Chapter Two: Beispiel

A being could have heard a single dust mote strike the floor, the bar was so quiet. Deadly quiet. A thick pall of smoke hung over the assembled crowd. Ventilation filters which should have maintained the air at a somewhat cleaner standard had fallen into disrepair years ago. Through it all wafted a myriad of odors: Gand incense, chak root, slightly burned bantha steak, elba beer, sweat. The temperature on Beispiel at this time of year was typically hot and humid and the lack of ventilation, save for the breeze through the windows and open doorway, compounded the problem. As did the unfolding drama before the bar.

A Barabel, a two meter tall reptilian humanoid with an armored carapace, stood with his clawed hands clenching and unclenching. Occasionally, his multiple rows of pointed teeth ground together with an ominous overtone. His vertically-pupiled eyes were wide and glaring with murderous intent.

The focus of the Barabel's growing anger was a humanoid figure, short yet imposing, nonetheless. He stood not much over 1.6 meters tall with broad shoulders. The stout Roxian looked much the same as any other member of his high gravity species except for his armor. His armor was dented and scraped, consisting of golden plates over a black body glove with boots. The figure wore a tattered red cape and cowl over the armor. His gloved left hand rested casually against the edge of the bar. His right hand, by contrast, was covered in an impressive red gauntlet and rested to his side. A blaster carbine was slung across his back and a heavy blaster pistol sat low on his right hip in a customized holster. An oversized vibroaxe was propped against the bar near him.

The most striking feature about the Roxian was not his armor or his weapons, but his armor's faceplate. The face of the helmet was a metallic silver and it looked like a grinning skull. A red glow softly emanated from his eyes, making the figure look like a demon from the mythology of any of a hundred worlds. It was the filtered voice of the Roxian, metallic and distorted through the mask, which broke the silence.

"I didn't say my belt LOOKED like your mother. I said it WAS your mother!"

Several patrons near the bar gasped and stepped back away from the antagonists. The bartender ducked lower behind the bar. A pair of Herglics in the back corner placed a bet with each other regarding the outcome of the pending melee.

A Trandoshan, watching the spectacle intently from a back booth, let a smile grow across his toothy face. His companion on his left, a Rodian, gripped his blaster and started to stand up. The Trandoshan gave the Rodian a swift look and the Rodian, reconsidering his actions, sat back own and picked up his drink. The Trandoshans's other companion, a Quarren, nodded at the Trandoshan and let his mouth tentacles writhe in a gesture which could possibly be interpreted as amusement. The three continued to watch the pair at the bar intently.

"Your wordsss arr insult to mii family line! I killl you now!", breathed the Barabel in his rough Basic.

"I could use a good pair of boots!", shot the Roxian.

The Barabel, moving quicker than his size would deem possible, lashed out with a backhand strike that sent the Roxian stumbling backwards. Bounding forward, he sought to press his advantage.

The Roxian regained his balance and punched the Barabel where the solar plexus would be on most humanoids. His heavy gauntlet met only the unyielding resistance of the Barabel's tough hide.

Smiling a wicked smile, the Barabel let his rows of needle-like teeth show fiercely. He then picked up the Roxian and slammed him onto a table, breaking it in half with the force of the impact.

Off balance, the Roxian flayed a hand about until he found what he was looking for: a sturdy chair. With a war yell, the Roxian brandished the chair over his head and brought it crashing onto the Barabel's skull. The chair splintered and the Barabel staggered back, but the assault did not relent.

The Roxian maintained his offensive by following up the chair strike with an uppercut to the Barabel's chin. Next came a savage kick to his kneecap accompanied by a resounding "crack" and the Barabel fell to the floor with an enraged scream of pain and surprise. A second chair, strategically placed across the Barabel's back brought the fight to a swift conclusion.

Calmly, the victorious Roxian reached down to a credit pouch on his opponent's weapons belt. Opening the pouch, he dumped a fair amount of credits onto the bar.

"Drinks are on him!", announced the Roxian in a firm commanding tone. "The rest goes to his medical bills."

Reaching into his own belt pouch, the Roxian produced a slender credit chip and proffered it to the bartender. "Take one hundred credits out for the damages and my drinks for the rest of the night", he stated to the man.

The bartender eagerly accepted the chip and inserted it into a chip reader. Turning to the side, he asked two of his regular customers to remove the Barabel. They balked at this suggestion as neither wished to incur the creature's wrath should he awaken. Once he offered them each a free drink, they moved to grip the unconscious figure under his arms and they dragged him out the doorway and into a nearby alley. A few moments later, the credit transaction was complete.

"I wuz worried there for a bit", said the bartender as he returned the chip to it's owner.

"Why? I knew I could take him", replied the Roxian.

"I wuz talkin' about the chip. Those things don't work all the time these days wot with the Empire in the state it's in! You're lucky your account even showed at all!" explained the man.

"I'll have to remember that. What happened to the Imperial forces here on Beispiel?" asked the Roxian as he adjusted his cowl.

"Oh, they left not more than two weeks ago. They just loaded up and off they went. Since they had control of the spaceport and most of the local government, things have been anarchy ever since! Armed gangs wield the power now!" the bartender paused to wipe the sweat off of his brow and take a draught of elba beer from an unclaimed mug.

Then he continued. "The only time the Imps return is to load-up supplies from their automated food processing plant they left behind. The Empire's given up on Beispiel otherwise. It looks like we're finally out of the war!"

"I guess so. With no law around here, maybe I'll stay! This place sounds like fun!" the Roxian responded while readying his vibroaxe. "Send a pitcher of the local brew over to me in that corner table", he said while indicating the place with the haft of his axe. "Make it quick! I'm thirsty."

The bartender hurried to comply with the Roxian's order. He didn't want any more furniture broken up. Less than thirty seconds after the Roxian had taken his seat and propped his axe and rifle against the wall beside him, the bartender sat a pitcher and a clean mug in front of the Roxian.

"Good service", commented the Roxian approvingly as he flipped the man a few loose credits. "Now get out of my face!"

The bartender complied by rushing back to the relative safety of the bar. He was really getting tired of this planet.

The Roxian, meanwhile, had set about to enjoy his pitcher. Keeping his cowl low over his face, he released the seals on his faceplate and slid the skull mask up. Once his visor was secured, he poured himself a glass of the swill and gulped it down. Tasty", he commented sarcastically to no one in particular.

"I really must recommend the imports. The local brand is not meant for sapient consumption" said an accented voice in Basic.

The speaker, a tall Quarren, strode towards the table. To his side walked a Trandoshan who's toe claws occasionally scraped the dirty floor of the cantina. Behind both of them lagged a Rodian who cast a wary eye over his shoulders on occasion. The Quarren, without being invited to, sat in the chair across from the Roxian.

"I am Sweto Chakk", announced the quarren. "My companions are Luosk and Flodo", he continued as he indicated the Trandoshan and the Rodian respectively. "Who might you be?", he inquired.

"I'm Rokk Karinn, but you may have heard of me as "The Skull". I'm a bounty hunter", responded the cowled Roxian. "What do you want? Do you have a job for me? I think my last trail has run cold."

"May I be so bold as to ask who your last target was?", asked Sweto, the curiosity visible in his eyes.

"His name was G'nash Endlighter. I heard out by Tattooine that he was spotted here on Beispiel about a week ago. I came to see if I could pick up his trail. So far, no luck. You got any information I can use?"

"I regret that he has fled the planet. My companions and I sought his capture when he showed his head here almost two weeks ago. He sat in the very chair you're sitting in, as I remember, when we spotted him", answered Sweto.

"Then I guess I'll have to finish the hunt with him somewhere else. I was looking forward to paying him back, though", stated Rokk as he pulled back his cowl. The scar started below his left eye and twisted down below his left cheekbone. By the rough edges, it had been a ripping wound more than a cutting wound which had left the mark. The prominence of the scar tissue indicated that either decent medical facilities had been unavailable or the Roxian had elected to keep the scar as a reminder.

"Nasty scar you have there. Are you saying that Endlighter inflicted that upon you?" asked Sweto with faked sincerity. "I can honestly say that he only cost Luosk and I an Imperial contract", continued the Quarren.

<And our honor!> spat the Trandoshan in his guttural native tongue of hisses and growls.

"Those are the deepest scars, my friend", responded Rokk in Basic.

The Trandoshan, at first surprised by the newcomer's grasp of his language, laughed in his own peculiar hissing way.

<You continue to impress me, Roxian. I did not know anything of your race until Sweto told me what he knew. I thought for certain that our friend Chona-kar, the Barabel, was going to beat you. Your fighting skills have impressed me!> stated the Trandoshan with admiration.

"Thanks", answered Rokk. "Sorry I was so rough on your friend."

"Water through the reefs, my friend!" answered Sweto. "We came over here to ask you if you'd like to work with us."

"What's the job?", Rokk asked as he sipped his drink.

"Security service. It's easy work", replied Sweto.

"Security? What needs guarding around here?" questioned Rokk warily.

"The Empire has contracted the security of their food processing facility to us and our mercenaries. It's a modest twenty being operation. We could use someone with your skills and experience to act as a watch captain. Are you interested?" asked Sweto as he extended his hand across the table in a universally accepted method of sealing a contract.

"If the pay is acceptable, I'm yours", replied Rokk as he clasped his hands behind his head.

"Five hundred credits per local month plus living expenses."

"Deal", stated Rokk simply as he gripped the hand which Sweto had offered to him.

Chapter Three: The Plan

Nearly ten minutes later, Rokk Karinn stepped out of the cantina and onto the streets. The weather in Stovolkal City was warm and damp on this evening. Rokk noticed that the rain had stopped and a light fog was beginning to dance along the permacrete avenues. After sweeping the quiet street with his eyes, he started off towards the spaceport satisfied that no obvious threats lurked nearby.

As he strode down the pedestrian walkway, he continued to watch for danger. He spied a hooded figure standing at the mouth of the alley across the street from him. Cradling his blaster rifle with his right arm against his chest, he stared at the figure as he continued to walk. The stranger slowly retreated back into the shadows, apparently in deference to Rokk's defensive posture.

Rokk pressed on to the spaceport at an increased yet confident pace, only occasionally pausing to glance over his shoulder. He had been certain that he would be followed from the bar, but his suspicions were coming up empty. Two kilometers later, he arrived at Stovolkol Spaceport.

The spaceport, like much of the rest of the planet, was in disrepair. A small-time, local crimeboss-turned-bureaucrat was managing the place in the Empire's absence. The control tower and basic maintenance and refueling facilities were the only services here for now. Port officials, not much more than hired thugs really, collected landing fees to help maintain the tower and pay salaries. Customs inspections were not even mentioned except in jest. Rokk walked through the vacant customs checkpoint and proceeded toward the landing pits.

The landing pits were permacrete craters of varying sizes. The port could land anything from a fighter to a Corellian bulk transport to a corvette. Rokk headed for one of the smaller craters: Pit 36.

A tunnel with a descending staircase was the only accessway into the landing pit. He paused at the top of the stairs. "Sheila, I'm back. Do you have anything unusual to report?" he said into his helmet's comlink.

Sheila was the name of the Roxian's specially designed shipboard computer. The name was derived from SHipboard Electronic Interactive Lifeform Automaton. Shiela was much more than just a ship's computer. "She" could fly the ship, make hyperdrive calculations, run the shields and monitor sensors. Sheila was also in charge of ship security and she now gave a status report to her owner.

"Everything is clear, Captain. Nothing unusual to report. I'll begin cycling open the hatch in accordance with standard situation protocol", replied the feminine voice.

"Proceed" the armored figure replied as he descended the steps. He was confident that no intruders waited upon him inside the pit. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he paused to gaze upon his starship.

The Black Star sat in the landing pit upon its triangle of landing gear. A soft glow emanated like a welcoming hearth through the curved transparisteel of the forward cockpit. The heavily modified Baudo class star yacht reflected little of the ambient moonlight which penetrated the clouds above. The hull of the vessel had a dark, flat black finish with the occasional embellishment of a fist-sized spattering of metallic silver. In space, the vessel was very difficult to detect visually at a distance.

The forward ramp of the Black Star was lowering from its position just aft of the cockpit. Its hydraulics hissed as it settled onto the pavement. Rokk Karinn ascended the ramp as the two halves of the hatch located in the belly of the ship slid open. He stepped through the hatch and emerged in the center of his ship's crew lounge. Once inside, he tapped the closing mechanism for the hatch with his foot. The hatch snapped shut with a "clang" like the jaws of a great, toothless beast.

The Roxian turned at the sound of bootsteps approaching from the passageway leading aft. He saw a figure approaching. The figure spoke as he walked forward into the light.

"How did it go, Skully?"

"It's all set. We're in" answered the Roxian.

The figure emerged from the dark passageway and into the lounge. He was a human in his early twenties. He wore black trousers and tunic with high black boots. A customized blaster pistol sat in a holster on his left hip. He sat down on one of the acceleration couches next to the wall. "Good! I was worried for a while there, Rip. You were gone for a little over an hour. It used to take you only half an hour to go into a new town and pick a fight and make friends. What happened?", asked G'nash Endlighter, a faint trace of a smile playing about his face.

"Barabels require two punches and two chairs to take down. Most lackeys only require one punch," Rip Skully replied as he removed his helmet.

"I just thought you were getting old," G'nash added.

"You wish!" retorted Rip indignantly as he began stowing his weapons.

A warning indicator began chiming to signal that the external hatch was about to open. Rip stepped away from the hatch and turned to watch. A hooded figure walked up the ramp and into the ship, pausing to close the hatch behind himself. The figure, standing about a head taller than the Roxian, removed his cloak to reveal the cobalt blue skin of a Tectarnian. Beneath the cloak, the figure was dressed in brown robes. The only weapon visible was a lightsaber which hung from simple belt at his side. Zarvon, fellow operative and alien Jedi spoke to the Roxian.

"The way was clear. You were not followed from the bar."

It's really convenient to have one of you Jedi types around, but you need to work on your lurking skills. I saw you as soon as I left the bar", stated Skully as he unhooked his belt and holster. As an afterthought he added: "Can you handle a blaster, Zarvon?"

"And not hurt myself? Yes, but do not expect me to hit anything," replied the near-human.

"Hopefully, you won't ever have to fire it. If my plan works."

"We're all going to die," stated Endlighter flatly. He ducked as an armored boot was tossed at his head. It clattered off of the wall and fell to the floor. The forward door to the cockpit opened with a hiss of hydraulics and the fourth and final member of the Alliance Special Operations team stepped into the lounge. The young man looked about the room with a wide, eager grin on his face.

"What's the story? Are we blasting our way in?" asked 5150.

"No. They're going to let us in," answered Rip.

"We'll have to blast our way out," finished Endlighter.

"Great!" chimed the youth.

"No!" exclaimed the Jedi in exasperation.

The group spent another hour mapping out their plan and making initial preparations. Finally, they shut down the shipboard lights and settled down to rest. They would all need their sleep in the coming days.

As the lights of the cockpit winked out, a shadow detached itself from its position by the stairway in the landing pit. With complete silence, the shadow ascended the stairs and was swallowed by the night.

Interlude: Lianna

The man stood before a holographic display where he manipulated data upon the schematics of an Imperial TIE bomber. Making a few minor adjustments, he checked his calculations upon a portable computer and frowned at the discrepancies. Striking a key upon the console in front of him, he cleared the changes from the diagrams so that he could start again. The man walked over to a beverage dispenser and selected a relaxing drink. He collected the chilled glass of kas'a juice and sat down at a work desk in order to relax and restart the tedious calculations.

Niles Carlinson had not ceased his work since he had arrived here at Santhe/Sienar Technologies on the Allied Tion world of Lianna. As an Imperial Moff, he could have hand-selected engineering teams to work on his design ideas, but Niles Carlinson would not hear of it. He believed that only he could design a system to meet his own demanding expectations. He would trust no one else with the Empire's future at stake.

His intercom panel chimed annoyingly. He had left instructions not to be disturbed except in the case of an emergency.

"Yes," he answered shortly.

"Sir, Captain Trellor is on his way up to see you. He said that it was urgent", the guard answered from his post by the front door.

"Understood. Have my shuttle readied for departure. Carlinson out," the Moff responded.

Standing up, he began gathering the data tapes which held his notes and putting them into an executive satchel. He would be returning to the Raptor soon. If Captain Trellor had bothered to come to him personally, it was indeed dire news he was bringing with him. Something was wrong.

The door buzzed softly and slid open. Wilmon Trellor walked in with a datapad in his hands. He stepped in front of his superior and saluted. He then handed Carlinson the information and spoke.

"Urgent report from the Hell's Hammer system. The secrecy of the Castellan has been compromised."

Carlinson studied the report. Once he had finished reading it, he sat it down on his desk. Closing his eyes he leaned his head back and wearily ran his fingers through his graying hair. Sighing, he reopened his eyes and looked at Trellor.

"A Lantillian short hauler? Our security was compromised by an outdated freighter?" Carlinson asked incredulously.

Suddenly, he raised his fist over his head and brought it smashing down upon the datapad! The screen of the pad shattered accompanied by a crunch as the delicate internal circuitry was destroyed. A small puff of smoke rose from the device. Carlinson regained a relaxed posture.

"Contact Admiral Greely at the Rendili Deepdock Number Four. Order him to immediately secure transport and go to the Castellan to assume command. Have him place Captain Borja under arrest until we can determine just how much his inept handling of security has cost us.

Also, send the Vehement's Battle Squadron to the system to support the Castellan and cordon off the system," Carlinson dictated.

"Should we continue upon our original attack schedule, sir?" Trellor asked.

"No. We shall move it up by four weeks. This will only allow us time for one more shipment to the Castellan from Beispiel. After that, we risk Rebel interdiction. For that matter, I am not entirely convinced that the operation there is safe at this moment based upon that report. See to it that the next shipment is well guarded and prepare the ship for a hyperspace jump. We will make a feint to draw the Rebels away from our real target. The time for subtlety is past, Captain."

"Very good, sir!" Trellor answered crisply. He turned and left the room to return to the Raptor.

Niles Carlinson finished collecting his notes and walked to the still active holographic display. "I shall have to finish with you later," he thought as he switched off the machine. Turning to the door, he stopped to turn off the illumination panels.

"I will return here again. Someday," he mused to himself as he stepped into the corridor.