Chp-126 Interlude
Jir Mola
3.8 ABY
Accordia, Minda
The office was abuzz with energy unlike any Jir had previously seen.
Normally, the Guild office was filled with background chatter. The noise of fingers on keyboards, casual break conversation, and the rushing of the occasionally late worker.
Now, the energy was different. Frantic. The casual conversations became hushed discussions. Keyboards rattled with furious energy. And for once, no one showed up late.
All of this, caused by the Empire's fear.
And that's what it was. Jir knew they would call it caution or strength or something else, but she'd grown up amongst the gangs and syndicates. When the strong grew fearful, they fell back on their strength. They pushed for more.
When one feels threatened, they rely upon what they know to do best. For the Empire, that means cracking down on things.
A part of Jir was worried. For all its relative stability, the chaos of the Guild HQ made it clear the Myto Sector wasn't free of the Empire's foolish endeavors. But then again, there were few places free of such.
Still, she kept a backup plan ready, as always. A false identity had been hard to come by, but thankfully the Guild was generous with its vacation days, and she'd taken some to search for the correct underworld contacts. If need be, Jir could disappear into the Corporate Sector.
"...and your payment will be transferred as usual."
"Does that include the hazard bonus?"
"Correct"
The mercenaries before her grinned. "And the next contract? You got anything for us?"
With a swipe of her fingers on her PDA, the holoprojector between them flashed with dozens of options.
"There are a variety of options for a team of your skillset. Given your team size, composition, and noted skills, these are the best missions available."
One of the mercs, the team leader, scanned the page quickly. His mouth curved into a frown as he did.
"Is this it? We came here expecting better!" His fist slammed into the table between them. Brutish, foolish, but nothing she couldn't handle.
"If you believe yourselves more capable than the Guilds rating system, you may take on a mission above your current rank. However, I am obligated to warn you–"
"Then sign us up already! Get us a better gig!"
The screen changed once more, missions appearing once more. Higher rewards, along with higher danger ratings.
Here the mercenaries cheered. Within a minute they'd picked out a new mission hunting a particularly persistent gang of pirates and left, all of them speculating on what they'd do with their cut of the profits.
With their meeting over, she left the meeting room back to her desk.
Sitting down at her desk, she immersed herself in her work. Reports and statistics were soothing to her. Orderly, predictable, a sense of method to the madness of the sector.
A few minutes later, Melandre sat down at her own desk next to her, sighing in exhaustion.
"These mercs are the worst!" she exclaimed even as she signed a report that Jir recognized as a mission acceptance report.
"They are from outside the sector. The Guild's lowering of requirements has allowed useless riffraff to enter the institution. It is abhorrent."
Melandre sighs again. The tone is different, deeper almost. Jir has heard this sigh before, if rarely. Something akin to grief.
"I…had another team die today." She said, voice smaller. "...third this month. "
With lowering standards and heightened risk came the Guild's loosening of requirements. Now teams could take missions one rank above their own. It helped curb the more dangerous criminal elements now that more guns were pointed their way. It also led to higher death counts.
"They agreed under their own volition, therefore any fault lies with them."
"That doesn't make it right."
Jir glanced at her, and found Melandre frowning deeply and staring at her desk. Strange. She was oftentimes one of the hardest workers of their department.
Did she actually care?
…It didn't matter. Jir knew her position within Melandre's group had been destroyed. Her old accent had slipped in a moment of weakness, exposing her. As such, further non-professional contact with that group was inadvisable. She'd kept her distance despite Melandre's attempts to reconnect.
"They agreed under their own volition. If they cannot understand their own limits and foolishly try to push forward, the fault lies with them. Bemoaning this will do you no good."
Jir didn't know why she said that. Something about the look in the girls eyes…
"That doesn't make it right."
Now Melandre was looking at her, eyes wet with unshed tears but filled with a steel she'd never seen before.
"It's our job to guide them. To make sure they succeed." Her voice seemed to wobble, but she stayed steady. "And now I'm being told to let them go on missions I know they won't succeed at? All because some idiots in the Core want more of everything and leave nothing for us to defend ourselves with!?"
Her outburst drew stares, though none spoke out. Did she perhaps have influence to avoid such a thing? Jir drew on her mental database and concluded that couldn't be the case, Melandre lacked such pull.
They stayed silent because they agreed with her.
Melandre noticed the stares, and quickly wiped her face with her sleeve before turning back towards her terminal.
Jir did the same, trying to immerse herself in reports and her work. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but replay that moment over and over again.
Was her duty truly that important to Melandre? Had Jir misjudged the woman, believing her to be a career climber like her instead of some kind of idealist?
And why did the look in her eyes dig a pit in her stomach…
Jir dug a fingernail into her palm, snapping her out of the funk she'd allowed herself to be trapped in. Such thoughts were inefficient and purposeless. If work could not allow her to escape, she'd find something else.
Like monitoring the investigation about the mugger she'd killed. It should've been dropped by now but the so-called 'brutality' of the killing worried the police enough to continue. She'd covered her tracks well, but perhaps there was more she could do. After all, it wasn't as though she could trust the police. What kind of foolish sentiment was that? Police were beacons of corruption that would doubtlessly extort her if they discovered it was her.
Anything to keep those eyes out of her head.
–
Brocso'ior'ovinor/Oioro
3.9 ABY
Minda
The clacking of her heels was rhythmic and perfectly spaced.
She'd chosen her heels specifically to make a unique sound — higher-pitched and almost musical, each heel making a slightly different noise.
The sound acted like a signifier. People knew who she was by sound alone.
With recurring negotiators, it was an effective intimidation tactic.
Admittedly, she also wore them because they looked nice and she liked the sound. They were from Aphelion after all.
The fashion brand of the sector, made by the Moff's previous secretary and expensive to boot. Afforded thanks to her generous salary.
A salary she used to immerse herself in a multitude of activities — from fashion shows to weekends at the gun range. There was an honestly surprising number of activities throughout Minda to enjoy. Why, just last week she'd taken one of the trains to Rolling Greens to see a parade celebrating a good harvest.
It was wonderful cover.
After all, Oioro was a spy for the Chiss Ascendancy. Her outings weren't just for pleasure, but as covert ways of dropping information or receiving orders.
Though at times she barely felt she was a spy at all. After all, the Moff knew she was a spy.
And he just... let her continue.
Oioro had been sending monthly reports and info packets, alongside stolen blueprints and ideas. And while she took great care to be quiet and careful, there was no way she wasn't constantly being monitored.
She presumed he must be waiting for something — or perhaps he truly didn't care. What she did know was that he expected her to do her job well, like any other member of the sector government.
She stopped at the end of the hall at a door flanked by two internal security stormtroopers.
Their armor was painted a mix of white and red, while their helmets were a tad bulkier, holding extra comm-tech that connected them to the facility's systems.
At their sides stood heavy shields. Dense slabs of metal with a small viewport and a port for firing their weapons from.
They didn't normally carry the shields with them, given the weight, with the protective gear instead stashed in emergency lockers across the facility in case of an attack. It wouldn't do to have the security guards tired before lunch.
But Oioro had them use them when delegates were visiting. It added a bit more to the intimidation.
Stepping into the meeting room, she made sure she was wearing the appropriate smile. Not too friendly, but not too predatory. Somewhere in between, to leave them off guard.
"Hello there. My name is Oioro, head of Sector Acquisitions."
As she sat down, she studied the person across from her.
Human, mid-30s, with a large mustache and incredibly pale skin. Raised on a station, most likely.
Her eyes scanned his face, seeing no signs of disgust or arrogance at her for being non-human. In the corner of her vision, her modified Guild glasses provided her with important snippets of a dossier on the man.
"A pleasure to meet you. I am Yotham Starjo, lead negotiator for Starjo Shipping Inc."
They shook hands even as she mentally reviewed what she knew.
Starjo Inc. was a mid-sized shipping concern operating out of the Mid-Rim. They used to operate many routes and were a serious regional contender.
But now? They were losing money. They had failed to acquire proper patronage, and once Hiral made Governor-General, they had lost contracts to competitors with better political connections.
They needed this contract.
Perfect.
She passed a dataslate over to him, contract pre-loaded and pre-filled, with the signing section highlighted and an e-pen in his hand. A simple technique, these things subtly primed him to take the path of least resistance and sign.
But his eyes didn't simply glance over the contract. He took the time to read through it, mechanical and precise. He was better than she gave him credit for.
"This pay is higher than the market average…but I don't see any additional responsibilities. Demand isn't this high."
Her smile widened a tad. "Of course. The payment is for discretion. The cargo you will be shipping is of a sensitive nature."
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were shipping coaxium?"
"Correct. But certain ships will need to be taken aside at random for…extra checks at checkpoints. Security, you understand."
Yothman nodded, slowly. His eyes scanned the contract again, likely looking for traps. "And the paperwork, it'll be handled through your office?"
"Of course."
He nodded again. It was clear he understood the true nature of the deal.
Ships would weigh cargo, leave without unloading, then go back and weigh again.
Combined with a few other tricks of the trade, the scheme would pad their coaxium numbers.
Oioro was unsure — for such a scheme couldn't last more than six to eight months. But she was no longer privy to the Moff's innermost circle of confidence now that she was no longer his secretary.
It shouldn't have mattered to her. If the Moff gets caught and the sector goes to hell, she'd just leave. But a part of her had come to enjoy the sector and her job.
Her mind jumped to the upcoming info dead drop she needed to make.
If she worded things right, maybe she could get the Ascendancy to help…
–
Garpastealap "Garp" Hath
3.10 ABY
Clok
The hotel's private dining suite was luxurious in all the ways a business professional would love.
Seating that was comfortable but not excessively extravagant. Lighting that was both soft enough to not hurt the eyes, while being bright in just the right way to wake one up in time for a meeting.
And the food was crafted practically by committee. Every item on the menu was incredibly well prepared, yet not one item was out of place. Each meal was built to satisfy hunger without stuffing the client. Food that would taste great without gastrointestinal distress or post-meal drowsiness. Food that was easy to eat in quick bites so those eating could discuss business throughout the meal.
The waiters were dressed in neutral colors and simple clothing. Well made, but ultimately as simple as possible. They were built to blend into the background, to reduce the waiter into a set piece. A biological droid to be ignored so as to not interrupt any business.
Garp hated it.
The entire hotel felt manufactured, bland, and utterly without soul.
Which, to be fair, was most hotels he went to.
Normally, he'd ignore it. Sometimes, it would inspire him.
This time, it was simply another annoyance added to this family dinner.
Around the table sat his family, each massively successful in their own ways. Each holding valuations worth billions of credits.
"...but it turned out alright in the end, what with them going under and all. Quite the scare, I must say."
"Ah, I understand. Even when your position seems unassailable, there is always a crack to be exploited. You'd do well to keep that caution with you."
"Of course, father. Speaking of caution, mother did you not recently pull back from that hostile takeover attempt of yours? You seemed to almost have them."
"I know, and I almost did. But the final few holdouts went to dinner with MuutaPharma executives and I'm not in a position to be going toe to toe with them quite yet."
These were the common conversations his family partook in. Business on business. It was an absolute soul-sucking endeavor.
The only reason he was here at all was because he'd quite literally run into them in the financial district of Clok Station. The station had become the major financial center of the sector, hosting bustling stock-trading hubs, financial data centers and more.
Garp had been passing by on the way to Minda after returning from a show, and decided to check and see if there were any stocks worth buying. He also wanted to step a little outside of his comfort zone and see if he could find any inspiration. Perhaps the blandness of the corporate world could spark something in his mind.
The only thing it sparked was an accidental meeting with his sister, who immediately and without apology dragged him into this family dinner.
Apparently, the immediate inner-circle of the Hath family, meaning only the immediate family, were on Clok to celebrate the opening of a new branch of Hath Inc.
"And you, Garpastealap? How has your…enterprise been going?"
His mothers voice was tight, suffused with the awkward feeling of not quite knowing how to address a topic properly yet feeling as though they must.
"It's going quite well mother, thank you. My latest pieces have sold very well and I retain a far better understanding of the fashion space of the sector than my competitors."
"I see…thats quite nice dear."
"And your profits?" There was his father, barreling on into the conversation. At least his mother tried somewhat to understand. To his father, who'd clawed his way from the bottom of the Hath family line to become Chairman, the only thing that mattered was profit.
"Healthy. My products have lower margins to achieve a higher overall customer base, alongside cultural capture of the audience. I also recently won a contract to design the new Guild uniforms."
They all stared at him with blank faces, clearly waiting for the hard numbers. That was simply how they were. When one spoke of profit to a Muun, hard numbers were expected or they'd think you a fraud.
So, he rattled off the latest profit numbers. A few million on this line, a few million on that product. Aphelion was fairly successful, though not as much as those in richer sectors. He explicitly refused to expand to such sectors as of yet, preferring to hold to the Myto Sector and its neighbors to establish his brand identity.
Outer-Rim high fashion wasn't something most people thought could exist, meaning it was an untapped market.
Upon revealing the numbers, he got just about the reaction he expected. A mix of surprise that he was making any money at all, pride that he was successful, and disappointment that his profits weren't measured in the billions.
The strangest part about all of this was that they were surprised he could make money with fashion. It wasn't as though there weren't incredibly profitable fashion brands out there.
Then again, Muun culture didn't care all that much about such things.
"That's wonderful dear. I knew being friends with the Moff would be good for you."
A spike of anger rose in his chest, but he suppressed his reaction. "My connections are irrelevant, mother. Not only did I not use them, government contracts for the Myto Sector are done blindly. I couldn't have been favored."
Garp refused under any circumstances to utilize either his family connections or political connections to help himself. He would grow his fashion empire on his own. Build his own brand. Backroom deals and corrupt tricks were a betrayal of that.
Well, there was that one time he asked Myr'thos to sabotage a competitor. But that brand made all their clothes using the skin of a species that was only classified as 'non-sapient' because of Imperial corruption, so he had no conniptions over it.
"A shame. Well, I have heard the sector is looking for medical production, am I right?"
"Correct, mother. They've been subsidizing start ups and new production lines." Among other things.
To be frank, while Garp no longer had access to internal Imperial documents, he could tell the sector was bleeding money. It had become quite rich in the previous years yet it seemed to be throwing it into a dozen different projects and programs.
Oh, he'd seen the bonds. He'd bought a substantial amount. But that was just a stop-gap. The sector seemed to be aiming towards self sufficiency while the wider Empire squeezed it for all it could give.
"Could you be a dear and give the Moff a call for me? I'd love to expand more thoroughly into the sector, but the negotiation department refuses to entertain any queries from your fathers banking connections."
"Quite strict, those negotiators" his father chimed in. "Very good at what they do. They actually got a good deal out of the Chosk clan."
Again, the anger spiked up. This time, he wouldn't suppress it. At least not fully.
Garp looked up from his meal to stare his mother in the eyes.
"No."
Silence emanated from the table.
"...I'm sorry dear. Could you repeat that?"
"I won't use my friendship with Las to get you a contract."
"But dear, you have lunch with the man every month! Couldn't you just bring up my name? I know the sector needs it badly."
"If you want that contract, earn it. The sector is a fair place. Unless you lack confidence in your product?"
"My products are top of the line, and you know it!"
"Then prove it."
Suffice it to say, the rest of dinner was an awkward affair.
–
Ife Veers
3.11 ABY
Minda
The painting was, aesthetically speaking, beautiful. Clean lines and bright colors, alongside a near perfect replication of the subjects.
Her family portrait was perfect.
To the left stood her father, tall and proud. He exuded an energy of abundance, a well of enthusiasm that never ended.
To the right stood her mother. Calm and collected, a beacon of stability. In her arms was her baby brother, a bright blob of youth without a proper person to contain it quite yet.
And in the center stood her. She'd donned her academy military uniform for the picture, a proud smile on her face. She'd still been attending the general military academy at the time, yet to choose her path forward.
The next picture was different.
Her mother was gone.
Now, her father stood in the center. He held the same energy, but muted, focused. Not enthusiasm, but drive. Endless drive.
In front of him was Ife, older then. Solemn. Her grades in the academy had dropped that year, and father never let that go.
And in front of her, was her brother. He was small, but that youthful energy was nearly gone. In its place was a feeling she couldn't quite describe but which she knew all too well.
The picture after that was of her father and brother only. She'd left for the naval academy by this time, disowned in all but name.
Ife turned to stare down the hallway. Endless rows of pictures adorned the walls of her ancestral family home on Denon. The rustling of robes echoed down the hall. The slave's robes, she remembers. They were always rougher and scritched and scratched on the floor when they walked.
She couldn't look at them. She'd never wanted to look them in the eyes. They were too sad. So she turned the other way.
Another endless hallway. But standing in it was a figure, short and stout.
They had no face, no recognizable features. No one in the hallway, from the slaves to the paintings, had any sort of detail to them.
But she recognized the figure all the same. Anger, a sad, bitter kind filled the figure. He didn't speak in words, for she'd forgotten his voice. But she knew the tone. She didn't want to hear it.
So she ran. Past the figure, past the paintings, down the endless hallway.
If she could just find the exit, find the path, find her ship, she would be fine. Safe once more on the bridge of the Theorem, away from it all.
But the hallway didn't end in an exit. It ended in large wooden double doors.
A luxury among luxuries on an ecumenopolis like Denon, where natural life rarely grew.
She knew these doors. The doors to her fathers study. She'd been inside as a child, that much she knew. But now? When was the last time she'd been? Would she recognize it?
Ife didn't want to know. Didn't want to open the door. But between the door and the figure far behind her, she had one path.
Her hand touched the knob…
And she woke up, heart pounding and sweat pouring down her face.
Her surroundings came into focus, and the warm presence at her side helped her steady her breathing.
At first, the ceiling above her was unfamiliar. As was the light pouring through the windows, or the distant sounds of the city outside. She slept on the Theorem, and was accustomed to harsh lights and bland metal. The only sound the humming of the ship.
Without it, she felt lost.
Then, her mind retraced her steps. Late nights working overtime, responding to emergency calls and coordinating patrol groups. Meetings into the early hours of the morning with sector military officials, sometimes with the Moff, sometimes without. And mountains of paperwork, such that she envied the Moffs strange ability to simply do it.
Then, a message. A mandatory break. The Moff wouldn't have his top brass overworking themselves, the hypocrite. What was she to do now? Ife rarely took breaks.
But, she was in a relationship now. And that Love for Dummiesholo-vid had made it clear that spending quality time was key. So, she invited Shal out for a night in the city.
Flashes of their time streaked through her mind in a hazy, pleasant blur. Taking pictures at monuments, signing autographs for those who recognized her, paying respects at memorials and so much more.
A romantic boat ride and dinner through Accordia's river, the Midnight Accord, had capped off their night. And when the sky went dark, they turned the boat's lights off and watched the river glow like a galaxy in the moonlight.
Then, they found a hotel room and…
A blush erupted across her face. She'd have to leave an extra tip for the cleaning droid.
Climbing out of bed, delicately so as to not wake Shal, Ife made her way to the hotel kitchenette. There, she brewed a cup of caff and sat at the table, staring at the marble countertop.
She wanted to focus on the previous night. On the pure joy she'd experienced, the first in a long time. But she couldn't.
Her mind kept jumping back. To that hallway. To those paintings. To that door.
With mechanical precision, she retrieved her PDA and flicked to the message. The report sent about her fathers death. She'd been reading and re-reading it in the months since he'd died.
IMPERIAL NAVAL BUREAU | CASUALTY NOTIFICATION COMMAND
DEATH SQUADRON FLAGSHIP FLOTILLA | PERSONNEL RECORDS OFFICE
DISTRIBUTION: IMMEDIATE RELATIVE / NEXT OF KIN
RECIPIENT: Veers, Ife
SUBJECT: Official Notification of Operational Casualty
REGARDING: Veers, Maximilian (General, Imperial Ground Forces)
Dear Next of Kin,
The Imperial Naval Bureau and the Commanding Office of Death Squadron regret to inform you of a casualty involving your immediate family member.
On standard operational date corresponding to the assault on the Hoth system, General Maximilian Veers was killed in action while performing assigned command duties in service to the Galactic Empire. Ground operations were disrupted by hostile rebel elements employing unlawful strike craft. During this hostile action, General Veers sustained fatal injuries while maintaining his command post.
Be assured that General Veers died valiantly in the line of duty, fulfilling his obligations to the Emperor and advancing the security of the galaxy. His efforts contributed directly to the neutralization of insurgent assets within the theater.
All personal effects currently held within his quarters aboard the flagship will be inventoried by the sector logistics office. Eligible items will be processed for transfer to your recorded address following standard security clearance and bio-decontamination protocols. Pension inquiries, back-pay requisitions, and death benefit applications must be submitted directly to the nearest Sector Administrative Office or equivalent using Imperial Form 1080-C.
The Empire acknowledges his service.
Sincerely,
Casualty Processing Division
Bureau of Imperial Personnel, Death Squadron Command
Galactic Empire Fleet Administration
She'd tried calling her brother to tell him the news, maybe send something of fathers. She couldn't find his number.
They'd taken months to send his affects. Trouble on the shipping lanes, they said. Low priority.
When his things arrived, the box was small and there was little within. Whether that was because her father kept very few things or because they just didn't bother sending it all, she didn't know.
And that was the thing. She didn't know. Ife Veers did not know her own father. Not truly.
When she'd first opened that box, within it was a series of photos. One was of her graduating from the naval academy.
He hadn't been there. But he'd kept the picture. Why?
She'd never know. How could she? After leaving for the academy she hadn't looked back. She'd changed numbers, always lived on the ship, and did everything she could to get as far away from his side of the military as she could.
And now she'd never know. It was why that dream always ended at the doorway. She didn't know what he was like, not truly. Not since she was a kid.
But the one thing she did know about him, was that her father was no fool. He was proud, yes. He was loud, without a doubt. And he loved his ATAT's. But to lose to strike craft?
It sounded ridiculous. Her father loved ATAT's, and therefore was aware of the platforms weaknesses. It was why he was always advocating for a million variants. He wouldn't charge into a battlespace without anti-air or air superiority.
But it wasn't as though she could get her hands on the Hoth battle reports. So she could only speculate. Either the rebels brought more firepower, or he lacked AA.
If it was the former, then it was simple. The rebels killed her father using air superiority. They brought heavier firepower of some kind, perhaps those Y-Wings she'd heard of.
If it was the latter…she wasn't so sure what to think. Her father wouldn't charge ahead without AA unless he knew he had a chance. But clearly he didn't. Either he didn't know they had air superiority, or he was ordered to charge without it.
Knowing what she did of the average Imperial Commander…
The caff woke her up, sending her mind racing away from her troubles. This strange feeling did her no good.
Instead, she jumped into the pile of reports waiting for her on her PDA. Nothing like work to distract the mind.
The reports were the usual bad news mixed with the occasional nugget of goodness.
For example, the Empire's demands were ever increasing. More ships, more weapons, more supplies. Every shipyard in the sector was so swamped she could hardly get new vessels to fill the gaps, having to rely on Guild mercenaries.
On the other hand, R&D had come through. Their Project: Imperial Rebirth was showing success. The project sought to decrease the crew requirements of the ISD. While they hadn't yet finished, they had discovered a variety of things regarding the general structure of Kuat Drive Yards ships that allowed for crew cutting measures across the board.
If only she had the ships to divert this freed up manpower to.
And she was supposed to. HIGHCOM simply couldn't decide if they had to crack down on the Outer Rim or reinforce the Core. Ships were called from the Rim only to be told mid-transit to go back, and then to reverse once more.
There was an ISD that had been jumping back and forth between the same two systems for the last two weeks that should've been in the sector a month ago.
It was as though the galaxy was falling apart around her. She knew it wouldn't last. HIGHCOM would calm down once KDY repaired its factories and the Rebels lost a few more battles. The quotas would calm down and patrol schedules would return to normal.
Something similar had happened during the Mid-Rim Offensive, after all. She just had to hold out.
And, if nothing else, the constant work was a good distraction.
It was as she immersed herself into the sea of reports that she felt a soft, warm hand caress her shoulder. Turning to look behind her, she came face to face with Shal.
Her hair was messy and tangled, sticking out at odd angles after years of confinement to a regulation bun. Her face was scrunched up with morning tiredness and she was wobbling on her feet ever so slightly.
Shal was, for lack of a better word, radiant.
She could've kept staring at her for hours if Shal didn't decide to poke her in the cheek.
"And what exactly am I looking at here? Work? On your mandatory off day?"
"I was just–"
"Nuh-uh, zip-it!" Shal mimed a zipper closing her mouth. It was so at odds with the calm, collected, controlled person she knew.
Another facet to fall in love with.
"The Moff himself decreed you would take two days off. Today is day two. You. Will. Be. Off. Got it?" She emphasized each word with a poke to the cheek and a grumpy face.
Ife couldn't help but chuckle in response. "Ok, ok. I'll 'be off', whatever that means. Do you have anything planned?"
Shals face scrunched even more in concentration, sleep addled mind trying to find something.
"...later. Right now, back to bed!"
Ife laughed again, and let herself be dragged back to bed.
The feeling was still there. A strange pit in her stomach, an ache for something she couldn't quite place.
But as she cuddled under the blankets with the woman she was increasingly becoming certain was the love of her life, Ife found she was certain it would turn out alright.
–
Darna Sabrir
3.12 ABY
Minda
The contract sitting before her was a lie.
A well constructed lie, she'd give them that, but a lie nonetheless. Megacorps were good at that sort of thing.
Darna had, in some distant corner of her mind, hoped she'd never have to deal with contracts ever again. That was what Oioro's department was for, after all.
But megacorps didn't care about things like that. They sent contracts directly to the Moff, and when he told them to bugger off and talk to Oioro, they usually did.
Some didn't get the message, and so they went to her. After all, why talk to some negotiator when you could talk to the head of the Guild?
And so, contracts came to her desk. She reviewed them, of course. But she never signed them. Always gave them to Oioro.
Reading them was good practice for spotting the lies.
For example, an agricultural giant wanted to buy obscene amounts of land in the sectors main agriworlds. They promised massive returns, huge amounts of foodstock, enough that selling the excess would solve their financial worries.
Their numbers weren't the lie. Those were correct. The production numbers, the profit margins, it all added up. In theory, this contract could double the sector's income over the next four years.
In theory.
The lie lay in the clauses, where most lies lay. See, the contract only stipulated a preset amount of farmland. Any land developed or bought after the fact would not be subject to the contracts conditions.
And, according to another clause, if the sector could not provide adequate protection, the company would provide its own, and get tax breaks proportional to how much they need to spend on their protection.
Meaning, they would hire a dozen security firms owned by either their subsidiaries or friends, pay them obscene amounts, and launder the money back into executive pockets. Effectively making tax free money.
And by the time the sector could provide protection, the company would've cornered the market with cheaper goods. By then, it would have far more power, deeper networks of bribery, and be nearly impossible to uproot.
It was the third contract in a similar vein she'd received that day.
What made it different was where the company was from.
Officially, it was based off of Coruscant. But backtracking the owners, investors, and shell companies led to owners who were based in the Velcar Sector.
Darna had to resist the urge to sigh. The Velcar Sector had been a premiere pain in her ass for years now. The only time she enjoyed working with Thorne on anything was screwing over the Velcar Sector.
Reaching deep into her mind, she perused the most recent HAVEN reports on the sector.
Piracy was theoretically high, but in reality most of those pirates were bought by the various elites and power blocs of the sector to raid one another. Some even funded raids into the Myto Sector, though internal conflict inevitably drew the raiders back to Velcar to strike at another rival.
Now, what could she do to disrupt that arrangement?
Direct attacks were out of the question. Perhaps sabotage against supply lines? Risky but could make pirates strike out on their own if they believe the oligarchs aren't helping. Could also simply create more cooperation between oligarchs.
Perhaps staging fake raids? HAVEN had some off the books armed freighters that could be painted the right colors. A few light 'raids' against oligarchs, really just flybys, could incite more violence between them. But it carried even more risk, too close to a direct assault.
Information. That was always king, even pirates knew that. If she could get some ledgers, some financial transactions, she could leak them. If pirate crews knew who was calling what shots, who was paying who, the calculus changes.
The pirates don't know who they're really working for. The smart ones, the captains, they'll have an idea or two. But the fixers selling them info won't squeal easily and the pay is good. Having confirmation they're just a buffer? Disposable? It'll scare off some, make others demand more.
It'll also create uncertainty among the oligarchs. Who leaked the info? Their friends? Their family?
They were already at one another's throats. Their world was one of constant infighting. This would heighten that.
The only one she was truly worried about, however, was Gregor Raquoran. HAVEN had made little progress in its infiltration, and unlike the other oligarchs he seemed to be taking a slower, steadier approach to gaining power.
He'd likely be the next Moff of the sector, all things considered. That possibility wasn't something she wanted.
Because any of the other oligarchs would be easier to manage. Gregor was cunning, and would doubtlessly secure a far stronger power base before gaining Moffdom compared to Ecressys.
Sighing, she made a mental note to bring it up in her and Thorne's next meeting. They always met at a nice, upscale, secure place in the Sullustan Quarter. The meals, a weekly lunch, were good enough to cover while they spoke in code. And the food was good.
She also made a note to check the Aphelion catalog for anything new. Thorne had that infuriating smug smile–really the tiniest curve of his lip–as he wore a nicer outfit the week before.
Darna Sabrir would not be outdone!