Ask Raxus Operation: Stellar Hook | PROLOGUE

[Kellan Solari]

NORTH QUAD​

RAXULON​

RAXUS SYSTEM​

1943 HOURS​

“You said I could pull strings.”

Outside the office window, Raxulon was bathed in a sulphuric orange as the sun bled into the horizon, spilling a citric light out over the city. From his vantage point atop the megabuilding, he could make out the pulse of commuter traffic as the Imperial capital’s inhabitants abandoned the city core for the day. Kellan’s work meanwhile, was just beginning. He turned and fixed the man with a hard stare. The man didn’t flinch.

“I did.” he responded flatly.

“So these are the strings I want pulled.” Kellan replied. The man behind the desk studied him a moment, sighed and reclined in his chair. He punched something into his datapad.

“Alright.” he waved dismissively. “Have it your way. I wouldn’t bring a knight on a job. Too morally opaque. But hey, it’s your show.”

“Right.”

“But taking the old man’s non-negotiable.” the man continued. He jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. “And that’s direct from brass.”

So much for it being his show. The man had introduced himself simply as ‘Jora’, providing neither surname nor rank. Portly, mustachioed and armed with an air of general dishevelment, the figure had hardly fit Kellan’s image of an ISB Logistics Officer. But something in the man’s practiced cynicism suggested to Kellan a long, tedious career in guiding the uninitiated. Jora glanced up from the datapad, the expectation plain on his face.

“Someone’s gonna have to tackle security.” Kellan finally offered.

“Alright. Anyone in mind?”

“Not my field, really. I fly TIEs, remember?” he smirked.

Jora’s features hardened in response.

“Better get used to everything being your field now, kid. Might not be much to do out in the black beyond covering your ass, but an ISB gig means you need to start considering the angles.” he waved away any potential response Kellan may have been contemplating. “Anyway, don’t sweat it. I’ve got someone in mind.”

"Yeah? Who?" Solari pressed.

But Jora had already retreated into his datapad. Outside, sunset had given way to a nascent twilight, suffusing the office interior with gentle tones of indigo. The auto-lights flickered on and Jora glanced up.

“Like I said,” he spoke as though no time had passed, “don’t sweat it. Okay, who else?”

“Someone’s gonna have to pilot the thing.” Kellan remarked. Jora set the datapad down and laced his fingers across an expansive belly.

“That might be more of a challenge.” he said. Kellan summoned an incredulous laugh.

“You're telling me Blackout Fleet is short of helmsmen?”

Jora leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing within their nests between the heavy-knit brow. Twin pools of glacial blue bored into him. A faint tremor of self-doubt slid through Kellan’s resolve.

“Not sure if you’ve heard captain, but between monstrosities raiding the Core Worlds and the reds trying to convince the galaxy the Empire’s on their payroll, ISB’s dance card has been a little full as of late.”

“Alright, alright. So then what do you recommend?”

The logistics officer picked up his device and slouched back once more.

“You’ll have to requisition someone.” Jora announced matter-of-factly. “Already sent a few names to your datapad. Prime candidates to be volun-told into service.”

@Vek @Volene @Pantor

 

[Kellan Solari]

The hop from Raxus to the deepdock shipyards had been mercifully brief. Kellan had spent the duration of the trip in silence, his face buried in the datapads glow, absorbed as he was in the endless logistical minutiae of their upcoming task. He set the material aside, pinched the strain from the bridge of his nose and glanced out the shuttle’s viewport. Even so close to the Imperial core, mobile shipyards such as ISY-8 were in a state of near-constant activity. A sprawling durasteel framework of modular work bays interconnected by a latticed system of beams, corridors and gantries, the facility allowed Imperial technicians to assess, repair and outfit virtually any vessel the fleet could offer. Swarms of repair droids flitted through the open vacuum of space, converging on the berthed ships like so many cloudflies.

Midway down the drydock, nested between a pair of frigates, sat one of the newer corvettes of the line. The spear-shaped vessel looked absolutely pristine amidst its battle-scored neighbors. Kellan squinted to make out the ship’s nameplate.

“There she is, Hamber. The Second Lance.” he said, turning from the viewport. Lieutenant Tavell Hamber, his elder squadmate from the 81st, sat across the shuttle’s passenger cabin. “One of Support Service’s new Raider-Class jobs. With any luck our message crossed the right desk and our prospective pilot has already been made available for our purposes. Knight Sere should have beaten us here and corralled him. Hopefully he’s up for a bit of sport.”

Solari turned to the shuttle’s other inhabitant, a youthful looking Twi'lek, her teal skin vibrant and attractive even in the dim light. Her personnel file flashed across his datapad.

“How do you pronounce your name?” he asked.

The Twi'lek turned towards him, brow furrowed slightly.

“Just like it’s spelled. Pidge.” she replied.

“Pidge Batana.” Kellan read aloud. He scrolled through the finer points of her file. “Must be short for Inmate 1267, am I right? Imperial Work Release Program. Links to the Crymorah and Zaa Fenn crime families. Digi-rogue, tech thief, cryptanalyst and raconteur et large. Currently serving the Empire in exchange for an early pardon.”

He met her gaze.

“That about cover it?”

Pidge’s expression remained impenetrable.

“I don’t serve the Empire.” she said disdainfully, lekku twitching defensively. “I’m a contractually employed subject matter expert in security, working pro-bono in an advisory capacity for an indeterminate duration of time.”

Kellan and Tavell exchanged bemused looks.

“So you’re our slicer.” Kellan asked. He smiled warmly. “Welcome to aboard, Pidge.”

The intercom overhead crackled to life and the compressed voice of the shuttle’s pilot filled the cabin.

“We’ll be docking with the ISY-8 momentarily. Might feel a slight shimmy.”

He gathered his materials, stowed them in his bag and looked between the others.

“Lets go meet the rest of the team.”

@Vek @Volene @Pantor

 

[Tavell Hamber]

Tavell sat in silence for the majority of the flight. He simply looked out at the sight of Raxus slowly ebbing away, the details on the surface becoming more and more indistinct, lost to the tide of altitude as the shuttle climbed up and out. His eyes fixed on the horizon of the shrinking world. The Maiden of Imperial industry becoming frigid, distant, before her wares were hidden by the nebulous petticoats of cloud cover. He slid back slightly, as though disappointed as the shuttle finally left the protection of the world beneath and had to rely on its own engineering to carry its passengers safely. The flight was short, no more than a standard hour, but it was long enough for his surfeit ears to wince at the sound of his new “captain” prattling on. He found himself toying with the thought of forcing open the hatch, and pushing the enervating runt out into the black. But these were just daylight reverie, though daylight was too abstract an idea offworld.

As they drew nearer to the dry dock, Tavell’s gaze flitted from ship to ship. The Imperial capital ships were awe inspiring, but he yearned for the intimacy of a TIE. There was something about the close quarters of a TIE, the restrictiveness, the mass of metal and meat. Being the tissue that binds the two together, making a lifeless thing alive and predatory.

“There she is, Hamber. The Second Lance.”

He followed the eyes of Kellan, oh Captain my Captain, and saw the hunter-killer the younger pilot bubbled over. He then, finally acknowledged the presence of the other inhabitant of his aerial purgatory.

“One of Support Service’s new Raider-Class jobs. With any luck our message crossed the right desk and our prospective pilot has already been made available for our purposes. Knight Sere should have beaten us here and corralled him. Hopefully he’s up for a bit of sport.”

He looked away again, eyes rolling as his Captain tried to assert a mote of dominance over the prisoner they were using.

Blowing his boredom out as the pilot notified them of their imminent arrival he shouldered a crude canvas sack with the imperial detailing crudely embroidered on, and nodded to the Twilek.

“After you, ma’am.”

 

[Merian Sere]

“I don’t think you understand me. This is not a request. It is not a favor, either, Lieutenant—no, you will not get a ‘bonus’. Is the word duty foreign to you?” seethed Merian.

“Believe me, I am painfully aware I have no authority over you,” rose her exasperated voice again after a brief pause. “The order doesn’t come from me. Imperial Military Code, volume 6, section 10, Requisitions and temporary assignments. Read it sometimes. You should be proud the Empire has need of your skills for this special task. Think of it as a little vacation from routine.”

That was when the rest of the team arrived, mercifully granting Merian a much-needed reprieve. The man with her was tall, mustached, and by the Force he would not stop talking. Arguing. Merian’s eyes found Kellan like a lifeline.

“Captain Solari. You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “I was just telling the lieutenant here about the assignment. And he was eager to collaborate, isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

@Pantor @Vek @Tic

 

[Kellan Solari]

They had reached the lower deck faster than Kellan might have anticipated. The distaste Lieutenant Hamber held for him came slaking off the man in waves and it was all Solari could do to avoid sprinting down the deepdock’s corridors to avoid another protracted moment with the adversarial pilot. If their Twi’lek slicer noticed the friction between the two, she made no indication.

They stepped from the repulsorlift, bringing Knight Sere’s apparent persuasive efforts to an abrupt end. Kellan shot her a tight smile before returning the man’s salute. Over Halligan’s shoulder, a trio of TIEs wheeling their way through patrol were visible through the viewport. A pang of envy tightened his chest. That’s where he ought to be. Behind the yolk of a starfighter the stakes were dire, yet pristinely simple. Be quicker, faster, fiercer. Kill or be killed. None of the long-winded banality involved with an endeavor such as this. The lieutenant was in the process of appealing to his sense of protocol. Why must everything be so bloody difficult?

He had read the man’s personnel file. Read of Halligan’s stint on Taris. Of the dead-end posting to which the man had been sentenced. Only upon coming across the finer details of Commodore Zassus’ efforts on the younger officer’s behalf, did Solari begin to understand what made the man a prime candidate for such a mission.

Halligan was one of several names Jora had provided him with. Candidates we have an established interest in, he had said.

Leverage. Solari thought to himself. He had meant we have leverage.

And now an officer who had been gifted his command through the backend dealings of some mysterious benefactor was attempting to squirrel his way out of his greater duty to the Emperor. The envy he had felt curdled into irritation.

“Do I strike you as the sort of man who’d waste his time, lieutenant?” he snapped sharply.

His face had flushed with anger but already he could sense the cistern of regret within him filling. This was no way to secure a pilot. And despite the alcoholic bite of the man’s breath, Kellan knew he was perfectly within his rights to ask. Hadn’t he himself been similarly taken aback when ISB had first requisitioned him? He stepped past Halligan towards the bank of viewports. The TIEs, in tight formation, swung cross the ship's stern and drifted from sight. He sighed, turned to face the others and perched his posterior on the port’s sill.

“Oh, at ease, lieutenant.” he said calmly. “You’re quite right, of course. Nothing about this request fits neatly into naval protocol, I’m afraid. Assignments such as these rarely come with paper trails filled in triplicate, thus the need to secure your involvement face-to-face. I can assure you that the proper channels for your participation have been secured. Captain Hellier is well aware of the Bureau’s need of you.”

He pushed himself from the viewport’s ledge and started towards the lift’s doors.

“Touch base with him if you need to.” he said, calling the repulsorlift and watching the indicator lights wink. “When you’re ready, we’ve secured the facilities Proprietary Access Chamber for briefing purposes. We'll go over the particulars there.”

@Vek @Volene @Pantor

 

[Merian Sere]

Merian bowed to Kellan and opted to leave Lieutenant Halligan in better hands than hers. Easier for all involved, hopefully.

“Well, when you’re ready,” she said, dripping with ice. “You can join me there. I’ll be awaiting briefing.”

She stepped inside the lift, almost hoping no one would follow.

@Pantor @Vek @Tic

 

[Tavell Hamber]

Tavell noticed the glance between his new captain and the Knight. He not only noticed it, but it lingered in his mind, marinated there long enough that he started to savour it, relish the thought of mentioning it. He waited until the lift doors opened, then stepped in, gently but insistently pushing passed Kellan. His shoulder brushing against the younger man’s arm. He waited, barely suppressing the reflux of chuckling that crept up his gullet. As the doors closed he smiled, head cut in half by the expression.

“So.”

He paused, face creased.

“When did you sleep with that Knight?”

@Tic
@Volene
@Pantor

 

[Kellan Solari]

The muscles in Kellan’s jaw bunched. The old man had been intolerable as a flight leader and had against all odds proven to be equally intolerable as a subordinate. Searing images of violence pressed through his thoughts.

He turned his head slightly but did not meet the man’s provoking stare.

“Strictly professional, Hamber.” he said measuredly. “As an aside, you’re a representative of the 81st and Blackout Fleet now. As such, you may consider comporting yourself with the decorum befitting a lieutenant and not some calcified, old pervert trying to get his jollies on the imagined exploits of his superiors.”

The repulsorlift chirped its arrival at the specified floor and Solari glanced up, a smile affixed on his face.

“Ah! This is us.” he announced breezily. “Shall we Ms. Batana?”

To his left the young Twi’lek had busied herself studying some imperceptible blemish on the lifts floor, presumably knee deep in her happy place and far, far away from the uncomfortable tension between the two officers.

–

The Proprietary Access Chamber was a modest meeting space constructed in the spartan, antiseptic design commonly found in most Imperial efforts. Anchored by a long table equipped with a holoprojector, the room was simple, unassuming and decidedly utilitarian. It gartered Kellan with some sense of ease. Leave the ostentatious trappings of power to the Moffs and their ilk. Here, in stark rooms such as these, is where the meat of the Empire was ground.

Once they had settled in, he punched the control panel at his fingertips. From the holoprojector sprang a single turquoise beam that fanned out into a display of an Imperial female officer. August and stern, she wore the uniform of an Imperial Security Bureau officer, a director’s insignia clearly visible on one crisp lapel. Kellan cleared his throat.

“This you may recognize as former Imperial Security Bureau Director, Val Varthra.” he said. “Head of the Security Bureau during the Empire’s war with the ISC, she was largely responsible for increasing the scope and reach of the Bureau’s operations substantially during that time. Just prior to Imperial capitulation, Director Varthra was captured by ISC forces and has been assumed killed in action.”

Director Varthra’s form collapsed back into another concentrated stream before unfolding out into the image of a starship, lazily rotating in the space between them.

“This…” Kellan continued. “...is the Carrion Spike II, Director Varthra’s personal flagship and former crown jewel of Blackout Fleet. A Lancer-Class Frigate modified with deep-cloaking technology, the Spike served as a mobile base of operations for the ISB at large. As such, its databanks housed a treasure trove of Imperial intelligence and security holofiles. When Director Varthra was captured, the ship itself was impounded by ISC authorities.”

The projection’s view widened into a cross-section of the Spike’s power grid neatly overlaid atop the ship’s outline. A set of ruby indicators blinked near the ship’s stern.

“Intelligence of a particularly sensitive nature was maintained on a set of redundant, external databanks running off a separate auxiliary power system.” Kellan settled back into his chair, his face mint-green in the projections light. “Forty-eight standard hours ago, those databanks began emitting alerts to transponders on the edge of Imperial Space. The auxiliary batteries are near end-of-life. Once they fail, the data on those devices will be lost to the Bureau forever.”

The projection changed once again, this time displaying a swatch of space. The view swept in onto a specific planet and hovered there.

“Indupar. A minor system in the Ado Sector, along the Rimma Trade Route.” Kellan said. “The system is chiefly known for the manufacture of cheap power couplings and other industrial products. Well, that and the presence of one of the Consortium’s primary Impound Yards. Our job is to infiltrate the compound, disable the defenses and reclaim the Spike, and more importantly her intelligence cache, for the Empire.”

@Pantor @Volene @Vek