StarDestroyer.Net BBS

“Well, well, well,” intoned Kerr Avon, Colonel in rank and commander of the Vigil-class Corvette Bringer of Justice, along with all ninety-seven souls (including his own) aboard her. “What do we have here, Jas?”

“Corellian YU-410 class light freighter, Sir; she has not been cleared by perimeter security,” the sensor operator replied almost immediately. “She seems to believe that she can avoid detection by using the cometary tail to mask her drives.”

Avon snorted. Indeed, if Bringer of Justice had not been here, with her advanced sensor suite, the tactic might well have worked. “Armament? Defenses? Complement?”

“Two twin laser turrets, dorsal and ventral mountings, Sir,” answered the tactical officer. “Light shields—no match for our guns. Official crew complement is four with space for a dozen passengers—but these ships are capable of extensive modification. Fully outfitted as a slaver, she could be carrying upwards of five hundred individuals aboard.”

“Very well, ladies and gentlemen,” Avon said formally. “Sound action stations and lay in a pursuit course. Order Special Agent Benchek and her team to prep . . .,” and Avon paused as he scrolled through data on his screen, “Cutters Three and Four for boarding action. And ask Lieutenant Gayne if his gunboats are ready for deployment.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the executive officer answered as she began to pass orders. Avon sat back in his chair and he smiled. Quite a bit of difference from the old way of doing things, he thought to himself. In the old days, the Sector Rangers made do with what they could—but here? Now? In this Imperial Union of the Rim?

Almost one hundred of the new Vigil-class Corvettes had emerged from Ord Tanis over the past three years. And every single one of them had been assigned directly to the reformed Union Rangers. At 255-meters in length, these ships were heavily armed with three twin turrets of medium-weight turbo-lasers, five twin turrets of heavy laser cannons, and two bow-mounted proton torpedo launchers. Not to mention a pair of very powerful tractor beams and two hard-hitting ion cannons. Each of the new ships carried six Boarding Cutters—specialized shuttlecraft that lacked any hyperdrives, but were designed to board even the most uncooperative of targets—and four Gunboats. And they were designed from the core outwards to serve the Rangers.

Ninety-seven officers and men comprised the crew—all of them Rangers. The ship had its own forensics teams, research labs, medical examiners, analysis laboratories, and cutting-edge computers run by some of the best slicers in the business. Avon smiled again. Such as himself. Once upon a time, he had been on the opposite side of the law—but no more. Now, he enforced the law, for he had seen with his own eyes just what barbarity many criminals were capable of. And the ship had space for as many as fifty-three more passengers, troops, or Rangers. Plus the cells in the four brigs that could hold up to eighty prisoners in maximum isolation and containment.

No, Avon, thought to himself, these ships were not just transport for the Rangers, but were mobile headquarters. And they had allowed the Rangers to finally begin putting an end to the foulness that seethed beneath the surface here in the Outer Rim.

“She’s seen us, Sir—she’s running,” the sensor operator declared.

“Put us on an intercept course, Helm. Jas, hail her and instruct her to heave to at once at the direct order of the Imperial Office of Criminal Investigations . . . Guns, if she fails to cut her drives, put a turbolaser bolt across her bow and warm up the ion cannons and tractor beams.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” a chorus of voices answered. “No response,” answered Jas Kimlane from the sensor/comm station.

“Guns, you are authorized to fire at your earliest convenience,” Avon ordered as he pressed a stud on the arm of his chair. And snorted again. Crazy Imperial Fleet officers—a proper commander sat, he didn’t stand. “Lieutenant Gayne, I trust that your toys are almost ready for launch?”

“Aye, Sir,” a strong voice emerged from the comm.

“Then go convince this smuggler he has made the wrong choice, Ranger,” Avon said.

“Gunboats One through Four are launching, Colonel,” reported the XO. “Gunnery is reported direct strikes on her stern shields with the ion cannons—Sir, she is cutting her drives and is now transmitting.”

“On speaker, Jas.”

“Imperial vessel, this is the medical transport Harmony. Cease fire! Cease fire! We are on an authorized mission to bring emergency medical supplies to Orvax.”

“Jas?”

“Transponder confirms ship ID as Harmony—but she is registered as a stock light freighter out of Kolanda Station in Yminis Sector.”

“Right up near Hutt space,” Avon whispered.

“Yes, Sir. And we have no record of her being a medical transport—or having authorization to land on the surface.”

Avon frowned. Even though as a Senior Colonel in the Rangers he could have had his choice of assignments, he had come here to Orvax because . . . well, to hunt Rancor one had to go where the Rancor lived. And to stop slavers, one had to come to the prime market for the slave trade outside of Hutt space. And for the last six centuries, that location had been Orvax.

“Open mike,” Avon ordered. “Freighter Harmony, you were directed to heave to for inspection—an order that you disobeyed. Lower your shields and cut your drives—you will be boarded, your manifest and cargo will be inspected, and we will discuss your infractions in person. By now, you have no doubt detected my gunboats that have you surrounded—running is no longer an option. Do not compound your crimes by firing upon my officers, you are not dealing with the Fleet or with Customs—you are dealing with the Rangers of the Rim. And we do not take people shooting at us lightly, Harmony,” he growled.

“Understood,” a very depressed voice answered over the comm. “I’m just the middleman delivering the packages—do the Rangers still offer reduced sentences for cooperative witnesses?”

Avon’s lips twisted. “That depends, Harmony. On how cooperative such witnesses are and whether or not their crimes make my stomach twist—if you aren’t one of those, we might be able to deal.”

“I’m not—just trying to make a few credits and pay the bills, Ranger. Wouldn’t have touched this job if I had anything else—and I don’t do it because I like it. There won’t be any resistance over here.”

“If that sentiment plays true Harmony, I am certain we work something out,” Avon said with a fierce grin. “Ranger out.”

He looked up at the XO, who was listening to a second transmission. “Benchek is aboard—no resistance. At least forty slaves in the cargo holds—the crew is cooperating.”

“Excellent. Send a prize crew across—and have Dr. Illian give the . . . passengers full examinations. Jas, send a message to Ranger HQ, Dalchon. Request transport for these people—I’ll be damned if I see them landed on that cesspool down there.”

“Colonel,” Jas reported with a sigh. “New contact emerging from hyper—three hours out, but inbound for Orvax.”

Avon shook his head. It was going to be one of those days, he thought. “As soon as the prize crew is aboard our capture, set an intercept course for the next customer. And have the chef make an extra pot of caf.”

I wonder how the Remnant and the New Republic compare when it comes to stopping slavers.

Not as good.

The books were Trawn supposedly returned in, were nice as well.
I can see Trawn pulling such stunts, only without that much flaws, is it that much work to plant a sensor with a cable and a powerplant with transmitter to by-pass the cloaking field?
Would have prevented them from being detected because of their small-craft.

Just as the two New Jedi Order books after the fall of Coruscant, Rebel something, I believe their names were.
Nothing beats wrecking a fleet by jumping a SSD into it's center.

can I ask why you keep calling him Trawn?

Now, I severely doubt that the New Republic stops piracy that well, as well, the New Republic sucks at protecting their borders. But as for the Remnant, I can imagine them stopping slavers rather well, depending of course, on them having slavery being illegal. Considering the Empire's track record on slavery, what with wookies and all, Remnant space could be a safe haven for them.

Themightytom wrote:can I ask why you keep calling him Trawn?

Because the full name is a moud(?) full?

Got that right, Fax.
Suggest you check the Remnant it's main shipyards that they never lost to the NR.
The most left and lower one, if memory recalls right.

Vianca wrote:

Themightytom wrote:can I ask why you keep calling him Trawn?

Because the full name is a moud(?) full?

Yes, Mitth'raw'nurodo is a mouthful, but his "core" name is Thrawn, with an H, not Trawn. Muppet.

Aaah, a typo.
Was using my tablet.

Tylan G’deransk, Fleet Captain of the Imperial Union of the Rim and assigned as the commander of the Imperator-class Star Destroyer Rapacity and its escorting 573rd Battle Squadron, stood upon his bridge and he sighed.

“The orders are confirmed?”

“Yes, Sir. Command has instructed that we are to withdraw from the Bundil System immediately—all CAF forces are to retire from the entire Ferra Sector, in fact,” the executive officer replied.

“Pity,” muttered Tylan as he stared at the troubled world floating distant in the armored windows of the bridge. “Although given how far and fast we have expanded, it was perhaps inevitable that we would be called to stand on the defensive.”

“Yes, sir. I just hate giving this system over to the Rebels.”

“Tsk, tsk, Halron,” Tylan said with a smile. “They aren’t rebels anymore—they are the New Republic. And I agree in principle, but the Republic does not worry me as much as the fact this Bundil is a major operations hub for Black Sun and the Hutts. One that is poised right upon our borders.”

Tylan sighed again. “Still, orders are orders,” he said softly as he glanced down at the holographic map of the ground forces on the surface. And then he smiled again. “Pass the word to General Abe’s IV Legion that he is to establish a perimeter for the landing ships. And raise Colonel Johans—I wish to brief him myself.”

“Rancor Johans?” Halron Haies asked. “His armor regiment is well separated from the rest of the Legion down there—but FireHawke can land to embark his unit and avoid further conflict.”

“Avoid further conflict? Such a quaint notion, Halron,” Tylan chuckled. “No, I do believe that the insurgents might have too much air defense to risk FireHawke at the Hammer’s current location—best to bring them back to us on the ground to a safe area for embarkation.” And he sketched out a line of advance on the map.

Commander Halron Haies cocked one eyebrow. “Sir, that route takes them directly through the Huttese enclave—we have orders to avoid any . . . unnecessary entanglements with the Hutts.”

“Yes we do, and I deem this entanglement to be entirely necessary, Commander. Establish a comm-link with Colonel Johans immediately; then I wish to speak with the Commanders of FireHawke and Retribution, as well as Captain Bren. Alert the White Death to stand by to support the Hammer’s withdrawal.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Well, maybe the Union can fund itself off the Hutt fortune after they get finished fighting a full on war with them.

Zel ‘Rancor’ Johans, Colonel of the 112th Heavy Repulsortank Regiment—Hell’s Hammers—looked up from the projection map as the last of his battalion and troop commanders entered the ad hoc command post. And he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

“New orders, gentlemen,” he said without a pause. “The Union is consolidating—we are withdrawing from Bundil. Our task is to rendezvous with FireHawke for embarkation here,” he said pointing to a flashing icon on the map.

The assembled officers glanced down at the map and Zell knew that each were evaluating the recovery zone—and the mountain range that separated the Hammer’s from it.

“Three days minimum,” muttered Major Tadeus Harkin, the regiment’s executive officer. “Our tanks cannot get through those mountains—too much altitude; we are going to have to backtrack north or go south all the way to the coast and sweep back up.”

“Aye,” Zell growled, “it would except that Fleet Captain G’deransk has altered our rules of engagement, lads.” He tapped the map display and a series of waypoints and phase lines appeared—passing through a small pass in the center of the map.

“Oh, the Hutts and syndicates are not going to like that,” murmured one of the troop commanders.

“I don’t think either G’deransk or I much care for what scum and worms like, Captain Eisel,” Zell chuckled. “Their enclave is set up to control this pass—seventeen kilometers in width. The southern end contains all of the civilian housing for their workers and slaves—we are not going in there. In the center is the local space-port, and anchored into the rock of the northern end is the Hutt’s palace,” the map zoomed in and weapon emplacements, bunkers, and strongpoints began to appear. “The palace is heavily defended; the spaceport less so. First and Third Battalions will engage the palace, while Second deals with the spaceport.”

Zell looked up at the faces of his officers. “Gentlemen, I don’t want any of these scum to forget the might of the Empire after this day.”

Growls answered his statement, but Major Harkin shook his head. “The Hutts have installed a lot of firepower, Colonel. But it is short-ranged firepower—we could take out the spaceport certainly, but that palace?”

“I agree, and so does G’deransk,” Zell answered. “Which is why Captain Bren has the White Death is suiting up and arming for a ground support mission.”

“The White Death?” asked one of the troop commanders. “The entire Scimitar Assault Wing is going to be flying cover?”

“All seventy-two bombers, Captain Farleon,” confirmed Zell. “They are going to plaster the palace from the air just as we enter weapons range—and we are going to tear through that pass and engage every target of opportunity.”

“A thunder-run,” Harkin said with a smile.

“Aye, Major. A thunder-run,” Zell repeated. “I want nothing left standing on the palace grounds or within the perimeter of the space-port—not a hanger, not a bunker, not a control tower, or a warehouse.”

“Collateral damage is going to be heavy, boss,” Harkin warned. “Sure, we are avoiding the civilian—and slave—housing, but there are going to be a good number of them working in both of our targets.”

Zell shrugged. “We aren’t a scalpel, and bel Iblis and Patrice both know that. But today, we are sending a message that the Union goes where it wishes—no one is going to tell us that we cannot go somewhere, like these Hutts believe that they can.”

Harkin nodded, but he pressed on—it was his job to press on. “Still, this palace is the property of Lord Durga, and he is a Hutt of no small power, Colonel. Blowing through the space-port which handles illegal shipments is one thing—smashing one of his homes apart is something else entirely.”

“Which is exactly why we are doing it—Durga the Hutt believes that since his ascendancy to power in the Syndicates and Hutt Space that he cannot be touched. Gentlemen, we are going to show him how mistaken he is.” Zell looked at his officers and each of them nodded in agreement.

“Saddle up—the White Death starts its attack run in,” he checked the time, “twenty-two minutes . . . MARK, and I’ll be damned if the Hammers are late for the party.”

Damn, Rancor Johans is one no nonsense guy. You almost feel sorry for the Hutts. Almost.

“My Lord Seneschal,” the Twi’lek major-domo said with a deep bow, “Naboor the Hutt has answered thy summons—by hypercomm,” he added.

The massive Hutt narrowed his eyes, but he did not strike the Twi’lek. Instead a rumble emerged from deep within his chest. “Has he? Put the transmission through,” he ordered.

The Twi’lek bowed again and made a gesture with one hand; his own assistants activated the screen and the holographic image of the much smaller—and younger—Hutt appeared in the throne room of the Seneschal of Bundil.

“What is this, Naboor?” asked the Seneschal in a quiet voice. “Did I not command that you were to report to me—in person? Instead, you risk my anger by failing to obey your betters.”

“I bear warnings to you, the Lord Seneschal of Durga the Mighty,” the image of Naboor said with a bow. A very shallow and insincere bow.

“Warnings? Explain yourself, Naboor the Weak.”

“Bundil has been targeted by the Union, Lord Seneschal—I fear that you are in grave danger.”

“You fear too much, Naboor. Had Durga the Mighty allowed it, I would have ordered your demise already—but he believes that there may still be value in you. I do not such any such value in one who has bowed to these . . . humans.”

Naboor bristled, but then he bowed low again. “These humans know no fear, my Lord Seneschal; they dare much which none have attempted in millennia. They believe in their laws, rather than seeing them as impediments to be overcome—Patrice, foul as that name is within my mouth, has dedicated himself to stamping out corruption. Our best agents have been arrested or slain; our operations have been compromised again and again—this Union seeks to destroy our power here in the territory they have the temerity to claim as their own.”

“Against such a worthless child as you, Naboor, they dare much,” the older Hutt laughed. “Here, on Bundil and other worlds, they dare not to challenge Durga the Mighty or those who speak for him. You show them weakness and expect them to grovel—that is not the way of the Hutt. Durga himself grows ever more displeased by the pittance you send to him—perhaps finally he has come to the opinion where you should be replaced with a more worthy, and skilled, Hutt. Profit from your operations has dwindled, Naboor—and that cannot be tolerated.”

“Forgive me, Lord Seneschal, but you do not understand the difficulties under which I labor. These accursed Rangers hound my operations day and night—the humans have dedicated themselves to ending once and for all time the trade in slaves and illegal spice. My smugglers have fled en masse and there are few who are willing to risk swift judgments under Union law for minor profit.”

“So,” the Seneschal laughed, “you admit your failure?”

Naboor squirmed and the anger in his eyes was clearly evident even through the hologram. “I have . . . changed course to ensure that profits flow; not as great as in days past, but profits nonetheless, Lord Seneschal. And for that, the humans—bel Iblis and Patrice and Morvin—they have allowed my . . . more legitimate operations to proceed without harassment. But your operations, my Lord Seneschal, those still provoke their ire.”

“Of all that I thought to see and experience in this Galaxy, a Hutt filled with fear of lesser beings was the last I would have imagined. Until today, Naboor the Weak,” the Seneschal said with a grim chuckle. “Your Union which you fear so much has already landed here and they dare not to violate the sanctity of my domain—they avoid it. They know not to challenge me.”

“Yet,” Naboor whispered the single word, and the elder Hutt’s eyes narrowed again.

“What was that, Naboor?”

“They do not challenge you yet, my Lord Seneschal,” the hologram answered. “But they shall, oh, they shall.”

“Not even Palpatine dared to attempt to bring the Hutts to task, Naboor. You are a disgrace to all Hutts past and present and future—a disgrace that I shall endeavor to see removed from your post; you will serve as the lowliest Hutt on Nar Shaddaa; you shall become a servant and not a Master.”

The Seneschal drew himself up to his full height and began to speak again, when the Twi’lek suddenly stumbled back into the throne room. “What is the reason for this interruption?”

“A transmission from the ships in orbit, my Lord Seneschal,” the Twi’lek whispered. “Their commander—Captain G’deransk demands to speak with you.”

“DEMANDS?” the Seneschal bellowed.

And at the name, Naboor shivered and he shook his head. “My warnings come too late; perhaps others will take heed of this harbinger,” and then his image died as he cut the holographic transmission at the source.

“I DID NOT DISMISS HIM!” howled the Seneschal. “HE WILL BE BROKEN! DESTROYED!”

All sound within the throne room died as everyone being present stared at the furious Hutt in horror as he ranted and raved and threw droids left and right.

Finally, the Twi’lek gathered his courage and he stepped forward. “My Lord? The human is waiting.”

The Hutt glared at his advisor, and then he drew in a deep breath. “Activate the circuit,” he ordered curtly.

A hologram of an immaculately dressed Imperial officer appeared standing before the Hutt. “Hello, worm,” it said—and the Seneschal jerked as a GASP went through the throne room.

“HOW DARE YOU!”

“I wished to inform you personally that Lord Steward bel Iblis has decided to leave this world to the New Republic—my forces are withdrawing.”

The Seneschal’s eyes flashed and he laughed. “Then be gone from this world, human.”

“We shall, we shall,” G’deransk said with a chuckle. “But first, there is one final thing we can to ensure that this world has best chance to prosper in the future.”

“And that is?”

“Utterly destroying you and your operations,” G’deransk answered with a smile.

Utter and complete silence filled the throne room. No one dared to even breath, until the Hutt began to laugh. “Think I am not prepared for such? My defenses are such that not even your Star Destroyers can broach. RAISE THE SHIELD!”

The Twi’lek bowed and rushed to the control section, where he blanched. “My Lord! Their ground vehicles and star-fighters already approach!”

“QUICKLY YOU FOOL!” the Seneschal bellowed. “They cannot penetrate MY shields once they are raised.”

The Twi’lek bowed and he activated the defensive shields—and Tylan G’deransk smiled.

“Of course, you do not ask why if we wanted to destroy you we did not attack when we first landed here four weeks ago. Hutt arrogance on display at its finest! We did not attack you because first we had to deal with your defensive shield, you slime-ridden, diseased-filled, excuse for a life form.”

And the transmission ceased.

The Seneschal’s eyes grew wide and then the Twi’lek turned around in stunned disbelief. “My Lord! The shield generators! They have just . . . exploded, my Lord!”

“E CHU TA!” screamed the Hutt as heavy laser bolts and concussion missiles began to slam into the unshielded walls of his fortress.

get in there fuck those Hutt Bastards right up Full scale plantetary assuallt is the way forward with much slave freeing and drug burning. WHile the secret squirrells in chortle in the deep background over there info success

moglwi wrote:get in there fuck those Hutt Bastards right up Full scale plantetary assuallt is the way forward with much slave freeing and drug burning. WHile the secret squirrells in chortle in the deep background over there info success

Themightytom wrote:

moglwi wrote:get in there fuck those Hutt Bastards right up Full scale plantetary assuallt is the way forward with much slave freeing and drug burning. WHile the secret squirrells in chortle in the deep background over there info success

Secret Squirrels= Mi6 CIA etc. If you dont think that the hutts do not have any information that int services would not love to have I have an nice bridge to swampland to sell you

moglwi wrote:

Themightytom wrote:

moglwi wrote:get in there fuck those Hutt Bastards right up Full scale plantetary assuallt is the way forward with much slave freeing and drug burning. WHile the secret squirrells in chortle in the deep background over there info success

Secret Squirrels= Mi6 CIA etc. If you dont think that the hutts do not have any information that int services would not love to have I have an nice bridge to swampland to sell you

You have absolutely horrible spelling and grammar. This site does have spellcheck when you type your posts. Please use it.

That's actually not entirely true. Spellcheck is something provided by most modern browsers. If moglwi is still using something horrible like IE6, he won't have a working spellchecker.

my lack of spelling etc should not detract from discussing this excellent story. I think that even though the thought of doing a thunder run through the Hutts base I am not sure that it is good move to do right now politicaly when they are withdrawing and consolodating, I am sure that what happened to Naboor while annoying will not have been to problamatice vis a vis the rest of the Hutts but this is the second Hutt taken down and in an even more empathat style going beyond what they are used to and they will start to take notice. This could lead to hutts cooprating with there enemys

Wrong, this could lead to bringing the Hutt fleets back out of mothball.
They still have them and they do update the tech behind them regulary.
Why do you think the Empire never ever went after the Hutts their theritory?
If that ain't a sign of the strenght of the Hutts their hidden fleets......

So, the Union is going to have to deal with full on war with the Hutts, when they're nearly bankrupt. When it rains, it pours.

moglwi wrote:my lack of spelling etc should not detract from discussing this excellent story. incomprehensible drivel

Oh don't be an asshole, everybody struggles with typing, grammar and punctuation at some point, just fix it, so we can tell the difference between insightful observation, and accidental gibberish.

Something intresting.
Reaper.

Ships aren't the Union's problem, it's logistics and manning. So even if they got the Reaper to change sides, they wouldn't have the men to man it.