Bulk Freighter Kesaret
In the cold vacuum within the nebula, all was silent aboard the Kesaret. “Just another milk run” was among the most common phrases uttered within its halls and cabins. Chief commanding officer, Lortan Sib gazed into the gold-teal expanse with a cup of steaming caf for the millionth time - though in truth he’d long lost count.
“Maintaining a sublight speed of 50 megalights, Chief. Want me to dial it back?” Lortan’s executive officer asked without disturbing Lortan from his morning caf. She knew better than to waste words on formalities around Lortan - he was aging, and would sooner fall over than listen once again the the ramblings of technical jargon he was all too familiar with.
A Sullustan himself, Lortan’s assignment was to no one’s surprise - he was gifted with a sense of direction above that of most of his species, well enough that he often had little use for the navigational charts through the nebulous maze between Daleem and Kiast.
Blowing on his caf to cool it down before testing its temperature, the Sullustan gave a one-word response to his executive officer before returning to nurse his favoured beverage.
Basking in the silence of yet another day of his “retirement” from the New Republic, Lortan Sib wondered if he would ever gaze out this viewport again to see a waiting flagship, or the painted hulls of New Republic X-wings. Sipping on his caf, he hoped that his cornea would deteriorate faster if it meant doing that again.
“Reading on the sensors, Chief,” his second-in-command said above the console.
“It’s just an asteroid, Enuwi. It’s always an asteroid.” Unfazed, the Sullustan took another sip of his caf, grimacing as he did so; nothing was worse than caf gone lukewarm. He had to give Enuwi some credit, the Mirialan was bright - exceptionally so. Though he relied on his waning vision for guidance, he was sure that she could build the charts from scratch, had she wanted.
“Not this one,” a startled gasp from Enuwi drew his attention from the caf, “five markers, coming fast!”
Seems I might be going blind sooner than I expected, Lortan advised himself. “Rotate turbolasers, target the tip of the spearhead formation!” All but forgotten, Lortan’s lukewarm caf spilled onto the floor, followed by the clink of the cup itself, “Make contact with the escort! I want to know the reason these pirates aren’t already space dust.”
“It seems,” Enuwi desperately tapped on all comms channels, “that we’ve been cut off.”
“Attention,” Enuwi’s console chimed, “We are the Malestrom Corsairs. Do not raise arms, lower shields and prepare to be boarded. Do not resist, and we will ensure safe passage.
“Brace for boarding, then,” Lortan’s posture went rigid in militaristic fashion, “and hide, Enuwi.”
The Shipwright’s Guild
Glav Valenforge examined the new guests to his factories with utter contempt - who was the Governor to interfere with his guild’s own investigation into matters that didn’t concern his office?
Less guests than thieves and vandals, he thought as his eyes rolled into their sockets. His offices were all but unusable as agents of the Sentinel Network arranged their tools around his workspace and rewired the terminals for easier access with their infernal devices. Cables lay strewn across the floor with stacks of flimsiplast adorning whichever surface was available.
Ah, the man in charge of this chaos, Glav regarded the gray-skinned Pau’an digging through the contents of a note marked “classified” on its cover. Korroth, he heard the man’s name called whenever one of these so-called “agents” found something. His wish that the Jedi wouldn’t find the bottle secured under his desk was shattered when he witnessed the Pau’an pouring himself out a glass of the rare Alderaanian wine he was saving for a special occasion.
It was the last straw for Glav, who straightened out the folds of his jacket before marching towards the desk, absently kicking over an active monitor that was plugged into his personal terminal. Clearing his throat, the Sephi in charge addressed the Pau’an, “Gentlemen, though I am well aware of Previt Golvrim’s decision, I believe this investigation would go much faster had we a…. mutual understanding.”
Korroth flicked his gaze casually from the flimsiplast file, setting it down on the table before reaching for the glass set directly on its wooden surface, “Glav, if I understand the name?” He took a small sip of the vintage, “I assure you, we are moving as fast as we can so that the Guild can continue its business. Your associates suggested to our team have been less than… forthcoming in allowing us access to the relevant data.”
So you’ve resorted to thievery, the Sephi Guildmaster’s inner voice echoed.
“Tell me what I can do, then,” Glav grated his teeth.
“You can start,” Korroth started, “With sending some more of this vintage. Otherwise, allow us to continue this investigation unimpeded.”
“Very well,” Glav lied. He would, after all, refill that bottle with whichever swill the workers drank between shifts after turning on his heel and closing the door behind him.
“Sir, intel coming through our secure channels,” one of the Sentinel Network’s head technicians grabbed the Pau’an’s attention, “The message reads clear: Trust no-one.”