked like a screen fixed to the wall with a feed from space.

Next to him was a writhing pile of clothes he recognized as Qarry, and in the middle of the room, standing tall and proud and imposing.

“Greetings: Hello you sorry sacks of filth, and welcome to your first day as the proud crew of the Atlas.”

***

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

Spoiler: Patreons

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And my 72 other patrons!

Thank you guys; without your help I could never write as much as I do!

Thank you guys; without your help I could never write as much as I do!

She realized that at some point she was going to need to buy some furniture for her cabin. Proper furniture, beyond just the folding bed in the corner and the tiny desk with a small screen on it off to the side. It might have been the captain’s cabin but it was still absolutely tiny. She wasn’t going to complain though, not when the rest of the crew had cabins just as small that they had to share.

Yawning, Taylor rolled out of her bed and waddled over to the desk, her robotic arm limp by her side. There was a small battery pack charging on the desk which she picked up and slotted into an opening in her arm.

The three clunky fingers twitched, the whole arm spasmed, then she was in full control of it again. She was going to need to do something about the prosthetic. She was no expert, but she knew that there were better options out there. Options that probably included hidden weaponry.

If she was going to be a space pirate she was going to get a laser hand and anyone who complained could do it at the end of her arm mounted plasma cannon.

She realized that she might still be a little tired. Or she was spending too much time with HK-47. Or maybe she had some sort previously unknown dream of being a space pirate.

Taylor rooted around her tiny closet for a pair of pants and a shirt, then, once she wasn’t wearing nothing but her underthings and a t-shirt, she slipped on her boots and stepped out of her cabin.

Her cabin, on her brand new spaceship.

She could get used to that.

She noticed one the others slipping into her range one floor up. They had come up with a fairly simple system where they would hold onto a bit of flimsy with their destination on it and she would simply walk them over to it until they slipped out of her range. It was teaching her to recognize some words in Basic. Her crew were taking being puppeted in stride.

Taylor stopped by the little dining room one level down, filled a sort of sippy-cup with the drink they called Caf and shoved the equivalent of a microwaveable meal into a device that cooked it for her in a few seconds. Placing everything onto a tray, she balanced it all one-handed and made her way to the very back of the Atlas. She had a throng for scorpions following after her, little feet clicking on the metallic floor and her few flying bugs zipped around her head.

Hk-47 was waiting in the workshop. “Greetings: Hello mistress. I trust your rest was unfortunately peaceful and assassin free?”

Taylor sipped her caf. “It was,” she said. “I had some bugs hanging above the door in case anyone tried something. Which reminds me, we need to stop somewhere to gather more bugs, preferably something with more bite than those I picked off Tatooine.”

“Suggestion: We can find an information archive on most civilised planets, these may include warnings about the dangerous fauna of already-explored worlds which we could then visit.”

“Don’t you have an internet?” Taylor asked as she placed her tray on a workbench. The room was strangely shaped, owing to the fact that it was squeezed in between some of the ship’s primary systems. Still, it was large, with a decent amount of storage for odds and ends in bins at the rear and enough room to disassemble entire droids.

Which was what they were going to be doing. Not only did she want HK-47 to inspect all 75 droids they had been given, she also wanted to paint them in such a way as to make it clear that they didn’t belong to the CIS. So far that meant spray painting them black with yellow stripe highlights on their dog-like face.

“Query: What is an internet?”

Taylor had grown used to explaining words by then, and more recently HK-47 had been teaching her some Basic. She could almost string together a sentence. “It’s a network of interconnected computers meant to share large amounts of information and give people access to... sites, which are repositories for specific kinds of information. There are also games and media and social functions on it.”

“Conjecture: That sort of system sounds ripe for tampering. No, there is no such intergalactic system in place. The various holonet channels provide news and information at faster than light speeds across the galaxy.”

“Huh, alright,” Taylor said. She pulled at a stool, realized that it wasn’t budging, then noticed that it was clamped to the ground with four small magnets. A bit of fiddling later and she was sitting at the workbench and eating her way through her breakfast. “Where are we going next?” she asked. “Our mission parameters are pretty broad. Too much so, even.”

“Statement: I have taken the time to compile a list of potential targets of opportunity.” The droid spun around and placed a datapad on the bench. “Statement: Count Dooku left us with a long list of potential targets.”

“Hrm,” Taylor said as she started to scroll through the list. Most were essentially small pirate outposts or minor slave trading hubs. The sheer number of the later had her gut twisting in distaste. “Is there a way to see these on a map?”

Rather than replying, HK-47 took the datapad and connected it to a small holoprojector at the base of the workbench, one she assumed as for displaying schematics and the like.

An image of the galaxy appeared, then was filled with small markers all across it, each one with a letter-number combination in Aurabesh. It didn’t take a genius to see the links between the numbers and the targets on the list.

Taylor skimmed through each one as she finished up her meal, after a while they all blurred together. Then she noticed a name that stood out. “HK, what can you tell me about Czerka corporation? Are they an affiliate of the Separatists?”

“Negation: They are not, as far as I am aware, tied to the Confederacy.”

A mission to a planet called Nar Kaaga deep in Hutt space just felt... off. “This one,” she said as she pressed the name of the planet. The galaxy map shifted and expanded to zoom into the appropriate sector. “Says there’s a small slaver base here. The slaves are brought in from...” she looked at the list of places the slaves were shipped from and winced. “A whole lot of places. Mostly able-bodied humanoids. But they’re all sold to one client. Czerka corporation.”

“Conjecture: The Czerka corporation have been producing inferior weapons for thousands of years; it is probably that they need the slaves to work their factories.”

“Factories,” Taylor repeated. “Is the company in Hutt space?”

“Sarcasm: Let me verify my large banks of corporate information. Oh no, I’m afraid the information was misplaced.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Right, I get it. I think we should call Dooku, I might have an idea.”

***

Count Dooku was enjoying a fine tumbler of a Corellian wine a dignitary had gifted him some weeks prior when his desk chimed, warning him of an incoming message. He didn’t change his posture, remaining comfortably seated in his chair with only a flick of the wrist to accept the call.

A holoprojector slid out from the wooden surface of his deck and flickered to life, presenting him with the nervous visage of the Neimoidian currently serving as his secretary on his current mission. A mission that was going very well. The Falleen had taken the rescue of their citizens as a sign of good things to come and his personal visit to their pitiful little system was seen as something of an honour.

They still had too much pride in what little they had, but he could overlook that if it meant they joined the Seperatist movement years ahead of his schedule. The Force seemed to rejoice in his action in the system. It was an auspicious sign.

“Count Dooku, sir,” the snivelling secretary said. “You have a call from lady Khepri.”

“Darth Khepri,” the Count corrected. He suspected the girl had chosen the name at random, that was, until he had seen her capture the minds of anyone that slipped too close to her with nary a twitch. A strange and powerful ability, and not one the Jedi would ever approve of.

But she was too placid, too calm and collected to be a true Sith lord, and she failed to recognize his own power. Or, perhaps, she was merely unimpressed by it. A strange mystery, but for now one whose goals seemed to align with his own.

“Darth Khepri, yes,” the secretary said. “Shall I tell her you are busy?”

“Put her through,” he ordered as he sat up.

The projector flickered again. Darth Khepri appeared, angled in such a way that it was obvious that she was sitting at a desk of some sort with her droid translator just a step behind her. She said something with nodding her head once at the projector, then her droid translated. “Greetings: My master greets you and wishes you a day with as little pain and inconvenience as possible.”

“Hello, Darth Khepri,” he replied easily. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Translation: The honour is owed by the simple expediency that any work you wish accomplished requires additional information. In particular, my master wishes to be informed about the Czerka corporation.”

He raised one delicate eyebrow at the last. Czerka were big. Not the biggest, not by far, but certainly one of the longest lived corporations in the galaxy. They produced a few products that competed with the Techno Union, if he recalled. “I see. Might it be possible to know what, exactly, you're planning on doing?”

“Translation: That would be permissible. Though any plans are contingent on the information obtained.”

“Of course,” he said. “Transmit a list of required information and I will have my people fulfill as much of the request as they can. Though I am curious, what makes you aim towards Czerka.”

“Translation: The Czerka corporation was flagged as common purchasers of large quantities of slave labour. They are also mostly based within Republic space. Discovering a Republic company using such under the auspice of the Republic would blemish both sides and disguise any acquisitions made during an assault.”

Count Dooku resisted the urge to smile, keeping his face bland and only mildly interested. “I believe I see what you’re planning. In any case, the largest Czerka factories are in the Anoat system. It is within Republic space, though not an area that is commonly policed or observed by Republic authorities.”

It took a time before Darth Khepri’s reply arrived, time she spent speaking with her rusty droid. That the language remained indecipherable so far was merely another mystery. Perhaps an old Sith tongue? It was certainly ugly and guttural enough.

“Translation: We await further information. Your time was appreciated, Count Dooku. With any luck we will next speak while the factories of our competition burn and the galaxy discovers the idiocy and corruption of their betters.”

The transmission ended soon after, leaving Dooku with much to ponder.

His thoughts ran back and forth until, finally, he reached a choice. His master had told him to begin collecting acolytes, those that were in touch with the darker side of the force. These were to be trained in the most basic ways of the Sith, though he had only found a few candidates so far, all of those were pitiful.

He had thought of adding Darth Khepri to their ranks, but that would obviously not work.

Now it was his duty to relay his findings to his master.

***

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Spoiler: Patreon

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And my 73 other patrons!

Thank you guys; without your help I could never write as much as I do!

The trip to the Anoat system had taken three and a half days.

It felt like forever. She had spent her share of time locked in small rooms, not counting the time she’d spent in jail. She knew what it was like to be cooped up without being able to go outside. But usually there was an outside to go to, not just the empty swirling void of space.

Maybe she had gotten used to the idea that travelling took a few hours at most. Dragon crafts, teleporters, the occasional commercial flight. She had done her share of moving around on Earth. But Earth was tiny, minuscule. One look at a galaxy map and the route they took showed that they had crossed the equivalent of a tenth of the entire galaxy’s diameter. It was a distance so huge it hurt to even think about it too long.

And all of that was behind them.

The Atlas burst out of hyperspace on the edge of a quiet solar system. A single sun sat in the distance, a bit more on the reddish side than the sun back home. Three large planets spun around it, though only one of them was of any interest to them.

Anoat, the only inhabited planet in the Anoat system was their target. Taylor didn’t give anyone points for creativity there.

“Our target is the Czerka factory,” she told her crew as they assembled in the mess hall. Their ship was too small for a proper conference room, but the hall was big enough for all five members of the crew. The two Fallen, Xarly and Qarry stared at her, and the Trandoshan, Skarsk Nek continued to clean the barrel of a blaster with meticulous care, a cloth wrapped around a talon to scrub out all the grime.

“Okay,” Xarly said. “So we’re blowing it up?” he asked. He made an explosive gesture, complete with sound effects.

She frowned a little then shook her head. The words ‘blowing it up’ were unfamiliar, but the gestures he made helped explain the general meaning. “No. We go in, find out where meatbag slaves are. We see. We... learn. We make plan. Then we take meatbags with us and then we... blowing it up.”

Her Basic was, in a word, basic.

“Slaves?” Qarry said. The Fallen’s interest was obvious. She, of all her crew, seemed like the only one that was professional. She stood with her back straight, acted with the decorum and precision that Taylor associated with PRT officers and seemed to know what she was doing.

Skarsk Nek wasn’t bad either, though it was obvious that he considered all ship-board duties to be beneath him. He did his share, but with a fair degree of reluctance.

Xarly spent more time trying to slip into Taylor or Qarry’s pants than actually working, though when he did get to work he was... passably good.

Taylor nodded. “Slaves. Yes. We save meatbags. We kill filth. Czerka Corporation is evil.” That name was hard to pronounce, the sounds in the company’s name unfamiliar in English. “We know they are evil. We take their shit. Just need to learn how much shit to take.”

HK-47 shifted. “Suggestion: Move along to the actual planning phase of this meeting. These incompetents don’t need to be encouraged to fight. Or if they do need such encouragement I will be honoured to provide it.”

“Right, yes,” she said. To be fair, poorly concealed threats aside, she didn’t think her crew needed to be sold on the idea that saving slaves was a morally acceptable thing to do. “Problems are many. Slave collars with head shortening charges. No amusing casualties allowed. Slaves need moving.”

“So, we need to infiltrate them?” Skarsk said.

Taylor turned to HK-47. “Translation: Infiltrate. To sneak, to slip behind enemy lines, to find the optimal position from which to carry out an assasination.”

Taylor nodded to Skarsk. “Yes. We infiltrate. We good because we have reason to visit and to learn. I will be rich merchant meatbag. You will be... safe maker.” She scrunched her nose and gave up on finding the right word. “We ask questions. We learn much. Then we attack. One hundred battledroids. HK-47. Us. Free slaves. Give slaves blasters. Take ships. Leave. Then we go elsewhere. Make lots of trouble for the Republic.”

“Czerka have guards,” Skarsk said.

“We learn that too,” Taylor agreed. She added the word ‘guards’ to her mental dictionary and promptly forgot it. “Also need stuff for fight.”

“Stuff?” Skarsk asked, his voice a sibilant rasp.

Taylor nodded. “Weapons for meatbag slaves. Explosives. Czerka spaceships. This ship, Atlas, not taking part in fight. Too weak. Too...” she paused. She wasn’t about to admit that she was so vain as to want to keep her shiny new ship shiny and new looking. “Small.”

“Well, if Czerka aren’t expecting us, I think we might be able to do quite a number on their defences,” Skarsk said. “I never attacked a factory before, but I was hired to help take out a small fortress... elsewhere. It is bad form to talk about the particulars of past work.”

Taylor nodded along, piecing together most of what he was saying. Their Trandoshan was a mercenary, that much she knew, that he had some experience wasn’t unexpected. “How do we do, then?”

Skarsk hissed, a low, thoughtful sound. “We need to know the layout first. That will be our first priority. That and numbers. If the factory is small, then we can take it ourselves. If it’s as big as I suspect, then we won’t be enough.”

“The droids can help fight.”

Skarsk shook his head. “No. The problem isn’t fighting. It’s a factory. They will have guards and security and maybe turrets.” He paused to let HK47 translate part of that for her. “Nothing we can’t handle. The problem will be handling all those slaves at once. If there are few, then it is not really a problem, but if there are many, then we will have difficulty with them. The authorities won’t help either.”

Taylor sat back in her seat and pondered that for a moment. If they were using slave labour, and in great enough numbers for the CIS to notice, then there was a good chance that the local equivalent of the police were aware of them, and they hadn’t acted on it.

“We have to fight the ‘authorities’ then,” Taylor said.

Skarsk shrugged. “They might look the other way. Depends on if the slaves are legal or not.”

Taylor stood up. “Let us carry out first part of plan first. Then we see when we learn more.” That said, she nodded to her crew and moved back. She still had some things to prepare.

***

Anoat was a shithole.

Taylor didn’t say it lightly. She had been in some pretty horrible places before, but in every case all it would take was a few minute’s walk and she would be in a nicer place. Even a city devastated by an Endbringer had some wilderness left untouched nearby, some places where nature took over and the filth had been washed away.

The planet hovering below them had none of that.

Even from their rapidly descending orbit she could see long trenches cut into the landscape, as if the planet were no bigger than an apple that someone had cut slices into. All of those trenches lead to the single large city on the planet. Oh, there were little outposts shining on the dark side of the world as they crossed it, but she judged them to be no bigger than a small city on Earth, only visible because of the absolute lack of light across the rest of the world.

The mega city was a huge sprawling block. Thousands of buildings squished together, some of them probably bigger than anything on Earth.

She started to question the viability of her plans. Those buildings could house millions of people. And if those were the slaves she was going to save, then she would need a bigger ship.

The place looked like a more polluted, more desperate post-Behemoth Manhattan. If the city was a hundred times as large. They crossed over what she suspected was the industrial sector, a place filled with smokestacks and huge complexes surrounded by walls. Vehicles were moving in and out, some with cargo, others without. There was even a network of rails with trains moving to and from one factory and the next.

“This place is huge,” Taylor said.

The clunk of HK-47’s feet told her of the droid’s presence by her side. “Statement: The Czerka factories on this world produce millions of tons of equipment every standard galactic year. Most of these are simple manufacturing items though they also build weaponry, droids and large scale mining equipment.”

Taylor nodded. It was impressive, even if everything she saw was darkened by grim and soot. Stepping back, Taylor turned to Hk-47 and looked the droid up and down. She had spent a few hours with him scrubbing off the rust from his armour and injecting lubricants into all of his joints. Then she masked his important sensors and spray painted him the same flat black as all of her other battle droids. With his red eye-like sensors and the danger-yellow marks she had carefully traced along the edges of his armour he looked like something out of someone’s nightmares.

“This place looks alive, at least,” she said.

The droid piloting the Atlas turned its head in her direction, it was one of the few that she hadn’t repainted in ‘her’ colours. “We are approaching landing pad Leth Mem Aurek Osk. Prepare for slight turbulence.”

Taylor’s mechanical arm grabbed into a railing and tightened as the city beyond the viewscreen grew larger. They made a few adjustments in the air as the pilot droid aimed them towards a huge skyscraper with large holes all around it where ships were slipping in and out.

“HK, set up a guard when we land. Just a few patrols of droids around the Atlas to discourage idiots.”

“Query: What sort of response shall I program into them?”

“Get them to at least ask people to back off before opening fire. Maybe use stun rounds at first.”

Atlas slid into a wide berth, the pneumatic hiss of landing gear sounding out through the whole ship as the strange repulsorlift engines she had yet to figure out roared to life and made the entire vessel come to a stop and rotate until it was facing the exit again.

“We have landed,” the pilot droid said.

“Well done,” she said.

The droid nodded its head even as its mechanical hands flicked off a bunch of switches. “Roger roger.”

Taylor was tempted to get her droids to say something else, but seeing as how HK-47 was the only one with programming knowledge of that sort on their crew, she didn’t dare ask. They would probably start cussing her out every time she gave an order.

Now she just had to move onto the next step of her plan; scouting out the enemy. Unfortunately she didn’t have the connections to pass herself off as a rich merchant just yet, which meant either making those connections or... “HK, I need the directions to the seediest bar in the sector.”

***

Oh boy, here we go freeing slaves again.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

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Taylor resisted the urge to press a hand against her newly acquired facemask. It was an annoying but necessary piece of equipment on Anoat.

They had landed two days ago. Two days of searching somewhat fruitlessly for a lead.

The first day had passed in a flurry of purchases. Some basic equipment, including her new mask, some clothes that weren’t from Tatooine and some basic essentials. Now she was kitted out in simple but tough clothes that gave her good freedom of motion and a nice pocket-lined jacket, all in deep blacks. A cowl to cover her face and hair, as was common in the local fashion later and she could pass for just another human in the crowd.

A human being escorted by two battle droids and a menacing protocol droid look-alike, but a human all the same.

They were in one of the deeper recesses of the megacity, in a place filled with bars and shops tucked into the corners of buildings and where the sun above was barely visible through the maze of catwalks, bridges and the haze of thick pollutants in the sky.

A form darted out of an alley and came to walk by her side, just barely outside of her range of control.

“Anything?” Taylor asked.

A masked face looked at her, the see-through front revealing Qarry’s rather pretty features. “Maybe.”

Taylor nodded and pointed to a small stand off to the side of the not-so-busy street. There were hundreds of such stands, reminding her a little of those that popped up around the Boardwalk on Earth Bet.

Then she noticed the squid-like face of the person behind the counter and the fact that the food was all served in plastic containers meant to keep the pollutant outs and the nostalgic feelings were dashed.

They sat, the droids standing guard behind them and probably discouraging anyone else from joining at the stand.

Taylor pushed a pair of cred chits across the counter and pointed to one of the more palatable meals on the menu before gesturing for two. The alien warbled at her and started warming up two meals, the chits disappearing in a blink.

“So?” Taylor asked.

“The presence of slaves is confirmed. Even their locations. They’re all housed in one of three large bunker complexes around the factories. Two for manual labourers, one of slaves with technical skills.”

“Okay, good,” Taylor said.

“The factory runs all through the night. There’s always a shift out working.”

Taylor sighed. “Not so good.”

Qarry hummed. The woman was certainly proving her worth as one of the more competent members of Taylor’s crew. “There’s a group that protests slavery here. Lots of rich backers. Mostly young students from the richer families.”

Taylor noted that. It was surprising but not quite. Slavery was, she hoped, viewed as cruel across most of the galaxy. “Do they do anything to help the meatbags?”

“No.”

She snorted. “Useless, then.”

“Maybe not,” Qarry said. “Could provide support. They have bodies.”

It was an idea, certainly, but she didn’t want to throw kids into a battle against a corporation that was probably owned by their parents. Or something. The help didn’t sound reliable to begin with. “Underground?” she asked.

Qarry shook her head. “Skarsk Nek knows more. Probably a bad idea. They need the city to work. No slaves, no work, they lose.”

Taylor ground her teeth, but couldn’t deny the twisted logic. Two meals were placed before them, steam escaping the plastic tabs on their boxes. The alien behind the counter made a shooing gesture.

“Suggesting: Let my master eat in peace or I’ll leave you in pieces,” HK-47 said amiably.

Taylor rolled her eyes and flicked another chit at the alien who caught it and moved further back.

She ignored it and started eating after lowering her mask and opening the lid to release fishy smelling steam.

As she ate, she considered her options and actions. Destroying the factories here was going to ruin an entire industry and probably cost Czerka millions, if not billions of credits, not just in lost slaves, but in equipment and infrastructure.

It would lead to the entire planet suffering a huge blow to its economy. Czerka was the biggest corporation on the world, it held a lot of sway and power and removing it would probably lead to a collapse of the entire planet’s infrastructure.

Was that such a bad thing?

It would leave lots of normal, otherwise innocent people in deep trouble, would destroy lives and homes and would have effects that she couldn’t even imagine. And yet if all those things depended on something so glaringly evil, she couldn’t let them continue, even if that meant the suffering of others in the short term.

HK had been teaching her a little, in odd moments of free time, about the philosophy of the warriors and rulers he called the Sith, those from whom her new name came. He explained that freedom itself was their greatest treasure, and the power to stay free their greatest asset. Maybe it was time to spread some freedom around.

She had been thinking too small, expecting that this world’s slave trade was no bigger than what she had found on Tattooine, not an order of magnitude more complex. Nimas the Hutt had been a trader, but most of the slaves the Hutt moved had never entered her facility or even landed on Tatooine.

Here, the slaves were kept alive as long as possible, or at least as long as they were usable. It was the sort of cold efficiency that made Taylor sick to the stomach. Unfortunately, the ships that brought new slaves only carried a few hundred each, they didn’t have room for the thousands on Anoat.

She had to shift her plan, a lot.

“Qarry,” Taylor said as she finished her meal and pushed her container away. She focused on finding the right words in Basic. “I need new information. Learn for me the planetary defences. The way the place defends for war. The local army and all that. Then we learn who the leaders are. We’re going to make... replacements.”

“Statement: Oh, master, please forgive this old droid for ever doubting you.”

Taylor rolled her eyes.

“I understand,” Qarry said. She bowed from her seat which had her head dipping into Taylor’s range. The amount of respect she received from her crew was at once too much and too little at times. She hadn’t done nearly enough to earn it yet.

“Get to work. HK, we need to plot more.”

Taylor stood and started moving again, her robots forming up behind her. “Query: Where are we going now, master?”

“Czerka’s head office. The security is supposed to be rather lax. I want to verify what Xarly learned and plan a way to break in. Can you break into their systems if you’re in the same building?”

“Statement: I can indeed break into most secured systems, though I am not built with that purpose and won’t be as fast as some other droids, I’m afraid.”

Taylor paused in the street. “Then we find a droid that can.”

***

R3-C2 scanned the streets outside of the shop's windows with a glance. Six organics, two droids, one fauna in the form of a bird that their databanks considered common on the upper tiers of Anoat.

The astromech turned around and made another slow circuit of the platform they were on. It afforded the droid a good look at the rest of the showroom.

Seven R2 units were lined up in a neat, shiny row next to the main window, each one wobbling in pre-programmed delight when an organic showed interest in them. Some R5s floated on repulsor lifts that slowly turned them in circles and displayed them to any customer entering the shop.

R3-C2 knew from self-compiled data, the frequent complaints of returning sapients, and the occasional malfunction witnessed live, that the R5s were temperamental at best and prone to malfunction.

Shop-Owner Bzell was--according to R3-C2’s social programming and prediction software--trying to entice customers into buying the more expensive and less disaster prone R2 models.

R3-C2’s route continued and their sensor package deployed completely at the predetermined location to reveal all of the tools and utilities they had tucked away. It also allowed them to scan the deep end of the shop where additional parts and upgrades were for sale, as well as defunct older models like the C1 series droids.

A GNK-Droid moved out from the backstore and approached each droid at the front in turn, deploying a power injector from its forward casing to top off any batteries. R3-C2 scanned the placard hanging from its side and noted that the price on the droid had lowered by another hundred credits.

When the GNK-droid honked at them to know their power status R3-C2 merely whistled a negative in return.

The shop was well lit and clean for an establishment visited by so many sentients. R3-C2, having sliced into the shop’s mainframe, knew that it was the best Industrial Automations sales point in their sector of the galaxy, though not because of the droids they sold on the main floor but thanks to the large number of ASP-series worker droids that were sold to local factories.

But Shop-Owner Bzell was aiming higher still. It was why R3-C2 was there, to entice local militia officers into purchasing even more droids, perhaps even those like R3-C2 that were specially made and crafted to be as near-perfect as a droid could be.

The door buzzer whistled. A sound too high pitched for most organics to notice. R3-C2 sped up their circuit of the display area so that they could see the newcomers.

There were four of them, three droids and a single sentient at the fore. Her social programs analyzed their positions relative to each other, the posture of the sentient and the quality of their equipment and clothes.

The two droids at the back were a relatively recent model, though they had been repainted to a flat, non-reflective black with yellow highlights around their armoured chassis. Their weapons were standard mass produced pieces but they seemed new and well maintained.

The other stand out droid was of a make and model that didn’t match up to anything in R3-C2’s databanks. There was a glitch as the scanners the astromech was equipped with tried to designate it as a non-combative protocol droid, but that classification didn’t match up with the other evidence present. The long rifle on its back that had parts matching a common snub-fighter’s cannon, the twin blasters in hip holsters, and the single vibroblade magnetically attached to the base of its back in a sheath made to look like a powerpack.

There were enough glitches in the scan and parts of the droid’s body that were shielded that R3-C2 suspected there were other, non-visible weapons hidden on or in the droid.

The last potential customer was a female human. Age indeterminate. She had a black mask with a built in rebreather and filtration system and a pair of golden-lensed goggles on that masked part of her face. Her clothes all seemed new. Baggy, with many pockets.

R3-C2 found three weapons on its first sweep, and two more on the subsequent scan. Not counting the hundreds of smaller, insectile lifeforms congregating around the sentient and moving in distinctly abnormal patterns.

Shop-Owner Bzell moved to the front, hands wringing together as he greeted the potential customer with a socially appropriate greeting.

The woman ignored him and moved towards the R2 droids while the false protocol droid began questioning Shop-Owner Bzell about the slicing potential of the droids currently being sold, as well as their capabilities in and out of combat.

Shop-Owner Bzell answered everything with an obsequious smile, then gestured to the R5 models behind him.

The protocol whipped out a compact blaster rifle from its hip holster and shot the R5. The droid exploded quite spectacularly. The gun turned and aimed towards the R2 models who waddled on the spot and panics as one of their numbers was blown apart.

The rifle turned to aim at R3-C2.

The astromech fired its thrusters and took to the air, arc-welder deploying along with its miniature buzz-saw. The protocol droid was a threat attempting to eliminate R3-C2. As a non-organic entity, R3-C2 would be justified in attacking it back.

The droid dodged with agility that didn’t match the physical characteristics of the droid. R3-C2 added a note to its databanks.

“Stop.”

The droid stood back straight and reholstered its blaster. Show-Owner Bzell stood up from his crouch and the R2s peeked around from the corner.

“Tell me about this one,” the woman said as she pointed to R3-C2.

Shop-Owner Bzell smiled, but his other physical queues suggested her was nervous. He explained that R3-C2 was a showpiece, not meant for individual sale.

“We’ll take it.”

Shop-Owner Bzell did not protest overly much and R3-C2 noted that while the customer had paid the full purchase price for an R3-unit, they weren’t charged for the other units.

What a strange and curious new master.

***

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

Taylor’s plan was, in a word, stupid. She knew it, her crew knew it, and even HK-47 knew it, though he seemed more than willing to go through with it despite its utter stupidity. Stupidity that ended with her being squeezed into the back of a flying taxi with eight droids and a whole lot of bugs.

“Comment: Suicidal merely means the chances of success are low, and failure means avoiding any consequences.”

“Unless you have something smart to say, HK-47, then shut it,” she said.

Next to her, R3-C2 warbled and chirped. The six battle droids, each one carrying a large backpack, shifted a little. Though they were probably only moving to counter the way the taxi shifted beneath them.

“Suggestion: Learn to stop questioning your betters you wheeled garbage disposal unit or I’ll see about turning you into an actual trash heap. Comment: The irony would be enjoyable.”

Taylor’s crack team wasn’t full of team players, or crack anything. Still, she figured that she had a decent chance at succeeding. Her plan reminded her a whole lot of hitting the PRT headquarters in Brockton Bay, only this time the headquarters belonged to an interplanetary slave-owning corporation that made enough money to subsidise the creation of entire factory-planets.

That was--if her plan succeeded--going to change.

Their flying taxi-van came to a smooth stop and the droid pilot at the front turned around and spoke to them in basic. Taylor stepped out, R3-C2 on her heels. The Battledroids moved out next, keeping to a tight formation with their blasters pointing to the ground. Then HK-47 shot the driver’s head off and stepped out as well.

The taxi spun out of control and flew off into a building a dozen floors down.

“Really HK?” she asked.

“Justification: He asked for a tip.”

The Czerka headquarters on Anoat was an imposing building. Probably the single largest skyscraper Taylor had ever seen, and certainly the largest on the planet. It wasn’t pretty though. The tower was a large oval with sharpened sides rising up to a fine point with a hole through the last dozen floors at the top like a gigantic eye. They had obviously read the evil mega corporation textbook.

The landing area they had been brought to was on, according to the large stencil on the ground, the one hundred and twentieth floor. The server room they wanted to get to was eighty-eight floors up. The office of the CEO was, of course, all the way up on the three hundredth floor.

They had their work cut out for them.

“Try talking first,” Taylor said as she started walking ahead. She made sure her mask was on tight even as the first security team moved onto the landing pad to see what was going on. Two droids that looked to be mass-produced Czerka models and a single human in a grey uniform.

“Greetings: Hello,” HK-47 said. He raised a blaster pistol and took off the heads of the two security droids with two shots that came so close together they might as well have been fired at the same time.

“S-stop!” the human guard said.

Taylor didn’t oblige. He moved into her range and his demeanor shifted as she took over his body. She had him turn around and face the entrance while she paused over the security droids. “Are they worth looting?” she asked.

“Suggestion: Looting is usually carried out after the assault is done. These useless meatbag-designed piles of scrap are only armed with stun weapons.”

Taylor tore the gun out of one security droid’s hands, then tossed it to HK-47. “Use it,” she said.

“Complaint: This is unfair treatment.”

“Now you can shoot the civilians without me getting angry,” she said as she picked up the other blaster, and reholstered her own pistol. She was beginning to agree with HK-47’s frequent assertions that the only good weapon was more weapons. Unfortunately she only had three pistols on her person at that moment, two in thigh holsters and a third tucked into the thickly padded jacket she had purchased for the day.

An extra rifle or two wouldn’t hurt, she reasoned. Her battle droids had their small rifles and, at HK-47’s insistence, a small compact pistol tucked in the small of their backs which they could grab with either arm.

HK-47 himself was... Taylor eyed the starship canon jutting over his shoulder and all the way down to his shin, then the large rifle slung cross-ways to it. He had smaller rifles clamped to his legs and blaster pistols tucked under his arms. She suspected he still had a thermal detonator hidden away somewhere too.

And now he had a stun rifle.

“Let’s get moving,” Taylor said through the guard’s mouth. The less her voice was heard the less likely it could be used to track her. The battle droids had cheap long coats slung over their skeletal frames, with hoods pulled up over their robotic faces and even HK-47 had a long trenchcoat on, one with many pockets that she suspected would soon be filled with purloined weapons.

They moved into the lobby to find a large room with a security desk blocking access to a central shaft where Taylor could just barely see the levels above and below across from a set of rails. It reminded her a little of the plaza at some open-concept shopping malls, but from the plans she had seen the shaft rose two dozen stories.

“Please pass through the security scanner,” a young woman said. She had the fixed smile of a retail employee as she gestured to a metallic archway flanked by a pair of security droids.

“No,” she told HK-47 who was raising his new toy.

“Comment: Spoilsport.”

Taylor walked through the security gate right behind the guard she had taken over and ignored the alarms that started blaring after she passed.

“Um, miss, if you have... any... weapons...” the woman said, her smile growing decidedly queasy as Taylor, who wasn’t bothering to hide her weapons, was followed by her battle droids. “Um.”

“Leave,” Taylor said.

She noticed the security droids starting to move and sighed when HK-47 shot them both with the stun rifle, then, upon seeing it do little to the droids, bashed their heads in with the weapon’s stock.

“Hurry up,” she called after her droid friend.

Taking the elevators--the turbolifts--would have been a whole lot faster.

Instead they took the stairs. Two of her battle droids carried R3-C2 while the flaps of their backpacks opened to unleash a swarm of butterfly-like bugs that flew to every camera they could reach.

Stairs were nice, didn’t stop working, and weren’t controlled by anyone. Six flights up she was beginning to change her opinion on stairs. By the tenth she ordered a stop. Her legs were burning and the security guard she was still puppeting was red in the face and about to pass out.

“We’re taking the turbolift from here,” she said.

“Comment: Weak.”

Taylor opened the door a crack, let a few bugs fly in to make sure the area was clear, then moved in. The floor they were on was an office space, rows of cubicles where wide-eyed workers watched them pass.

A manager-looking sort stood in their path. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

Then he too was in Taylor’s range.

“They have right to be here,” her guard said.

“They do?” the manager asked.

“Yes.”

It was the most awkward puppet show Taylor had ever seen, and she was the one with her hands in the puppets.

“I come with,” the manager said and followed after them as they moved deeper on the floor. They found a quiet spot with some bathrooms and Taylor sighed.

“HK-47, follow these two into the bathroom, try out your new toys.”

“Affirmation: With pleasure!”

A minute and two dull whumps of a stun rifle later they were moving again. She sent a few bugs into the turbolift and set them over the rather obvious cameras, then moved in with her entire group. R3-C2 navigated the menu to get them to the right floor.

The turbolift hummed along and Taylor expected it to stop suddenly at any moment, but to her surprise they arrived at the right floor with no fuss.

“Comment: Czerka’s security has improved considerably. I haven’t killed a single employee in five minutes. Perhaps they learned something?”

“We’ll see,” Taylor said. She tapped R3-C2 on the head. “You know where to go?”

The droid chirped something that sounded more or less like an affirmative and started rolling ahead of them. Taylor and her other droids followed. Soon enough they reached a pair of thick doors that blocked their path. R3-C2 warbled at them.

“Observation: Security doors. Locked, obviously.”

“Damn,” Taylor said. There was a sort of intercom next to the door, but she didn’t like her chances of bluffing her way through. “Okay, everyone back up. HK-47, that canon of yours, think it’ll do something to that door?”

The droid looked at the door for a long time, then R3-C2 beeped and chirped. “Response: It is likely that the door will fail after repeated barrages. But as the droid suggests it would take some time.”

“How about the walls around the door?”

HK-47 reached over his shoulder, grabbed the cannon and brought it around. Taylor ducked around the nearest corner before he opened fire. Even shielded, she felt the rise in temperature as he fired away. Then the assassin droid stopped.

“Statement: Path cleared.”

The hole he had left wasn’t exactly pretty, but it was big enough to walk through. Taylor sent some bugs zipping through and deeper into the sealed off section only to find panicking personnel and a few security droids ambling about aimlessly.

“Good work. Droids ahead, and civilians. HK-47, you’re in first. Battledroids one through three, you go in after him. R3-C2, you’re with me, the rest come after, watch out backs.”

She waited for the chorus of ‘Roger-Roger’ to end before she started in.

The security in the server rooms was inversely impressive to that of the blast doors. The only resistance they met were half a dozen security droids that charged at them while firing madly at the first target they encountered and one brave employee with a holdout pistol.

Stun shots didn’t do anything but annoy HK-47 and the idiot with the holdout spent more time choking on bugs than firing. Taylor even got to test her new stun rifle only to find that it lacked any satisfying kick to it.

She wasn’t going to admit that to HK-47 even as she slung the rifle over her shoulder and pulled out a pistol. “R3-C2, lead the way.”

The server rooms were impressively huge. Towering banks of glowing machines with thousands of ports and displays and little whirling fans that make her coat flap around her distractingly and made sending bugs around a chore.

R3-C2 whistled something and moved over to a small control centre in the middle of the stacks of servers. A port moved out of the droid’s casing and plugged itself into the bank of computers.

A moment later the screens before them lit up. Some had camera feeds of slave pens, others factory floors. Maps and blueprints flashed by at lightning speeds on some screens and reams of data moved on others.

“You’re really digging into them, aren’t you?” Taylor asked.

The little droid whistled.

“Hey HK-47, is it customary to name a droid? Something other than a serial number?”

“Comment: Some sentimental fleshlings have done so.”

Taylor grinned and gave the droid next to her’s dome an affectionate pat. “I think I’m going to call you Tattletale,” Taylor said. “Now, start spilling some secrets.”

***
Taylor may have watched the Matrix at some point.

Also, check out Cinnamon Bun on Royal Road! It's... nothing like this story, at all.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tattletale, Taylor realized, was a very clever little droid. Oh sure, she... It couldn’t communicate with anything beyond beeps and chirps, but she still managed to convey some emotions through those, enough that Taylor could grasp when the R3 unit was happy or excited or disappointed.

The droid’s giddy chirps as she dug into the Czerka headquarter’s data banks were a little worrisome, but Taylor suspected they weren’t all bad.

Next to the panel that R3 had plugged herself into, stood HK-47. The old droid was clicking away at a terminal with mounting glee. “Observation: the entire facilities security apparatus has come online.”

“So, we’ve been spotted. Honestly it’s a bit late for them to start acting,” Taylor said.

“Negative: The security droids have been ordered to apprehend anyone with security clearances. The higher the clearance the higher the target’s priority. Those without any prior permissions entered into the system are seemingly immune to the security droids.”

Taylor’s mind went blank for a moment, then she turned to Tattletale. “Is that your doing?” she asked.

The R3 chirped happily.

“Good work,” she said. “That’ll win us some time. Have you found anything interesting in there?”

An affirmative beep-boop was her reply.

Taylor sighed. She was going to have to learn droid after she learned basic. “If you find anything really juicy try to spread it out of this building. HK, we’re going to move on. I want to have a chat with the people in charge of this place.”

Tattletale beeped and chirped a few times.

“Translation: the ambulatory trashcan has discovered the location of the CEO of this branch of Czerka. All the elevators leading to the topmost floor have been cleared for our personal use. He is guarded by some flesh and bone guards, which means we might have to fight our way over. These guards are Mandalorian mercenaries. Comment: Finally a challenge.”

“You can tell me about it on the way up.” She gestured to three of her battle droids. “You, stay here and listen to R3. Tattletail, try to make it out of here in one piece. You know where to meet us after.”

The R3 whistled in agreement.

Taylor checked her weapons. She still had a couple of handheld blasters, a rifle and her rather useless stun rifle. She needed some sort of close-range option that would work on mechanical foes. Organic enemies were a non-issue.

“Right, let’s go.”

HK-47 picked up his snub-fighter canon from where he had left it to cool off and barked something to the remaining battle droids. “Status: Ready for more!”

Taylor snorted and shook her head, but she still led the charge out of the server room, her bugs darting out ahead to find anyone that was trying to be clever. Fortunately, it seemed as if Czerka employees weren’t paid enough to stick around when their own security droids were assaulting them with stun rounds and when the entire building was starting to look like a warzone.

Passing by a squadron of Czerka security droids that completely ignored them was a little strange, but she could live with it.

They reached the elevators and Taylor stared at the panel covered in hundreds of buttons for a moment. She didn’t know how to read the numbers in Basic yet. “Ah,” she said.

HK-47 pressed one of them and it lit up a moment before the door slid shut.

“Thanks.”

“Statement: It was my pleasure, mistress.”

She eyed the droid. “You’re being polite.”

“Comment: You are providing me with top-tier entertainment. It is the least I can do. But no worries, the moment I find myself craving more action I will return to being utterly belligerent and unhelpful.”

“Ah, good, I was worried you might have gotten a knock on the head that fixed you somehow.”

The doors opened and Taylor waved her battle droids into a large lobby. Unlike the lobby areas below, this one had walls lined in dark woods, the floor had a thick carpet over it, and the area was decorated with large plinths atop which sat various weapons in glass cases. Little plaques next to them probably told anyone able to read Basic a whole lot about the weapons.

Taylor sent her swarm out, but found a whole lot of nothing. “We’re clear,” she said as she lowered her rifle. “This place looks like a museum.”

HK47 walked to one of the plinths and stared at a small holdout pistol within. It was bright chrome and looked almost organic. “Assessment: A Nabooian Sun Praiser. A prototype of a popular weapon from some centuries ago. Valuable, but doubtlessly not as good as a more modern weapon.”

“So, these aren’t all Czerka weapons?” she asked as she crossed the room and eyed both blaster rifles, pistols and even what looked like melee weapons. Some were in rough shape, others pristine condition. She didn’t doubt that they were all collector’s items meant to impress people on the way to meeting the local CEO.

“Negative: Some of these are definitely Czerka trash, but most are, or were, quality weapons at one time or another. Perhaps we should start our own collection with a generous donation from this one?”

Taylor shook her head. “That sounds like your kind of hobby, but there’s only so much room on the Atlas.” Her eyes were pulled to the side and she found herself staring at a strange weapon in particular. She couldn’t quite work out what it was, but something in her gut told her it was dangerous, and also beautiful. “What kind of gun is that?” she asked.

“Commentary: that is a lightsaber. The traditional weapon of both the Sith and the Jedi. An elegant weapon, for a more barbaric time.”

“How does it work?”

“Suggestion: Perhaps a few decades spent with intensive schooling would allow you to understand the function of so complex a weapon. Though, if you merely want to unlimb yourself, then the lightsaber is a simple enough tool of destruction. Press the activator on the side and a blade of coherent superheated plasma will allow you to cut nearly anything apart. It is most satisfactory.”

“Sounds pretty handy,” Taylor said.

“Qualification: It sounds like a good method by which to lose a hand.”

Taylor smiled at the jab, her robotic arm twitching by her side. It was a little too late for that. She eyed the lightsaber a little more, then walked on. It was pretty, but it wasn’t for her.

And she had bigger things to worry about.

The door at the far end of the room, the one that should have led to the CEO’s quarters, burst open and a security droid flew out, its chassis smoking and sporting a few holes that she knew weren’t part of its design.

The droid crashed to the floor, skid back a ways with a shower of sparks, then after a single futile attempt to stand up, died.

Taylor stepped to the side and behind one of the artistic plinths just as a large man stomped into the lobby. Seven feet tall and encased in shiny armour, the brick of a man stood at the front of the room and scanned it. His face wasn’t visible behind his T-slitted helmet, but that didn’t matter. Taylor could tell that he was taking in every inch of the area.

“I’m afraid your little heist ends here,” he said as he shifted the large rifle tucked up against his chest.

“Heist?” Taylor asked.

“Translation: The mandalorian meatbag thinks that we are here to rob them.”

Taylor nodded and turned back to the so-called mandalorian. “We’re not here to steal things,” she said in halting Basic.

She ignored the crunch of glass as HK-47 broke into one of the displays and picked up a handgun from its display. “Observation: Decent condition. Well Maintained. And it works with the powerpacks I am carrying.”

Taylor sighed. “We’re here to talk to the CEO,” she said.

The Mandalorian shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You could make it easy for the both of us if you turned off your droids and surrendered.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Taylor said.

“Good. It wouldn’t have been fun.” The huge man pulled out a gun and Taylor only just managed to roll to the side to avoid a searing red beam that sliced past the ground where she’d been standing.

“Amusement: This is why I enjoy Mandalorians,” HK-47 said.

Taylor spun around and placed her back against one of the plinths. “Oh, really?” she asked.

“Statement: Yes. They understand the joys of proactive conflict resolution.”

Her bugs noted three more people in similarly bulky armour slip into the room. One of them even did a somersault and hid behind a pillar before unslinging a rifle and checking out the room.

Her battle droids spread out and tried to use some cover as they fired in the... general direction of the enemy. If this was what they could do when HK-47 improved them, Taylor noted, then she feared what they could do when they were unupgraded.

Taylor carefully placed a second blaster in her robotic arm, then tested the trigger before flicking off the safety. Going guns akimbo was almost always a bad idea.

She rolled out from behind her cover, both arms springing forwards. Twin blasts fired out of her blasters, racing across the room with pinpoint accuracy to... harmlessly bounce off the helmets of two of the Mandalorians sticking out of cover. She fired a few more bug-guided shots that sent the mercenaries scurrying for shelter then moved behind a thicker piece of cover.

“What kind of armour are they using?” she asked in plain English.

“Answer: It’s called Beskar,” Hk-47 said.

“... I want some.”

“Leading Statement: a new chassis made of Beskar would improve my performance considerably.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, then winced as repeated hammer-blows hit the pillar she was using as cover, sending bits of whatever passed as concrete flying. She saw one of her droids explode and another was riddled with blaster fire when it moved out of cover to fire back. The weight of fire from their end of the room was quickly shrinking.

Then her bugs felt a dozen security droids running into the room behind the Madalorians. For a moment she hoped it was over, but they lined up at the far end of the room and let loose with guns that were definitely not meant to stun anyone.

She sighed and brought her bugs down on the mercenaries.

For all their pretty armour, they still had gaps between the plates, and their necks were exposed enough that her creepy crawlies could creep and crawl into their noses.
One of them dropped a smoke grenade of sorts on the ground, which did... absolutely nothing to Taylor.

Taylor stuck her head out, intending to take a few potshots aimed at the gaps in their armour, but the droids started moving up while firing and she had to duck back to keep her head.

“This is annoying!” she called out to HK-47.

“Query: Permission to eliminate the enemy threat with gratuitous violence?”

“Don’t kill the mercenaries if you can avoid it,” she said. “Otherwise, have fun.”

The assassin droid pulled his cannon from over his shoulder. “Acknowledgement: I most certainly will.”

Taylor waited until the population of droids had thinned somewhat before running out of cover. She aimed for the part of the room she had been in before. The plan was simple. She would circle around the room, pull out that stun gun of hers, and see if it worked when fired point blank into the mercenary’s soft bits.

She only made it halfway when the plinth next to her blew up, scattering glass and debris all around her a moment before one of the security droids stumbled ahead of her.

She had been in the act of reaching for her stun rifle. Her blaster pistols were in their holsters.

The droid’s rifle rose up, its muzzle coming to rest pointing right towards her face. “Surrender!” the droid demanded.

Taylor’s eyes dipped down to something shiny and metallic just before her.

The lightsaber.

The droid’s finger twitched.

Taylor rolled forwards, organic hand squeezing around the foot-long metal pipe.

A bright blue beam of something hot and fierce tore out of the hilt with a snap-hiss.

The droid’s bisected chassis fell apart next to her.

Taylor eyed the glowing sword. “I can work with this,” she said.

***

Woo!

Ben a bit since I worked on this one!