Years From Now...

[Lord Inquisitor Valten]

If there was anything that Lord Inquisitor detested more than the mongrel Alliance and their Jedi pets, it was a breach in protocol, written or unwritten. And now anger bristled under Valten’s skin as the planet below heaved. He knew exactly where to find the man he was looking for, he knew everything.

“Vega!” The distorted voice rang off of metallic walls like a writing serpent. The years had not been kind to the Lord Inquisitor, metal plating and skin merged and separated in wild patterns and wires laced in and out of his body. His two black eyes, optical implants replacing his old eyes, did their best to show its owner’s rage.

Valten’s mottled skin made impossible to tell if he was a droid with synthetic skin or a human with cybernetic implants. Despite the redundant organs and neural implant carefully keeping him alive, the Lord Inquisitor was far from helpless.

CRASH

The heavy doors to the Executor’s alcove nearly flew off their hinges, the lock shattered beyond repair. Enhanced strength, senses, sight, an additional pair of mechanical limbs grafted to the Inquisitor’s back; Valten did not resemble the man he once was.

“You fool, this was too early! The virus is already spreading into the undercity.”

[Adia Issoris]

Adia was starting to wear. She had been on assignment on Coruscant for the Republic, but then the outbreak happened. She had been fortunate to be in a hotel room when it got to her district, and thus, able to don her battle armor and equipment that she had smuggled in. As primarily a tourist district, Johone had been quickly abandoned by surviving Imperial forces. Adia was supposed to be making contact with the local resistance cells in a Works district, but had never gotten that far.

Instead, she had been greeted by a frantic banging on the door early in the morning. The night maid eventually broke through with the help of her cart, a feat that would only be possible pumped full of adrenaline. Adia kneecapped the woman, and yet she persisted, trying frantically to attack the tall redhead. Unable to reason with the woman, she ended her life. Unnerved, the Jedi barricaded herself into her room until she ran out of ammunition. Psychotically, the infected would claw through the dead and downed to get at her. Her blaster emptied, she set the floor on fire, donned her armor, and rappelled down the side of the building. She paused, and found herself under assault by an infected security team. Adia would not pause again during her descent from her 20th floor window. She bounded and bounced down in a haphazard, difficult to track pattern while the equipment she grabbed bounced against her armor. Their shots began to come closer. Adia activated her saber, no longer able to maintain any sort of stealth as to what she was. She reflected the bolts off of her, but was moving too fast to return them to her attackers, who moved to greet her on the street. Adia launched herself from the wall at three stories up. She sliced the line, and her body arced gracefully toward the pavement while her arms moved automatically to deflect incoming bolts away. She twisted, and hit the ground in a roll. The move had granted her three meters between herself and her attackers, who threw themselves at her, only to be cut to literal pieces. Adia managed to lift a pair of energy packs from the bodies before The mob emerged from her hotel, running at her. She scrambled to the next nearest building, a massive department store. The infected were frantically fast, but Adia was faster, aided by a potent combination of genetic engineering and the Force. She kept moving, cutting down any who opposed her until the horde seemed thinned. She ducked behind an optical wear shop's counter. Although not as potent in the mental arts as many Jedi, it seemed she was good enough to give the raging minds of the infected new prey, away from her. Minutes passed, and she looked over her datapad for a diplomatic station. It was five kilometers away. She studied the route carefully, and then set off at a dead run. Perhaps it would attract less attention.

It did, somehow. Her feet pounded on the duracrete as the scenery flipped by. Buildings burned. Bodies lay strewn about the streets. Crashed speeders dotted the landscape, some wedged into blood-spattered facades. She pounded on, seldom checking behind her. Only the smack of hard boots on duracrete and the rapid thud of her heart filled her ears.

1 kilometer disappeared quickly. Two came and went. Three passed. Four was a bloodbath. A new crazed army was upon her, intent on tearing down the independent runner. She beat a hasty retreat and lobbed a thermal detonator into the crowd with drastic results. The compact grenade had been set for maximum charge. Adia scrambled up the nearby apartment building, pausing to eliminate any pursuit with a few quick blasts. She crawled into an open window, fifteen stories up, lightsaber first.

Now she moved quietly, blaster in one hand, deactivated saber in the other. The stairwells began to thunder. Adia moved several rooms down, and began to cut her way through the floors back down.

On the third floor, she hid and waited, her back to a reinforced wall in a corner apartment. She concentrated, sending the wandering individuals away, looking for her in other rooms. It was exhausting, but after two hours, they had moved on to search for other survivors. Adia contemplated removing her helmet, but thought better of it when she guessed what the unfiltered air would smell like. The dead have no body control, and the body count in this district was likely in the tens of millions.

She climbed out of the window quietly, having bound her equipment to make as little noise as possible against the layered composites and metals that protected her. She slipped silently through emptied back alleys toward the diplomatic outpost in the district, built during the Old Republic as a convenience for the old political machine. Like the many blocks around it, it was abandoned. It's halls were not devoid of struggle, but, since they were largely abandoned compared to years past, they were minimal and only around the front desk. Adia activated her saber and decapitated a young Imperial's corpse. There was no sense in being uncertain. She cut her way into the holo transmitter chamber. There was no sense in bothering with security codes until absolutely needed.

Adia waited for fifteen minutes before removing her helmet. Her jaw-length hair fell out of her helmet in a chaotic mop. The room smelled stale. She turned on the station, and put in a hardcoded back door that would route her straight to the holonet address of her choice. She picked a tightband node considered disposable by the Republic Intelligence, and put in one of her emergency codes that would forward the transmission directly to the Jedi and Intel.

[Captain Raurrssatta]

Cirrsseeto snored loudly. Nobody was here to protest, so why not? In the relative calm of his Captain's quarters, the Rebel commander could at least hang up his responsibilities for a few hours on end for some high quality shut-eye. Next to chow, it was his favorite time of the day. Unfortunately, life on a starship had made cruel bedfellows with his sensitive hearing, and he was somewhat of a light sleeper. So when a comm chime trilled softly at his bedstand, his faintly-glowing blue eyes were wide open. So much for that.

"Yes?"

The voice sounded like the night watch chief, Lieutenant Commander Pell.

"Captain, we have a coded transmission from Denon. Looks like shooting orders."

Damn. That had Cirrsseeto sitting up on his bed, and the sleep knocked out of his skull.

"jI'm on my way. Wake Commanderr Galljico and have hjim meet me on the brrjidge."

In a brief pause of decorum, Cirr grabbed his officer's jacket from the hook on the wall, draping it over his undershirt without bothering to button it up. He ran a paw over his hair, and stepped out of his quarters.

Shooting orders were the single most important event on a Liberty class missile cruiser, such as Cirrsseeto's ship, the Dauntless. It was an impressive evolution of Mon Calamari and exile Corellian shipbuilding talent. The Dauntless sprawled to the length of two Imperial Star Destroyers, carried over one hundred gun emplacements, and an entire wing of the Alliance's next generation superiority starfighters. But those were only to support the real brunt of the ship's force, which lay in rows of unassuming circular hatches along the ventral hull.Designed to wage interplanetary war from parsecs away, the missile cruiser was equipped with dozens of TX-79 Starkiller warheads, a dreadful superweapon that had found itself on both sides of the conflict, and had brought a chill to the Galactic Civil War for years. With the power to annihilate entire worlds readily in the hands of the Empire and Rebel Alliance alike, it had changed the face of the war.

Cirr took a quick ride up the turboshaft, stepping onto the bridge. An ensign was quick on the call, gave a sharp "Captain on deck!" followed with a blast of his whistle. Trying not to make a face about how much that awful damned thing hurt his ears, Cirr gave a nod and casual salute to bring the bridge crew at ease. Captain Raurrssatta took a moment, staring at the empty, inky black in front of his ship. They were light years out of the nearest system. Deep space.

"Rreporrt."

Cirr extended a paw, only to have Lt Com Pell fill it with a dataslip.

"Alliance command, on coded channel. It's verified as a shoot order. Target list Gamma-Seven-Theta. Solutions for Kuat, Fondor, Carida, Naboo, Ilsis, Vendak Prime, and Torin."

Cirr paused as the turboshaft opened again, and his XO appeared on deck.

"Commanderr Gelljico, confjirrm thjis."

Cirr passed the shoot orders to his second, who briefly looked the orders over, and returned them to his commanding officer.

"I confirm."

Cirr rounded the bridge and made his way to the missile control kiosk.

"Helm, brrjing us to coorrdjinates 2-5-4 marrk 6-2 forr a fjirrjing solutjion."

[Kale Zarinov]

I was born here. I could die here. Convenient.

Kale was no stranger to the threat of death. He'd faced it daily as one of a horde of orphaned children on the streets of the Southern Underground - hiding from street gangs or roving predators, poking through refuse and old food wrappers for enough calories to stay alive. His years on the street had been better survival training than the Jedi could ever have offered him.

And it was those instincts, more than his Jedi training, that he was counting on now as he ghosted through those same dark, dismal streets. The plague hadn't hit the Chiba District as hard as it had hit some of the neighborhoods closer to Imperial Center, but those who hadn't been infected were on the lookout for those who were and would probably shoot before asking questions. Kale couldn't afford to be seen by anyone.

And so even when his commlink received a ping from a fellow Jedi, he couldn't respond. All he could do was feed the signal to the transceiver implanted in his inner ear and listen in on the brief conversation between Master Henning and Master s'Ilancy-Prent.

Eastport. He and Henning had been scheduled to rendezvous in Coco District. Henning had probably been attacked on the way. Kale sent a silent ping back to Henning's link - just an ID code. It would be enough to tell the stricken master that Kale was on his way.

There were shortcuts that no one but a streeter could know - paths that cut through maintenance accessways, broken barricades, utility conduits. Kale could travel miles without ever setting foot on a street or inside a building.

In half an hour, the Jedi investigator was lifting up a loose floorboard in one of the safehouse's back rooms and hauling himself up out of the crawlspace below. As soon as he was above floor level again, he closed his eyes and expanded his consciousness through the Force - his range was limited, but he could adequately read the currents to tell there was only one other sentient in the apartment, and a Force-sensitive at that.

Kale entered the apartment's common room with caution. Henning had said he'd been bitten, and there was no knowing how far the infection had run.

"Master Henning?" He kept his voice at a calculated volume - loud enough to carry through the room without bleeding through the walls. "Are you still there?" Still sane?

[Clea Darkrunner]

Sharra whimpered as she bandaged herself.

Hunger had finally driven her out into the back hallways and down to the kitchen's pantry. She had been as quiet as a small rodent, hearing the screams and snarls of others in the main areas.

When the cute waiter had come into the pantry, she thought at first that he was going to help her. She had flirted with him, briefly, when she'd first arrived at the hotel. His snarl of hunger had told her differently. Only the dirty fighting that Clea had taught her had enabled her to get away with only a bite. She had broken his neck, and then had thrown up, upset over her first killing.

Bagging some canned food, she had run back to her room. Concentration had slowed the bleeding, and she washed the bite out with Corellian firewhisky, and hot, soapy water, certain she had taken little harm.

She was wrong, but what did she know? The little instinctive Jedi training her mother had passed on was slowing the virus' progress to a crawl, and changing her into something far more deadly - a carrier of the disease. Her body was reaching an accommodation with the Morbus virus, and it was multiplying into her blood, her saliva, her tears. She had it, and it did not show.

What did show, now, was the fact that she was a Force Sensitive. Years of training by her mother to never show her abilities was coming undone, unknown to her.

And this on Coruscant, deadliest of planets to an innocent Force Sensitive, hunting ground of Dark Jedi, Inquisitorial Hunters, and the occasional Sith.

[Master Henning]

“Here, Kale.”

The Jedi Master's voice was quiet, but distinct enough that the young Jedi would be able to follow the sound to Barton. Sensing the investigators approach, Henning had slipped free of the temporary hiding-hole he had created and was now sitting, back against one of the buildings dirty walls. From the state of the complex, it was clear that no one – at least no one of any importance – had lived there for years now. There were traces in the architecture which hinted of a past grandeur, but time had worn that all away. From the outside, it was clear that the bombardments of past wars had taken a heavy toll on it, and all of Easport.

As Kale entered the room Barton sat in, the Master held up a halting hand. All things considered, Henning looked healthy – if somewhat exhausted.

“I'm... not sure how this virus spreads, Zarinov. I don't want you coming too close.”

[Bryna Belargic]

“Masters...”

The flickering image of Bryna Belargic bowed its head. She had calmed herself, knowing that she was to present her message to the entire Council. They looked troubled and no doubt were already aware, to some degree, of what was happening, so the Padawan got right to it.

“My mother- Intelligence Director Belargic-” she corrected herself. “Has received troubling reports from agents stationed on Coruscant. There was an explosion in Imperial City, killing a number of civilians. The explosion appears to have been no accident, as immediately following the blast members of the public found themselves exposed to a toxin of some kind. The Galactic Alliance believe that this virus, which is presently spreading at an alarming rate throughout the city, is a tool of biological warfare designed by the Empire.

Soldiers of the Imperial army are being cautioned to shoot anyone who moves in the contaminated area, regardless of whether or not they are exhibiting the physical signs of having been infected. The outbreak is spreading so quickly, though, that the number of those infected is soon going to outweigh the number that the army will be able to cope with. At that point...”

Bryna paused, faltered. She thought of Coruscant, the thousands upon thousands of people there who had been unwittingly drawn into something beyond them. She averted her eyes and then, frowning, cleared her throat and returned her gaze to the images of the Council members in front of her.

“At that point, we cannot accurately predict the course of action that will be chosen by the Empire.”

[Executor Van-Derveld]

Light spilled into the crevice that Van-Derveld had sequestered himself away in, like a tick burrowed into a wound. The Executor rose from his chair without turning to face the Inquisitor Valten. In front of him, the video-feed of Imperial City continued its endless cycle. With passing time, however, more and more static filtered into the feed, as streams were forced off line by the senseless vandalism of the infected.

Yet, rather than being vexed by this, the Executor was pleased. Regardless of whether or not the Morbus Project had achieved the results desired by Inquisitor Valten, Van-Derveld took some malicious delight in what he saw.

“The undercity and beyond,” he corrected. Bending slightly, he picked up a handful of data-sheets.

“There are reports of outbreaks on Chandrila... and Brentaal IV. It's spreading along the Perlemian trade line as we speak. It's only a matter of time before it infects Carida and the colonies. Once Morbus reaches the Inner Rim, there will be no stopping it.”

[Master Nytherciria]

When Bryna drew to her conclusion, Daria's eyes closed. At times like these, she seemed almost perpetually in a world of her own. As a member of the Miraluka species, she saw the Force in a way wholly unique, as none of her peers could understand. It would not - could not - endure the imbalance brought about by Coruscant; it writhed and struggled, in desperate search of equilibrium. This was the tremor they had all felt, the living Force crying out for absolution from the abnormality the virus had introduced.

“If the hand endangers the limb, strike it off.”

When Daria spoke, her words echoed those of a ruthless Jedi Master of the Old Republic. She, more so than any others, believed in the will of the Force over adherence to the Jedi code. For all she seemed ethereal, even timid at times, Daria was arguably the most unyielding of all the Jedi Masters and rarely found her views counted among the majority. Some of the younger Jedi saw her as something of a relic from older times, though the wiser amongst them understood that there was truth in her words, however archaic.

[Master s'Ilancy-Prent]

She was certainly not one of the more gentle-handed among her peers; hard years and trials had sculpted the Lupine into a rather harsh individual, and it showed in her movements, her eyes, her very voice. She was kind, but there was an edge to her kindness that it seemed many of the Order's padawan's grumbled about. It seemed only around her close friends and family that she let go of her hard demeanor.

Reticent to follow the code over the Force itself - which had lead to more than one argument with the other Masters over the years - she found herself nodding at Daria's words. She could see the Force, much like her fellow master could, and what she saw worried her greatly.

"If the Force wills that blood be spilled, than that is what must happen," the Lupine reinforced.

"I recieved a transmission from Master Henning; he is on Coruscant, in a safehouse in Eastport. He said that it was a contagion," she nodded at Bryna's image, confirming the Padawan's own message, "... and that it was spreading exponentially.

"His message was cut off before I could learn more, but... "

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"... he has been infected."

[Lord Inquisitor Valten]

The Inquisitor halted, his half mechanical brain whirring. The contagion was spreading faster than expected, but at least something was going right. It proved that the virus could be used as planned, albeit the collateral would be far greater than predicted.

“When I supplied you with the preliminary research, the agreement was that the original strain would not be tampered with. Imperial Center was NOT TO FALL.” The planet could rot for all Valten cared, it had the Imperial capitol had become the deepest pit of corruption, yet. What with Alliancepies, rogue adepts, and traitors running thick.

We cannot contain and infection of this scale.”

The original plague had been created in the same laboratories that had spawned the Krytos virus and others, but it was obvious that it had been engineered into a much more potent strain.

“Carida, Kuat, Eridau, Fondor. None of these worlds can be affected.” Valten sighed as best his mechanical voice would allow. Brentaal IV would have to be purged, the planet sat at the hub of two major trade routes.

Why make the virus more potent than it already was?"

[Clea Darkrunner]

Go

That was what she had dreamed, Clea saying, "Sharra, go!" She had always been a hard child to wake, preferring sleeping to schooling. So she had dreamed her mother yelling, increasingly loudly, "GO!"

"Fi've more min...." she mumbled, then was shocked awake by an even louder boom on the floor above her. Someone was blowing open the doors in the hotel.

Hearing a strange whine above her window, she looked out - and up into the bottom of a gunship. Another explosion rocked her room.

Correction - someone was blowing open the rooms, coring the hotel like a puui-puui fruit. Someone was eliminating the people in those rooms as ruthlessly as farmers on Dantooine rid themselves of naal rats nests.

To Shaara, that only spelled one group. Her mother's horror stories of the Imperial Inquisition had fueled most of her childhood nightmares. She had to go, and risk the crazed mob. To stay was to meet certain death quickly.

She scrambled into her clothes, her speed fueled by her fear, shoes on her feet. About to run out the door, she paused, listening, then darted back.

Grabbing the small improvised bag of supplies, she upended her carisac on the bed, and dumped the food into it. She took only two items off the bed, the flashlight and her map. The vibro blade her mother had given her when she turned 16, hidden in the seams of the carisac, could also use the power cell. She hit the button, but the door did not open. Frantically, she connected the vibro-blade, and stuck it into the security panel. It sparked, and the door slid partially open.

She listened again, then moved out into the ominously quiet corridor. Hitting the back utility corridors, she crept down and down staircases, deeper and deeper, driven by the sounds of clanking military movement. Where was everybody, she wondered, going toward the Underlevels her mother had spoken about, un-fondly.

She did not realize that the living were being driven down, where they would not trouble the Tower dwellers. The Morbus virus could do what years of raids could not - cleanse the Underlevels of their human garbage.

[Kale Zarinov]

Kale stepped around a sagging partition to find the stricken Jedi master. He took a moment to absorb the situation, then quickly moved about to secure the room - doors and windows had already been locked and barricaded, but he tested the vents, floorboards, light panels, anything he might take advantage of if he were still trying to sneak in.

"This thing is tearing through the population. I tried to get the word out to my contacts in Chiba, Coco, Yangtze, South Bay... But most of these people don't have the means to leave their districts, much less get off-planet."

Kale's anger was palpable. These were the people everyone else in the galaxy forgot about - people whom the Empire regarded as vermin. But Kale knew them - he'd been one of them. He'd spent most of his Jedi career trying to give them a voice, a chance, a hope. And now, purposefully or not, the Empire had made them, men, women, and children - a quarter trillion of them - fodder for their latest bio-weapon.

He knew how dangerous it was to harbor such anger - but it was one of the few things keeping him from despair.

Kale finished his rounds and came back to Barton. He leaned closer to inspect the older Jedi's wound, ignoring his protests. "If the virus is airborne, I'm probably infected already. All the victims I've seen have had bloody wounds. My guess is it's only transmissible through the body fluids..."

He sat back and met Barton's eyes. "How are you holding up? You think you could make it to the Ben Zedi spaceport?"

[Lord Inquisitor Valten]

“RHAAAAAAAAAAA” Naomi didn’t even blink at the screaming civilian that had vaulted off of a nearby rooftop at her. One swing of her arm and the flat side of her halberd sent the infected person’s flying to the side. All around the demon-faced troopers of the Inquisition fought against slavering mobs.

She paused, glancing around at the carnage, a sick feeling rose in the pit of the Inquisitor’s stomach, a feeling that she hadn’t experience in years.

“What do you mean they want some of these things alive.” The high-pitched of a rail-rifle discharge sounded next to her. Inquisitor Bren’lar Scothis, lowered the oversized gun. Naomi couldn’t see a thing of her mate’s face beneath the thick helmet.

“I don’t know, orders came from the High Council.” But of course the Lord Inquisitor controlled the Council, both of them knew who really gave the orders.

Naomi just shook her head, this was going too far. So much bloodshed, too much bloodshed. Contrary to popular belief, there were Inquisitors out there that did maintain some semblance of a soul. Frak the orders.

“Inquisitor Scothis!” A haggard deathtrooper skidded to a halt next to the pair. Both Inquisitors replied at the same time. “What?”

A confused half second passed before the tired soldier shook it off. “Captain Jarol is dead along with half of the platoon, we have to fall back to the barricade.”

The screaming of people both infected and the wounded, soldiers and civilians, lifted into the air. Crackling fires and the shrill screech of blaster fire pierced the once calm air. Too much death.

“No, push forward, reinforcements will be on the way. Decontamination orders are withdrawn, get any sane person you can on a gunship and get them to the citadel.”

“Ma’am?”

“DAMN IT, I said get as many people out as you can.”

Bren’lar lifted an arm to remove his helmet, his green eyes meeting Naomi’s. Disobeying a direct order was a breach of the Corruption Doctrine, any Inquisitor violating it was to be killed on sight. A minute passed between the two before his gaze fell and a sigh escaped. He clicked the helmet back into place and hefted the rifle.

“Gods, I hope you’re right about this.”

[Director Belargic]

Mon Calamari

She watched her daughter leave with a heavy heart, hugging the sides of her arms as if Bryna were still there.

"Why must I always be the bearer of bad news?" Grace said with a disheartened sigh. "Seems like every time we are able to have us all together, I find a way to break us apart."

[Kal Cimmerian]

He frackin' hated this armor.

Wasn't that it didn't give 'im enough protection or the fact it had a coolant system in it. Or the fact he could easily see his target in the building across the street. He could actually let slide the fact he couldn't drink or smoke innit too.

Naw...wasn't any of that.

He hated it 'cause he couldn't feel the breeze through his short hair. Or feel it on his face as it rolled over every curve and made his eyes squint. Even if it wasn't his 'real face'.

Kal Cimmerian hefted his T-28 repeating sniper rifle and tried t'ignore his problems 'bout his armor and focus in on the job.

He was really doing it as a favor to BC, the merc had asked him t'take out the head of the Curovao ImpEx empire, Jaan Curovao for renigging onna deal and causing five of BC's ships t'be destroyed in the process.

The plan was to make it look like the rogue Mandalorian group, Death Watch, was involved (hence the armor) which Cimmerian was fine with. He'd dealt with 'em before...and they'd become scum.

He'd felt a bond with 'em a while ago...hell it felt like he was at home. But not anymore. The cancer in their organization which'd originally just been at the top was now slipping through the ranks. So they deserved whatever they got.

Cimmerian's face twitched into a small smirk as he prepared to fire.

Then all hell broke loose.

One of Curovao's bodyguards started twitching, spasming like he was having a seizure. He dropped his weapon and screamed in pain or anger or something.

Then he bit Curovao.

Bit him!

Right in the frackin' neck. The businessman went down, blood shootin' from the wound. The other bodyguards were immediately on the Infected, trying t'pull him away from their master but they were soon clutching at bites to their own bodies.

And then they began spasming all the same.

The hired gun's eyes widened as he stared at the scene from his perch across the street.

What in th'blue hell was goin' on?

[Master Krogen]

Kyle nodded his head to Master Tarkin as she approached, and waited patiently while she addressed the apprehensive collection of younglings, padawans, and knights. Jedi the lot of them, but all equally distressed. Once Master Tarkin stepped inside, Kyle moved in right behind her, closed the door, and locked it from the inside with security codes that would only allow it to be opened from the inside and only with codes known by the Masters of the Enclave.

Moving deeper inside, he took his chair in the circular one, which was the one nearest the door, thus he did not have far to move before being able to sit down in his chair. Once sat, he became the lifeless statue that he always was during any session with the Council. He hardly ever offered advice to padawans or solutions to problems the Enclave faced. He hardly did anything with or for the Enclave at all, but no one had ever considered sending him away, to give his position on the council to someone more interactive. He blamed respect for this. He was very respected for his war record with the Rebel Alliance, but especially for the injuries he sustained at the hand of the Inquisition for his beliefs; and the works he had done in aiding in the construction of the Jedi Enclave.

The reports of an infectious agent on Coruscant chilled him to the bone. Such a disease on Coruscant, the core of galactic civilization, could spread from there to the rest of the known galaxy in a matter of years. Reaching the inner- and mid-rim systems, though, could take only months. Decisive action was needed, and it was needed now, lest this spread quicker then it could be cured. The Masters spoke truths around him. There was much that needed to be cut off, first of which was Coruscant. The planet itself needed to be quarentined, with gunships placed in high orbit to remove all fleeing vessels, and then the planet itself would need to be either destroyed or purged. The only problem was that there was no way in hell that the Empire was going to cooperate with the Jedi to tackle this problem. A direct invasion of forces would be easiest.

But he would keep his opinions to himself, as he always did. For now, at any rate. It was not very jedi-like to jump up and demand that they all take the next ship to Coruscant to do battle with the Empire, such might warrant him exile, and he had walked that line too closely his entire time here with the Enclave, and he did not intend to cross it today.

[Master Laran]

Serena nodded slowly at Daria's words, and felt her heart swell with concern for Barton Henning. His road back to the Jedi had been a long one, but she had worked side by side with him many times since he had joined the Enclave. His skill as a healer was joined with his knowledge of traditional medicine, and Serena had learned from him even as she'd taught him more of the Life Giver's ways.

Rhianna. The girl... woman... was there in the Council Chambers, with Morgan. Serena adjusted the small holographic projector that displayed and updated the Council chambers in real time on top of the control console. Her first two padawan learners after her exile, the two held a special place in her heart. As did Solomon.

"My pacifism is well known," Serena said, "But in this case I agree wholeheartedly with Master Nytherciria and Master s'Ilancy-Prent. Once infected these ...people ...are no longer people. Unless a cure can be found, or is presented by the Empire, these beings are lost to us. Their soul in the Force appears to be gone."

There was a thump on the hull outside, and a frantic scrabbling. Then silence. The viewshield was opaqued to keep those outside from seeing in, but that did not stop the occasional bumps and noises. The power fluctuated again, and the holo of the council chamber suddenly disappeared. Serena frowned, and fiddled with the emmitter, but a surge had blown its delicate circutry.

The holocam was better protected, and was still transmitting. "I have lost sound and visuals, friends. If you can still see and hear me..." Shipboard power failed completely then, the camera operating only on battery power. The ventilation system quietly ground to a halt.

"My ship will not protect us for much longer. I must prepare the children. May the Force be with us all." Serena ended the transmission, her hologram on Vortex flickering and then disappearing.

[A'na]

A'na looked up as the Jedi Master walked back into the main room of the light freighter. "It appears that our power relays have failed, A'na." The white haired Jedi was unruffled, but A'na's heart was gripped with fear. "The ventilation system has stopped operating and our breathable air will run out in less than two days."

The darkhaired woman held her daughter tightly, until the five year old squirmed and gave quiet protest. "What shall we do, Master Jedi?" A'na released Jade to play with the other children, and turned her full attention to Serena.

"We will need to move on before the air runs out. The longer we wait, the more the landscape changes outside." The Jedi folded her hands, looking over at the gaggle of children, ages four to fifteen, that were gathered in one corner of the living area. They were sitting and standing around the dejerik board, watching two of the older children play.

They were being quiet. All in all, perfectly well behaved.

A'na brushed her hands through her long dark hair, worried about the future. She'd initiated the contact with underground elements here in Hanna City, trying to get ahold of the re-established Jedi. Jade was an adept, and she needed training. Proper training. She folded her hands in poor imitation of the Jedi's gesture, her knuckles whitening as she clasped them nervously together.

[Milivikal k'Vik]

The Siren's Song, an Imperial II class Star Destroyer tore through the swirl of hyperspace, flanked by the Kalavashik, a Victory class Star Destroyer and a pair of Interdictor ships, the Snapping Snare and the Silk Web. Numerous other smaller ships dotted the black and blue void.
This was Milivikal k'Vik's fleet. The beings under her command were some of the most ruthless in the Galaxy. They were well paid for their motivation, and there were roughly a hundred thousand of them. Her rule over them, in space, was absolute. You obeyed The Captain, or she either killed you or had you killed. If you wanted to take your fortunes and leave when docked, you could. Most didn't. Over the last ten years, Milivikal had become the most capable and feared pirate in the Galaxy, ambushing commercial freighters and military frigates alike. Each ship wore her livery, splashed lines of crimson radiating from the starboard stern to the port side, ending at the tip of the bow. Battle damage was to be repaired, but not repainted. Every capital ship was pockmarked with turbolaser burns and torpedo craters. New panels gleamed against old, battered ones.
k'Vik paced the deck. Her uniform was a gray Imperial officer's uniform, tailored to fit her slender figure. She retained the rank of Captain from the original ship. The rank badge had a burned hole in it, from her lightsaber. Over her right shoulder, she donned the sash of an ancient Sith, it's red fabric with black embroidery contrasted nicely against the dull gray Imperial garment. A blaster was strapped to her thigh right thigh, and her Jedi weapon bounced against her left hip. Her face was lined now. Her skin was no longer flawless alabaster, but her eyes were the same winter-sky pale blue. She had cropped her hair short again, but did not dye out the gray from what used to be glossy, jet black hair. Her beauty had worn a little, but it revealed a tenacity in it's place.
Her bridge was dotted with some of the best of the available from her crew. Her helm had been a bulk freighter pilot whom she convinced to her cause with good pay. Her navigator was a Bith with a wicked sense of humor and awful taste in music. The list went on. Each had a story, each came from somewhere first. But they were hers now.
She dashed to her chair, dropping in dramatically, and keyed the broadcast comm.

“All ships,” She said, singsong, “prepare for hyperspace withdraw. Snare and Silk, on the ready.”

She began to hum something that sounded rather like “Flight of the Valkeries.”

“Minute to Mark.” she sang

“Twenty to Mark.”

She continued, each second sounded more and more like an orchestra.

“Ten to Mark!” She sang, her voice echoing clearly across the bridge.

“Fiiiiiiivvee, foooouuurrrr, threeeeee, twooooo.... one.” The orchestra stopped. “Mark.”

Her fleet ripped back into real space, dropping neatly around the Dauntless.

“Hold fire. Dictors, engage” She said coldly.

On the tactical display, two false spheres of gravity poured off of the pair of arrowhead shaped ships.

“Ship has been identified as the Dauntless.” said the Tactical Officer. k'Vik blinked, and then grinned.

“Hail them.”