Prision Blues

[Morgan Evanar]

Corporate Sector, Mytus VII, Star's End Penal Facility:
Voices echoed from down the hall. There was a crack of plasteel armor against concrete, followed by the sizzle and scream of stunsticks being used.
The guards dragged the body of a tall man, his head hung limp from between his shoulders. His wiry, bare arms were over the backs of the guards. His gray shirt blackened and charred from the stun sticks, no less than eight times. A drip of blood ran from his sharp nose, now broken and off center. He should have been dead.

"I swear, this guy ate lead when he got here." The other guard grunted in agreement, shifting the dead weight so he could open the cell. They shoved the body into the cell, which impacted with a resounding slap. His feet were still in the hall. The complainer took a degree of pleasure from kicking his shins to get them in.

"Enjoy your company, Furball. If he ever wakes up."

[Drin Kizael]

The orange furred Trianii peered over his book at the sound of his cell door opening. His hazel eyes narrowed with annoyance, following the humanoid body that entered with an unceremonious flop to the floor.

Still holding the book comfortably in his giant hands, his eyes darted back to the guards as they shoved his new roomate in like a leftover manaquin into storage, and then closed the door with a laugh.

Kizael sighed.

He rolled his eyes and grumbled as he put the book on a little table next to the bunk. "This is why I keep getting put back in solitary," he mumbled, kneeling in front of the humanoid.

He gently slapped the man's cheek, turning his face by the jaw. After confirming that he was not just humanoid, but in fact human, he checked for a pulse.

With only mild surprise, he leaned down and picked up the body, setting him down in the bunk. Between the beating and the ion overload, he was certainly lucky to be alive. But he'd seen too much in this far flung corner of space to be thrown by much anymore.

For a moment Kizael considered the poor fellow. With a final sigh he grabbed a panel on the wall just above him, lowering the top bunk and locking it into place.

"Lights out!" echoed over the comm, followed by the systematic clatter of glowpanels flashing out across the cell block.

[Morgan Evanar]

It was hours before the slicer stirred. He woke with a cough and a jerk, smashing his head into the bottom of the top bunk.

"Ow!" Morgan flopped back down onto the cot and grabbed his forehead, which made his chest burn. After he settled for a moment, he looked around. It was dark, but after a moment Morgan's eyes adapted, a set of secondary rods pushed to the fore.

Someone on the bunk above stirred. He had healed a great deal but was not in condition to put up a fight against anything but a human or something weaker.

He stayed silent and hoped that his cellmate was a deep sleeper.

[Drin Kizael]

Something stirred at the edge of Kizael's consciousness. His whiskers twitched in response. But before he could confirm that the sensation was that of the human waking up, something slammed hard into his bunk, right under his ribs. As painful as that must have been, judging by the sudden yelp, he was certain it was better than hitting the ceiling.

The big felinoid shifted his weight to get a better view of the cell below, but decided it best not to reveal himself yet.

"You'd best just let your questions wait till morning," he whispered in Basic, in as pleasant a voice as he could manage for a raspy growl. "Neither of us are going anywhere at least till then. Just rest. You're lucky to be alive, son."

[Morgan Evanar]

At least his cellmate wasn’t going to kill him. Morgan settled back into the mattress, silent. He wondered what had gone wrong. Or what went right? In his eight years of slicing, he had never had a job go so sour. Now he was in the infamous Star’s End, more frequently known as Life’s End. Few had escaped this craphole. The entire planet was the facility, and leaving was elaborate enough when you were with the CSA.

The whole thing had gone so sour it must have been a setup. All of his information had been bad. His post-op contact was not present, and the exit tickets weren’t worth the metal they were stamped into. So. The only group he had frelled was the Hutts, and they had frelled him first. Aside from that, he had played the game as straight as possible. Maybe his fence sold him out? Morgan rolled the possibility in his head. Xulli still fenced for the Hutts now and then, but supposedly only because he had to. It was possible good old three eyes received an offer he couldn’t refuse. It was likely. Possibilities poured through the slicer’s head until his body pulled him back to sleep.

He woke to the sound of the glowpanels snapping back on. Morgan winced through his eyelids, but remained still. He inhaled, the smell of Trianii filling his nostrils. That explained the growl, at least.

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael's eyes fluttered open in synch with the sharp, blinking light of the cell's glowpanel as it flashed to life. He took another second to wake up, waiting for the expected sound of the holoset in the corner of the cell.

The image of a newsroom appeared in a burst of static. CSA propoganda buried in news headlines and stock quotes crawled in circles around the base of the hologram as a perky, well-dressed woman read the day's events.

"... exchange closed today with a record drop in the ImpDaq during the final hours of trading. Down over 634 points to 113,750.78 by end of business, Bonadan Standard Time. Hardest hit were Sienar and Kuat Drive Yards, amidst rumors ..."

A 2 and a tenth meter tall, felinoid frame in a bright red prison jumpsuit dropped from the top bunk. A tiger-striped, orange tail tapped the holoset controls, lowering the volume.

"If you're up to standing, I'd do it," Kizael said. His voice was still gruff, but disarmingly gentle for such a large creature. "The Seeker droids will know if you're faking."

He knelt down, bringing his white furred face into full view. The stripes around his eyes pulled back with concern as he looked over the human. Despite the stun marks and holes in his shirt, you could barely tell he'd been worked over so hard when he arrived.

"Err... you might want to try to look a little hurt, though."

Numbers started to echo from the comm system. Outside, droids hovered along the every balcony of the cell block, stopping briefly in front of each cell to confirm that the responding prisoner was, in fact, present.

"I'm not sure which of us has more questions. So I'll just let you go first," Kizael added.

"186942 Zeta!" boomed from the ceiling.

"Here." Kizael answered. He looked at the human with a smirk. "So what's your name?"

[Morgan Evanar]

“Eh?” Morgan was still calculating what the value of certain stocks might be, especially KDY. He would make a killing if he ever got out.

Morgan slouched and picked up a listless look in his eyes, becoming a lost puppy. He looked down at the badge on the red prison jumpsuit “2-00-7-7-3 Gamma.” He said, unsure. The slicer guessed it was easier to beat someone up when they didn’t have a name.

“Ugh. I could be rich right now.” Morgan muttered at no one in particular. He sunk a bit more, which was easy to do in front of a Trianii. The fellinoid dwarfed him. He didn’t feel intimidated, just… small.

How did I get into this mess? He shuffled his feet for a moment. There wasn’t much space to move.

“200773 Gamma!” The booming voice returned. Morgan nearly leapt out of his skin. Sithspit.

“Here.” He stared at the speaker for a moment, wishing it would fizzle into its base elements.

“Is that it?”

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael regarded the human with amused curiosity. "Not yet," he replied.

Outside, a seeker droid hovered to a stop in front of their cell, swiveled to face them, and flashed a red beam across them. It hung in the air for a half a second, then moved on with a satisfied chirp.

"That's it. At least till breakfast. You'll probably be in the short line with the other newbs." This new arrival was an odd one. Quirky. Alert eyes tipped off that he was intelligent. But not too quick to pick up on subtle sarcasm.

"Let me guess. You're a slicer. That explains at least the broad strokes of how you landed in here. The way you arrived, though, I'm sure there's more to the story."

Kizael turned his attention briefly to the holoset. "Espo forces have reclaimed the Vin'jai province on Brochiib. Casualties were light despite heavy resistance by terrorist insurgents. Viceprex Allard issued a statement today..."

The Trianii's whiskers twitched slightly before turning back to the conversation. "My name's Drin."

[Morgan Evanar]

“Morgan. Yeah, I’m a slicer.” he said quietly and leaned himself against the wall, looking Drin over with suspicion. He looked at the holo for a moment, too. He wasn’t that familiar with CSA space, but Brochiib was a Trianii world, or at least the map he had implied it. There were a fair number of them in the prison. The CSA seemed to be overly fond putting aliens in Star’s End. He was sure to be popular. CSA was human run and most of them would be looking for a way to vent anger.

Breakfast. Morgan stopped thinking about it as quickly as possible. With the beating he took yesterday, he needed a meal, soon.

He gnashed his teeth for a moment. “I think my fence sold me out.” He said, and pulled his hands down his face, leaving his fingers over his mouth. Morgan realized he was still distracted. To survive, he needed to be in the here and now. He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, bringing himself into the present. Notice the texture of the wall, the jumpsuit that was too loose around his middle.

“I’m upset about that.” Drin didn’t say anything.
“It’s difficult to deal with, operating without that degree of reliability. It lands you in situations like this.” The slicer focused on talking and not raging. He knew he had to keep things together. Breathe.

“So were you just unlucky or did someone give you a helping hand?”

[Drin Kizael]

"Maybe if I beleived in luck, I could say that. No. I engaged a mining company in a debate over civil disobedience."

Kizael took a step toward the door, as if looking for something. The cell doors were constructed of durasteel, half forming a solid wall, the other half with bars spaced a good half meter apart and 2 flat crossbeams that served as mini counters for package delivery, or arm and footrests.

The frame was more for psychological effect, though. The real security was in the magnetic shield that covered the exterior of the door. Interestingly enough, the Trigdale field generator on each cell was amazingly quiet. They had to be with all the Trianii and Duro inmates. Typically a prisoner discovered its existance only by mistake.

"Who won, depends on who you ask," Kizael added.

He gestured to a passing Espo guard, calling to him with a stage whisper. The guard, in turn, veered his path slightly to get closer to the cell door.

The Trianii hunched a little, leaning on the door frame. "Hey, Dar. Is the newb here in the short line?"

The guard nodded, still walking, but more casually. "Get me in with the cleaning crew, kay?" The guard scowled somewhat at that. Drin just looked back flatly, and almost imperceptably waved his fingers, as if tapping on the crossbeam of the door. "Get me on the cleaning crew. Talk to Roker if you have to."

Kizael turned back to Morgan. "Fifteen minutes." He tilted his head toward the back corner of the cell, then leaned back against he railing. "If you need the 'fresher, now's the time."

[Morgan Evanar]

Morgan thought about Drin’s predicament. At least he had something to stand for. On Nar Shadda, there wasn’t anyone to stand for. There weren’t any good people, just people trying to win at something. He was a slicer. He broke into computer systems and passed along information for some money. That was it. There wasn’t anyone good involved. There was whoever he was breaking into, who was never nice, and whoever he passed the info in exchange for some credits, who were never nice either. It was circle of moral depravity, but he was good at it.

The slicer watched Drin convince the guard to let him in the first line. The frell is this? It was a calm order from the Trianii, and the guard just took it with a blank look. It made the hair on Morgan’s arms stand on edge.

“Thanks.” Morgan disappeared and re-appeared a minute later. He did his best to shuffle and not stride. People who took eight stunsticks in the torso didn’t stride the next day. Aside from the skin on his chest burning as it healed, he felt fine, if ravenous.

“I feel like I could eat half a bantha.” He said, slouching a little. It was difficult to fake this sort of thing, but he tried anyway.

Breakfast was three hundred beings, a small number of prisoners compared to the numbers the facility had. And that was just this block.

Morgan kept his hands to himself, and his head low, but his eyes flitted about, observing his inmates. Drin was separated to another part of the line with the cleaning staff, leaving Morgan at the back with a pair of grumpy Aqualish. They had an anger-stench. Most species smelled different when they were angry, but Aqualishes reeked.

They barked that he should get to the back of the line.
“What?” He feigned ignorance. One didn’t last long professionally on Nar Shadda without knowing at least a smattering of the language. A few violent gestures later indicating that he should get out of their way, and morgan shrugged and complied. A carefully placed foot hooked the slicer’s ankle, but Morgan merely stumbled.

“You frellin’ humans always get us in trouble and we don’t do anything.”
“Hey hey, wait. I’m not from around here. I’ve never seen you before.” Morgan held his hands up. The guards were ten meters away, but busy conversing.
Another Aqualishisi growl. The guards looked up. Morgan smiled a little. The slightly shorter walrus-face was done talking, and a punch was flung at the smiling slicer. Morgan cocked his head to the side, letting the blow graze his face. He stumbled back.

Morgan grinned. The pair rushed him. He caught the first with an elbow to the head and the other with a knee to the gut before the crackling of stun sticks froze everyone.There goes breakfast. They were escorted back to their cells, and some gross looking stuff in a bowl was shoved through the bars. It smelled awful but he had learned long ago that he could digest almost anything without ill effects.

“That went well.” He said to no one, and closed his eyes and waited for Drin to come back.

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael dared hope that breakfast would be uneventful. Silly wishful thinking. The timing and circumstances of Morgan's arrival alone were enough to tell him it wouldn't be that easy.

They started in the line together. Many prisoners, mostly those in protective custody, were already eating. A number of Trianii nodded respectfully as the pair entered the chow hall. Other inmates darted suspicious or threatening looks at Morgan, but then looked up and eased off almost apologetically. It was another typical morning.

Kizael pointed out some of the important locations, offering a couple tips about some ways to cut corners and letting him know about some of the "cliques" in their wing of the complex. Then he noticed one such clique casting sidelong glances at them, trying to not to be obvious, but failing.

Being one of the rarer sentient species in the galaxy, especially being couped up in a melting pot like Star's End, Kizael couldn't be considered racist by any stretch of the imagination. But there were times when he encountered a race so primitive, so obtuse, so clearly incapable of achieving space flight on their own without outside help, that he can't help but understand where at least some racism originates.

Aqualish were one such species. Ando was one of the Republic's biggest embarrasments, home to thick-skulled, brutish amphibians and insectoids that even most Jedi Counsellors were hard pressed to deal with. So seeing them agitated and huddling conspiratorially in Morgan's presence couldn't mean anything good.

"Stay close," Kizael started to say, but was unexpectedly cut off by an excitable Snivvian. Tufts of fur on the back of his neck tensed when suddenly the Duty Guard tapped his arm hard with a baton, pointing him to the left where the kitchen line split off. The Snivvian jabbered on more about some holocard from the library, and somehow found himself heading the opposite direction as Morgan.

Drin crooked his head, tuning out the little pig-faced alien to process what exactly just happened. The question was quickly answered when he spotted a subtle nod between the guard and Aqualish as he tucked a piece of paper into his pocket.

The Trianii's eyes narrowed.

[Drin Kizael]

Ten minutes after Morgan's breakfast was served, a blue-plated protocol droid wobbled up to his cell with a datapad in hand. It was an older, but sturdier model from the Cybot series, with a squarish head and thicker limbs. It looked first at Morgan, then to the panel next to the door, back to the pad, and then finally focused on Morgan.

"Introduction: I am J8-K33," it said, earning the pronoun 'he'. His vocabulator gave him an almost gravelly voice. "Most of the block calls me Jake. I respond to both."

"Statement," he continued quickly. "Review of your file indicates that you are best suited to maintenance duty. So you have been assigned to the Maintenance and Facilities Division. Due to your altercation with Prisoners 276862 Delta and 276875 Delta, you have been assigned to Blue Team."

The droid quickly looked down at the datapad. "Instruction: You are to report at 1020 to your Labormaster. You will be confined to your cell until then." Without waiting for protest or acknowledgement, Jake reached over to the control panel to the left of the door. "While you wait, please enjoy this orientation holovid."

The corner of the room flickered and the newscast was replaced by an image of swirling stars. Epic music started to build, softly at first, then growing as the image centered in a single bright star. The scene weaved through an asteroid field, flashed past a CSA Dreadnaught, quickly zoomed in on the fifth planet in the solar system, and finally came to rest on a spire rising above a sprawling compound built into the rocky surface of the planet.

The music shifted to upbeat techno as words lit up across the hologram,


The Corporate Sector Authority Proudly Presents
STAR'S END
A Model Penal Colony

For 20 minutes, Morgan was regaled with the clean, efficient work of planning and engineering that was Star's End. A goreous, perky model walked him through the whole complex from the mines to the spa. She illustrated the map --only showing non-restricted areas of course-- and outlined Morgan's daily schedule.

The CSA spokeswoman then cheerfully explained the 10-point demerit system, how points were earned, paid off, and the effects of each point. She politely indicated the glowpanel bar code near the ceieling at the far end of the cell. One bar was lit on Morgan's row.

Drin's row had six.

The holovid winked out, switching back to the news. Just then Kizael appeared outside the bars, leaning against the edge of the door. He smiled disarmingly. "Off to a great start, I see."

[Morgan Evanar]

Despite that it was pure propaganda, the slicer closely observed every detail presented. Whoever made the holo was not security minded. Sure, the blatantly obvious things weren’t present, but lots of little details like comm. access points and service junctions were. Morgan lost himself putting together a cohesive model of Star’s End in his mind, until the scenery stopped and it was replaced with an announcer bimbo. I wonder how much they paid her for this? he pondered as she explained the demerit system. He already had one bar. If this kept up he’d be executed in two weeks. Someone had it out for him. He didn’t have a bounty on his head, so who was pulling the strings on this?

Drin appeared as if cued, smiling a Triannii smile, which was a toothy affair. It was far friendlier than a Transdoshan grin.

Morgan smiled back at Drin, and what started as a light chuckle evolved into side-aching, tear inducing hysterical laughter that left him leaning against the wall.

“Ohhhh.” He managed after having calmed down for a moment. “If this place were any more ironic, it would generate its own antimatter and self-annihilate.” He said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

[Drin Kizael]

Drin crooked an eyebrow. He certainly was an odd one.

"Actually," he replied with a chuckle. "A good portion of the complex was rebuilt. A few years before I got here, there was a pretty big explosion during a breakout."

Kizael nodded toward the holoprojector, which had changed to some kind of sportsmen's programming spotlighting the hunting grounds of Etti IV.

"And just so you know," Kizael added. "Don't put much stock in the holovid map. Every slicer thinks the same thing. Let me save you the aggravation. Anything on that 'map' other than hallway and room layout is bogus. They're put in there to make newbies think they're clever.

"Everything's filtered here. The only thing authentic we get is financial news. Hell we didn't even find out about Alderaan till sometime," Kizael paused, glancing up and left. "Last year? And even then I think it was a slip-up."

The Trianii's whiskers twitched subtly. "If security seems lax, it's only because they know there's nowhere to go. There's nothing but rock and vacuum beyond these walls. And security is a whole different hologram the closer you get to the hangars or the surface."

He nodded to a passing inmate. "Here's another little inside tip. That demerit bar," he said, gesturing to the wall. "It'll never show, but the scale goes 10 points the other direction. If you're a good little nerf, you get a cell upstairs with 16 hour access to the good gym and the library.

"Rumor has it some of them even get mail," he said, shifting his weight to keep his voice from projecting too far.

Kizael stretched. "So I'm on the cleaning crew. Found out you'll be on maintenance, other side of the compound from the Aqualish. Not that you have much trouble watching your own back I noticed."

With a final sideways nod, he headed off.

[Morgan Evanar]

“I don’t put much stock in anything that comes from government sources.”

Drin was underestimating him. He knew the map beyond the layout was worthless, but the background footage wasn’t. That was what Morgan had been dissecting. And mail? Morgan’s parents as dead as duracrete. They had both expired over eight years ago. His adoptive mother was fatally injured in a speeder accident when he was nine, and his adoptive father spiraled into gambling and booze until it got him killed. Bang. Further, he had no relatives: Mom and Pop were products of an opposed whirlwind romance. Morgan adapted. He had always been adept with machines and technology, but beyond that, he was good at not being noticed and getting into places, and it landed him with one of the Hutt supported minor gangs for about two years before he got his feet under him.

So the merit system did go the other way. The slicer frowned. This was the sort of system that took time to manipulate and learn. He hoped he didn’t wash out before then. Fact of the matter was he probably wasn’t ever going to leave this rock without some sort of divine intervention. Morgan looked down for his wrist chrono, which wasn’t there. It made him sad, to loose one of the few pieces his mother had left behind.

“200773 Gamma.” Morgan nodded, and shuffled as best he could.

“I’m your overseer, Kint. Here’s the deal: you do your job, I won’t make your life more miserable. Can ya weld? It says you’re a slicer but ya got more meat on your bones than most of em.”

”Yes.” He said slowly.

“Good. Last guy who actually knew how to weld worth spit got clever.”

“I’m not clever.” Morgan said as neutrally as possible. Kint looked him over and laughed.

“Sure ya aren’t. If you weren’t clever you wouldn’t be here. Heard you got a penchant for trouble too. I don’t take dren from you im-be-sciles.” Kint said with a chuckle. Morgan wanted to erase his smile with a plasma cutter. Instead he half shrugged. Kint laughed again, and opened Morgan’s door.

“Cmon, cleverman, I have a water line that needs replacin’.”

Kint lead a small group of prisoners to the water reclamation facility, otherwise known as “The Maze.”

“Welcome to The Maze. All the nasty dren you ate yesterday will end up here, be cleaned by clever bits of technology, and run through again. In case ya haven’t noticed, the outside is hard vacuum. Most of this crud is older than any of us, so it breaks. A lot. CSA hasn’t been that old as an official organism but Star’s End is older than that nonsense and isn’t polished like the Emperor’s boots.” Thanks for the info, grandpa!

After introductions, Morgan was set to work fixing a rather dangerous piece of pipe. It was in one of the vertical exchanges: multistory affairs with the bottoms covered in bits of discarded pipe. He had to climb with subpar gear, and then pray his harness didn’t snap while cutting pipe alone. This was something that was meant for a team of four, but Kint told him he was on his own. Despite this, Morgan’s physical gifts allowed him to succeed.

He flipped up the welder’s mask, and wiped sweat from his brow. He was finally done. These welds would hold long after the pipe quit. Morgan began to lower himself down when the duracrete spit the hook from the wall. Eyes wide, he grabbed the pipe.

“Oh sithspit.” He said after the hook clanged against the wreckage below. He shimmied down the pipe, eternally grateful that he had done the welding himself. Morgan kicked off the wall and sailed six meters before his hands grabbed the ledge. He pulled himself up and sighed. This was not a good way to start.

"Pipe's done." He reported to Kint, who hid his surprise well.

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael had a situation on his hands, and it wasn't just the tenacious lime deposits in the K-Block refresher sinks that bothered him.

Morgan was brought in with enough stun bruises to drop a graul. That might be enough to at least raise an eyebrow in any other corner of the galaxy, assuming that Morgan was full blooded human. Kizael had no way of knowing for sure, but that wasn't even the troublesome part.

The question wasn't how, but why. Despite the lesson in Aqualish diplomacy this morning, the cagey slicer hadn't given much indication that he was overly prone to violence. Granted that was based on all of 20 minutes of observation, but the Trianii was fairly good at reading people.

Factor in the uncharacteristically clever tactics used to isolate him on his very first day, and the Trianii couldn't help but become a conspiracy theorist.

Regardless, Kizael was trying to send a message by changing breakfast lines. Leave the new guy alone. That message was flatly ignored. Whether by design or ignornace, he'd soon find out. But in either event, it had to be dealt with in the same manner.

Drin loaded up the hovercart and moved on toward the next mess.

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael waved to a guard droid as he entered the next wing of cells. With a casual step, he turned at the first intersection. Five meters past the corner, just beyond the radius of a holocam, he brought the cleaning crew hovercart to a halt and unloaded a hydromop and bucket.

He flipped a switch. The cart went into scubber mode, triggering the pallette to drop heavy duty brushes onto the floor with a loud whirr. The droid looked over curiously at the sound, then returned its focus to the monitor.

Still whistling a light-hearted tune, Kizael pushed the mop bucket down the row of cells. A number of inmates, a more motley mix of aliens in this wing than others, nodded his direction. Some looked up at him, then down the corridor, and had a sudden urge to stretch their legs.

At the end of the corridor, a chatty Snivvian turned around, trailing off with a hint of panic. Behind him, three Aquala and a Quarra looked over in unison.

"Hey arseface!"

The sturdy plastine mop handle darted up, lodging under the first Aquala's massive incisors. Kizael shoved the handle hard into his chin, dropping the burly alien in a sputtering heap.

Undeterred, the two diplomats lunged at him. The makeshift staff struck as if alive, rattling between their skulls. Suddenly it spun vertically with a sudden stop in the second one's groin. Kizael thumbed a switch, spraying the third with a jet of soapy water and as he shoved the spinning cloth end of the mop in his face.

With one hand, Kizael jabbed the second Aquala in his flank and tossed the mop into the side of his head. With the other, he struck the third flustered thug just below the throat, throwing him into a gasping fit. Suddenly the big Trianii dragged in a headlock toward the mop bucket.

The Aquala's eyes widened with every step. Undoubtedly he was trying to scream, but his lungs couldn't find the strength. Drin dunked the ugly brute into the muck-ridden water with an ugly splash. After a few seconds of useless struggle, Kizael yanked him out, tossed him against the force field of the nearest cell, and turned toward his remaining friends.

And was met by the shrillest, most blood curdling, feminine scream he had ever heard.

Behind the Snivvian, the Quarra, definitely the more cowardly of the Aqualish races, simply sat there shaking. Kizael curled his lip, flashing his canine teeth. Even filed down, they did not take much away from his feral qualities.

"Some o'the boys got a little carried away, Drin." the snaggletoothed midget sputtered in squeaky Basic. "Won't happen again."

Kizael narrowed his eyes, hiding his surprise. From everything he could sense from the little trog, that wasn't just a cover story. They really were just testing their boundaries with the new guy. So much for conspiracy theories.

He kept his gaze fixed on them for several more heratbeats. Then, as casually as he had first entered, he started whistling and strolled away. It wasn't the way he would have liked to have handled the situation, but there was little choice with some types.

Besides, he wasn't a Jedi Counselor.


***

Work detail was done for the afternoon, leaving Marj Gitano with the final task of equipment inventory. It was a menial task that he took in stride, as did so many other former Trianii Rangers imprisoned on Mytus VII. But today he almost felt important again. Today his existance seemed to go beyond counting hydrospanners and folding safety harnesses.

He held one such harness in his furred hands with concerned curiosity.

"Marj!" his labormaster barked. "Wrap it up convict."

Gitano of Clan Marj nodded curtly, running a finger over the grooved scar in the broken welder's harness.

"Coming, Overseer Kint ."

[Morgan Evanar]

The rest of Morgan’s day had not been so exciting. Sure, his skill with a welder was used, but he didn’t risk life or limb again. He spent the rest of the day from a more terrestrial view from the safety of access planks. He was still trying to figure out who wanted him dead so badly, and was running out of options. As far as he knew, the Hutts had no pull with the Corporate Sector.

“Lunch time. You’re on first shift, 200773 Gam. Hope you can find your way to the hall on your own.”

Morgan said nothing. He had a nearly holographic memory, so he shuffled his way to lunch. Everyone seemed to be purposely avoiding him. Morgan ate his meal, a protein bar and some grey sludge, in silence. It was a change for the better. Still, he had a craving for something fried and awful. His body wanted saturated fat for some reason.

The walrus delegation was very quiet, and doing an interesting dance of avoiding being anywhere near the slicer. A few Trianii glanced him over for a moment, but said nothing. He suspected politics. Everyone dealt with politics. It was a game Morgan knew how to play but did not relish.

Things became dreadfully boring. Lunch slimed into afternoon shift, which oozed into dinner, which mercifully halted the process.

Morgan watched the propaganda news presentation, sitting slouched in a corner with his forearms against his knees. His large hands hung like flyswatters, waiting for use.

“I take it you impressed upon the Aqualish that I was not in their best interest. I appreciate the gesture, but I’m trying to figure why? I just got here. There is something in play I don’t understand, Drin.”

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael sat on his reclaimed bottom bunk, crosslegged, reading his book when Morgan posed the question. Watching him adjust this first day reminded the old trianii what it was like to feel like you had somewhere else to be.

"Honestly, Morgan, I don't know yet. On the simplest level, we're stuck with each other. When you are confined to quarters, when you rack up demerits, that calls unwanted attention on me. I don't like attention.

"What happened with the Aqualish was more a matter of politics. They chose to ignore my request to leave you --and by extension, me-- in peace. If you want to survive in here, you can't let something like that slide."

Kizael lowered his book, shifting a sidelong glance at the slicer. "If there's more to it than that, you have to tell me what it is."

[Morgan Evanar]

“Someone really wants me dead, and not just the Hutts—they want everyone who inconveniences them dead. I sliced a Jora-Figor Transport system.” Jora was the prime transport company in the corporate sector.

“My client was supposedly interested in the cargo and…” Morgan gulped.
“…and yeah.” He held his hands over his face.
“I wish I couldn’t read as fast as I can.”

“My harness snapped while I was replacing a pipe in the Maze. I should be rotting down there. But I’ve, I’ve got excellent reflexes.” Morgan looked a Drin, wondering why he was telling him anything. He realized that the Trianii was the first being he had met since his mother had passed away that had the slightest degree altruism. It was comforting and disconcerting. For some reason, being honest with Drin seemed like a good idea.

“Drin, you’re the only uh, noble person I think I’ve met in ten years or so.”

[Drin Kizael]

Kizael chuckled softly. "Oh I doubt that."

He looked over at Morgan's chosen corner of the cell. "Even in places like Nar Shaada, nobility can be found if you know how to recognize it. In some sentients, it's just buried a little deeper than others."

His features shifted somewhat, as if noticing something in the distance. "One of our most regarded heroes in our struggle is a human, believe it or not. We know him as Solo Captain.

"From the way I've heard it, his story was not entirely unlike yours. He came to this corner of space running from Hutts, then gets caught up with a loan shark out here. He only tripped into our struggle by accident."

Kizael's eyes shifted back to the present. "A corporate contract within these walls isn't unheard of. If you're to deal with it, you'll need help. Tomorrow, there's someone I want you to meet."

[Morgan Evanar]

“Solo Captain? Sounds backwards. I’ve heard of a Captain Solo. Joined the Rebel Alliance with some stunning Alderaanian Princess. He’s the stuff of legend and nonsense. No one probably knows his story right besides him.” Morgan shrugged. He tried to remember Solo’s first name, and realized he didn’t care. A lot of people had legends and nonsense. Like the Jedi. No one really knew about the Jedi anymore, because they were all dead. Statistically, there still should be a few alive, but the Imperial propaganda was quite certain. The slicer was certain they were full of it, but Morgan had been too busy looking out for number one to look into it either way. Until recently, looking out for himself had worked quite well, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“I’m not running from the Hutts. We’ve been leaving each other alone for two years now. They probably just paid my fence to off me. But anyway. I’ll take whatever I can get at this point. I’m not used to being so, er, enclosed.” Drin laughed.

Morgan passed the time by stretching until the lights went out. What good was a limber mind without a flexible body? He closed his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.

One of the lights in the hangar had gone out due to disuse. No one had occupied this hangar in years. Yet he was here for something. In the darkness, a pair of eyes floated. A smile appeared as the being moved into the light: a woman, with red hair and pale skin. She smiled, but it was a cold gesture. She was tall, about 1.7 meters, and slightly muscular. Her movement was efficient and graceful. She was a predator.

Morgan backed away, toward the shuttle that had not moved in ten years. Drin had told him something, but he didn’t know what it meant yet. It would be important that he knew it in the future, but it was muted now. How did Drin figure into this, the present asked, not the future. The future knew. He leapt back, making a jump that was impossible, even for him.

The wrist! Watch her wrist! Too late. The smart rope wrapped around his ankle, altering his amazing leap into the side of the shuttle. Pain hit, but he rose to his feet, and then she pressed a button…

Morgan jerked awake, but did not hit his head. He flopped back into the cot, slowing his breath. It was near wakeup anyway. The woman he had seen before, and she always pursued him, but not always with violence. Sometimes she wore grey armor, emblazoned with the Imperial crest in metallic purple on the shoulders. Sometimes simple garb, but it was always practical. She was always dangerous, but not always to him. It didn't make sense. The slicer let it go.
After all, it was just a dream.

[Drin Kizael]

The next day was alarmingly uneventful. Breakfast was bland, but not wretched. Everyone filed out of the chow hall without incident. Even the Aqualish's posturing was limited to a single sidelong glare they returned to their cell wings.

But the quiet of the morning was far from calm. There was an underlying tension mingled in the air. If Morgan felt it, he may chalk it up to their surroundings. It was a prison, and at least half of the inmates actually deserved to be there.

Kizael managed to get a route closer to Morgan's maintenance crew. His friend, Marj Gitano, gladly had nothing to report. And so it was that they found themselves in general population without so much as a harsh whipser thrown at them.

On cue with the guard droid rotation, Kizael slapped Morgan on the arm. "Okay. Follow me," was all he said as he promptly strode toward the service hall.

He walked with a purpose, like patrolling the corridors connecting the various refreshers (some species required different facilities) and laundry rooms was his normal daily routine. At the first intersection, he nodded to acknowledge an Espo down the hall without missing a beat. At the second, his eyes shifted subtly toward a holocam, adding "So down this way's the 'sundry store' as we like to call it," with a casual gesture down the hallway.

They stopped suddenly in front of a maintenance door. Kizael grabbed Morgan's shoulder to stop him. Noting his position, he gently nudged the human backward a couple steps with a big furred hand.

"So what do you think of the Basilisks chances this year?" he asked casually. Trouble is, he was referring a smashball franchise team that had gone bankrupt 20 years ago.

A glowpanel flashed overhead. There was another pause of a few heartbeats, and the maintenance door slid open with an ominous hiss. Almost too ominous, actually, thanks to subtle tweaks to the hydrolics of the door.

The pair rounded two more turns, hopped down some stairs, and wove through a catwalk girder before Kizael finally spoke in a normal tone again. "If there's any leads on who Jora-Figor has on the inside, or what their plans are, this guy'll know. He's slowly been wiring the whole facility since before I got here."

The journey came to an abrupt end when they crossed the threshold of a cargo bay. The lights went dim except for a lamp pouring soft bluish light over a dataconsole array.

In the center of the holographic displays, visible as little more than a silhouette, hunched a 1.3 meter tall humanoid, mumbling to himself and madly typing away.

[Roker]

At first it didn't seem like the little man even noticed them. He stayed focus on his holoscreens, typing and muttering without even glancing their way. But a closer look at one of the screens showed Morgan's picture with his prison file data scrolling by.

From his perch, the little man shifted around and looked at them suspiciously. "What'reya doin' to me, Drin?" He pointed at Morgan. "The only reason he's here, is 'cause it's you."

He slid off the chair to the floor, straightening as he marched over to the pair. Out of the harsh light it became clearer that he wasn't a small human, but a Bimm. He wore his brown hair in an unkempt mane, and was clean shaven save for long sideburns rather than the traditional beard seen on most of his people.

He looked up at Morgan abruptly.

"Alright who are you? Yeah I know I read your rap sheet, but I don't have access to the holonet -- yet, but I'm working on it okay, can only do so much a time when you have to maintain a rotating node matrix to stay hidden -- so all I've got is what the CSA knows about you. What's your story?"

He suddenly looked back at the computers, as if realizing something. He slowly turned back, distant and distracted.

"Oh!" he blurted suddenly. Looking up as if remembering he wasn't alone, he added. "Uhh... I'm Roker. Okay so c'mon." He gestured rapidly as if asking for a handout and looked up expectantly. "Talk."

Just as suddenly he stopped, and tilted his ear slightly, waiting.

[Morgan Evanar]

Ah, the stereotypical slicer without social grace. Some were absolutely amazing at doing remote slices without a trace, but if you could gain local access, a lot more options became available, which was how Morgan handled things.

“CSA doesn’t have much on me. I mostly work out of Nar Shadda. I got paid to do a job out here. I pulled a dump from one of Jora-Figor's corporate databases.” Morgan shrugged.

“It was a setup. They knew exactly when to look for me. I don’t think they expected me to decrypt some of it as fast as I did. Some of those corporate meeting notes are quite fascinating. That’s the short. The long of it is that I frelled some Hutt pretty badly after it frelled me. In the metaphorical sense, of course. I got lucky, heh. Caught one of the nodes doing a transaction so I picked up half the encrypt header, and then I ran it back against a data set until I got something coherent. I was originally supposed to pull records relating to routes between the CSA and the core systems. All of them, not just the ones you can book cargo on. Also fascinating.” Roker was back at his screens, running a cleanup on some information.

“I guess the best place to start would be with someone in Jora-Figor who does business with the Hutt owned worlds.”

[Roker]

The scruffy Bimm listened intently, showing little reaction beyond keen interest, then nodding and darting his eyes excitedly.

"You didn't find out about..? Ooooohhh," Roker exclaimed under his breath. "Oh yeah. That's bad. Very bad. Hmmm."

He made his way back to the dataterminals as Morgan continued. "I don't suppose you have a copy of that encrypt header? So happens I have a little file on Jora-Figor. Don't know what the Hutts want with them. The CSA's always enjoyed a little cushion being out here. Unless..."

Roker shook his head and went back to typing. After a few long moments of silence after Morgan finished, he finally swivled in his chair and looked back.

"Okay here's what I can do. I can run a filter on all the inmates and guards with a connection to Jora-Figor. Can cross reference schedules and you can maybe stay a step ahead of them or at least know who to keep your eye on. I'll keep a closer watch on new arrivals, too.

"And I can get word to a friend outside. But that'll take a couple days." Suddenly he looked up at the chronometer. As if prodded by an ion charger, he jumped out of his chair and flipped a power switch, plunging his data terminal array into darkness.

"I'm serious about a copy of that encrypt," he said, making his way toward a ladder. "But not right now. I got seven and a half minutes till the afternoon roll call in the south wing."

Without missing a rung, he continued. "Meet me back here before the lunch rotation and we'll see what I have by then." And with that, a maintenance hatch clanged shut and sealed.

[Drin Kizael]

"Not terribly promising." Kizael watched the Bimm slicer disappeared into the rafters. "What all that boiled down to was, stay alert."

He started heading toward the exit. "Hurry. The door will lock automatically."

Making their way back to general populating, Kizael mulled over their situation. Problem was, at this point and with this many limits on information and movement, there was little they could do but wait and stay alert. He only hoped the time Roker needed was longer than their newfound enemies were willing to wait.

Something told him an opportunity would present itself soon, though.

[Morgan Evanar]

Morgan slid through the doors behind Drin, and they were down the hall when the timed lock slid into place. A bit close, but enough wiggle room. Nicely done.

“Well, it’s not like they would advertise this sort of thing. And who are the Basilisks?” Drin explained that they were a smashball team. Morgan didn’t follow smashball at all, and they went bankrupt when he was two. It was a case of mutual ignorance amounting to nothing. It was safe, unlike everything else at Star’s End.

They split off again, back to their respective jobs. Morgan wondered if he had the luxury of time. The Bimm seemed like an excellent slicer, and they way he had the place wired, who knew? But it would be lucky if the information was there. This sort of hit was often arranged in a quiet office or a pub with a few words and a carry full of credits. If he was around, he could always give the Bimm what he remembered of that encrypt, which was most of it.

He set back to work, and eased a plasma cutter over a large pipe. The intermittent hisses meant one of the control coils was fouling up. Morgan turned the machine off, held it away, and smacked it, flat palmed. He turned it back on, and it ran steady for another ten seconds until two of the three emitters cut out completely. The plasma cutter was now a low-yield plasma grenade. The slicer flung the cutter away from himself, and ducked and covered. A little metal scrap embedded themselves into his arm and upper torso.

“Sithspit!” he swore as he picked metal out of his skin.

Someone who had access to the tools was trying to kill him. They were either experienced saboteurs or experienced with plasma cutters.

“773 Gamma, what are ya doin’ here?” Kint sounded unusually irritated.
“The plasma cutter exploded.” Morgan deadpanned as best he could. He kept himself from grinding his teeth.
“Someone’s got it in for you, 773.” Kint handed him another one. It was a different, older, less efficient model.
Morgan nodded. “If anyone else is using a plasma cutter I’d have them check it. Maybe they just don’t like handy people.” He tried to keep himself from glaring at the overseer.

When the shift was over, Kint chewed him out for working too slowly. Morgan was about ready to beat the old man’s head in.

Dinner rolled around, and Morgan was able to nab a seat across from Drin.
“The plasma cutter I was using blew up.” Morgan picked out a bit of metal from his arm for emphasis.
“So how was your day?”

[Drin Kizael]

Drin Kizael was concerned. Were he anyone else, he may have been annoyed.

His every attempt get his and Morgan's schedules in synch this week had been blocked by someone outside his sphere of influence. While he never claimed to "run" the cell block, his seniority, so to speak, his knack for diplomacy, and his standing with the Trianii both at home and on Mytus VII had traditionally provided him a level of pull.

But when it came to Morgan, he was just another inmate. He was forced to rely on his network of friends and debtors to be his eyes and ears. Getting information after the fact, however, wasn't incredibly useful for keeping Morgan out of trouble. And they were no closer to rooting out the ad-hoc bounty hunter behind the attempts on his life. He could only hope Roker's connections pulled through.

“The plasma cutter I was using blew up.” Morgan picked out a bit of metal from his arm for emphasis. “So how was your day?”

Kizael couldn't help but chuckle. "Unproductive." His eyes drifted over to toward Jake, the late model protocol droid that served as superintendant of the block, as he made his rounds.

"Alarmingly unproductive."

Drin's hazel eyes shifted subtly as he tracked his gaze on the blue droid. Morgan could almost hear the gears spinning in his cellmate's head.

"Morgan you better get that arm looked at. That cut looks pretty nasty." He looked gravely at the almost unnoticeable scratch curving around his forearm. "You never know what kind of microbes are crawling around those metal pipes. Can't be too careful."

[Roker]

Deep within the unsecured maintenance levels of Star End, the Bimm slicer known only as Roker hunched over his terminal. He looked about at the array of holographic data scrolls, always keeping his security alerts in the corner of his eye. The right top display was key, monitoring the intricately disguised power grid and transmissions cloaks that he used to keep his little lab hidden.

The list that Drin needed was almost done. Sadly none of the names on it jumped out at him. It was the usual array of crooked guards and special treatment inmates. The database was almost done compling when he decided to take one last check on current events.

"What's this?" he asked aloud. "Whatwhatwhat?" he added, tapping anxiously at the orbital traffic reports. Soon a window popped up, showing a contingent of Espos and two officers, a human male and female, donned in distinctive Imperial gray.

"The Borealis, huh? Lieutenant Cath, and Major... Bailiol. Nice to meetcha."

Roker's eyes flitted over the hologram, which automatically shifted down the hall to the next security camera feed. An Imperial visit was rare enough. Virtually non-existant actually, but that's not what was nagging him.

He mumbled under his breath as he zoomed in on their transponder records. "Oh really?" he asked the computer with a chortle. He shifted back around toward the keypad, typing feverishly like a composer finding his muse. Soon a seemingly random string of characters flashed at him in red.

"Thought so." It was a forgery. A damn good one, but he could have done better.

His eyes narrowed to slits to accomodate the devious grin spreading across his features. With a rapid sequence against one of his floating panel displays, half of the monitors switched away from Morgan's database to focus on the new arrivals. The smile broadened when he called up their ident cards, each with the same flashing red string to match their transponder code.

"Well I'll be grifed."


To be continued...