The Wheel, Besh Gorgon System

Maldrood Sector

The dining room could be described as a respectably-sized karaoke room, fit with the soft–if dim–lighting and a wall-hugging couch that girdled the rectangular table that dominated much of the space. There was a porthole on one wall, just as I remembered, possessing a commanding view of the docking piers and the sea of stellar lights–from stars and ships alike.

Corellian light sculptures hung from the ceiling on invisible strings, almost like ethereal floating blazes. The cost must’ve been staggering, and was a telling view into just how profitable even unassuming cantinas like the Cosmo Lounge can be on the Wheel.

But my eyes were immediately drawn to the woman hunched over the table, cradling a glass of golden liquor. Calli Trilm’s silver-grey hair shimmered in the warm lighting, creating the illusion of smoky wisps rising from her head.

“You made an entrance,” she muttered as I sat down, “There’s a spectrum between awfully cautious and overly careless, and yet you somehow manage to straddle a line between the two.”

Calli raised her head, half-lidded eyes fluttering. A scar stretched from above her right eyebrow down to her cheek, and glistened bleeding red. I discreetly nudged Hare with my heel, sending her scampering beneath the table.

“I guess that means I know what to prioritise,” I shrugged.

“Clearly,” Calli grumbled, “Commodore, is it?”

I suppressed a smug smile, “Looks like I jumped ahead of you.”

“You’re fighting in the south,” she shot back enviously, “There’s nothing going on here in the north. No chances for promotion…”

She downed the rest of her glass in one go, gasping for air as she slammed it back onto the table. Calli was right, in a way. The quietness on the Perlemian was precisely the reason why General Tann was able to call the First Fleet away. With both hers and Admiral Tonith’s words, the memo sent to Raxus was the perfect bait–two of the top brass confirming there was an absolute certainty of glory and feats to be had in the south.

I’d bet my left foot Calli wanted to go as well, if not for the fact that the Clysm Fleet was an independent entity under standing orders to garrison Salvara.

“Is Dooku not working out for you?” I leaned back.

Calli pursed her lips, “...Well, in some ways. You ought to sell Techno Union stocks–I heard from a contact that Wat Tambor was captured on Ryloth.”

“Shit, their value is going to plummet when the Republic makes that known,” I held my chin, “I suppose I can reinvest in the Retail Caucus.”

“You know something?” Calli’s eyes shone.

“General Loathsom had captured Christophsis,” I said, “You’ll probably see the Caucus announcing the production of crystalware pretty soon.”

No, this wasn’t insider trading; it’s just… acting in advance, on misappropriated information. Alright, maybe it was insider trading–but the Confederacy was just asking for it, with the way its military industrial complex was structured.

Calli nodded shallowly, “Christophsis… that’s big. You were there? You never told how’d you get promoted–who were you assigned to?”

“Trench,” I answered, “General Tann after that.”

“The Pantoran,” she recognised.

“As for why I got promoted… well, that’s why I’m here for you,” I smiled shallowly, “I need your help.”

The Commander of the Clysm Fleet stilled, a painful look growing on her face that blatantly said ‘I don’t think I’ll like what I’m going to hear.’ She gestured for me to continue anyway, loosening the collar of her dress.

“We’re losing the war, you know that right?” I said bluntly, “I need your help getting Tann into the Supreme Commander’s office.”

Calli clicked her teeth, “No.”

I paused in surprise. That was the kind of ‘no’ that meant no to everything; I won’t help you, I won’t even hear it, in fact, just stop talking. The whole package. I knew Calli–I think so, at least–and she was the kind of person to have all the facts before making a decision. To shoot me down so quickly meant she was afraid; to the point that even hearing whatever I was about to say could be dangerous to her.

I narrowed my eyes, “Dooku has another person in mind?”

Calli Trilm was a born and bred Serennian–it was an open secret that she was one of Dooku’s closest confidantes and aides. It was the reason she was chosen to guard the critical stronghold of Salvara.

She chewed on my question for a moment, before leaning forward, “The Second Fleet is in the south, under Tann. The Third is in the north, under Admiral Kirst. Why do you think the First has no nominal commanding officer?”

“Because the First is stationed in the Foundry,” I answered, “Whoever takes that office will have too much power, so there’s a lot of pushback in the brass.”

Calli shook her head, “Spoken like a field officer. That’s Dooku’s excuse, and anyone not familiar with the staff would believe it. A post this significant should be filled by now–by Trench, Tonith, kriff, even Dua Ningo, wherever the hell he is. The reason is because Dooku is saving the First Fleet for someone; he is the ‘pushback’ you are talking about.”

Grievous. The name immediately popped into my head. I can’t think of anybody other than General Grievous taking the office. It would catapult him into the top brass, and put him right on track for the Supreme Commander’s office.

“Do you know who?” I had to confirm.

“No,” she breathed out, “Dooku wouldn’t tell me. But I’m not going to risk rocking the ship so close to whatever he’s planning.”

Calli picked up a tablet and ordered another round of drinks, grumbling something about not being drunk enough for this.

“You know the Clysm Fleet is likely to be absorbed into the First, if this goes through,” I pointed out, concealing my mild desperation, “Don’t you fear losing your independence?”

“My independence has consisted of squatting in Salvara for two months,” she rebuked, “I don’t mind losing my independence if it means I can do something.”

Alright, I grinned internally, if that’s what you want…

“Then why not join me?”

Calli regarded me for a couple heartbeats, before raising an eyebrow, “That’s sweet, but–”

“Like you said, Kirst and Tann are the only real options if you want action,” I grabbed her hand on the table, “Trench and Tonith serve their sponsors first, so you won’t get much relevance from them. But Tann? You know her record. You won’t even need to lose operational independence–Clysm can be an auxiliary attachment to the Second.”

Calli’s shoulders rose, then fell. She tightened her grip around my hand for a heartbeat, before pulling away.

“Dooku’s a Jedi, Rain,” her voice was strained, “He’ll see it. Clysm is arguably the most important fleet on the Perlemian; I can’t move without his direct approval. He’s going to introduce the new admiral, and Clysm will be folded in. Riding the wave is my only option right now.”

I leaned back pensively. Glancing out of the porthole, I could make out the inimitable silhouettes of my star frigates, their massive skeletal hulls dwarfing the luxury craft around them. There wasn’t any sign of the Star of Serenno, the flagship of the Clysm Fleet. That means her presence here was as off the books as you can get in the most heavily militarised sector of Separatist space.

I pinched my cheek, deep in thought. I had not known of her predicament–and for a brief moment, I felt somewhat flattered she would sidestep the rules to meet me. I heard the door sliding open, and a service droid fleetingly appeared for no more than a couple seconds to drop off a round of liquor.

–And then I remembered who exactly Commander Calli Trilm was. The same person who sucked up to Count Dooku for years to ingrain herself with the top wasn’t exactly an icon of sentimentality. This was a calculated decision. She wasn’t here for me; she was here for what I could give her.

That was almost more comforting.

“That can’t be the reason you called me here,” her voice was sharper, more controlled–what warmth and mellow it had bleeding to leave behind cool objectivism, “What is it you want from me?”

And what do you have in return?

“...I want to organise a wargame,” I inspected the porthole, tracing its rim, “Just a simple… pastime, for the naval commanders remaining in the Foundry. I’m bound for Ringo Vinda to refit my ships, and that is where the wargame will take place.”

“Via holoconference, I presume?”

I turned around, “That’s right.”

“If I’m asking, they’ll accept,” Calli crossed her arms, “But after they’re patched in? How are you going to make them stick around?”

“The scenario will be,” I replied smoothly, “A hypothetical all-out Republic offensive from Lantillies, spearheaded by the Open Circle Fleet, backed by the entire Cerulean Spear Command. The First Fleet, coincidentally, is nowhere to be found. All that’s standing between the Republic and the complete capitulation of the Confederacy is the skeleton forces remaining on the Perlemian.”

I kept a completely straight face throughout the entirety of it, but I could tell Calli wasn’t convinced.

She raised an eyebrow, “Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically,” I confirmed, “Ah– right. The objective is to hold back the Republic long enough for the First Fleet–and the Second, coincidentally–to return from a mission and reinforce us. That’ll pique their interest, don’t you think?”

She nodded slowly, a single slender finger tracing something imaginary on the table. Then she snatched a glass and chugged the entire thing before slamming it down. Something heated up inside of me, seeing that.

“I… see,” Calli hummed, as if nothing had happened, “Tell you what–I know a girl. Cratala. Brilliant scientist and engineer, though she styles herself a doctor. Expert in cybernetics and droidwork. Word is she fell in hot water with the Chancellor’s staff and defected to the Separatists. She runs a deep space research station in Salvara–”

“Cybernetics?” I interrupted, “Did she receive any important visitors in the last week?”

Calli eyed me carefully, displaying her impressive alcohol resistance, “There was a medical pinnace, but I couldn’t say.”

Galaxy’s a smaller place than I thought.

“As I was saying,” she glared, “Cratala knows another defector; a captain named Rel Harsol. And Harsol got contacts in the Confed’s underground. I’d wager some shops on the Wheel have ties with him–but he also knows just about every naval officer in the Foundry. He specialises in black market parts, you see, and captains like to rig their ships with… let’s just call them unsanctioned hardware. Nobody’s clean in this patch of space.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“So you can get me my wargame,” I reached for a glass.

Calli raised what I liked to call the eyebrow of expectation. I dropped a hand beneath the table and beckoned Hare up, who hopped onto the couch. Calli’s eyes widened at seeing the droid, before narrowing to shoot me a look somewhere between annoyed and amused.

Hare’s storage hatch opened, revealing an indistinct black box, small enough that I could hold it comfortably in a hand. I set it down on the table.

“I can give you this,” I started.

Calli picked it up and inspected it closely.

“A Republic Starpath unit,” I answered the wordless question, “Ripped right out of a Jedi cruiser. Every Republic Navy asset within six radial parsecs is tracked on that thing in real time, and it’s a one-way uplink. Untraceable.”

She suddenly held it as if it was a block of solid gold, her mute grey eyes flashing into a storm.

“You have more of these?” she asked quietly.

“Starpaths? No,” I leaned forward, “But I have an entire cruiser’s worth of data on my ships. Is that enough for you?”

Calli smiled–the widest and most genuine I’ve seen in a long time–and I took a sip to hide my expression. Nearly choked on it, too, when Hare surprised me with a tap on the shoulder.

The droid tried to whisper, bless her soul, “The girl contacted Master-Com.”

“Go.”

Looks like the Jedi’s already run into trouble–which was typical as far as my limited knowledge was concerned. Trouble always seems to find Jedi, and I didn’t have the energy to worry about it. If she’s caught by Republic agents, she won’t be able to divulge anything anyways. I made sure of it.

Calli tracked the droid as she slinked out of the room, but didn’t mention it, “I’ll throw in something else for you. I know an engineer on Ringo Vinda, an Quarren named Isquik Tors. Works for the QFD. If you have names you can throw around, he’ll help you out.”

“Unlike you to give freely,” I noted.

“I came here knowing what I want,” she rasped, rising to her feet, “And nobody’s listening.”

I finished the rest of my drink and slid it on the table, feeling it warm my chest. Calli came down on me, leaning in for a brisk kiss. It was a brief thing, nothing of passion and filled only with the desires of two people willing to relieve some stress. I withdrew to find an eager grin, with all teeth. My eyes caught hers, and a tentative finger reached up to trace the scar that ran down her face.

“Now, really?” I whispered.

There were a hundred better times, and a thousand better places than this. This was going to bite me in the ass later, but that’s a problem for future Rain. Her grin widened when she realised I gave up on hiding the way I was looking at her. Awfully cautious and overly careless; that’s me.

In answer, she pushed me against the wall.

There was nothing tentative about what followed.

⁂

I’m being watched.

Barriss didn’t know exactly when she realised it–maybe after she started winning one too many games of pazaak–but her every instinct swiftly started screaming at her to get out. Master Luminara always told her to always trust her instincts, and Barriss wasn’t about to fail her now. She kept her gaze fixed on her cards, however, as she came up with a plan of escape. First, she had to win this game.

Master Luminara was very good at pazaak, and as her Padawan, Barriss couldn’t tarnish her reputation by leaving in the middle of round.

“Madam?” the dealer pressed.

Barriss stared at her hand, reaching out with the Force to count the cards in the set. After some simple mathematics, she decided to double down. After doubling her bet, she flicked a card out of her side deck–pazaak. Barriss couldn’t resist grinning, and the small mob of bystanders behind her broke into cheers. They had, after all, just won big.

A hastily collected payday later, and Barriss was out on the street with a credit-filled briefcase in her hand.

She made for the nearest info kiosk, keeping tabs on the presence following her. It was only once she went a level down did Barriss decide that it wasn't a casino agent on her tail–she honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it was. She ran the house dry back there.

Which ran the question; who?

This wasn’t any sort of common gangster. Not only did her uniform–and she hated herself for appreciating the dress of the enemy–warded away the chaff, this particular figure was a professional. The only reason Barriss knew she was being followed at all was because of the Force.

A stir of hope and wary mixed in her gut, as she wrestled with the idea that it may be a Republic agent. This was her best chance to get rescued–or in Rain’s opinion, get herself killed. And if it was a Separatist? Then she was truly finished. A Separatist wouldn’t follow a Separatist–and that once again left a sour taste–and it could only mean her cover was blown.

Barriss wondered where her previous bluster had gone, as she felt her way through the teeming crowds, that she would be so eager to sacrifice herself to help the Republic. Maybe it was because she was already staring at death, inhabiting Ventress’ animated eyes, back then. But now, all she felt at the thought of dying was bitterness.

She was in no real danger–Barriss was a Jedi! Yet she never felt so trapped. Trapped in this blasted uniform, in this blasted crowd, on this blasted station. What was she to do, swing around and pull her tail out with the Force? And give herself away to these hundreds–thousands–of people? Then what? Damn a patriot of the Republic to torture, or death? Or let herself get captured, if that was their intention?

Or are they going to drag me through a backdoor and put a slug in my head?

Bitterness.

Barriss glanced at her chrono, using the pretence to hasten. She found the kiosk, and cut her way through the mass. Too many people. There’s too many people.

“Master-Com,” she wetted her lips, “Can you get me the quickest route to Docking Bay Thirty-Three?”

Barriss felt the console scanning her face– “Please follow the signs to the nearest airflow system station, Madam. I have prepared a car for you.”

She stumbled away before the administrator even got the last word in, already searching for her next destination. Her tail inched closer even as she sped up, and Barriss instinctively reached for her lightsaber.

It wasn’t there.

Barriss mumbled a curse beneath her breath, rounding the corner and sighting the entrance to the airflow tube. Her tail soon realised what she was after, because it felt like the Force was pounding her eardrums with their steps.

A three-fingered hand grabbed her arm, burning like ice, and something snapped inside of her. Without looking back, Barriss ripped herself free and broke into a sprint–all but leaping into the cockpit of the car and slamming the hatch down behind her.

The sensation was finally cut, and Barriss deflated with the pressure receding from her ears. She let the briefcase slide out of her damp hands, letting the cockpit’s one-way glass slide over her as the car merged onto the station’s internal highway.

“Rude.”

Barriss leaped inside her own skin, whipping her head around to find Hare staring up at her from the passenger seat.

“How did you…?”

“You contacted Master-Com,” the droid said flatly, “Why?”

“Someone was following me,” Barriss explained, “And they weren’t an amateur.”

“That can happen for any reason,” Hare said, tapping her tablet, “But I will accompany you.”

Barriss wasn’t sure how much the little droid could do, but she found herself appreciating the thought.

⁂

To her surprise, Docking Bay 33 was a maelstrom of activity when she found it.

The squadron of three were moored at internal piers, housed entirely within a gleaming atmosphere containment ray that spanned the entire space-facing side. Droids–battle droids–were scuttling to and fro doing… something. She recognised tibanna canisters being moved on wheeled station wagons, systematically moved and loaded onto the ships by repulsorlifts.

Pipes ran across the ceiling and floor, before fixing to the ship. The Renown was practically encased in a cocoon of scaffolding, a tumult of activity surrounding it as its crew worked on the frigate. There was a continuous babble of highly recognisable B1 droid voices, which all drowned together into indiscernible noise.

“What are you doing here!?” Vinoc’s voice was an island of baritone, shouting over the chatter.

Barriss lifted her prize, “I won half a million credits!”

The fallen Jedi’s eyes bulged, before he muttered something and shook his head, “I’ll bring that to your cabin for you. Why don’t you make yourself useful and help out Zenith while you’re here?”

She briefly questioned whether her credits would be safe in his hands–before scolding herself for worrying about material things. The credits can help me plan an escape, Barriss reasoned; that’s why she needed them. She still couldn’t help but gaze at her hard won money longingly as it disappeared under Vinoc’s grasp.

“...Who’s Zenith?” she suddenly realised.

“He’s the captain of Renown,” Hare answered, “Second captain. Because the original Zenith was destroyed, and this one’s a backed up memory drive.”

Hare waddled towards the warship, and as Barriss followed after her, she allowed herself to be amazed by the size of the vessel. From the bridge of a Venator, these frigates always looked so… small. Insignificant.

There was a small gathering of battle droids huddled around a tablet, their chassis decorated with bright yellow stripes and reflective tape. She caught a glimpse of a newsreel flashing across the display, and heard a faint female voice.

“–As we enter the second month of the Battle of Atraken, we see that the Republic has displayed increasing brutality and depravity against the local Atrakenites. New images are coming in here… Caraya’s soul, look at that. Neutral observers have estimated that nearly a quarter of the planet’s surface has been rendered uninhabitable by the Republic’s unrestricted bombing campaigns–atomic bombing, if we are to believe the reports.”

“Unsurprisingly, the plight of Atraken has yet to be–and will never be–covered by the mainstream government-dominated media. But make no mistake, good citizens of the galaxy, the Shadowfeed will rip away the Republic’s veil of deniability and reveal the truth! The estimated civilian death toll on Atraken is already in the millions! I think we can all agree this cannot be allowed to continue any longer; the Republic must face accountability for its heinous war crimes!”

A smattering of worried droid mumblings followed. Barriss pressed her lips together, and turned away.

Zenith was easy to find, as his painted head stood out cleanly from the moving crowds. She felt nervousness bubbling through her veins as she approached him, coming before the gaping maw of Renown, the twin barrels of its superheavy turbolaser mount clearly large enough to fit her entire body inside.

“Lieutenant,” Zenith’s proximity sensors clearly noticed her, “What do you need?”

“Vinoc said I should help,” she shifted.

If a droid could display annoyance, Barriss imagined annoyance was flashing over the Captain’s metallic faceplate right then.

“We are bunkering right now,” Zenith said, “Do you know the procedures?”

“...No?”

Somehow, the droid’s lifeless stare seemed a lot like Master Luminara’s–the kind that happens when she says something dumb.

“...Find Artisan on the scaffolds. Portside,” Zenith’s sigh sounded like a synth-harmonica, “He’ll have something for you.”

Artisan, as it turned out, was a colourful B1 battle droid that appeared minutely larger than the others due to the amount of paint he had over his frame. Hidden in the cage of scaffolding were several dozen droids, all with brushes and buckets. They were painting–and again, it wasn’t in any scheme.

Instead, all across the hull were scattered paragraphs in a hundred different writing scripts. Barriss spotted Aurebesh, Huttese, Mandalorian, Corellian, and a countless others she didn’t recognise. Every paragraph was on a human scale, and across the warship’s vast exterior, Barriss wouldn’t be surprised if the droids were able to fit every major language in the galaxy on it.

“Ooh, clever,” Hare mumbled.

“Huh?”

“Every language says the exact same thing–a transcript from a starship engineering manual,” the little droid seemed amused and impressed at the same time, “You only need to understand one of them to understand all of them.”

“But why?”

But why? Those two words have found permanent residence in her head these days, Barriss thought. Everytime she thinks she understands something about these droids and their eccentric leader, she comes across a gaping chasm of peculiarity. And for the first time in memory, the Force was of no help. Droids were impenetrable to her, and so was that black hole in human skin called Rain.

“Nobody knows,” Hare handed her the datapad, “Not since he was the same height as me. Good luck.”

The droid started scampering back down just as Artisan noticed her presence, “Can you write Mirialan? It’s not in our diction database.”

“Most of us learn Aurebesh from–”

“I’m at the end of a twelve-hour shift, my radiators are covered with paint, and my processors are overheating,” Artisan said bluntly, “Can you write Mirialan or not?”

“I can–” a brush and bucket was shoved in her direction.

“There’s an empty spot over there,” Artisan pointed, “Just copy the Aurebesh over in Mirialan.”

“Wait, I’m doing this myself?”

“Look over there. The Commodore wrote that himself.”

Barriss looked over there–and found a much the same in cursive High Galactic. So cursive she almost couldn't read it. Master Luminara's lessons are paying off now, she thought dryly. Still, this man can write High Galactic as well? And he was from Onderon? Maybe it was requirement... but the handwriting implied extreme familiarity.

Her line of thought was broken after more nudging from the battle droid turned painter, and Barriss finally relented. She started working on the Mirialan translation of what was essentially a how-to guide for building your own starship.

Worded for primitives to understand, she mused, how peculiar.