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- Jan 10, 2016
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Mando'yaim
0320 hours
Mandalorian Museum
Archive Room
Sundari
0320 hours
Mandalorian Museum
Archive Room
Sundari
The room was lit by only a single lamp, perched precariously on the edge of a small desk that sat in the middle of the open space, surrounded on all sides by towering bookshelves which were stuffed to near bursting with thick leather covered volumes. A lone figure sat at the desk, his head bent low and his hands flipping pages at a rapid pace. If the man was weary because of the late hour it did not show. Around him lay the detritus of his time in the dark, discarded books and protein bar wrappers scattered almost carelessly around him. His lips moved quickly, the words quiet and running together.
Jakob Merrik was close to something. Something big. He had found it by accident. Ancient records from a Mandalorian convoy of a ship signature that had been written off as nothing more than a passing fleet. But the drive signatures... The drive signatures had stirred an old memory in his mind, a legend that he had been told as a child perched on his father's knee. If this was what he thought it was than it could very well be the most significant discovery in a half millennium. Jakob tapped the odd signatures into the datapad that sat at his side and stared at the screen as it ran the figures. When the confirmation came back it caused his jaw to go slack. Darknell.
He pulled the signatures and ran the numbers, tracking the course they would have been on. At the heading they would have been on, there was only one planet they could have jumped to. Atoa. An inhospitable ball of ice in the Ghost Nebula. It made sense. The Tyrant of Darknell was a paranoid ruler, seeing assassins around every corner, and in the last years of his life had taken his hoard to the stars. Where better to go than a place than no one had heard of? Well, except surveyors and of course the Atoans. You could have hidden a battle fleet on Atoa and no one would have ever seen it. It would have been child's play to hide a few bulk freighters and escort cruisers.
Leaning back in the chair Jakob considered his options as he felt the knots in his back loosen without the pressure of his hunched posture to hold them together. He could go himself, but this could present obstacles he would not be able to overcome alone. Paranoia led to fear, fear led to overreaction, and overreaction led to things like traps and failsafes. And as confident as he was in his skills it was always better to have someone set off the pressure plate first. Besides, it would be an interesting study into the mindset of the ancient Tyrant. That would make for an interesting dissertation. He tapped his fingers together in front if his face, the fingers steepled and then he rested his chin on the folded hands.
"Torin!" He called over his shoulder to the waiting aide. The young Mando moved forward, the light barely illuminating his craggy features as he stood at the edge of the circle of light cast by the single lumen. He stood expectantly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I need you to gather the messengers. I have a job for them."
Jakob Merrik was close to something. Something big. He had found it by accident. Ancient records from a Mandalorian convoy of a ship signature that had been written off as nothing more than a passing fleet. But the drive signatures... The drive signatures had stirred an old memory in his mind, a legend that he had been told as a child perched on his father's knee. If this was what he thought it was than it could very well be the most significant discovery in a half millennium. Jakob tapped the odd signatures into the datapad that sat at his side and stared at the screen as it ran the figures. When the confirmation came back it caused his jaw to go slack. Darknell.
He pulled the signatures and ran the numbers, tracking the course they would have been on. At the heading they would have been on, there was only one planet they could have jumped to. Atoa. An inhospitable ball of ice in the Ghost Nebula. It made sense. The Tyrant of Darknell was a paranoid ruler, seeing assassins around every corner, and in the last years of his life had taken his hoard to the stars. Where better to go than a place than no one had heard of? Well, except surveyors and of course the Atoans. You could have hidden a battle fleet on Atoa and no one would have ever seen it. It would have been child's play to hide a few bulk freighters and escort cruisers.
Leaning back in the chair Jakob considered his options as he felt the knots in his back loosen without the pressure of his hunched posture to hold them together. He could go himself, but this could present obstacles he would not be able to overcome alone. Paranoia led to fear, fear led to overreaction, and overreaction led to things like traps and failsafes. And as confident as he was in his skills it was always better to have someone set off the pressure plate first. Besides, it would be an interesting study into the mindset of the ancient Tyrant. That would make for an interesting dissertation. He tapped his fingers together in front if his face, the fingers steepled and then he rested his chin on the folded hands.
"Torin!" He called over his shoulder to the waiting aide. The young Mando moved forward, the light barely illuminating his craggy features as he stood at the edge of the circle of light cast by the single lumen. He stood expectantly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I need you to gather the messengers. I have a job for them."
****
Coruscant
8 Days Later
2300 Hours
Floor 2354
High Garden Apartments
Coruscant
8 Days Later
2300 Hours
Floor 2354
High Garden Apartments
Breaking in had been easy. You would think someone who handled priceless treasures for a living would have been a little more conscientious of his personal security. And a thorough scan of the apartment had revealed no listening devices or security cameras. It had, however, turned up a rather well-aged bottle of Corellian Whiskey and two snifters. A flick of a fingernail against the side had produced a beautiful steady hum that rang in a timbre pleasant to the ear. Real crystal. Not inexpensive. He poured two fingers into each glass and then settled himself on the couch, one of the snifters in his left hand, and the other sitting on the side table near a well worn armchair.
Here he waited in the dark. It took over an hour and a half for the good doctor to make it home, and as the tinny sounds of a woman’s laughter sounded outside the door the uninvited guest sat up slightly straighter and placed his hand on the well worn leather of his gunbelt. When the automatic door slid into its recess the laughter became louder, the high pitch of the woman’s laughter blending with the low chuckle of a male. The laughter stopped as the lights flicked on and they were greeted with the sight of a large man wearing a large blaster on his thigh sitting almost casually on the couch, a snifter of whiskey held delicately in his left. He was dressed in nondescript clothing topped with a leather jacket. A well tooled and worn gunbelt was slung low on his waist, and his right hand, the skin dark as charcoal toyed with the leather.
When he spoke his voice was deep enough to cause a rumble in one’s chest. “Doctor Conally. I’ve been waiting for you.” The unknown man’s eyes flicked to the doctor’s companion. He nudged his head towards the door, indicating the Twi’lek female should leave. “The doctor and I have business to discuss.” She didn’t move and the large man dropped his chin slightly, telegraphing the threat he could represent. “You need to leave. Now.” A frightened glance at him caused her to scurry out of the room in a hurry, and as she reached the door she threw one last look over her shoulder before disappearing down the dimly lit hall. “You should close the door doctor. What I have to discuss is not for prying ears.” The door slid shut quietly with the press of a button and the tuxedo-ed man turned to face the unknown on the couch.
The man on the couch gestured to the chair and the whiskey that sat near it. “Please. Sit. I apologize for my methods, but your offices are rather difficult to get into without stating your business. And what I’ve been sent to talk to you about is a rather… delicate subject.” As the doctor sat the man on the couch held out a data card with the symbol of Clan Merrik, a Mythosaur Skull over crossed sabers, embossed on it. “It’s something that I think will be right up your alley.”
****
Csilla
13 Days Later
1325 Hours
Zurs’avi’noura Estate
Csilla
13 Days Later
1325 Hours
Zurs’avi’noura Estate
A cold night could bother many Sentients, but the Mandalorian who was sealed up tight in his gear couldn’t even notice the cold. What he did notice was the fan that kept catching at the back of his neck and causing the heat that was pumped in to stay sealed in with him. It was ironic. He was was sweating profusely on a planet where the temperature was below freezing. Hi voice was low as he swore and made a promise to fix it as soon as he got back to his ship.
He had been moving through the cold for several hours now, the estate he had been sent to being several hundred kilometers away from the starport. If he hadn’t had the swoop with him he would have risked a closer landing but since he had brought the bike and had been wanting a good ride for a while he had decided to enjoy the wind blasted plains and the challenges they could provide. A steady thump thump thump beat against his ears as he turned up the volume on the new synth music he had purchased from the vendor in the capital. It had a a driving bass beat that was well complimented by a higher pitched string instrument.
He could get used to this.
As he moved closer to the estate it started to take shape. It was built in the common style on this planet, squat and low so as to better protect against the howling wind and snow. The Mandalorian also had to admire how well it blended in against the landscape. Tough for an enemy to find it. Worthy of at least some respect. His swoop was a blur as it passed the outer boundaries of the estate, moving upwards slightly with a pull of the handlebars to jump the low fence. Eyes flicked across his displays as the bike’s sensors read a path that dropped through some low paths and gave him the best chance to avoid any built in defense emplacements. He gunned the engine and dipped into a small ravine, throwing caution to the wind as he increased his speed.
The estate was large enough that even at his speed it took him almost another half hour to reach the front door. He set the bike down gently and swung his leg over the side to plant his booted feet firmly against the rockcrete. A quick stretch of his taut shoulders allowed the knots to loosen and the Mandalorian stepped forwards to the stairs that led down to the entrance. At the bottom the door sat open and a Chiss in a servant’s uniform stood waiting for him. His bright red eyes regarded the Mandalorian curiously as he moved down the steps.
A gloved hand delved into a pouch and deftly brought forth a data card with the Clan Merrik sigil on the face. “I have a message for your master. Something I think he might be interested in.”
****
Nar Shaddaa
17 Days Later
0117 Hours
Corellian Sector
Nar Shaddaa
17 Days Later
0117 Hours
Corellian Sector
A quick sidestep moved to Mandalorian out of the way out of the drunk Twi’lek that was stumbling down the dimly lit boulevard, a mostly empty bottle of Corellian Whiskey clutched in his grey hand. Curses that were slurred out in the language of Ryloth caused the Mandalorian’s lips to move upward in a slight grin as he caught several references to the impurity of his lineage. Well of course he was impure. There wasn’t a Mandalorian alive that wasn’t. Came with the territory of being a mixed species culture. Even those who trumpeted pure blood didn’t have a single drop of original Mando blood in their veins. Some of the older Clans could trace their ancestors back for thousands of years, but along the way there was always a jump.
In armored hands sat sat a rifle, casually slung over his shoulder with the safety on, but his finger resting next to the switch within easy reach of the trigger. His armor was painted a cheery red trimmed with blue, and a blue half cloak hung from his right shoulder. He had been walking these streets for almost a week waiting for his target to arrive back in his usual berth. Every day he walked past multiple times, and every time it was empty. But maybe today would be his lucky day if the Manda wills it.
As he approached the bay his hopes were raised by the fact that for the first time the bay door sat closed, the lock mechanism glowing red. Moving closer the brightly painted Mando threw a quick glance through the glasteel panel inserted into the grimy steel and silently rejoiced at the sight of the Claw-3 Interceptor. Finally.
Surreptitious glances up and down the corridors around him showed him that he was alone for the moment, and a quick blink-click sprung forth a security spike from his gauntlet. It slid into the override port with a slight ‘click’ and then grinding noises sprung forth from the console as the spike worked its purpose. After 30 seconds or so the panel flashed green and the Mandalorian popped the spike back into his gauntlet after withdrawing it from the port. He pressed his hand against the panel and the door slid open quietly. The Mandalorian stepped through and allowed the door to slide shut behind him.
Walking across the bay towards the similarly dressed man he doffed his helmet and put on his best smile and motioned towards the ship. “Looks like she’s seen better times. I think I might have a way for you to get her all fixed up.” He pulled a card from the holding slot on his left gauntlet and held it up to reflect the bright luminescence from the lights above. “In fact, you would probably be able to buy yourself a whole new ship.”
****
Tatooine
13 days later
1412 hours
Mos Eisley Spaceport
Tatooine
13 days later
1412 hours
Mos Eisley Spaceport
Mandalorians were not an unusual sight here on Tatooine. At any given time there were probably a dozen or more of the famed bounty hunters on the desert world, wither picking up or dropping off contracts to the Hutts and other various crime lords on the blasted rock. But for the Mandalorian who stalked the streets of the infamous Mos Eisley spaceport the acquisition of credits was the furthest thing from his mind. He was here hunting another hunter, one who would stand out like a sore thumb even here. After all, you didn’t see many Barabels here.
Vendors hawked their wares from brightly colored stalls on the sides of the streets. Odd foods and clothes that would be out of place on almost every other planet in the galaxy were proclaimed unashamedly as the best in the spaceport. A small chuckle escaped the Mandalorian’s lips as the thought of how ridiculous he would look with one of the brightly colored ponchos slung over his armor. No one would be able to take him seriously.
His eyes scanned the streets as he walked, looking for the distinctive build of a Barabel among the populace. They were almost as easy to spot as the distinctive t-visor that sat in front of his gaze. Rumbling long gaits were simple to catch even hidden under armor or cloaks. Last he had heard the Assassin had been spotted here after a successful hit. Staying on the planet he had performed the assassination on was bold, but not out of character.
As he cleared the sunken doorway of a cantina he sidestepped two jawas who were chittering to each other in their high-pitched quick language. From his time here he had picked up a few words in their trade language and he recognized the words droid, moisture farmers, restraining bolt, and several discussions of how much they could scam the yokels of this planet for. These Jawas were bolder than most, and he felt small fingers delve into one of his pouches, and as they exited the Jawa found himself looking into the barrel of a blaster. “I would say you’re making a mistake little one.” They startled and ran, dropping the miniaturized grenade he had lifted from the Mandalorian. He scooped it up and tucked it back into the pouch and sealed it again before continuing his trek.
The communicator on his gauntlet beeped and he raised it in front of his eyes. The image of a Hutt sprang to life and the Mandalorian inclined his head in greeting. <Your target is near, bounty hunter. But according to my spies he’s getting ready to leave. I would hurry if I was you.> Another inclination of the head satisfied the Hutt and the transmission shut off. His speed doubled as he made his way towards the spaceport.
As he neared the spaceport his eyes alighted upon a tall robed figure who was almost dancing his way in and out of the crowds. But the motions were slightly cumbersome, and as the cloak moved slightly as it caught onto a shoulder the Mandalorian spotted a scaly five finger hand. There he was. His fingers pulled a small embossed data chip from a holding space on his gauntlet and his stride increased. Pulling up closer to the Barabel the hunter made sure his hands were visible with no weapons in them. It didn’t truly mean he was unarmed as he carried a myriad of weapons built into the armor that ringed his forearms.
“Vinn Esper.” The voice was cold and emotionless filtered through the helmet speakers. “I have a job for you.”
****
Darasuum Ijaat
31 days later
1530 hours
Ghost Nebula
Darasuum Ijaat
31 days later
1530 hours
Ghost Nebula
Jakob flipped the switches on the control panel that shut off the incessant beeping of the sensors. Outside the windows swirling gases caused visibility to fall to a minimum. Despite the beauty of the situation it was also incredibly dangerous. His fingers danced over the controls as he input the coordinates into the navicomputer and then leaned back for a few minutes as the computer worked out a safe course. When the course was laid in and plotted he pushed forward on the lever and the nebula in front of him dissolved into the star stretched corridor of hyperspace. He stood up and left the cockpit, adjusting the straps that held his armor tightly to him and made his way into the cargo hold, where his eclectic team sat scattered around the medium sized bay.
He stopped in front of a small holo-plinth built into the floor, and spread his arms in greeting. “Welcome. I am Jakob Merrik, Director of the Mandalorian Museum and your benefactor for this trip. I have gathered you here for one simple purpose, one that will require all of your unique skillsets.” In his excitement he was almost bouncing on his heels. “We are going to be searching for something that has been lost for almost a thousand years. A treasure that has been consigned to legend and myth. Have any of you heard of the Tyrant of Darknell?”
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