GEN Presents:

Smuggler’s Blues
By Admiral Kyle Kessler

I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out. I'd rate it up there with "A Conflict of Loyalties" as my best yet. Of course, how much you're going to enjoy it is another matter entirely! It's an attempt to go back to the time when Kessler first met Kerrigan, and gives a little more insight into Kerrigan's devious nature. He seems to be a popular character, I may write a story exclusively about him soon. This one is a prequel to "A Conflict of Loyalties" and should really be read after you've read the that. This one also won the Training Office Contest #4's Fiction Division

Prologue

Artuk raised a grime-stained hand to wipe the accumulation of sweat from his eyes and surveyed the perimeter of the mining camp in the glen below the bluff. The outworlders were clearly visible despite the late hour, their camp brightly illuminated by powerful lamps. He counted several dozen outworlder workers, occupied with their strange machinery. None appeared to be watching the forest for danger, although a handful were wearing the outworlders’ powerful weapons on their belts. These ones would have to be dealt with first.
He loosened his brown woollen cloak and slipped a hand down to his belt for the long knife he kept secured there. Freeing it from the confines of its oiled snakeskin scabbard, he kissed the blade and whispered a brief prayer to Mortu. Once properly sanctified, he laid it to rest on the mossy rocks before his prone body, and stretched out his arm to take up his crossbow. Raising himself into a sitting position, he selected a bolt from his leather quiver and slotted it into place quietly. Looking over to Cormac’s position, he saw his fellow warriors signal that all was ready. He nodded, a grim smile of satisfaction playing across his lips. Tonight’s battle would be immortalised in song by the bards. Tonight, for the first time, the Sons of Caradoc would strike back at the outworlders who had come to rape and defile his homeland. There would be many fresh notches to carve on the bone handles of his blades tonight, many fresh souls to ride the trails of smoke to Mortu’s paradise. Taking a careful aim at the nearest target, he waited patiently for the signal.

Parner Drell was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get this operation on schedule. So far the mining rig had succumbed to countless minor problems and getting spare parts out to this forsaken region was damned difficult. There were personnel problems too. His engineers were coping with the job easily, they were used to working in far worse conditions, but the half-dozen hired guards that InGen Corporation Security Division had supplied were, to put it mildly, a pain in the ass. Not one of them wanted to be here, preferring an assignment in one of the office buildings that were springing up around Freeport, and they made no secret of their preferences either. Drell blamed Sergeant Torvus. It was his job to enforce discipline, but he seemed happy to let his men behave as they pleased. The situation was rapidly going to come to a confrontation if something wasn’t done, and soon. With a sigh he picked up the latest drilling report and tried to focus, then he heard the shouts.
Cursing under his breath, he dropped the report on his desk and stood angrily. "What now? This had better not be the ore processor again…"
Drell reached and opened the door to his trailer just as the first and only shot rang out. Beginning to panic, he pulled open the door and saw Sergeant Torvus twitching in a crumpled heap some five metres away, a couple of what looked like arrows sprouting from his chest. People were screaming now, terror and panic mixed with cries of pain and rage. Figures were sweeping from the forest’s fringe and Drell’s eye spotted one figure loping across the compound directly towards him, it’s brown cloak billowing in the light breeze, something long and sharp gleaming in its right hand. With a panicked eye, he realised that Torvus’ blaster still lay in its holster, some five metres distant. With his heart in his throat, Drell made a jump for it…

Artuk cleaned the blood from his blade with a grim smile of satisfaction, the exultant whoops of his battle brothers ringing throughout the forest glade. Murmuring a prayer of thanks to Mortu, he kissed the blade once more and returned it to the scabbard with a blessing. Looking towards the fringe, he spotted May-Deen breaking the cover of the forest, his outline broken up by the strange green and brown patterned smock that he wore. Artuk saluted him as he approached, clasped fist to chest. May-Deen stopped short of the two bodies at Artuk’s feet, his expression strangely unreadable.
"We’ll have to move out quickly. They may have had time to signal that they were under attack. Your men can’t afford to be here if any airspeeders show up."
Artuk shook his head, feathered braids swinging lazily. "The bodies must be burned, to send their souls to Mortu on wings of smoke. It is our way."
"You’re going to have to change your ways if you want to mount an effective guerrilla campaign, Artuk. No guerrilla army ever won a war by being where its enemies expected it to be."
"Your words are strange May-Deen, but they have the ring of wisdom about them. Nevertheless, it is our way. The Sons of Caradoc treat their enemies with respect. If we were to do otherwise, we would not be the Sons of Caradoc."
General Crix Madine sighed, the folds of his Rebel Commando team camcloak rustling slightly in the light wind.
Artuk grinned wolfishly. "But as soon as you deliver to us the blades of light that your people have promised us, there will be no reason for us to fear the sky-warriors either, yes?"
A tight smile crossed Madine’s bearded face. "Yes, Artuk, you’ll get your blasters soon enough, but it will take a while for your warriors to learn how to use them properly. It takes a while for a boy to master the use of his father’s knife. So it is with the "blades of light", you understand?"
Artuk nodded. "You speak the truth, May-Deen. But we are not boys. The learning will go quickly. The Sons of Caradoc are adept in matters of war. You will see."
Madine nodded thoughtfully as the first tongues of smoke from the improvised funeral pyre drifted across the glen and the ululations of Artuk’s brother warriors echoed through the night. "Yes, you certainly are, Artuk. You certainly are."

One

There was a certain majesty about hyperspace travel. The familiar coruscating blue halos of travel at superluminal speeds had a soothing, hypnotic effect, or so it had always seemed to Kyle Kessler. He often spent hours in the cockpit between jumps, gazing into hyperspace, lost in contemplation of the stark beauty of the galaxy. It was as good a way as any for a lone pilot to pass the time, and it kept him from brooding on the past, which given his particular history, was a good thing. It would be several hours before the Corel’s Dream arrived at Nar Shadda, but he was in no hurry. His cargo was non-perishable and he didn’t expect to meet his buyer immediately anyway, so what time he would normally have spent checking his cargo and preparing trading documentation, he instead spent in the cockpit, watching the stars bleed by.
It was a lonely life, all things considered, but he was used to that by now. None of his relationships had ever worked out to any degree, but he had few regrets. Serving the Empire as a TIE Pilot, and later as a Wing Commander had brought it’s own rewards, but it also brought a love for flying that quiet retirement in an apartment on Aurora Prime could never slake. So he’d sold his home, quit his security consultancy job and bought a beaten up Corellian freighter. With little capital and no real aims, he had taken to the life of an independent trader like a Rancor to fresh meat. He made little profit, his ship was always in need of repair, but he was happy. Happier than he could remember being in a very long time, so he continued to muddle along, making contacts here and there, losing money more often than he made any, but on the whole, happy, and content with his lot. Which was no mean achievement.
The Corel’s Dream was about as standard as they came. He couldn’t afford the fancy modifications that so many pilots installed on their YT-1300s, but he didn’t care. He’d once seen the Millennium Falcon itself, many, many years ago at the Battle of Endor, and he’d been impressed; but he simply didn’t require the kind of upgrades with which that famous ship had been fitted. He didn’t intend to get involved in anything more dangerous than talking to customs officials in any case. Of course, that didn’t mean he was taking any chances. The outer Rim was a notorious black spot for smuggling and piracy, so he made sure the Dream’s single Laser Cannon turret was in good shape and he kept his sensors and shields operating at as close to perfection as his rapidly burgeoning engineering skills would allow. It didn’t pay to take chances, after all. Not everyone shared his live and let live attitude.
He was startled out of his daydreaming by the proximity alarm. Nar Shadda was coming up soon. With a sigh he began warming up essential systems, powering up the laser, ensuring the shield capacitor was charged and ready to supply power to the defensive systems.
With a noticeable feeling of inertia, the Corel’s Dream shot back into realspace. He frowned. An old problem with the inertial damping system, he’d have to take a look at it when he’d made planetfall.
Sensors showed the usual chaotic mass of craft in Nar Shadda orbit, but none appeared to be paying any particular attention to his arrival, which suited him just fine. He powered up his shields anyway, just in case. There was no one in this particular area of the Outer Rim that he trusted enough to go into Nar Shadda unprotected. Port Control and Customs were non existent in this system, so his only problem was finding a landing bay as close as possible to his meeting point. He instructed the computer to begin querying the various Berthing Companies for the cheapest and most convenient options and soon had a berth that would suit his requirements.
Nar Shadda. The Vertical City. The place was a criminal paradise, and an architectural impossibility, but it all seemed to work. No doubt its wheels were oiled with corruption and greed, but they turned, and turned smoothly for those who knew where to apply the oil. Kessler didn’t fool himself into thinking he was savvy enough to be able to manipulate the system to his advantage without getting himself raped by the sharks who ran this place. He knew enough to stay out of trouble, find some useful contacts and not annoy the local crime bosses so much that he became noticeable.

The navcomputer indicated a suitable landing bay, cheap, and within walking distance of his place of business, so he initiated the credit transfer and took the Dream down. Swooping low over the rooftops of Nar Shadda’s skyscrapers, he descended into the gloom and traffic between the towering cityblocks and tracked his designated landing spot. The Dream landed without incident and he checked the time. He had an hour to waste before he was due to meet Ploovo Two-For-One, so he rose from the pilot’s station with a stretch of tired muscles and went aft to the cargo bay to check on his merchandise. All sixty crates of Blastech E-11 carbines were secure in their loading pallets, he noted with satisfaction. Gunrunning was a dangerous business, but highly profitable, so the benefits often outweighed the considerable risks. He hoped that on this occasion that would hold true, truth be told he badly needed the money. His license was up for renewal soon, and he couldn’t continue trading in the relatively safe area of Emperor’s Hammer space without one. He could always remain out of EH territory, trading on the shady side of proper business practices, but he was getting too old for the kind of trouble that went with that side of the business. He just wanted to stay free and flying, not make a quick and easy fortune; but there was a price to that kind of freedom, and occasionally, you had to pay the piper and dance to his tune if you wanted to enjoy the kind of freedom that having a license allowed. And on this occasion, the name of the song was "Gunrunning". It wasn’t his favourite tune, but it was the only one that was being played right now, so he intended to take one dance and get back to sitting on the sidelines as soon as possible.
Ploovo had told him to meet in a bar called "The Sullustan’s Sister" just off the financial quarter. Kessler knew of the place, but had never been there before. It wasn’t his type. Nevertheless, he made an effort to get there on time. Not purely for reasons of courtesy either. Ploovo was notorious for his attempts to double cross his business partners, and Kessler wasn’t taking any chances. He wanted to check out the lie of the land before it was too late to back out.
The bar was exactly as he expected inside. It was frequented by the nouveaux riche and it catered to their vulgar ideas of what constituted current high society fashions. All of the staff were Sullustans, females apparently, but that was a distinction that Kessler had never been able to make. Handing over his blaster at the door, he scanned the clientele. The patrons were mostly human, which probably said a lot about their attitudes to alien species. Human masters being served exclusively by small, physically unthreatening alien females. Kessler found the psychological implications distasteful, but it was just the kind of place he’d expect Ploovo to frequent. The thought occurred to him that twenty years ago, he’d probably have thought exactly the same way. Back then, the Empire was definitely a male-humans only club, but years of service in the multiracial Emperor’s Hammer Strike Fleet had quickly erased any reservations he’d had on that score. Finding no sign of Ploovo, he took a seat facing the door and waited.
"Mai saruba?"
A young female hovered by his table, waiting expectantly. He looked up and smiled. "Just a glass of water please, miss." The little Sullustan nodded and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Kessler took out a cigar and patted down his pockets, looking for his lighter. The waitress returned with his glass and produced a lighter of her own, face in an expression of what Kessler assumed was a smile. He accepted the offered light gratefully and paid for his drink, slightly shocked at the price.
"Thanks." He offered a small tip.
"Bib-do!" She returned to the bar looking for fresh customers.
Kessler decided he liked Sullustans.
Ploovo chose that moment to make his entrance. He was a short, fat humanoid, with small, glittering eyes set into a florid, sweaty face. His nose was badly scarred and disfigured, he reminded Kessler of the wanted posters he’d seen for the infamous Doctor Evazan, a comparison which, no doubt, Ploovo would have liked. He had his usual entourage of hired muscle accompanying him. Kessler noticed that none of them had been required to check their weapons at the door. Bad news. Still, it was a public place and there was no guarantee that Ploovo was going to double cross him.
He stood and approached Ploovo’s table, sitting himself opposite the crimelord and ignoring the calculating looks of his guards.
"Kessler, good to see you." Ploovo smiled, unctuously. "And early too." If he was displeased, he hid it well. A waitress brought a tray of drinks to the table. Without waiting to be asked, Kessler took one and sipped carefully. Some kind of wine, he couldn’t place the vintage.
"Nice place, you a regular?"
Ploovo picked up his own drink with a slight frown at Kessler’s manners. "I’m a silent partner. It’s a mutually profitable arrangement."
"You mean you get to launder your dirty money through the profits and the owner doesn’t have his windows smashed in by your thugs?"
Ploovo threw his head back and laughed, greatly amused. "Very good Kessler. I see you have a head for business after all." The scar tissue around his nose really was repellent. Kessler wondered how it had been injured. On reflection, he decided this wasn’t really the time or place for that avenue of discussion. "Okay Ploovo, I’d love to chat but Nar Shadda’s just not my kind of cesspool. I have your consignment, where’s my money?"
Ploovo’s smile broadened. "Let’s see the goods, Kessler"
"No chance, I wasn’t born yesterday. Cash first, then you get your sweaty paws on the merchandise."
Ploovo’s face assumed an expression of hurt. "Kyle, Kyle, you don’t think I’d try to double-cross you, do you? Your uncle Ploovo?"
"Sorry, Ploovo. You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who gives a shit about your hurt feelings."
Ploovo chuckled quietly. "Well, there’s a slight problem with the deal, Kessler. Concerning the cash side of the arrangement. I’ve been having some monetary problems lately, and I simply don’t have the money at hand to cover your expenses, let alone the amount we agreed." Kessler’s face darkened. "I could always pay you via credit transfer?" One glance at his face told Ploovo exactly what Kessler thought of that idea. "Well, I could trade you for them, or you could trust me and wait a few days until I can liquidate some of my assets?"
Kessler considered his options. He trusted Ploovo’s "credit" less than he’d trust a Jawa to repair his hyperdrive, and he was positive that Ploovo’s story about cash-flow problems was a fairy-tale concocted to slope off some stock that he was having problems shifting; but his options were pretty limited. He was going to have to take the cargo or try to find another buyer for his weapons, and that was a risky business. Better to try to keep things simple.
"What’s the trade?"
Ploovo smiled. "Excellent! I’m sure you’ll have no trouble arranging a sale, and it’s all perfectly legal. I have nine tons of machine tools sitting idle in my warehouse, but the market for such things is a little slow here, and I’ve been having trouble shifting them. No doubt you’ll do better elsewhere. The standard market price is ten thousand, you’ll even make a small profit on the deal."
Kessler sighed. He was being shafted and he knew it, but his options were decreasing rapidly. He was going to have to accept Ploovo’s offer, although he seriously doubted Ploovo’s assurances that he would come out ahead of the deal.
"Okay, Ploovo you double-crossing bastard. Give me the machine tools."
Ploovo sipped his drink, contentedly. "So glad we understand each other Kessler."

***

Kessler groaned as he checked the stock prices again. Machine tools were not exactly high-value commodities, and if anything, the market was depressed at the moment. No matter which way he tried, he couldn’t find a price better than seven thousand anywhere on the major trading markets. He needed seven thousand to get his license, and that left nothing to invest in fresh capital. There wasn’t much point in being a licensed trader if you didn’t have any cargo to trade with. It was official. He’d been hosed.
The customs officer who’s terminal he’d borrowed accepted it back gratefully. "So, do I need to charge you Import Tax?"
"At the prices you’re paying for my goods here on Aurora? Not likely, I’ll be taking my stock elsewhere."
"Okay, you’re the boss."
Kessler left the Customs Office in a foul mood. He checked his pockets. A couple of hundred credits and assorted loose change. Time for a drink. There was a nearby bar he knew where he could relax and not worry about bumping into anyone who knew him from the TIE Corps. He set off at the rush.
Despite having had a ridiculous name inflicted on it, "Safe Landings" was a good bar. The barman was discreet and the clientele were pretty civilised. Of course, this was Aurora Prime, the more lawless elements tended to behave themselves here. Which was a shame, because Kessler was in a mood for a fight.
He downed his first drink in a single gulp, savouring the burning feeling settling into his gut and ordered another. Retiring to a side table, he sat and lit a cigar, feeling thoroughly pissed off. The only chance of getting a good price for his machine tools was to check around the border worlds, places where such items were needed to develop the material infrastructure of the fledgling colonies. The only problem was, such planets tended to be off the Market Net altogether, hence the need to visit each colony to establish the demand and price in person. It would take ages. It would not be fun. Shit.
He was well into his second drink, reflecting bitterly on the relative merits of laser burning Ploovo’s guts as opposed to coating him in gumquat sauce and dropping him into a Gundark pit, when someone pulled up the chair opposite him.
He was a lean, rangy spacer by the look of him. Probably aged in his early thirties, wearing a shabby blue jumpsuit under a brown flight jacket with a peaked cap tipped back over his sandy brown hair. He placed a drink at Kessler’s side of the table and offered his hand expectantly. "Name’s Dev Kerrigan, captain of the Far Trader. My friends call me Kerry."
Warily, Kessler took the offered hand and shook it. "Kyle Kessler, I don’t have any friends so you can call me what you like."
The newcomer grinned. "Sorry to interrupt like this, but I overheard you at Customs. You’re having trouble finding a buyer for your machine tools, right? Or do I have the wrong guy?"
Kessler grunted. "No you got the right man. I got shafted by a worthless, double-crossing piece of trash called Ploovo back on Nar Shadda. He must have seen me coming a parsec away."
Kerrigan signalled for fresh drinks to the barman. "Is that a fact? Would you be surprised if I was to tell you that this isn’t the first time Mister Ploovo has hosed his partners like this, and it just so happens that a group of his former associates wish to teach him a little lesson in correct business practice?"
Suddenly interested, Kessler leaned forward. "You know, mister Kerrigan… that wouldn’t surprise me one little bit." He sat back and exhaled noisily. "But other than satisfaction, what do I stand to get out of it?"
Kerrigan smiled broadly. "Well let’s start the negotiations in a more private setting, shall we? Your place or mine?"
Kessler handed Kerrigan a steaming mug of java and placed the pot down on the Dejarik table. Cradling his mug in his hands, he settled back into the couch. "Okay, mister Kerrigan, talk to me about details."

Kerrigan picked up his mug, glanced around the spartan recreation space onboard Corel’s Hope and sipped appreciatively before beginning. "Well it’s like this. As I’m sure you know by now, Ploovo Two-for-One isn’t the most honest of thieves in the galaxy, if you’ll excuse the obvious paradox that statement implies. One way or another, he’s screwed over just about everyone he’s ever dealt with. Three months ago, he took a cargo of spice off my hands and left me with a shipment of blasters in exchange that all came from a batch with defective power regulators. I know a bunch of people with similar stories, and none of us can figure out how the hell he manages to stay in business when he abuses everyone with such regularity."
Kessler nodded. "The thought was beginning to occur to me, too."
"Yeah, well, we figured it out eventually. He’s in the enviable position of being the sole contract in that sector for a pretty major arms smuggling organisation. He doesn’t ever upset his suppliers, only middlemen and small time players like us who need his custom regardless of the risks; so the syndicate he works for pretty much don’t care who he conducts his business as long as he keeps delivering the required profits, minus his cut and whatever he’s skimming off the top."
"So he only messes with small time hustlers like us, and plays it straight with the big boys?"
Kerrigan laughed. "Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say he plays it straight, but he’s a lot less blatant in his dealings with his suppliers." He reached for the pot of java and refilled his mug. "Anyway, we have a loose coalition of vengeful types united in the common desire to see Ploovo Two-for-One get a really big kick up his ass. We have a plan, we have the equipment we need, we just need the right person to set it all off for us, preferably someone who’s very recently been hosed by our mutual friend, someone who has a reputation for honesty, and someone who’s really a nasty, vicious, vindictive bastard at heart."
Kessler snorted in amusement. "Who’s accusing me of having a reputation for honesty?"
Kerrigan chuckled appreciatively. "Yeah, right. So are you in or not?"
Kessler frowned. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hurt Ploovo, but he had more pressing problems to worry about, like his trading licence for example. "I don’t know, Kerry. I’d like to help, but I kind of have to find some cash quick to pay for my license…"
The lean spacer choked on his java. Coughing, he quickly recovered himself. "I’m sorry, I didn’t make it clear. We may be scum but we’re not stupid, and we’re not doing this for free either. The best way to make Ploovo cry is to hit him in the pocket, and we don’t intend to give his money away to the Spacers’ Widows and Orphans Trust once we’ve gotten our hands on it either."
Kessler’s frown began to disappear.
"Anyway, we’re not all as law-abiding as you, Kessler. I know some people who can give you a new license if you’re nice enough to them, so that’s not a problem."
Kessler thought about his options. He wondered how others had started down the slope into a life on the fringe. Had it begun this way for Kerrigan, or had he embraced the lifestyle with open arms? Regardless, his options were getting severely limited, and he really needed that license.
"Okay, Kerry. Let’s talk details."

***

Kessler fired the manoeuvring jets and brought the Corel’s Dream down onto the landing pad with a barely perceptible bump. It had taken him a while to get used to the control differences between TIEs and this venerable old freighter. TIEs tended to be extremely responsive to control input, and could be thrown about in violent manoeuvres by the slightest flick of the control column. The Corel’s Dream, on the other hand, was rugged, but graceful. YT-1300’s were fairly fast and extremely agile for a Freighter-Class starship, but they weren’t starfighters by any means and therefore responded to control input a lot more sluggishly than he preferred. However, he’d gotten used to it, even grown to like it after a fellow spacer he’d once travelled in convoy with asked why he threw his ship around so energetically. Kessler hadn’t realised he’d been doing anything differently, but the realisation that he’d been subconsciously treating his ship like a starfighter and it had been noticed in his flying style despite the limitations imposed by the Dream’s less responsive thrusters; had pleased him. He was, after all, still a starfighter pilot at heart.
Setting down at another cheap docking bay, Kessler made his way to the Sullustan’s Sister and casually mentioned to the bar staff that he was looking for Mister Ploovo. Settling down with a glass of Juri Juice, he didn’t have to wait long before he was approached by a tall Devaronian accompanied by two bodyguards.
"Kessler. Back so soon?" the horned humanoid observed while making himself comfortable. "Ploovo’s business with you was concluded to our mutual satisfaction or so I believed."
Kessler set down his glass, almost untouched. "Look, I don’t know who you are or what influence you have over Ploovo, but I need money and I need it fast. Ploovo’s the only man I know in this sector who offers contracts that pay the kind of money I need. My ship’s at his disposal, my only stipulation is that I don’t do assassinations."
Kessler’s attention was dawn to the shorter of the two bodyguards flanking the alien. There was something vaguely familiar about him, ex TIE Corps perhaps?
The non-human considered this for a while. "Very well, come with me. I think we may have a job lined up that requires a clean ship and an unknown pilot."
The two stood to leave. Kessler gave the shorter guard a second look, but couldn’t begin to place where he’d seen him before. It was a big Galaxy after all.

***

Two hours later Kessler stood at a crowded bar, nursing a Corellian Brandy with Kerrigan. Kerrigan managed to get the attention of the Bith bar staff and ordered another round of drinks.
"A clean ship and an unknown pilot" those were his exact words, right?"
Kessler sipped at his brandy. "Yeah."
"Oh well, you realise that you’re probably being set up? People like Ploovo tend to use people with clean licenses when they expect to be turned over and they need an innocent to use as bait." Kessler nodded.
"Sounds to me like he’s expecting trouble on this run and wants to use you as a lure to see where the shots are coming from."
"That was my conclusion too, yes."
Kerrigan studied the older spacer warily. "You still in?"
Kessler shrugged. "I don’t have much choice do I? Besides, if he’s going to pull what we both think he’s going to pull, I’ll be in the clear anyway. I have a clean license and the suspect cargo will be on another ship altogether. As long as I do my part, Ploovo will be more likely to trust me next time."
Kerrigan took a long swallow of his beer. "True, I’m just not overly happy about your getting put on the spot like this. There’s no guarantee that whoever Ploovo’s expecting to try to jump you is going to be the talkative type. They may only be interested in shooting, rather than stealing."
"Kerry, do you know what I did for a living during and after the Galactic Civil War?"
Kerrigan laughed. "Yeah okay… I just hope you’re as good as you think you are."
Kessler grinned despite himself. "Well despite Kessler’s 34th Rule of Starfighter Combat, yes, I am as good as I think I am."
"I’m not sure I want to know, but what’s Kessler’s 34th Rule?" Kerrigan asked.
"You’re never as good as you think you are." Kessler finished his drink and elbowed some space clear from a crowd of noisy revellers. "Shall we go?"

***

He seated himself and cleared his throat while activating the communications grid. "This is Preacher, make your report." He ordered, curtly.
The voice on the transmitting side crackled into life, the extreme long distance distorting the transmission. "This is Jackal. Everything is proceeding within planned parameters. We have a man on the inside who is about to commence his first dummy run for the target. My only concern is that we are running a risk of having our man eliminated before he can completely gain the target’s trust. His route takes him through a relatively dangerous Sector. I think it might be wise for us to arrange for a little insurance along the way."
"What sort of insurance do you propose?"
"Nothing too obvious. Perhaps it might be possible for a simple patrol to cross his path at the right moment? He’s a very competent starfighter pilot, but his ship leaves a lot to be desired. I wouldn’t want to leave his survival up to chance at this stage."
"Agreed. Leave it to me I’ll arrange something once you give me the location we can expect to intercept him at."
"You’ll have to wait, he won’t know his destination until he leaves. Keep a watch on this frequency or check the dead letter box for the details, I’ll send them as soon as I know. But what I do know is that his course takes him through the Dendrite Sector."
"The Dendrite Sector? As we expected."
"Yes, as we expected. Of course, this could be an elaborate double ruse, and the real cargo could be bound for somewhere else altogether, but it does raise some interesting possibilities, you agree?"
"Indeed. Well done so far. Keep working at it, I suspect we’ll have some definite results soon. Let us know that location as soon as possible and good luck. Preacher out."
"Understood. Jackal out."

***

Things were moving quickly. Kessler had been promised two thousand credits for simply flying by a series of navpoints with a dummy cargo. Of course, Quarrel hadn’t told him that he was being used as bait, but the fact that he had nothing more dangerous than thirty tons of fertiliser in his cargo bay was a bit of a giveaway.
He checked the navcomputer a final time. This was going to be the most dangerous part of the journey. The Dendrite Sector was a relative anomaly in this part of the Rim. There were very few habitable planets here and many large asteroid clusters and nebulae, making navigation very hazardous. Yet for all it’s disadvantages, the Sector made an effective buffer zone between Supreme Moff Lardo Babune’s Imperial Orthodoxy, Grand Admiral Stephan Ronin’s Emperor’s Hammer Territories; and the Independent Territories along the border of the New Republic. Neither of the three powers was anxious to see either of the others militarise the sector, but small patrols were allowed. The lack of a strong military or police presence, and the Sector’s ideal placement between three major economic blocs had naturally led to a proliferation of piracy and smuggling.
Kessler’s 17th Rule of Starfighter Combat applied: "Forewarned is forearmed. If you can’t be forewarned, then forearmed, foreshielded and escape co-ordinates fore-computed is an acceptable substitute." His guns were charged and online, and his shields were on standby.
The navcomputer warbled. One minute to go. The navpoint he was approaching was on the near side of a large but sparsely clustered asteroid field. It barely qualified as an asteroid field, so normal sublight travel was possible but mildly hazardous, superluminal travel however, through an astrogational object even as sparse as this was suicide. There was another navmarker on the far side of the field, and it would take around twenty minutes at a safe speed to make it to the other side. Once there, he could go to hyperspeed again, and his next stop on his circular route would be Nar Shadda. He strongly suspected that it wasn’t going to be so easy.
The Corel’s Dream lurched into realspace, Kessler’s eyes flicking over instrument readouts even as he cursed himself for not getting round to fixing the inertial dampers. Short range sensors detected nothing, he switched to medium range. Nothing. His limited long range scans also showed nothing unusual, but he’d be back in hyperspace before anything at long range could get close enough to become a threat anyway. He activated the shields and got a bearing on the next navmarker, then fed the data to the navcomputer in order for it to began the calculations for the next jump. He considered switching to an active scan in order to attempt to get a better picture of his surroundings. There was really nothing to be lost by doing it, his position had already been given away by his electromagnetic hyperspace exit flare and his passive sensors were extremely limited. He activated the Dream’s rectenna and ran a quick sweep as he approached the outer limit of the asteroids. Nothing. Anything waiting for him was hidden well, probably using the big rocks themselves as cover. There was nothing else for it, he was going to have to go for it.
He manoeuvred the Corel’s Dream into the fringe of the belt, running at a safe speed, easily avoiding the scattered rocks that littered his path. The thirty tons of organics in the cargo bay adding appreciably to his mass, and further complicating the dynamics of his flight. With the faulty inertial dampers, he could definitely feel a difference in her handling. Not ideal. Once again, he cursed himself for not getting round to fixing the problem when he had time.
The cockpit proximity alarm was starting to get on his nerves, as it was warbling every time he approached one of the large rock masses, which was every minute or so, so he switched it off with an irritated flick of a switch. Five minutes gone, and still no sign of trouble. Perhaps Ploovo had overreacted? It was possible. Eight minutes gone, twelve to go. He didn’t dare relax.
His passive sensors alarmed and he flicked a glance at the sensor panel. A ship had just emerged from hyperspace on the far side of the belt. Sensors identified it as a Gallofree Yards Medium Transport, escorted by two Headhunters. He began to relax slightly. A Gallofree was a far juicier target than a YT-1300, although he realised that wouldn’t make a difference to anyone specifically looking for him, but any casual attackers were likely to jump on the newcomer rather than himself. All the same, he kept a wary eye on the approaching ships. Pirates had used some pretty devious tricks to sucker unwary travellers before, there was no good reason why this couldn’t be one of them.
Then it happened. An ruby streak of laser fire arced from the cover of one of the bigger rocks and struck the lead Headhunter square on the port engine. The ship bucked before accelerating sharply, avoiding a second burst, and Kessler’s sensor display lit up across the board. Several small shapes detached from the asteroids ahead and launched after the small convoy. Kessler didn’t have a tactical computer to identify them, but he didn’t need one. He recognised the profile – Y-Wings. Two closed down on the lead Headhunter as he desperately tried to find his wingman. His rear quarter took a second hit, and his shields depleted, he lost an engine. No longer having a speed advantage, he tried to turn to fight, but the two raiders had pulled a bracket manoeuvre and neatly intersected him with laser fire as he presented a broad silhouette on the arc of his turn. His ship disintegrated around him in a fiery mess and the two Y-Wings turned their attention to fresh prey.
Kessler saw them coming. He angled the deflectors, disengaged the safety and slaved his gun turret to the forward fire arc. Swerving to port to avoid the path of an asteroid obscuring his line of fire, he triggered a long, probing burst at extreme range. Kessler’s 42nd Rule of Starfighter Combat: "Being a good pilot doesn’t hurt, but being a good shot is better. One shot on target is worth more than an hour of evasive manoeuvres, and it’s less boring too." Kessler was merely a good pilot, but he was an excellent shot.

The lead Y-Wing pilot was probably very surprised to see his shields crumple at such extreme range. He began to corkscrew wildly to throw off Kessler’s aim, his wingman carried on driving in, narrowing the range. Kessler had been hoping that might happen.
He switched targets and began to pile fire into the second Y-Wing, even as it’s pilot began to feel confident enough about the range to begin firing himself. Ignoring his return fire, Kessler kept up the attack. A barrage of shots hammered into the Y-Wing’s forward shields and punched through. Checking his systems display, Kessler noted that his own shields had stabilised but were down to 175% efficiency after the one-sided gunnery duel. With a brief smile of satisfaction, he switched concentration back to the fight. The lead Y-Wing was still maintaining it’s old attack course, yet it’s guns had fallen silent. In an instant, Kessler guessed that everything bar his engines had been disabled in the exchange of fire, and he switched his attention back to the second Y-Wing, who was just coming into optimum gunnery range after his corkscrew tactic had slowed down his rate of approach. Kessler began to pull the Dream up and around in a repeating arc, tracing a figure of eight in space, with the Y-Wing at it’s centre. It was a tactic best suited to small and agile starfighters, and Kessler’s ship was too large a target for it be very effective, but it reduced the amount of fire that hit while he was manoeuvring, while allowing him to squeeze off a burst of fire every time the enemy ship passed the centre of the figure eight. The difference in firepower and shielding between the two aggressors soon told. The Y-Wing’s shielding collapsed and his port engine spar sheared off under the attack, igniting his fuel slugs and disintegrating the fuselage and cockpit in the resulting explosion.
A swift check of the sensors showed no trace of the first attacker, but a dissipating fireball on the surface of an asteroid two clicks aft gave a good indication that he hadn’t managed to fix his flight controls until it was too late. Tough luck.
The Medium transport was in trouble. She was broadcasting a distress call on all frequencies, but there was considerable jamming and it was doubtful that the call was going anywhere fast. Her second escort had been destroyed, and without any armament she was a sitting duck for the remaining six Y-Wings. They had switched to Ion Cannons and were taking turns at making slow and leisurely strafing runs, their hits splashing over her shields in pale blue patterns.
Actually, this was good. No-one was bothering the Corel’s Dream, a situation which was as rare as it was welcome. The medium Transport’s desperate evasion course was taking her away from the navmarker, which left Kessler with a clear run to safety. He increased speed instinctively and changed course to get through the asteroid field as soon as possible.
Kessler tried to think of himself as a practical man, and this was true, most of the time. While a Wing Commander in the TIE Corps, he’d always taught his pilots to ignore ethical and moral considerations whenever they conflicted with practical ones. It was a harsh philosophy, but it kept his men and women alive more often than not. For himself, he’d been ordered to do some questionable things from time to time. He’d firebombed a crowd of civilians on an undercover mission to Coruscant on one occasion. It was something he was far from proud of, but he’d had time to come to terms with his actions; and while still troubled by some of the things he’d done in the line of duty, remorse didn’t rule his life. He’d been a warrior, and a warrior whose mind isn’t on the mission is a warrior waiting to die, or worse, waiting to get his team killed.
That was history now though. He wasn’t bound by the TIE Corps Oath of Service anymore, and he was acutely aware that he could easily have been in that Transport’s position had luck been looking the other way.
Seconds ticked by, the Transports shields weakened further. He checked the distance to the navbeacon. He’d be there and away in under two minutes.
He looked at the sensor display again. It’s shields were almost gone.
"Shit!"
The Corel’s Dream Pulled around in a tight high G turn and accelerated to attack speed, flipping and weaving violently to avoid the asteroids which were now a much greater threat at her higher speed.
"Shit!" he cursed again, angling the deflectors to the front quarter once again and selecting the nearest target, which was rapidly coming into gunnery range.
Could have been halfway to Nar Shadda by now, but no. I have to have a damn conscience attack don’t I? Shit!
He triggered the lasers and unleashed a punishing burst of fire into the closest Y-Wing. It broke apart in seconds, completely unable to absorb that kind of damage. The remainder scattered, their prey ignored for the moment.
Kessler’s 5th Rule of Starfighter Combat: Stay on the offensive. Anyone avoiding your fire isn’t shooting back at you, and that is what is known in the trade as ‘A Good Thing’.
Got to get more kills in quickly, keep hitting them before they can regroup.
Diving through the centre of the pack, his laser cannons found another target, probing streaks of fire shearing off an engine spar and condemning his victim to a perpetual, uncontrolled spin through cold, hard space.
The odds were four to one now, and the Dream had a shield and speed advantage, if not a firepower one. Spotting a wide, clear gap in the asteroids, Kessler gunned the throttle and rocketed clear, putting as much distance between himself and his tormentors as possible before swooping around to return to the fray. His plan was simple – zoom and boom. Exploit his speed and defensive advantage by making repeated diving attacks into the pack of Y-Wings. He’s seen rookie pilots in faster ships suckered into trying to dogfight with weaker but more numerous foes before. It was an old tactic, the pilot you were attacking simply dodged your fire long enough to set you up for his wingmen to take care of you. Kessler was far too old to fall for a trick like that. He selected his next target and prepared to draw a bead on him, when a cockpit warning alarm went off with a loud shriek.
Missile launch? Well that changes things. He thought wryly. The radar showed three concussion missiles locked on with bare seconds before impact. No time to shoot them down, think quick, Kessler.
Sometimes you just have to take it like a man.
The Corel’s Dream jinked wildly and corkscrewed, one missile missed and began to loop around for a return pass, the other two were more accurate, striking home both on the forward mandible and square on top of where the ventral gun turret would have been, if one had been installed. Riding out the shockwaves, Kessler fought to regain control, and brought the ship around to intersect the path of the closest of the larger asteroids, controls sluggish with the extra mass of his cargo. He floored the throttle and zoomed past, wrenching the Dream around the bulk of the rock just as the third missile caught up with his course change. It detonated harmlessly on the mass of the iron-nickel rock, giving him time to assess the situation. Shields were down to 50%, which was far from good. He’d underestimated the enemy, a mistake which most pilots didn’t have the opportunity to regret. It was pretty plain that his zoom and boom tactic was out of the question now, but at least he could still outmanoeuvre them. Muttering a brief prayer, he hauled the ship around, guessing that the Y-Wings would break into two flight elements of two ships each to split around the rock he’d used as cover. He was right. Linked laser fire took one of the first two Y-Wings in the face as it crested the top of asteroid, sending its remains spiralling and it’s wingman sweeping away frantically.
Didn’t expect to see me from this angle again did you boys? Tough luck.
He continued the turn, looping around the rock and ignoring the survivor, who began to turn his lumbering bomber around to get onto his tail. Clearing the mass of the asteroid in a wide loop, he emerged clear of the bottom, behind the second pair just as realisation of where he must have gone was dawning. For one of them, realisation dawned too late. For the other, by the time he began to evade, he was in a flight group of one. The survivor of the first pair cleared the bulk of the asteroid and settled himself down on Kessler’s tail at long range. He held his fire and began to pile on speed, while the one ahead started to dodge wildly, yet all the time holding him onto roughly the same course. Kessler checked his speed. He was travelling at optimum combat speed, yet not closing on the lead bomber as quickly as he’d have liked. His tail was closing the distance however, therefore logic dictated that the guy in front was sacrificing weapons power for speed, and the guy behind him was sacrificing shield power for speed, an intelligent tactic that showed these two at least were learning quickly and working together. His assumption was proven correct when a barrage of laser fire struck his rear quarter and the Dream shuddered. Smiling grimly, Kessler swung the ship around in as tight a turn as he could manage with its increased mass, and found himself racing head on with what had until a few seconds ago, been his pursuer. The Y-Wing pilot realised the situation he was in instantly – he had no shields and Kessler was about to fire. He had two choices, he made the wrong one.
Kessler ignored the incoming fire and lined up his target before squeezing the trigger. The Y-Wing exploded almost instantly.
You should have dodged.
He didn’t stop to admire his work, but swept around in a wide arc to pursue the remaining bomber. However, it seemed someone had finally taken the hint, for the remaining pilot went to lightspeed and escaped the battle before Kessler could track him.
Sighing with relief, he slowed to a safer speed and checked his systems display. Shields were down to 12%. No other damage. He grinned and patted the flight console affectionately.
The Medium Transport appeared to be in one piece, it’s engines were still online and it’s shields were slowly recharging. He opened a comms channel to its captain to enquire as to her status.
"This is Captain Kessler of the Corel’s Dream. You guys in one piece?"
"Captain Derrel of the Naboo Star. Got a little hairy there for a minute, but no real damage done" was the reply. "Shame about our escorts, but they were mercenaries anyway. No-one I knew personally."
Kessler winced at the callous remark, but then, that was life on the fringe after all. The mercs had known the risks when they took the job.
"Okay captain, I’d suggest you get your cargo out of there before any more show up. I’m in no shape to duel with another bunch right now."
A hiss of static, then Derrel’s voice returned, mildly concerned. "You okay? Your ship took a little beating from what I could see."
"No, she’s fine. This old girl’s older, tougher and uglier than I’ll ever be. Good luck with the rest of your trip, you can buy me a drink sometime."
"Sure thing Captain Kessler. Take care, Naboo Star out."
Kessler relaxed slightly and changed course to rendezvous with the navbeacon. Time to go home and collect his cash. If Ploovo didn’t trust him after this job, he’d personally hand feed him his damned fertiliser, all thirty tons of it.

In retrospect, Kessler would have admitted that going to the Naboo Star’s aid was a damned stupid thing to do, given that he was aware that the mission was very likely a set-up. Nevertheless, when the squadron of V-38s suddenly dropped their cloaks and opened fire on him, he was taken completely by surprise.
The Corel’s Dream’s shields were wiped out in the first barrage, and the cockpit’s master warning alarm went haywire, with red lights springing into life across the board. Instinctively, he began evasive manoeuvres without knowing exactly from which direction he was under attack. His sensors only confused the issue – the TIE Phantoms were decloaking to fire and slipping off his sensors too quickly to get an accurate ID, let alone a target lock. Only experience confirmed exactly how deep in the shit he really was.
V-38’s? Emperor’s Hammer ships? What the hell have I gotten myself into?

He redlined the engines, knowing that his freighter didn’t have a prayer against a whole squadron of TIE Phantoms. Nevertheless, within seconds, it became clear that with the extra mass of his cargo, he hadn’t a chance of making it to the navbouy in time, and without a gunner for the turret cannon, he had even less of a chance of defending himself.
The ship shuddered and he heard a small explosion aft, evidence that the hull plating was taking a savage battering. He had around fifty seconds to go before he could make the jump to lightspeed, in all likelihood, he’d be lucky to last another twenty. There was only one chance that he might make it. Ploovo might be pissed off, but that was the least of his concerns.
He ejected his cargo.
Dimly, as he fought to control the Dream on a straight course despite the pounding her hull was taking, he heard the cargo bay blast doors slam shut and the hollow roar of the bay venting to deep space. The Corel’s Dream surged forward as she suddenly found herself thirty tons lighter, and the threat display clearly showed three explosions blossoming in the night behind him as several unlucky pilots found themselves unable to avoid the mass of fractured cargo pallets and flash-frozen organic compounds in time. The relentless barrage of laser fire died, his pursuers unable to get a lock, their sensors obscured by the billowing cloud of debris and their pilots frantically trying to evade the fate that had befallen three of their comrades.
Kessler’s hand hovered anxiously over the hyperdrive lever, a trickle of cold sweat running down the line of his jaw. The seconds ticked by with agonising lassitude. The navcomputer chimed once, and in an instant, the cockpit filled with a blue glare as the stars bled away into superluminal streaks of light.
Taking everything into consideration, it had been a pretty eventful day.

"Mother Goose this is Eyeball One. Abort your attack, he’s dealt with the attackers and gone to lightspeed. I repeat, the target is away safely. Your presence is not required."
"Dealt with all of them? Not bad, who gave this guy permission to retire?"
*chuckle* "I think it happened around when Sector Admiral Compton was Flight Officer, but don’t quote me on that."
"Okay, Eyeball, enjoy the rest of your shift. We’re out of here."
"Roger. Enjoy your trip."
---
"Big Bird, this is Eyeball One. Area is clear. Send your transports to collect the bodies and the wreckage. The forensics boys have a lot of work ahead of them."
"Roger, Eyeball. Let’s see what we can’t learn about our mystery attackers shall we?"

Two

Artuk wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and buried himself deeper into the undergrowth. Despite May-Deen’s assurances that something as simple as a skin cream could protect the Sons of Caradoc from the sky warrior’s finding-magic, he didn’t relish being in a situation where he was forced to put the outworlder’s claims to the test. Fear was not an emotion that Artuk was used to, yet he’d seen first hand how easily the outworlders’ flying machines could detect his warriors even through the dense cover of the trees, and he’d also witnessed the awesome destructive power of their weapons firsthand.
After an age of quick, shallow breathing and sweat-stung eyes, May-Deen gave the signal that it was safe to continue. Wordlessly, a dozen of his fellow warriors rose from the ferns and bracken, pale faced and shaken, each one of them. Only the tall outworlder seemed unperturbed.
Anxious not to allow himself to seem less of a man than May-Deen, Artuk spoke first, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.
"It is as you say May-Deen. The salve you have given our warriors is charmed against the finding-magic of the sky-warriors."
Madine nodded. "It is a simple magic, Artuk. The cream prevents the heat of your bodies from rising into the air where the sky-warriors’ machines can smell it."
"As you say, yet I long for the day when I can reach out with my own blade of light and strike at our enemies, instead of cowering in the dirt like a woman."
Madine nodded. The other warriors rumbled their agreement. Fear makes men voluble, and these primitive warriors were no exception. "Soon, Artuk. Soon the Sons of Caradoc will have the weapons you desire. Then your enemies will not be so quick to pursue you with flying machines, and you can drive them from your lands like the dogs they are."
Artuk nodded, happy that his eagerness for battle had once again been asserted in front of his brothers. He looked up through the branches overhead, wondering where the winds had taken the sky-warriors this time. One day they will be made to regret the day they challenged the right of the Sons of Caradoc to walk their own lands. I will see that they do not live to regret it for long.

***

Kessler spotted Kerrigan propping up one corner of the bar with a pair of drinks waiting. He waved and walked over to meet the younger spacer.
"You look like shit, Kess" said Kerrigan, handing over a cold beer.
"Your mother didn’t think so" Kessler shot back.
"Kess, you’re old enough to be my mother’s grandfather." Kerrigan laughed.
Smiling, Kessler sipped at his drink, then nodded in approval. "This stuff’s good."
"Yeah, the barman brews it on the premises." He paused, allowing Kessler to take a good swipe of his beer. "So?"
Kessler drained the glass and set it down on the bar, signalling the Rodian barman for another. "Well I got myself sidelined in a little skirmish with a bunch of "legitimate" pirates. Then, as luck would have it, the real hit-squad showed up." He began to attack his second beer.
"Come on Kess, you’re not getting paid by the hour, what happened?"
Kessler shrugged. "I got one of the most savage poundings I’ve ever had the misfortune to take in my life. A Squadron of what I assume were V-38s jumped me."
Kerrigan’s eyes bugged in disbelief.
"Well, I assume they were V-38s. They were cloaked most of the time after all" he finished, sarcastically.
"Kess, it’s not that I don’t respect your skills as a pilot or anything, but TIE Phantoms? I’ve never even seen one, and you survived getting jumped by a whole squadron?"
Kessler chuckled. "Well the thing about V-38s Kerry, is that you’re not supposed to see them. That’s kind of the whole point."
Kerrigan gave him a sour look. "Shut up wise-ass. Explain."
Kessler sighed, suddenly looking a lot older than his thirty eight years. "I waited until I judged they were right on my tail and dumped my cargo over them. Then I kinda exceeded the safety margins of the engines and left in a hurry. Any idea what it all means?"
Kerrigan shrugged. "Well I think pushing your engines over the stated safe operating limits might mean you’ve invalidated your insurance…"
Kessler rolled his eyes.
"…But apart from that I have no idea. You think they were…" he stopped suddenly. "Kess, let’s not talk here. Your place or mine?"
"Mine. I can work on the repairs while you’re talking."

***

"Hydrospanner" Kessler grunted. Kerrigan selected the relevant tool from the tray and passed it down into the drive bay.
"You sure you know what you're doing down there?" Kerrigan asked, peering into the mess of wires and cables from which Kessler's legs protruded.
A muffled snort was his reply. "Kerry, do you know anything about repulsor coils or inertial dampers?"
"Nope."
"Then shut up unless you're talking about a subject you're qualified to speak on."
"Like our little conspiracy for example?"
Kessler reached from the drive bay and dropped the hydrospanner by Kerrigan's feet. "Exactly. Lump hammer?"
Kerrigan rooted around in the tray and passed Kessler a large, blunt hammer. "This it?"
"That's the sucker." He braced himself against the internal bulkhead, gripped the hammer in both hands and laid into what appeared to be the hyperdrive motivator with an almighty blow. Satisfied, he passed the hammer back up to the dumbfounded Kerrigan and climbed out of the drive bay. "That should work."
Kerrigan stared at him. "Where did you learn engineering? The Academy, or Watto's Junkyard?"
Kessler grinned and wiped his hands on an oily rag. "Back in Tornado Squadron we used to have a Chief Tech called Machiko Toranaga. Tornado was a frontline squadron, so our ships got pretty beat up from time to time. She was always low on engineering crew so she insisted on teaching us basic engineering, then the next time we brought a bent Missileboat in from a patrol she'd make us try to fix the problem ourselves."
"Basic engineering about sums it up."
"Yeah, yeah, spare me your sarcasm. Anyway, there was one thing about her engineering courses I never did understand."
Kerrigan sighed. "Go on..."
Kessler stooped to pick up a tool from the deck. "Why do they call it a hydrospanner?"
"Beats me."
"Seriously. Hydro means water, right? Does this thing look like it contains water?" He brandished the sturdy tool under Kerrigan's nose.
"Maybe it's hydraulic?"
Kessler peered at the spanner cautiously. "You mean it's supposed to have moving parts?"
"Of course it is! What do you use it for anyway?"
Kessler shrugged. "It's just got a twirly bit on the end that's useful for getting at stuff in obscure places."
"A 'twirly bit'?"
Kessler laughed good naturedly. "It's a technical term, Kerry."
Kerrigan shook his head, bemused. How the Corel's Dream stayed flying in one piece seemed to be one of life's unsolved mysteries.
"Anyway, we have more important matters to discuss. To the cockpit."
Kerrigan followed Kessler to the Dream's cockpit and sat himself in the co-pilot's station. Outside, the multicoloured face of Nar Shadda swirled in a garish neon haze. Kessler pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it, blowing clouds of aromatic blue smoke into the ventilation.
"Kess, those V-38s have been bothering me. I'm not sure what it means, but it's obvious that whoever's got it in for Ploovo's suppliers means business."
Kessler nodded. "Yeah, I figured that part out for myself, but which side do you suppose they're on? There aren't a whole lot of organisations that can afford that kind of high-tech muscle. I know the Emperor's Hammer has the odd "special ops" Squadron that uses them, and I have to tell you - I really don't feel like messing with the EH. I was never comfortable shooting at people I know."
Kerrigan pursed his lips, deep in thought. "You could be right, but remember, if the EH is pissed at Ploovo's people for some reason, we're doing them a favour by helping to screw him."
"True, which brings me onto the next thing I've been meaning to ask you. Who's this "we"? So far the only person I see getting shot at is me."
Kerrigan stared at Kessler for a good long while. He seemed to come to a decision. "Kess, I wasn't completely honest with you about our backers."
Kessler stared him out, daring him to continue.
"Well, you see, the thing is...have you ever heard of a guy named Tallon Karrde?"
"Nope."
"I said ‘Tallon Karrde.’"
Blank look.
"You’ve never heard of Tallon Karrde?"
Incomprehension.
"The man who took over Jabba the Hutt’s criminal empire after his death?"
"Jabba who?"
Kerrigan began to feel the situation slipping away from him. "Kess, how the hell have you managed to survive in this business without knowing who you’re not supposed to upset?"
Kessler shrugged, obviously unimpressed. "I’ve always made it my policy not to upset anyone in this line of work if I can help it. Those who’re determined to cause offence I either walk away from or kill. Simple business plan, and it’s worked so far.
"Well it's not that simple. Karrde's people are running guns in a big way these days, making a lot of money out of the conflict out here on the Rim, and he's got a lot of influence on the fringe. I mean, the kind of influence that means when a man in my line of work gets made an offer he can't refuse by one of Karrde's contacts, well...you just don't refuse."
"This Karrde person’s a serious piece of work then?"
Kerrigan spread his hands and shrugged. "Sorry, Kess. You're working for Tallon Karrde."
Kessler shook his head, glassy eyed. "So what's the deal?"
"Well, nothing's changed. Ploovo's taking a lot of business away from Karrde's pocket, but simply sending in the Bounty Hunter's Guild wouldn't solve anything. Ploovo's backers would just find someone else, and Karrde's organisation spent months finding out about Ploovo in the first place, so they're happy to leave him be as long as there's a chance to track back to his suppliers. It's them they want to close down. Without his backers Ploovo's a nobody. That's where we come in."
Kessler lifted his leg and stubbed out his cigar on the sole of his boot. "But if Karrde's people weren't behind the V-38 attack, that must mean that there's someone else trying to close Ploovo down. Surely it follows that these people must be the enemies of whoever Ploovo's supplying guns to? And doesn't that make them on the same side as Karrde? On the same side as us?"
"Kess, did I ever tell you Kerrigan's Rule of Life on the Edge Number One?"
The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Kessler's mouth. "No, but I have a feeling you're going to."
"There's only one rule. The only person on your side is you."
"I like that one. I'll have to remember it."
Kerrigan stood, brushing down his jumpsuit. "Anyway, tell me about your latest meeting with the Fat Guy."
"Well, he was pretty surprised to see me alive."
"You don’t say?"
"Yeah, he didn’t exactly come right out and admit it, but it’s obvious he was using me as cheap bait to lure the ambushers out and nothing else, which explains why he didn’t pay me up front, and why he never asked what happened to the cargo of fertiliser." Kessler patted down his pockets for another cigar. "He was so impressed that I’d survived he didn’t even didn’t even argue when I demanded my money for completing the run. Apart from that, he’s offered me another run, at three times what he was paying last time, and with half up front."
"Now you’re talking!" Kerrigan grinned enthusiastically. "Split the proceeds fifty fifty?"
"Only if you don’t mind spending it with broken fingers" Kessler retorted.
Kerrigan laughed again, obviously pleased that their plans were coming to fruition. "Okay, so it’s a genuine weapons deal this time, right?"
"As far as I can tell, yes. He’s paying gun-running money for it. I think my actions have convinced him that I can handle myself in a fight."
"Any idea when this run will take place, or where?"
"So far all I know is when – two days from now. As for where…I have no idea. I won’t know until we get set to go." He paused, thoughtful for a second. "The only thing that’s been bugging me is how we’re going to track back to Ploovo’s suppliers? Even if we do hijack a shipment, it’s unlikely to have ‘If undelivered please return to Acme Gun Smugglers Inc’ written all over it is it?"
Kerrigan smiled, "It should be simple. All we need to do is steal a major shipment, then put the word around that we have a consignment of arms to sell on the market. Whoever’s supplying Ploovo will be looking around for who stole their guns anyway. When they check us out they’ll discover that what we’re offering matches the stolen shipment exactly. They’ll assume they’re dealing with a bunch of idiots, contact us to arrange a purchase, then try to doublecross us at the sale and steal back their guns…"
"Only we’ll be expecting that and will be loaded for bear?"
"Precisely. All we need to do is capture one of their ships, check its log to find out where it came from and we’re in business."
Kessler rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Sounds good… but there are only two of us. I’m pretty good, but I’m not that good."
"Relax, Kess. We’re working for the big boys now. We’ll have backup. Lots and lots of backup."

***

"Preacher, this is Jackal. All is proceeding as planned. We’re going to need some backup though, and I mean subtle backup. A few R-41’s would be nice, but Y-Wings would be better."
"That shouldn’t be too hard to arrange, you have a location yet?"
"Negative. That’s going to be a problem too. We won’t know where we’re going or how many ships we’ll be intercepting until the very last minute. I’d recommend that you activate Wolf and Snake and get them to Nar Shadda immediately. I’ll introduce them to the principle and together we can arrange an intercept once we know the location."
"Sounds logical. I’ll get right on it."
"Any word from forensics on who our friendly ambushers were?"
"Nothing. They were completely clean. No identifying marks of any kind whatsoever, although that in itself tells us two things. One – the dead pilots have never worked for us, and Two – their current employers are an organisation at least as careful and resourceful as we are. That narrows the list of suspects down somewhat."
"We can’t completely rule out the possibility that they still may be a private organisation."
"True, but it’s highly unlikely. You’re doing a good job there, Jackal. Keep it up."
"Just you remember that when my bonus is due. Jackal out."

***

Kessler was spot-welding the more serious damage to the ventral armour plating when Kerrigan cleared the hatch to Docking Bay 33B with a group of suspicious-looking individuals in tow. Switching off his fusion welder, he removed his goggles and waved down to his friend. Kerrigan returned the wave, indicating everything was above-board. Kessler leaned over the hull and shouted down to the hired maintenance droid to continue with the repairs and indicated to Kerrigan to bring his guests onboard.
Inside, he found Kerrigan waiting in the crew compartment with five unsavoury-looking men and women. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he shot Kerrigan an enquiring glance.
"People, this is Kyle Kessler. He’s the inside man, and the one who’s been taking all the risks so far. Ex-TIE Corps Colonel and he’s not dead yet, so you know he can handle himself in a fight." The group nodded and murmured their greetings.
Kerrigan turned to a tall, weasel-faced human and gestured with his hand. "Kess, this is Dino Dayton, but everyone calls him D-Day. He’s captain of the Firespray Class attack ship Killing Time and all round useful man to have in a fight. He was working for Ploovo last year as a convoy escort and got his last ship shot out from under him when they were jumped by a New Republic cruiser hunting for pirates in the Mandell sector. Ploovo’s idiots refused to stop and be searched despite the fact that they were in Independent space and the Republic couldn’t legally confiscate their contraband. D-Day was ordered to cover their escape, which he did, but Ploovo refused to compensate him for his damages, despite the whole debacle being Ploovo’s fault. Needless to say, D-Day hasn’t worked for him since."
Next up was a middle aged woman, large-boned, with a homely face, but a manner about her that suggested she wasn’t the type that stayed at home patching socks. "This is Angel. Don’t ask her what her real name is, no-one knows and she ain’t telling. She flies the YT-1300 Momma’s Pride and though it may not be quite the Millennium Falcon, it’s more than capable of blowing away this sorry excuse you call a ship."
Angel smiled. "More than a match for your Far Trader too, Kerry."
Kerrigan snorted. "That remains to be seen. Anyway, she’s got an itch she’s been waiting to scratch for years, ever since Ploovo sold her a ship that was on the "Destroy on Sight" lists of four major Intelligence and Security agencies. Not surprisingly, Angel and Ploovo aren’t the types who believe in keeping efficient ownership records, so she had quite some explaining to do when she first tried to obtain landing clearance at the next New Republic port. The last she saw of the ship was when it was impounded by New Republic Intelligence, and believe it or not – Ploovo doesn’t offer money back guarantees."
"Anyway, moving swiftly on, these last three are the famous Rodo brothers: Max, Harl and Kel. The Brothers Rodo are good, honest mercenaries with their own Y-Wings, and they’ll hate Ploovo too as long as we pay them enough."
The three human mercs smiled laconically. Kessler raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, as long as I pay them enough" Kerrigan amended.
Kessler walked to the stores locker and extracted a bottle of Chalquila and a handful of glasses. "So I guess this means we’re in business?"
Kerrigan nodded. "Looks that way. Make sure you let us know where to intercept you and we’ll be there waiting. I think we’ve got all the angles covered."
Kessler began to pour shots of alcohol. "Got a few questions , though. We’re disabling these ships and taking the cargo, hence the Y-Wings and our friends the Brothers Rodo here, right?"
"Right."
"How are we going to get the cargo transferred between ships?"
Angel broke in. "Taken care of. Momma’s Pride has boarding tackle that can fit just about any cargo port on most major commercial ship types. Kerry here will be riding shotgun with me in case it proves more practical to take a ship over and drive it out under its own power."
Kessler shot her an enquiring look. "That an optional extra or do you have a regular use for such a piece of equipment?"
Angel smiled, exposing badly-stained, yellowing teeth. "Don’t ask."
Kessler shrugged. "Fair enough. Secondly, the guys whose cargoes we’re going to be hustling. What happens to them?"
Kerrigan at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable. "Well we really don’t want them being able to ID us afterwards…"
Kessler’s face turned to steel.
"Be reasonable, Kess…"
"No."
Kerrigan set his mug down on the Dejarik table and fixed Kessler with a calculating stare. "Listen to me you dumb old fart, we’re not messing around with honest traders here. These people mean business, and we can’t afford the time to piss around with them. Now it’s not our plan to wade in all guns blazing and kill everybody, simply because that’s not professional. But one way or another we’re getting that cargo off these suckers; and if it comes down to a choice between killing some stubborn idiot who won’t give up when he should, or getting my own ass shot off because we’ve dicked around so long trying to be civilised with them that they’ve managed to call for help…well, that’s no choice at all. Understand?"
Kessler swallowed once. He’d considered himself a good judge of character until now, but there was a cold, hard side to Kerrigan that he’s never suspected existed behind his normal happy-go-lucky façade. The worst thing was, he was right.
Kessler didn’t argue.
Kerrigan turned to regard the rest of the gang. "Okay, we all know what the score is. Everyone get outta here and lie low until you get the signal, then be ready to move fast." People began to stand and leave the ship. Presently there was only Kerrigan and Kessler left. Kessler avoided Kerrigan’s eye.
"Sorry, Kess; but there are a few facts of life out here that just don’t seem to have sunk in yet."
Kessler sighed and faced his friend at last. "I know, it’s just hard adjusting. I used to know what the rules were, but these days it seems that the rules change so fast it’s getting hard to keep track."
"Rules were made to be broken, Kess."
"In the TIE Corps things were pretty simple. You killed who you were told to, because you figured that people senior to you had good reasons for choosing their targets. Most of the time, the other side was hell-bent on killing you first anyway, so it didn’t trouble your conscience too much. Occasionally I had to do things I… had problems with. But you always had the consolation of knowing you were acting under orders. But now I’m going to kill people who’ve never done me any harm, simply because they have something I want. There’s a word for that where I come from, Kerry. It’s called ‘murderer’."
Kerrigan wisely stayed silent. There were some things that you just couldn’t explain to a man. Some things people had to work out on their own.
"Is this how it started for you? How long does it take before you stop worrying about your conscience?"
Kerrigan thought carefully before answering. "Kess, I’m not your priest. You have to come to terms with your own conscience. If it makes you feel any better, we’re putting a major weapons dealer out of business. The guys running guns for him aren’t innocents either – they’re smuggling guns you moron! No-one signs on for that kind of business without expecting trouble sooner or later. No-one’s forcing them to do what they do. They made their choice..." He stood, brushing down his trousers. "It’s time you made yours."

***

Some distance away, Ploovo was paying careful attention to a report being delivered to him by one of his agents. Ploovo wasn’t, contrary to popular opinion, an idiot. It was true that on occasion his greed got the better of his common sense, but no-one stayed alive or successful for long in Ploovo’s business without being careful. One of the single most overriding factors in his success so far was that his enemies had a nasty habit of underestimating him, a habit which he was quite content to exploit whenever possible. As was routine in his organisation, a careful watch was kept on all new employees until their credentials had been suitably established. Ploovo could afford competent watchers, and the news of Kessler’s association with Kerrigan had been noted and reported on. This in itself caused little suspicion, some digging had revealed little of note in Kerrigan’s background. He was a minor smuggler and trader with few connections that mattered. But today’s meeting with the five nameless strangers had him mildly worried, for several reasons. Firstly, he didn’t like his employees associating with people he didn’t know. That was the second problem too. He had no idea who these strangers were. By their dress and mannerisms, they appeared to be Fringers, yet they were completely unknown to any of Ploovo’s people, and after having them followed back to their ships and having data searches performed on their crafts’ registrations, he was still none the wiser. All appeared to have suitably shady pasts, according to the official records, yet Ploovo had never heard of any of them. He didn’t trust official records. It was unofficial records that he relied on, and none of these five seemed to have any. That worried him. He should have heard of them if their records were as dubious as they appeared to be. He supposed that Kerrigan could have merely been introducing Kessler to some criminal associates, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Ploovo didn’t like the feeling of not having the upper hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for his communicator.
"Quarrel? Get me Karrde. It’s important."

***

Today was the day. Kessler had been paid his advance and was waiting for the shipment to be loaded into the Corel’s Dream when things took an unexpected turn for the worse. At noon precisely, four repulsorlift trucks arrived at Docking Bay 33B bearing his cargo. This had been more or less anticipated. The presence of the speeder containing Ploovo himself had not.
The crimeboss extricated his mass from the vehicle with some difficulty and, wiping his brow with a sweat stained handkerchief, looked up at the cockpit of the Dream. Kessler decided it would not be wise to keep him waiting. With more than a little trepidation, he buckled on his gunbelt and descended the boarding ramp to see what warranted a personal visit from the Fat Man himself.
"What’s up, Ploovo? You could have just sent one of your men to give me the jump co-ordinates."
Ploovo smiled unctuously. "A slight change of plan, Kessler. Elgin here will be accompanying you on this flight. He’ll be co-piloting you."
Kessler blinked, confused. "Elgin?"
A small mountain range in vaguely humanoid form unfolded itself from the back of Ploovo’s speeder. It had a gun. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a Blastech E-11 laser carbine, but Kessler strongly suspected it was mostly there for show. Elgin looked like the kind of person who might use a blaster to gently stir the remains of whomever he’d just beaten into a bloody pulp, but not the kind of person who’d gotten used to ideas like "safety catches" or "aimed shots". He looked like the type of person who regarded blaster burns as being something that only happened to other people. He didn’t look like someone who’d mastered the art of stepping over a hatchway without bruising his knuckles, much less someone who was supposed to be capable of handling the controls of a starship.
Kessler looked at Ploovo. He seemed serious. "My co-pilot?"
"That’s right."
Kessler looked at Elgin again. Elgin smiled. He had teeth like a row of broken bottles and beady little black eyes that glittered evilly from deep below a massive forehead. He was a walking stereotype. Kessler couldn’t even begin to determine where Ploovo had found him. Pilot he most certainly was not. "And he has actual flight experience, of course?"
"Let’s just say," Ploovo drawled, "That his particular field of expertise is escort missions. He’s very good at watching things, making sure no harm comes to them."
Kessler began to get a very bad feeling, but was careful to mask his reaction. "That’s funny Ploovo, because I was under the impression that’s what you were paying me for."
"No such thing as being overprotective where one’s investments are concerned, Kessler."
"So who’s here to protect me from him?"
"Elgin, say hello to Captain Kessler."
Elgin ambled good naturedly around the speeder, reached out and removed Kessler’s blaster from its holster. Kessler didn’t argue.
"Nice gun" Elgin rumbled. Then he twisted the barrel into a new and infinitely more interesting shape before handing it back to him.
"You’ll be taking the cargo to a rendezvous at these co-ordinates, Kessler" said Ploovo, handing the stunned spacer a dataslug. "Once there, you’ll be given your final destination. Safe trip." Ploovo climbed back into his speeder as the trucks began to unload their crates into the Corel’s Dream’s cargo hatch.
Kessler had a very bad feeling about this.

He was an hour into his flight and deep into hyperspace and still hadn’t managed to get off a signal to Kerrigan regarding his destination with Elgin’s brooding presence hovering over him. Things were not going according to plan. The entire plot was now badly derailed, there was no way Kerrigan’s people could make it to any intercept without knowing where the intercept was going to be. As well as that, Kessler was going to have be very careful that he played things straight with the massive Elgin shadowing his every move. Co-pilot, my ass! He’s here to watch me, plain and simple. Either something rattled Ploovo or he’s more naturally suspicious than anyone gave him credit for. Either way, the original plan was sunk, and Kessler was going to have to play it by ear, hope he could glean some useful information from the rendezvous with the rest of Ploovo’s smugglers.Elgin wasn’t the talkative type either. He seemed to have a Master’s Degree in Advanced Intimidation, however. The way he just watched
you all the time was very unnerving and he seemed to be immune to conversation. It had felt like a long trip.
The Dream emerged from hyperspace at the designated co-ordinates into a small fleet of light transports. Three other YT-1300’s and a Medium Transport idled, guarded by two Skipray Blastboats and four T-Wings. There was, of course, no sign of Kerrigan and Co.
"Corel’s Dream, this is Mandalore Star. Prep your navcomputer to plot a course for the Denubis System and open a datalink to receive further instructions. We’ll be leaving as soon as the Indigo Prime shows up."
Kessler keyed the communicator. "Roger, Mandalore. Setting co-ordinates now. Dream out."
The Denubis System? What the hell was the deal with that? Kessler was pretty sure that it was somewhere in Imperial Orthodoxy space, except that didn’t make sense. Supreme Moff Babune’s IO was an exceptionally well equipped organisation, and certainly didn’t need the kind or amount of weapons that Ploovo was capable of supplying. A few seconds later, the navcomputer had the co-ordinates and began to compute a safe course. It seemed that Denubis was technically outside the borders of IO space, but close enough that no-one was likely to argue with Babune’s fleets if they chose to exploit its resources. Technically however, it was just inside the Dendrite Sector, and therefore inviolable by treaty arrangements. Something strange was going on. Perhaps this was only another rendezvous point and their real destination was somewhere different altogether?
He opened up the data file the Mandalore Star had transmitted and began to read. His instructions were to proceed to Denubis III and put down at a certain grid co-ordinate. There they would be met by persons unknown and their cargo would be collected. After the transfer was complete, they were to go their separate ways. Easy in, easy out. He settled down to wait for the signal to leave.
Later, Kessler had time to think about what happened next. He supposed that there must be people out there for whom things always went according to plan. Speculating about these mythical people for whom life held few, if any, nasty surprises would keep him occupied for some time over the future course of his life, but he could never figure out why he never seemed to be one of them.
Kessler noticed a brief flicker on his threat display as a red blip popped in and out of existence, then two yellow dots appeared dangerously close to the Mandalore Star. The Mandalore Star exploded a split second later and Kessler’s small universe went to hell almost instantly.
Directly ahead he could clearly see the gutted debris of the outer shell of the stricken Medium Transport, space crisscrossed by bright emerald green streaks of laser fire as three of the escorting T-Wings were destroyed in moments. Fresh red blips flickered into and out of life across the board and more yellow missile indicators appeared. Heavy Rockets?
Kessler had the engines online and at maximum power before the missile warning alarm had even begun to warble. Elgin, returning from the cargo bay, was bowled off his feet by the Dream’s sudden surge of acceleration.
"Kessler! What are you trying to pull?"
"Hold onto something!" Kessler screamed while coaxing every erg of speed out of his ships tortured engines he possibly could. Two heavy Rockets hit the Mandalore…launched at point blank range from a ship that only appeared on sensors when it fired. TIE Phantoms again, no doubt about it. Two Heavy Rockets would spread a ship this size over most of this sector, I only pray they weren’t going faster than cruising speed when they fired!
Heavy Rockets were deadly against medium starships and dangerous to capital class ships when fired in numbers. They had reasonably sophisticated tracking capabilities and once locked on would follow their targets until they ran out of fuel, at which point they’d self destruct, but they had two limitations. Their speed was limited by the speed of the ship which launched them. A long time ago, Kessler had been Commander of Tornado Squadron in the Emperor’s Hammer Strike Fleet. He’d flown Spectre Class Assault Missileboats against the New Republic in the Minos Cluster, and a favourite tactic had been to launch his Rockets at extreme range, then go to full power and actually overtake his weapons. Rebel gunners were used to firing directly at incoming bombers, because they invariably hit incoming missile fire on the way in too, this tactic ensured that most of his rockets got through defensive fire. None of which was particularly useful in this particular circumstance, but it did illustrate that Heavy Rockets could be outrun, depending on the speed of the launch platform.
All of which, by itself, wouldn’t be enough to save the Corel’s Dream from certain destruction, since she’d started to evade from a standing start and probably couldn’t outrun a salvo of rockets given the best circumstances. But it would give him time, and he was relying on the Heavy Rocket’s other design limitation.
The shell of the Mandalore Star filled the cockpit canopy at an alarming rate as Kessler floored the accelerator. Elgin staggered into the cockpit, bracing himself on the copilot’s station in time to see where the ship was heading. Kessler felt, rather than saw his expression as he squealed LOOK OUT! In panicked terror, then Kessler pulled the Dream into a savage spiral to duck under and behind the Mandalore Star’s shattered hull. Elgin was thrown off balance again by the violent manoeuvre and Kessler dimly heard a thud as he hit the deck somewhere behind him. Told you to hold on, moron.
The RM-40 Heavy Rocket was designed to be fed initial targeting information by its launch platform’s onboard sensors. After firing, it switched to an optical image recognition tracker to maintain a targeting lock. This had the advantage of being a totally passive system, so anti missile defences couldn’t rely on transmissions from the warhead itself to track and shoot it down. They had to activate their own active tracking systems which in turn exposed them to fire from anti-radar missile systems et cetera. In the event of its optical tracking system being occluded for any reason, the RM-40 had a backup mass tracking device, which locked onto the nearest target on the same bearing and of the same mass as the last known contact with it’s original target. What this meant in practical terms was that if you were in the right place at the right time, and had sufficient warning, you could fool a Heavy Rocket into hitting something else.

The Corel’s Dream was tossed around like a cork in a bathtub by two titanic explosions detonating almost on top of the Dream’s rear quarter. The remaining shell of the Mandalore Star was vapourised in the release of energies from the further two Rockets which had impacted on her tortured hull. The Dream’s shields were wiped out in an instant, but Kessler wasn’t wasting any more time now he’d evaded the immediate danger. There was a brief flicker of pseudomotion, and the Corel’s Dream jumped to lightspeed and escape.

***

Preacher this is Jackal. Things are not going to go according to plan.
What do you mean?
The principle failed to make contact prior to departure, yet sources indicate that he did depart as planned. It’s now impossible to make the intercept as initially proposed.
This is not good, Jackal, Do you suspect that the subject has been compromised?
Possibly, but we have a high degree of likelihood that there was simply some unforeseen security measure that prevented contact from being made as planned. I believe the subject is still reliable, security-wise.
You believe? That’s not exactly inspiring is it?
No matter. We have a backup plan, but we’re unable to implement it just yet. We should be back on track within a day at the most. The operation has been delayed, nothing more serious than that.
I hope for your sake you’re right about that. We can’t afford failure on this, Jackal.
Relax, Preacher. Have I ever failed you yet?
There’s a first time for everything, Jackal. Report back in one day. Make sure Snake and Wolf send me their own reports too. Preacher out.

Three

Kessler forced his white-knuckled hands to release the hyperdrive jump lever and control surfaces, then remembered to start breathing again. His hands were trembling, he badly needed a cup of java. That had been far too close.
A groan of pain from behind reminded him that he wasn’t alone. He turned to see Elgin stretched out partially conscious on the deck of the companionway from the cockpit. For a second he considered going back to the cargo bay and breaking one of the blaster carbines out of the storage containers. It would be easy to deal with the huge humanoid in this state…
He shook his head. Kessler had murdered defenceless people before, a long time ago. He’d never developed a taste for it. Some of his dreams were particularly disturbing, and he had no wish to add to them.
Sighing, he broke open the medical locker and took an emergency case out, then walked aft to examine the comatose giant. Elgin had hit his head on the bulkhead hatch when he’d fallen over following the blast from the rockets hitting the wreck of the Mandalore Star. Kessler found it hard to believe that a mere collision with a hatch could have given a mass of bone like Elgin’s head much trouble, then he saw the dent in the hatch and quickly revised his opinion.
There was quite a lot of blood, but judging by the low moaning noises he was making, Elgin was still alive and breathing, if not totally lucid. Kessler selected a hypo and loaded it with a general purpose painkiller, then took a quick blood sample from the sleeping giant’s neck to check that it wouldn’t poison his alien metabolism. The indicator on the hypo turned green, and he pressed the injector to Elgin’s neck and fired a dose. He thought about Elgin’s body mass for a second, then cranked up the dial and gave him another dose, just to be sure. Packing away the hypo, he pulled out a sterile swab and cleaned away the worst of the blood, then covered the wound with a Bacta spray and finally applied a bandage to prevent the Bacta from being interfered with until it had time to set. Wiping his hands, he stood and packed away the medical kit, then realising he couldn’t move Elgin to a more comfortable resting position even he tried, he headed aft to make some java.
He was on his second mug when Elgin appeared in the hatchway, slightly unsteady on his feet, one hand holding onto his bandaged head, but the other holding his gun. Kessler noted with some satisfaction that at least it wasn’t pointed at him.
The large humanoid appeared confused.
"You didn’t take my gun?"
Kessler shook his head, sipping at his java.
"You did this?" he asked, indicating his head wound.
"I patched it up. You did the damage yourself."
Elgin considered this for a second, then slowly holstered his sidearm. "There enough there for a second mug?" he asked, indicating the pot of java on the Dejarik table.
Kessler nodded.
Elgin sat himself down opposite Kessler and helped himself to the pot. The two sat in silence for a second or two, then Elgin asked the question Kessler had been waiting for.
"What happened out there?"
Kessler shrugged. "I’m not really sure. We were attacked, I think by the same people who jumped me on my last run for your boss."
"Ploovo’s not my boss."
Kessler raised an eyebrow. "You mean you’re a contract worker or you work for someone other than Ploovo?"
Elgin deigned to reply. Had he spoken out of hurt pride at being considered a mere underling? Did his silence indicate that it was supposed to be a secret that Ploovo wasn’t his master? No matter. Another piece of information to be stored away for use at a later date.
"Anyway, whoever they were, they took out four of our ships almost instantly. They weren’t pirates, there was no profit motive in what they were doing. We were simply targets to them, to be eliminated as quickly as possible."
Elgin pondered this for a second. "Any ideas who attacked us?"
"I wasn’t too sure the first time it happened, but now I know whose territory we’re delivering these weapons to I’ve got a pretty good idea. You ever heard of the Imperial Orthodoxy?"
Elgin nodded.
"Well given that I haven’t seen any bill of sale for these weapons yet, it’s unlikely we’re selling our cargo to the official representatives in that sector. So I’d guess that our buyers are up to no good in IO space…"
"So the Imperial Orthodoxy might take objection to our supplying their subversives with weapons…" Elgin continued.
"And that leaves little room for speculation as to whom our mystery attackers might be. There aren’t many organisations out here who can afford TIE Phantoms, and it doesn’t make sense for the EH to be taking any objections to our business out here." He gave Elgin a strange look. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but I find it a little startling to hear you using words like "subversives" when "bad guys" would suffice."
Elgin grinned again, exposing those unsettling teeth of his. "Not too many of you human runts like to think that there could be any kind of intelligence behind a face and body like this. I sometimes find it useful to maintain that charade."
Kessler at least had the good grace to blush. Old Imperial prejudices against aliens had gotten the better of him again. "Sorry about that."
"Don’t worry about it." Elgin seemed to be used to the circumstances.
"So, our next concern is to decide how we’re going to play it from here. We’re on our way to the delivery point because that was the fastest way to get us out in one piece, but we already know our initial rendezvous was compromised. I’m not so sure our delivery point hasn’t been also."
Elgin shook his head slowly. "I’m not too sure about that. The only ones who knew about the delivery point were Ploovo, his distributor and the captain of the Mandalore Star. The information was kept secret specifically to avoid this sort of compromise. Given that the Mandalore Star was apparently the first ship hit, I think we can safely rule out her captain of any complicity."
"Good point. Which leaves Ploovo himself or his distributors. There’s always the possibility that the bad guys just have some really good slicers and Intel ops working for them, too" Kessler added. "Although there’s another possibility…"
Elgin gave him a sharp look, interested.
"We were waiting for another ship to turn up before we left. The captain of the Mandalore mentioned it when we arrived. The Indigo Prime he called it. Suspicious that it didn’t show. You’d have thought that if our attackers were so well informed about our plans they’d have waited for everyone to show before they began their attack. As it happens they executed their plan just after I arrived."
Elgin nodded. "So it might look as if the captain of the Indigo Prime, whomever that may be, sold us out. You may have something there. Of course, if we can put two and two together like this, you can bet that whoever attacked us isn’t going to be keen for us to be reporting back to Ploovo with our conclusions."
"Yeah, and given the fact that you’ve been sent to tag along with me, Ploovo’s first reaction is likely to be that I’m the rat. So I guess we’d better be very careful about who we meet before we can get back to Nar Shadda and report our findings to the Fat Man."
Elgin set down his cup carefully. "We still don’t know what we’re going to run into at the delivery point. Since we’re already committed to arriving, it might be a good idea to review our safety options before we get there…"
Kessler nodded. "Well the Dream is about as basic a ship as they come. The only upgrade I’ve installed over the standard factory specification is a single Taim and Bak Laser Cannon in the dorsal turret and a Rectenna to improve her early warning capabilities. Apart from that, she’s exactly like she was when she came out of the box."
Elgin sighed dramatically. "No quad lasers? Concussion missiles? Jammers? Countermeasures? Anything?"
Kessler grinned broadly, stuck a cigar in his mouth and patted down his pockets for his battered old steel lighter. "Nope. This is the Corel's Dream, not the Millenium Falcon."
"If we get out of this alive, I’m charging Ploovo extra."
"It gets worse than that, too. While you were out I ran a systems check. The shield capacitor was damaged before we made the jump to lightspeed. We still have shields, but that blast from those rockets took them down to twelve percent integrity, and with a damaged capacitor, I can’t recharge them. So once they go down, they’re going to stay down until I can get a new capacitor."
"You can’t repair it?"
"No. It’s fried. Needs total replacement."
Elgin mulled this over for a second. "Couldn’t you swap over a laser capacitor from the weapons systems? Would that work?"
"Sure, but I’m not going to."
Elgin waited. Eventually he got tired of watching Kessler puff away at his cigar. "Why not?"
"Because if I’m going to die out here, it’s not going to be because I wasn’t shooting back. Twelve percent shield integrity in one of these things is as good as a hundred percent integrity in a TIE Avenger. We can spend all day dodging enemy fire but if we can’t shoot back we’re screwed. It’s just a matter of time."
Elgin sighed and refilled his mug from the pot. "Well I guess I’d better brush up on my turret gunnery skills. It’s been a while, but I’ll see what I can do."
"Good man. You might want to get up there soon and make sure the turret works properly first though. Except for the day I installed it, the turret’s always been slaved to forward fire mode. It might be a little stiff."
Elgin stalked off to the turret access hatch, muttering comments about Kessler’s intelligence, manhood and ancestry to himself. Amused, Kessler watched him go, then poured out a fresh mug of java and went to the cockpit. He seated himself at the navigation station and ran a swift analysis of their course and ETA. Then he did a reference check on a number of variables. The results were not encouraging. Sitting back in the seat, he lifted his leg and stubbed out his cigar on the sole of a boot, then sipped some java and considered his options.
"Holy shit, Kessler! When was the last time you had the gimbals serviced on this piece of crap?"
Grinning despite himself, Kessler reached over to the pilot’s seat and picked up the headset. "Well, it’s been a while…"
"What? Like never?"
"Well that would more accurate, yes."
"This piece of shit is so stiff it couldn’t move fast enough to track the Death Star, let alone a TIE Phantom!"
"Well, keep playing with it, it should loosen up after a while."
"Captain Kessler, with all due respect to the fact that you’re the owner of this wonderful ship, might I suggest that you’re an overconfident moron whose appalling lack of concern for even basic maintenance is putting my precious ass in extreme danger, and if we get out of this alive, I’m going to take great pleasure in smashing your teeth in?"
"I have some more bad news by the way. If those IO guys know where we’re going, the Phantoms are fast enough to get there before us. They could also easily call ahead and alert anyone to be waiting for us when we arrive, so all in all, I really hope you can get that turret moving properly. Good luck, we arrive in fifteen minutes."
Kessler chuckled and disengaged the speakers to cut off the sudden stream of invective. When you’re in the shit up to your neck, there’s nothing more satisfying than sharing it with someone who’s metaphorically shorter than you.

***

"So what the hell happened? Any ideas?"
Kerrigan shook his head. "Plenty of theories, but we can’t know for certain until he contacts us. If he contacts us."
Kerrigan’s group were clustered in the communal area of the Far Trader. Like the Corel’s Dream, it was a YT-1300, but with many more optional extras installed than Kessler’s humble ship ever would. Wreaths of smoke hung in the air from the various narcotic stimulants being smoked by those present, making the area look and smell like a smuggler’s den, which just goes to show that sometimes a simile can be more accurate than anyone gives it credit for.
Angel muttered something under her breath without looking up. Kerrigan’s nose wrinkled in distaste. "Speak up, Angel, we didn’t quite catch that."
"I said: "It wouldn’t surprise me if this ‘Kessler’ turned out to be really working for Ploovo." It wouldn’t be the first time your intelligence has left me and mine hanging in the breeze either, Kerrigan. I swore I wouldn’t work with you again after Coruscant. I hope I’m not going to regret changing my mind."
Kerrigan rolled his eyes theatrically. "Oh please. Angel, you do what you’re told the same as the rest of us. Don’t try to dignify the situation by pretending you have a choice. Anyway, if Kessler’s working for Ploovo he’s either much smarter or much more stupid than anyone ever gave him credit for and that would mean I’m not the incredibly perceptive judge of character that I’m famous for being."
"Famous for being able to spot a sucker a mile away, anyway" snorted D-Day.
"Same difference. Regardless, even if he is working for Ploovo, he knows exactly squat about you five. All he knows about me is what I’ve told him, so that means Ploovo doesn’t know jack shit either. Kessler’s one of life’s rare commodities – he actually believes in following the rules. I’ve studied his record, he’s playing it on the straight and narrow with me." Kerrigan rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "The only explanation is that Ploovo’s the one we’ve all misjudged. It’s entirely possible that he’s not as dumb as we’d all like to believe."
D-Day nodded in agreement. Angel gave him a look of disgust but didn’t offer any further argument.
"So, " D-Day continued. "We basically have to wait for Kessler to turn up before we get any answers, right?"
"Wrong." Kerrigan stood. "I’m not the patient type and I always plan for every eventuality. Get to your ships and start leaving, everyone head for our agreed meeting point but go by indirect routes and don’t all leave at the same time. We’ll meet in two hours. If Colonel Kessler won’t come to us, I can’t see any point in hanging around. Let’s go get him."

***

Kessler took a deep breath and spoke into the headset microphone. "Ten seconds. You ready?"
"As I’ll ever be. The seat’s too small and the weapons systems are antiquated but apart from that everything’s just great. Thanks for asking. How are you?"
He ignored the sarcasm and placed his hands on the control surfaces. The single forward firing laser mounted between the mandibles was armed and charged, Elgin’s turret gun was likewise. A lot now depended on luck.
The Corel’s Dream surged into realspace with no perceptible feeling of movement. That at least indicated that the repairs on the inertial damping system were working. He hoped that was a good omen.
He flicked a switch to get the navcomputer working on plotting an escape jump in case one was needed in a hurry. He’d already prepped the computer to calculate the base equations required for a jump between Denubis and Nar Shadda, but failsafes built into the system prevented the navcomputer from initiating a jump without first taking a sensor fix on the nearby stars to confirm it’s actual position matched where it thought it was before plotting the jump. That would take a few minutes.
Lacking anything else to do, and knowing that if things were going true to form he’d be wasting his time anyway, he began a sensor sweep of the system. Denubis had five planets. The inner three were rock composites, the outer two were gas giants. Life was possible on the third planet out from the stellar primary, and according to the records, there were indigenous humanoids who lived there in a primitive state, but there wasn’t supposed to be any official colonisation allowed by any of the three major powers adjoining this sector. Small commercial resource exploitation efforts were allowed, but only because it would prove impossible to stop them without starting a major conflict here.
The sensors showed very little. Actually, what they didn’t show told a clearer picture. No orbital facilities other than a scattering of what appeared to be communications satellites. No starship traffic, no electromagnetic activity other than faint indications of radio traffic localised on a small section of the planetary surface. Possibly more activity on the far side, but impossible to tell yet. And of course, no indication of any TIE Phantoms.
"Talk to me Kessler."
"Nothing. This place appears to have been settled by wildcatters. Possibly an independent commercial venture, but nothing major. No indication that anyone’s even seen our arrival."
"How long until we can get out of here?"
"A few minutes until the navcomputer plots the jump, a few hours until we can conclude our business, deliver our merchandise and get out of here." The ghost of a smile played over Kessler’s lips as he waited for the usual response from Elgin. He was disappointed.
"I just knew you were going to say that… Okay, let’s do it and get it over with."
Kessler sighed. "You’re no fun Elgin."
"Screw you."
Kessler chuckled. That was more like it. "Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean those V-38’s aren’t there."
"Yeah, yeah…"
Privately, Kessler was pretty sure they were safe for the moment. The suspicious nature of the Indigo Prime’s non-arrival at the rendezvous left him in little doubt that her captain was either in league with, or captured by the Imperial Orthodoxy. Given how little information he’d been given about the run, Kessler strongly suspected that the captain of the Mandalore Star had been the only one who knew of their final destination. Since there was currently not enough of him left to fit into a small matchbox, the IO were unlikely to be coming by that information anytime soon.
The navcomputer pinged once and he flicked a switch to acknowledge the calculations, then brought the ship about to head towards Denubis III. He stored the jump co-ordinates and set the navcomputer to show the landing co-ordinates. These were superimposed over the map of the planet being gathered by his sensors, which were in turn plotted over the map of the surface that his astronavigational computer had in storage. Once a composite had been compiled of all three, he updated his records with the up to date surface map and studied it for a while.

The landing zone was in an area of dense temperate woodland. Presumably a clearing existed or had been cut into the forest to allow him to land. The nearest settlement appeared to be a small starport some 400 miles from his destination. Apart from its nav beacon he wasn’t detecting any active EM impulses from it, so he assumed it relied on passive orbital satellites for information on nearby space. Easy in, easy out. It certainly looked that way.
Being careful to keep his speed down to avoid generating any noticeable relativistic effects, he cruised into the planet’s upper atmosphere. His destination was currently in the dark side of the planet, but with the computer locked onto his landing zone, finding it in the dark wouldn’t be difficult. He began to encounter bad weather as he approached the landing zone, but it slacked off to a fine drizzle of rain as he narrowed the distance down to the last few miles. He checked the chronometer. He was half an hour early, but given the nature of his departure, that couldn’t really be helped. He extended the landing gear and switched on the strobes, illuminating a broad patch of rainswept primal forest below. After a few seconds, he spotted a small but strong light being shone in his direction from what appeared to be a clearing at a range of around a mile. He flicked the landing lights off, then back on again to indicate he’d noticed the signal, then dimmed the floods to avoid blinding his customers, and brought the Corel’s Dream in for a perfect landing.
He stripped off his gloves and tucked them into his gunbelt, then checked for his blaster before remembering that Elgin had already rendered it useless. Shrugging, he rose from the pilot’s seat and walked aft, meeting Elgin as he emerged from the gun turret.
"What now?" The large humanoid asked.
Kessler shrugged. "Not sure. This is my first time. I guess we’ll just play it by ear, but keep your blaster handy."
Elgin nodded and followed Kessler to the boarding ramp.
Emerging into the rain, they were protected from the downpour by the overhang of the Dream’s saucer section. The weather was wet, but not uncomfortable, although it was a little too cold for Kessler’s tastes. Elgin appeared not to notice, however. Squinting into the darkness at the tree line, they observed two figures step from the undergrowth and approach cautiously. One was dressed in furs and animal hides, the other was wearing a camcloak and a standard issue Rebel Commando team helmet. He was also carrying a blaster but was so far not pointing it at anyone. There was something familiar about the man’s face, but Kessler couldn’t quite place his identity. At least now it was clear why the IO weren’t happy about Ploovo’s operation. It looked as if weapons were being supplied to Rebellion-sponsored guerrilla fighters. That sort of thing made any government twitchy.
The two approached to the foot of the boarding ramp and the presumed Rebel lifted his free hand to shelter his face from the rain.
"There were supposed to be more of you."
Kessler stuck a cigar into his mouth and made a valiant attempt to light it. "We ran into problems. The others are dead. We’re all you’re getting." Removing the cigar from his mouth, he studied the end in disgust, gave up trying to light it, and shoved the unlit stogie back into the corner of his mouth.
The Rebel officer shook his head, droplets of water scattering from the brim of his helmet. "This wasn’t part of the deal. We’ve paid for two shiploads, Karrde’s people should be more careful."
Only two shiploads? So that means the others were delivering their cargo elsewhere. Interesting. Then another thought occurred to him. Karrde’s people? What the hell?
Elgin spoke up in a low bass rumble from behind Kessler. "Getting attacked by IO Special Ops Squadrons wasn’t part of the deal either. Now we’re cold, wet and getting more and more pissed off by the minute. Do you want the