Orin Brax
Cantonica
Cantonica
The skies were dark on Conto Bight when the Sky Screamer’s hulking form descended from the clouds, massive engines tearing a familiar roar through the night. The ship was large for a Bounty Hunter. The Kuati’s were famous for their ships, but with the Sky Screamer, they had outdone themselves. Ample space in the lower hold allowed for a large amount of cargo, while its overhanging heavy canons gave it more than enough fire power. The rounded hull, designed for amphibious landings, was wrapped in thick armour which allowed it to power through an unbelievable amount of punishment. The huge cylindrical engines that hung from the large overhanging wings looked somewhat ridiculous, but were necessary; a ship as heavy as the Sky Screamer required lots of thrust, a resource the ship had in spades. Sitting in the bulbous cockpit, one foot propped up on the blinking lights of the control board, Orin Brax sat silently, watching the rain streak past the transparisteel viewport. Below him, the stormy ocean swirled and churned, whipped up by an unusually strong tropical storm. Orin was not concerned; the Sky Screamer was built for nights like this.
Orin Brax was handsome by any species standards, with a full head of slicked back brown hair, deep brown eyes, and a clean shaven, square, jaw. Tall, and lithe, even when ensconced in his flexible field armour, Brax looked quite a bit younger than his twenty-nine years. As roiling seas stretched before him, the bounty hunter grew thankful for the cockpit modifications he had made all those years ago when he had bought the screamer. Gone were the two seats and two controls. Who needed them? Orin Brax traveled alone. In their place, a single control column and wide, arching panel that wrapped 180 degrees around the single, large, and incredibly comfortable command chair. A wookie pelt draped over the seat elegantly, a gift from his last mission for the Trandoshan government. The interior of the Screamer was similarly opulent. The upper deck, featuring the cockpit, and Orin’s bed and living quarters, were festooned with expensive fabrics, and trophies from his various jobs. One shelf held a statuette from the ruins of Rhen Var, while another case displayed the various blasters and vibro daggers of the of the infamous Karrik Cartel, a plague on Coruscant that Orin had eliminated. Every item told a story. Orin didn’t keep them for the sentiment, however. They helped impress any wayward target Orin desired to seduce.
A furious beep shook Orin from his reverie, and he sat up straight, clearing his throat with a slight cough. Another beep came over the comm system.
“What is it Rezzy,” Orin said lazily. R3-Z3, the gold-red astromech that had been his companion for the last four years was always a little more cautious than his master. His annoyed beeping stood testament to this fact.
“Look,” Orin said, leaning into the comm unit, “This ship was built for this weather, the engines are operating at optimal efficiency. If there is any trouble,” he slapped a hand on the two throttle levers on his right hand arm rest, “We can power through it.”
A wailing series of beeps followed, prompting Orin to switch the comm off with an annoyed flick.
“Stupid droid.”
Before long, the weather began to clear, and the seat gave way to a rocky, barren landscape, jutting cliffs and high hills replacing the whitecaps and torrential rain. As the sky brightened, a large city grew ever larger through the cockpit viewport. Canto Bight, a metropolis of gangsters, gambling, and corruption, was as shining as ever, showered as it was by the wealth of the Galaxy’s elite. Orin had been here before, having won, and lost, a small fortune at the Sabacc tables. Today though, his time was to be spent working, not playing.
“Rezzy,” Orin said as he stood, typing one last command into the console. “I have set the auto-pilot to take you to the nearest landing bay, I will meet you back there when I am done.”
Another flurry of beeps came in response.
“Where am I going? The job remember? Yes I can get there on my own, I do not need you to—That was one time! You were just—”
The comm system flicked off, this time being overridden by Rezzy’s access terminal down in the Cargo bay. Orin just shook his head. The little tin can had always been cantankerous, but his personality protocol had seemingly gone off the rails in the last few months.
Gathering up his supplies, the bounty hunter quickly donned his armour, put his blasters in their holsters, and clipped the scarred metal cylinder that was one his pride and joy to his hip. Few would recognize the lightsaber; few here would be sober enough to recognize Orin himself. As an up-and-coming bounty hunter just a few years ago, Orin had taken the name “The Warden” for himself, an alias he found useful when dealing with the seedier side of Galactic society. While the Warden was well known in Canto Bight, Orin Brax was a nobody.
Climbing down the ladder into the nigh empty cargo bay, Orin looked about. Rezzy was nowhere to be seen, probably hiding in the engine ducts, or behind some service hatch. Strutting over to the rear of the long room, he placed finger on a small control pad along the rear wall. With a shuddering grown, the massive rear bay doors began to open, and cold air blasted in, nearly knocking Orin off his feet. Below, the morning lights of Canto Bight glittered, as the day was just beginning. Lightly pressing a small button on his wrist, The Warden’s signature copper coloured mask and helmet materialized, and locked into place.
Without even saying goodbye to Rezzy, Orin leaned forward, arms outstretched in a cross, and fell. The floor beneath him was torn way, replaced by open air, and far below him, the city streets of Canto Bight. Tucking his arms behind him, Orin shot like an arrow downwards, gaining speed even as he tore past the few hover-taxi’s that were beginning to stir. The City grew nearer, and Orin’s breathe grew heavy. His timing had to be perfect…
… and it was. With a flick of his wrist, he shot out a thing durasteel cable, hooking himself onto one of the city’s taller casinos. The force nearly tore his arm out of his socket, but a swift shift in momentum caused him to turn with the cable, swinging around the right of the building. Looking down, a smaller building’s roof came into view, and Orin disconnected the cable, dropping him once more. The momentum carried him forward, and just as he was to hit the vegetation covered, he reached out with the force, and tucked into a roll. Coming to a halt just metres from the edge, he sprung up at the last minute, and leaned on the railing that ringed the small roof garden he had landed in. To anyone else, it may have looked as though the masked man had been standing there for hours.The morning sun was just cresting the hills which towered over the City, and the garden was bathed in golden light. Orin’s armor glinted brightly as he turned from the view.
“On time,” a female voice rang out. The judgmental tone was unmistakable. Standing at the far end of the roof garden, cloaked in black, a tall, spindly being stood, patiently waiting. Her face was covered by a tattered cowl, but her voice was clear and bright, very much like the morning itself. The figure drank in the morning light, dark as spilled ink. Orin was immediately uneasy but tried not to let it show.
“The message said early. I came early. Am I to assume you sent it?”
The Other nodded slowly but did not reply further.
Still masked, Orin placed one foot on a chrome wrapped bench, and leaned non-casually, trying to look bored. “The message said you had a job for me. A lucrative job. Any price, it said.”
The Other nodded again but did not reply further.
Orin was getting agitated. He had flown all the way from Bespin to get here, on the promise of wealth unimaginable. All he saw was a tattered old bat. “Look lady, this is not how this goes. All I need is a target. I get you the target, and then we part ways, hopefully with your pockets lighter, and mine quite a bit heavier.”
“Money is of no consequence, for what we ask. Name a price.”
“Name the job.”
The figure extended a bony finger, pointing at a data pad on the bench next to Orin. It had not been there just moments before.
“It is all there. Complete the task, name your reward, and we shall provide it. Anything you desire, we shall get for you, once the job is complete.”
Orin picked up the pad and began scrolling. The instructions were detailed, security codes were provided, as well as clearance for landing and a full range of alibis. But the task itself was huge. He almost had to laugh.
“This is impossible, do you understand how many explosives I would need--,” he stopped when he looked up, realizing the woman was no longer there. In her place, a small bag sat on the grass, lumpy and patched. Strolling over, Orin opened the bag with the force, from a safe distance. He chuckled, as a series of pyro-denton mines rolled out onto the field, lights pulsating a dull red and yellow. High grade, military quality. Even the seediest of gun runners had a hard time getting their hands on these.
“Rezzy,” he said into his wrist comm. “Ill be right there. We have a job to do.”
General Randar Vedek
The Valiant
In Orbit Above Coruscant
The Valiant
In Orbit Above Coruscant
Horror crept onto the Lieutenants face when she realized she was going to lose. She input another command, a series of bombers leapt from the holotable, only to be shredded seconds later by a hail of holographic laserfire from an opposing corvette.The young woman bit her lip. This battle was not going her way. From across the holo-table, Randar Vedek looked at the fracas smugly. As per usual, in his bouts with Lt. Denica Rapp, he was in command of the Coalition forces, while the Lieutenant controlled the Alliance fleet. Their little tradition of waging holographic war started in the Academy, when Vedek noted Rapp for her skill and perception. Over the years, Wednesday had become their training day, with a new scenario designed by the Valiant's central computer each week. Today, Vedek has been able to ambush Denica's larger force in orbit above Raxus Prime, using the Coalition's superior capital ships to pound his opponent into submission. As the last of Denica's bombers were shot down, and with her flag ship losing orbital stability, she quickly tapped the console's power bar. The blue light that had filled Vedek's quarters died, leaving empty air between the two officers, where there had just been hundreds of warships.
"You tricked me," Denica said, crossing her arms.
Vedek chuckled. The Old Wolf was, as always, in his unifrom, tan and pressed firm against his body. It lacked any adornment, save for the single rank plaque that hung on his breast, denoting his status as a fully fledged Alliance General, and Supreme Commander of Alliance Forces. Rapp had a bad habit of claiming foul play whenever she lost their engagements. And she lost every week.
"You did not scan behind third planet, it is not my fault you did not do your due diligence."
Denica feigned offence.
"I was responding to a distress call, the colonists--."
"Were vaporized by my fleet long before yours had even entered the system. Thats a classic Coalition maneuver, to use our humanity, our compassion against us."
Denica shook her head, and began to walk for the door.
"Next week," she said she gathered her things, "I am programming the holo-emitter, not the computer."
"I am not here next week, we leave for the Summit tomorrow."
Vedek frowned.
"You are my aide, you should know this."
Denica smiled, stepping across the threshold and into the corridor. With a wink, she was gone.
The Old Wolf shook his head. She had been easier to defeat today, having wasted her fighter wings on a foolish attack against the well protected Coalition capital ships.
Nerves, Vedek tought, the entire Galaxy is on the edge.
It had been fifteen years since there had been a real war. Fifteen years since Vedek had really been tested. The history books may say the Great War ended with the extermination of the Jedi, but for the Old Wolf, that was just the epilogue, a tragic mistake that the Alliance was still paying for. Hunting down an entire group, massacring them in the thousands, that is not war.
Vedek sat at his desk, staring through the large transparisteel viewport. Outside, the Alliance shipyards stretched for miles, and streams of vessels exited and entered the densely packed Coruscanti atmosphere. Peace had been kind to the Alliance, but the Galaxy had still not fully recovered from the billions of dead, the trillions of wounded, maimed, or psychologically scarred.
Vedek had retired at the end of the fighting; he wanted no part in the slaughter of the Jedi, men and women who had bravely fought alongside the military for decades. His retirement was short though. After only a few years, with tensions on the rise, he had been asked to serve as Chairman of Alliance High Command. As a frequent critic of the military's leadership in the War, especially in its final years, the offer came as a surprise to the Old Wolf. Even so, he had almost rejected it. The politics, the back-biting, and the hypocrisy of the Capital had soured him. But, duty called, and Randar Vedek was not going to die in obscurity, languishing away, remembering old wars, and lost opportunities. He was going to act; he was going to make sure when the next war came, the Alliance would be ready. No matter the cost.
No matter the cost.
