Ranger Archive

Peeling off the sodden, peaty smelling clothes and lowering his bruised frame into the tub of hot, scented water ken' ath closed his eyes and reflected on the day.



It had started well, a wandering herd of bantha had decided to graze on the hillside below the ranger station. That had drawn in enough hide and meat to cover his repair bills for the week and had allowed him to shake out the cobwebs in his head from spending too long away from the hunt.



His neighbours, both young scouts, had joined him while the local doc gave everyone the once over and administered a few homebrewed medicines that helped give the hunters the edge over their prey. They agreed to drop off some meat on their return and headed out to where some ronto had been sighted earlier.



The twin suns were just above the east horizon meaning they had time to walk to the hunting grounds before the full glare of the midday sun turned Tatooines sandwastes to one massive griddle, searing any bare flesh with intense heat. Both of the younger members of the patrol whinged about being made to walk, but the old Ranger just laughed, asking if they really wanted to frighten off the animals. Maybe they were too weak to hunt? Perhaps they should have stayed back and helped decorate the new guild hall with the rest of the Watchmen?



The scouts followed on, sullenly measuring out the day step by gridging step, amazed at the older man's ability to just trot along without seeming to tire, never stumbling, and barely leaving a mark behind.



About 5km south west of Mos Espa the Ranger drew them up, knelt and inspected some tracks in the sand. Bootmarks, military pattern treads. Fresh, clear marks, not used to walking. Nearby scorching on the scrub told the rest of the story. "Imperial shuttle. Troopers, patrol strength, two non-coms" the Ranger mumbled, almost to himself. A few yards further ahead lay the remains of a man. Dressed in city clothes, a rough robe pulled over his face, nearby a pack lay ripped open, it's contents already slipping into the sands.



"Don't know what this guys business was, but they've dropped his body out here to be found...." he said, looking carefully around for any other clues. "Don't touch anything, move back a bit and lets go round the long way"



The youngest scout stared at the corpse, flyblown, burnt by the sun. "But we should bury him?" "No lad, that's what they're looking for, who comes out here to recover him and give him a funeral. Now, move. Fast."



They beat double time, back about 100 metres, then worked their way in towards the rock face. "In here..." the Ranger shot forward and into a narrow gap in the rocks. His two apprentices followed without question. Back in the dunes a dark shape lifted up from its hiding place, bleeped and whirred, extended folding legs to stabilise the weight of its body and began moving towards their hiding place. "Probot. I knew they'd have left one or more out here. Stay down"



The Ranger moved to the opening in the rock, dropped to one knee and slipped a heavy military blaster from the oilcloth that protected it from the sand. Tipping his body forward he assumed the prone firing position, brought the rifle to his cheek, aimed, and fired in one smooth movement. Almost as soon as it's head cleared the smaill ridge at the edge of the dunefield, the probot shuddered, a shower of sparks erupting from the camera mount on one side of its chassis and, almost simultaneously, the thin plating on the opposite side blew out, scattering circuit boards and cabling across the sand. "Keep down...." hissed the ranger as the scouts began to press forward. The explosion shattered what was left of the silence as a large anti-tamper charge ripped the probot into a thousand angry flying shards. "Hopefully it didn't get a long look at us, but we better get a shift on. Up the way, over the rocks. NOW!"



Popping up from the prone position, stowing his rifle and beginning to scrabble up the rockface, the Ranger seemed to work as efficiently as the machine he'd just destroyed. The scouts followed, with less grace, but youthful muscles managed to keep the pace up. Over the ridge of the cliff, and already they were sprinting over the plateau, dodging rocks and crevasses, watchful for the shape of descending Lambda shuttles.



Forced up onto higher ground than had been his intention the Ranger knew that they would be exposed, not only to the full glare of the suns, but to the eyes of anyone looking out over the flat plateau. The best way to avoid detection and the building heat would be to drop into the crevasses, work their way across the plain as best they could. This would mean following the direction of these natural trenches back and forth and that could mean taking twice as long to cross, but better to err on the safe side. For now.



After an hour of backbreaking crouched running, ducking in and out of shadows, scrabbling over rocks and avoiding the various small creatures that hunted down here for any scrap of food that’d been blown in from the surrounding desert they stopped for a brief rest.



A small stove was produced from a backpack, water was boiled and some leaves from the local kuafu shrub were dropped in to make a strong, reddish brown tea. A reversible sheet, sand coloured on one side, greyish brown and green on the other, was stretched across the width of the trench to give a little cover from the buzzing white light of the day though it did little to stop the actual heat.



“Keep a look out up top lad” Ken’ said in a low voice and one of the scouts shimmied up to the edge of the sheeting and peered out over the dirt wastes. The other scout busied himself pouring tea, adding some strong bantha milk and a few spices to mask the milks sour taste. “Food fit for a soldier” the old Ranger mumbled in thanks as the steaming mug of hot t’chai was handed to him. Two further servings were poured and the scouts took up position on either side of the trench, sipping, watching, wondering.



Mid-day was not the time to be stuck out on the Mesric Plateau. Not when both suns beat down in full summer heat from a clear blue sky. The ranger party kept still in the shade, quietly watchful, listening for anything that disturbed the natural sound of the desert.



As the suns moved from the highest quarter of their progress and the air ceased to sear bare skin the Ranger and his two scouts broke camp, and began picking their way through the crevasses towards the hills south of Mos Eisley.

The quiet of the desert was shattered by the sudden explosion. A fireball formed in the air above the desert and the party hit the ground as fast as they could. A wave of heat rolled across the sand, hitting the hillside and setting off a chain of echoes. A new probot droid hit the sand with an almighty thud, lay motionless for a few seconds, then, as legs pushed down from it’s underside, lifted and hovered a few metres above the surface.



Even as they watched it scan the horizon they knew it had been called down from orbit, either by a bounty hunter or by Imperial forces. The sound of a vehicle nearby answered that. A bounty hunter. The speeder shot out from the shadows, stopped by the probot while a figure stepped out of the hovering vehicle, walked to the droid, tapped some information into a datapad and then scurried back to the speeder and drove away from the droid, directly towards the rangers party.

A little break from all the CU discussion.

-------------------------------------------------------

My father, Nellis Murray always told me this day would come. It’s was a day I had been looking forward to for 30 years. Finally, it was here, my first solo rancor hunt and I hunt for him.

My father always wanted me to fill his shoes one day and carry out the family tradition but this civil war sent me in another direction. I was raised by a Ranger from a long line of Rangers. I’ve been hunting since I was four on my families land on the plains of Corellia, until it was taken by the Empire.

I was off hunting on Talus when it all happened. My father asked me to gather some torton hides to help sell to an armorsmith in Coronet. I had been gone for three days when I got the message that the Empire had finally made it’s presence known on my homeworld. My father told me to stay where I was and not to come back until things had calmed down a bit. I regret listening to him to this day.

I stayed on Talus and continued to hunt, paying attention to the holonet at a local cantina and contacting my family whenever I could. The Empire had jammed all signals coming in and going out. My father, however, was resourceful enough to have a transmitter that could bypass and counter the jam. This may have been what led the Empire to our ranch, because one day, I could no longer get through.

After three or four days with no contact, I had enough. My ship was registered to my family and I figured if there was any trouble, I’d be a target as well. I ended up selling the hides for enough money to take a Rodian transport and get smuggled back into Coronet. When I got there, I managed to sneak out of the city and trek the 5000m cross country to our ranch.

When I got there, it was in smoking ruins and there were no signs of life anywhere. All of our livestock had been slaughtered and the burnt corpses of my family members lay out back, shot execution style and burnt as an example to others.

Shortly after I arrived, our nearest neighbor showed up on a spat mount and told me what had happened. Seems my dad put up one hell of a fight. Managed to snipe about twelve troopers before the place was overrun. He said my mother and sister got three or four as well and they put a hurt on the unit sent to clean the place up.

My neighbor helped me collect the bodies and bury them near a stream in a forest about 500m away from the ranch house. This area was our favorite place to hunt and fish. My dad loved this place.

The desire for revenge and retribution became overwhelming and I decided to forgo my Ranger background and join the Rebellion. Using my hunting abilities and weapons expertise I got involved with a small covert cell in Coronet and soon traveled off planet to attack bigger, Imperial game.

War seemed to fit me like a glove and I lost track of the number of kills I notched up. But bitterness and hatred eat at you like a cancer and after three or four years, it was all I had left. After a long campaign on some backwater planet, I decided I needed a break and went back to Corellia.

Our ranch land was now a small city. All ghosts of my former life were wiped away on the wind some years ago. The only thing I had left was the Corellian plains where I learned to hunt. So off I went.

I headed as far away from civilization as I possibly could and pitched camp. A nice little Ranger camp like my dad had taught me. Nothing extravagant, but it worked. I cleaned up my trusty old T-21 and made some camo from small game I had found on the way out. At this point it all came rushing back to me.

I was a ten year old little boy again listening to my dad explain how to best skin a tusk cat and preserve every bit of the carcass and hide. How to filet fish and control your breathing to get off the perfect shot. Suddenly the Rebellion seemed so far away and I took in the open Corellian air. The smell of summer wheat was intoxicating, especially when mixed with an open camp fire and a little brandy. The Rebellion could wait for my return, I was home and home I’d stay.

I never quite finished all my Ranger training before my father died so I decided to rededicate myself to it. I honed my stalking and tracking skills and never once took a mount or a swoop into the wild. My legs ached for the first week or so until they got used to the terrain. After awhile, I was running up mountains like a true Ranger, and loving every minute of it.

It took about a month to get back to where I was years ago, now I had one thing left to finish my training. A rancor hunt. It had always been a tradition with our family, that when it was time to master your Ranger skills, you hunt and solo your own rancor. It was usually a family affair and it was the culminating even my father and I always talked about and looked forward to.

While on Corellia, I managed to keep as far away from Imperial patrols as I could and when leaving, got up with some Rebel contacts for a quick hop to Dathomire. Before we entered the Dath system, I collected supplies from a small outpost on Talus and went on. Immediately upon landing I collected my gear and ran into the closest wood line..

My first priority was masking my presence, I didn’t quite have the recipe down for Dath camo. That was one of the family secrets my dad was going to pass down. I checked my scope, made sure all my weapons, gear and clothing were soundproofed and snug, then I took off for the hunt.

I went south towards the tar pits, mainly because I didn’t want to have to tangle with the witches. I have a thing for Nightsisters, if I had my way, I’d sell myself to ‘em as a sex slave, but I didn’t have the time to toy with that idea and I didn’t want to accidentally shoot one of their mounts and cause any, ill will.

I tracked the better part of a day before I broke my first camp. At least it seemed like a day, this Dath atmosphere is crazy. Always gloomy but awesome none the less.

After a good four hours of sleep I broke camp and continued on my way. Breakfast was some protein wafers, a stalk or two of thakitlo and a quaff of brandy and Jawa beer. I had walked a good 300m when I caught his scent in the air. Rancor have a distinct smell, like giant angler spiders mixed with bile. Immediately I check the ground for tracks. Found him, and from the wetness of the mud, I figured he was a good 200m away traveling southeast.

Not wanting to rush it, I savored every step as I got closer and closer. When I finally caught a glimpse of him, he was huge. Bigger than I had ever imagined. He looked grizzled and old… and pissed. Something had set him off and he was fuming.

Most enraged rancor are hard as hell to sneak up on since they’re looking for something to deal their wrath upon. He looked in my direction and I ducked down as quick as I could taking cover in a cluster of brambles. I could feel my pulse race as if my heart would beat out of my chest and splatter on the Dath ground.

He didn’t see me, but he knew something wasn’t right. He kept scanning the wood line I was in and sniffing the air as I slowly raised my rifle to my shoulder. This time I brought my DXR-6b along for the ride. It was my dad’s rifle, the one he used just for rancor hunts. I had taken it along with me to Talus that fateful day in case I ran across a torton that needed that “special” touch. I’m glad I did to, otherwise it would be on some nasty Imp’s trophy wall somewhere.

I relaxed my breathing as best I could. By the Force this guy’s huge, I thought. I wasn’t sure if I could bring him down at all. I stayed concealed and calculated our distance to each other to be about 54 meters. Perfect.

Sight alignment…

Sight picture…

Inhale…

Exhale…

Inhale and hold…

Squeeze ever so slowly…

The shot came as a surprise like it always should and the hit was dead on. Right behind his left ear where it would do the most damage to his head and mind. He sure felt it, but was nowhere close to being knocked down yet. He screamed even more after I took the second shot.

The air filled with the stench of his anger. If he wasn’t mad before, he sure as hell was now. But the two shots were taking their toll as he developed a brain bleed. He had a hard time gathering his senses to determine where I was. One more shot should do it. I concentrated and aimed for the same spot as the first shot.

Shot off!!! Close enough, it hit within inches of the first one but only because he turned his head at the last second. It was at that point that he saw me.

Poodoo, I was screwed!

He rushed up the hill I was on as fast as he could, I jumped up to a kneeling position and took steady aim.

It got hard to concentrate, my pulse kept getting faster and faster making it harder to time my shot between down beats.

40 meters…

30 meters…

20 meters…

SQUEEZE!!!

I had to roll out of the way as the beasts lifeless body slumped down right where I was kneeling. As his head hit the ground, saliva and blood splattered out of his mouth and covered me. The heat and the stench, multiplied by my own nerves sent my stomach into convulsions as I threw up every ounce of beer, brandy and food I had for breakfast.

I tried to stand but was too dizzy. I needed to get my mind focused again and wrapped around the task of skinning this thing. While kneeling beside his head, I took out a flask of brandy and washed out my mouth. A little better anyway. Ok I thought, let’s do this.

I slung my rifle across my shoulder and drew my hunting knife. First thing’s first. I opened his bloody mouth and cut out the largest tooth I could see and stuffed it into my pocket. Then, starting at the back of his neck, I gutted him and peeled his hide.

After rolling the mammoth skin into my ruck sack, I checked the contents of his stomach to see if I could find any treasure. Nothing, go figure. After cleaning my face off in a nearby stream, I pitched camp again and settled in for the evening. Rancor meat is very gamey and tough, especially an ancient enraged rancor. Never the less, I was determined to choke it down.

As I sat around the campfire, I took out the rancor tooth, cleaned it off and bore a small hole in it. After making a bit of cord out of his sinew, I threaded it through the hole, tied it off and placed it around my neck. The hide I would sell back on Corellia, the tooth…

well, when I got back, I placed it on my father’s headstone.


Plunk

Message Edited by FourthNail on 04-04-2005 01:33 PM

Long after dark, in that close thick air that settles in a room as people sleep, Marek sat patiently, listening to the snoring, grunting and other night noises of his sleeping companions. His chair was resting back against the wall by the door, a blaster on his lap and two kusak hounds sprawled at his feet.

In the shadows he could see the sleeping forms of another six men, most recovering from the previous nights drinking, others twitching as dreams or nightmares rolled through troubled minds. These men slept on pallets, bedrolls or simply on the floor where they could find space. The only bed in the chamber was occupied by the large frame of their master and landlord, Brair of Mospic.

A large man, pale skinned with grey blue eyes, long dark hair and a beard that seemed to bristle when he was angered, Brair was the feudal overlord of the men who slept on the floor of this room, called here for his protection and to make a raiding party which would set out later in the night on behalf of his overlord, Huff Darklighter. Darklighter in turn was subservient to his master, tho he'd never admit it to your face, preferring to think of himself as first among equals.

Marek mused on this and smiled to himself at the thought of the towns people, the sort that lived in Espa, Eisley and Bestine, who looked down on the ranger clans as somehow 'primitive' but completely failed to see that they themselves were just as dependant on their superiors for protection, support, law and order as these people here, his extended family, were on the structired society that had allowed them to survive on the lawless wastes for centuries.

A sharp beeping in his pocket snapped him back to the real world, it was time. Standing up and kicking out at the nearest sleeping form he began waking the men. On the bed Brair's head raised, grunted then with a burst of energy that seemed misplaced in a frame as large as his, he kicked his feet out of the bed, rolled forward and roared "Wakey wakey!! Rise and SHINE! You've 'ad your fun, now I'll 'ave MINE!!" Much muttering and cursing rumbled round the room as the men stood, rubbed sleep from their eyes, gathered their equipment and argued about who was getting to the latrine first, who had kept who awake all night and just what sort of tiime was this for any good living son of the land to be about his business anyway.

Marek sluiced his face with a little precious water and, running his hands over his pockets and pack, mentally noted each piece of equipment, checked webbing and fastenings and with practised ease slid into the breast plate, hands blindly finding the clips and locking the light armour in place over a heavy hide jerkin. Already wearing trousers, reinforced in the seat and knees, and heavy leather boots that came up to the knee and were an idea place to stow a small flask of brandy or a backup blaster, he was ready to move out just a few minutes after his alarm had sounded.

All this was completed in the dark, preserving the groups night vision. Occaisional stumbles, curses and harsh words were to be expected and were ignored by all as everyone contentrated on the task in hand.

Brair strode past Marek into the next room where a breakfast had been left by the women of the house the night previously. Brairs wife, Emm Dee, was the only female to be seen as the raid party assembled in the room, drinking cool beer and eating breads, cheeses and meats from the platters on the table.

Emm Dee spoke to each man in turn, wished him "Safe out, safe in" and quietly checked that they all had their armour fastened properly, had remembered to gather their gear and that even the more nervous, younger men had a kind word to help calm them.

The ranger's women were by no means subservient to the men filling, as they did, a different but equal role in their structired society. While the men were away on raids, at the beck and call of their overlords, the women not only looked after the family and its livestock, but continued with the business of collecting rentals from the small farmers who held land off them, dealing with disputes and trading goods to and from town. Moreover, they were responsible for the defence of the homestead while their men were from home and the number of stories and ballads sung by the rangers of hard fighting womenfolk gave the lie to any notion that these were anything but the equals of their menfolk.

The raid party now moved out of the house and into the courtyard where their mounts were tethered. It was Brairs preference for his men to be mounted on specially bred carrion spats from a stud farm on Corellia. Each man was given a young spat when he came of age, though he owed payment for its upkeep to Brair as 'insurance' in case the beast was killed while on a raid. This payment was often made, not in credits, but in service, attending raids like this one and giving their time to patrol the clans homeland boundaries and protect them against incursion by the sand people, other clans and settlers trying to move out from the cities.

Tonights raid was against one of these settler communities. A group of families from Espa had decided to set up home in one of the side valleys leading from the Mospic plains up into the wastelands behind. This was grazing land for the clans bantha herd and also was the breeding ground of several valuable prey animals such as the desert dewback and Jundland eopie. Darklighter couldn't allow this incursion to go unchecked, not least because the small party sent out under Marek's command last week had failed to impress on the townspeople the need for them to pay adequate insurance for protection against, oh, sandpeople, squill, mysterious night raiders...

The raid party formed up in the large courtyard, palm trees black against the dark blue sky. Moonlight flooded the valley making it as easy for eyes accustomed to the dark to see as well as in daylight. The spats hissed and kicked out as the men wrapped sacking around the birds feet to deaden any sound. All kit was stowed securely and dark cloaks were drawn over their shoulders to further muffle any sound and save moonlight from glistening on blaster barrels or on the blades that most men carried.

Travelling south by south west the silent caravan used patches of shadow to make its way down the valley and up into the wastes, circling round behind the townspeoples settlement. Blair signalled for the men to form a wedge behind him as they came to rest on the blind side of a slight ridge near the collection of tents, half built houses and temporary shelters. A few camp fires burned in the distance, their smoke carrying the scent of roasted nuna and of zucca boar. "See, already they've begun stealing. This insult cannot be allowed to go unpunished. Not only do they steal our lord Darklighters land, they take food from our mouths..." Blair snarled.

Men freed their sword arms of the dark cloaks, others quickly untied the sacking from the spat's feet, keeping clear of the razor sharp hooked claws. Marek slipped the safety toggle off on his blasters, pushed them under the strapping at the front of his mounts saddle and drew the long, curved sword that had been his fathers from its sheath. Around him the faint sussuration of steel told him that others made the same grim preparation as he set his spat's head towards the small settlement, sleeping yet watchful, and waited.

Against the light of the campfires the raiders could see the shadows of several people walking to and fro. Pickets. But the light from the fires would also make their night vision less effective. Typical townies, don't want to stray too far from the light because it comforts them.

Brair turned to face his men and said "Right lads, have at them..." before wheeling round and, first at a trot, then at a full charge, led the raid directly into the new steading.

45 yards from the nearest figure a shout of alarm went up!

Before it was answered the raid party had closed to 10 yards, individual farmers and settlers could now be seen clearly, rushing to find weapons, rushing to find cover.

A split second later and the spats burst over the low sandy berm the farmers had built to keep their livestock within the settlement, the meagre effort at palisading kicked flat by the great powerful legs of the now enraged mounts.

One farmer had the lack of foresight to grab a rifle and bring it round to face directly at Marek's head. The sword blade flashed downwards, crashing through flesh, muscle and bone and reducing the farmers arm to a tattered shred. The laser rifle thudded into the dirt, the mans hand still grasping it.

The raid party charged straight through the settlement, targetting only livestock and the occaisional misguided fool, scattering small dark objects as they thundered through.

Less than a minute from the start of the raid the party burst through the low fence at the rear of the settlement where it split into two groups, one wheeling left, the other right. As the small flares dropped by the raid party began to explode, flooding the settlement with intolerably bright light, the raiders formed an arc, drew their blasters and opened fire on the farmstead. Again, targetting machinery and droids they left little undamaged before wheeling again, forming into a column and riding quietly away into the darkness before heading back northwards and across the valley to arrive back at Brairs homestead shortly before dawn.

Tomorrow a Darklighter liveried patrol would head out, neighbourly like, to enquire what all the noise and flashing was about last night. They'd offer help to relocate, perhaps to rebuild and of course, they'd offer their new neighbours every assistance in keeping the evil Night Riders away.

For a price.

Things had changed for the old ranger and his crew over the years. Things were always changing, life’s like that, so what was the problem?

Sitting in his apartment on the 76th floor of the Coruscant Mining Corporation’s accommodation block in central Coronet City watching the sun try to burn through another layer of smog to glint dully off the herds of speeders and skytrains that flocked round the dark housing towers for the past week now, ken' had had a lot of time to consider the ways life changed over time.

He’d lived in a small town on the desert planet Tatooine for much of his early life. Trained as a craftsman like his father and fathers before before going off to the Academy to learn to be a pilot for the Emperor like all good, loyal citizens were expected to do. Basic training was, as expected, short and brutal. Flight training was equally shrt, if you survived, you could fly. If you didn’t, well, you were an expendable resource after all, plenty more willing, ahem, volunteers waiting to take your place. Fortunately, he could fly but it seemed the Empire had other plans for him…

So, he’d ended up back on Tatooine, beating feet across the damned sands, clearing out pockets of ‘resistance’ and ‘seperatists’ and ‘insurgents’ by any expedient means. You were expected to follow orders, take your squad of troopers to point X, make robust enquiries, remove any potential threat to Imperial stability and to ensure that enough citizens were allowed to survive to ‘educate’ others about the consequences of wrong headedness. Other vermin, like the sandpeople, jawa and kitonaks were just so much target practise. Filthy non-human scum.

But that reasoning didn’t help keep the dreams at bay and, after one particular muon and industrial alcohol fuelled screaming session, he’d been retired from the service on medical grounds. Of course, nobody really retired from the service and his convalescence was to be spent watching for infiltrators and other troublemakers here in C-Net. During the day he’d spend time trekking out into the grasslands with hunting groups, observing, learning and without realising it, beginning to relax and get to like these people.

People. Trained to think of ‘targets’ ‘subjects’ and other dehumanising tags, he’d stopped looking at his fellow citizens as people. But now, working daily with the hunters and hanging out with the miners in the cantina at nights he started to hear more than just complaints about Imperial brutality and started to understand that they too had wants, needs, dreams and hopes. Something inside uncurled from the dark corner it had been hiding in and he realised he had begun to sympathise…

He spent more and more time hunting, travelling to other planets to look for more and more exotic creatures. The hides and meat he brought back in the hold of his ship always sold for a good price to the local artisans and the bio-med suppliers. He grew rich, well, at least ‘comfortable’ and, thanks to his old Imperial connections was able to secure a long lease on this apartment. It was ironic then that he should use this apartment to meet with so many of the separatists, insurgents and other rebels that he’d originally been sent to track down and identify.

They didn’t trust him immediately, that itself was understandable. But over time they began to realise that he could be trusted to gain information for them, carry out small disruption missions and conduct long distance patrols deep into Imperial territory.

He eventually agreed to become a guide for the Alliance, taking small groups into the wilds and training them in survival techniques, how to track, how to skin and flesh carcases and how to live off the land for days or weeks at a time. His knowledge of Imperial military tactics allowed him to train his teams in insurgency and counter-insurgency techniques. They became a fast moving, hard hitting Ranger unit and were rewarded well for their efforts in hindering the Empires progress.

As his squad began to trust him entirely they began to function as one ‘entity’. A target would be identified, they’d move fast and silently to the best position to aquire the target then, with a withering, focused burst of fire, the target would be eliminated and they’d withdraw rapidly, covering any signs of their passing as they went.

Conceal. Observe. Move. Hit. Withdraw. It was a simple tactic. It worked and it created the maximum disruption to the Empire with the minimum cost in lives. Just like hunting the krayt on Tatooine or the Gorax on Endor, target the vital point, hit it as hard as possible, neutralise the threat, kill, harvest, celebrate when you get back to camp safely.

Sitting at the window of his apartment, watching the sun burn through another layer of smog and glinting dully off the herds of speeders and skytrains that flocked round the dark housing towers, ken’ considered ‘change’ and how, if you made the best of it, it wasn’t all that bad really.

--oo00oo—

A quiet chirruping bleep drew his attention to the terminal on his desk. A new prey had been located. An Imperial officer had been identified as the serial killer dubbed “Darth Gaydar”. Using the private holonet chat channels this psychopath had been terrorising the, uhm, alternately gendered for over a year now, luring them to meetings in the undercity which inevitably resulted in a badly mangled corpse being dumped outside a cantina in the middle of the night.

A nice bounty had been offered by the local Seamstress’ Guild for anyone who could stop the fiend in his tracks. A tidy bonus was offered if all wounds were restricted to one small area of the body…. Vindictive old hags those seamstresses.

This mission would need special camouflage and, though he preferred the heft of a rifle, there wasn’t going to be much room to conceal many weapons in this outfit. Hopefully the blaster wouldn't make too freakish a bulge..

Changes, eh? Different kind of camo, thats for sure, but how was he going to negotiate terrain in these heels?

The little droid drifted in the cold blackness of space. Alone.

Slowly ticking off its internal systems it became more and more aware of the fact it was totally and completely alone.

It could neither feel, hear nor see anything that indicated there was anything else within range of any of its senses. Nothing but cold blackness.

Running through the diagnostics for the low level power supply it noticed a small indicator trip over. A tiny red tell illuminated as the low level power supply began recharging the capacitors that helped operate the droids actuators.

Another, another, another. Soon a small bar display of red tells had lit up, casting a very dim glow over the droids maintenance panel. A short beep and the bar turned bright green. The capacitors were now full charged and the Power On Start-up Tests began running on the actuator circuitry.

Internally the droid continued checking subsystems, memory, motive power, all low level systems that permitted the droid to function its most basic tasks and helped support its more advanced functions. It wondered what those functions had been. It wondered if it had had any advanced functions.

The sensor sub array checked out with only minimal damage and now the small droid knew it was actually moving through space, tumbling slowly, but on a definite trajectory. The navigation subsystem told it that it had travelled, since becoming aware of movement a few seconds ago, approximately 20km. Quite an impressive turn of speed for a small metal body.

Optical and infra red sensors began to warm up, literally, in the coldness of space. As they began operating they fed information back to the NavSubSys which began interrogating the droids memory bank for any astromech star chart data.

Fascinating. They were travelling towards a large heat source. Ah, a star. One of the twin stars that formed the heart of this system. Logic dictated that, if they were travelling in a straight line towards the star then extrapolating that line back in the opposite direction would give an indication of the point of origin of their current voyage.

Very interesting indeed. They appeared to be travelling away from a small, collapsing cloud of gas. Electromagnetic and radiation sensors indicated there was metallic and organic matter within the cloud, much of it travelling outwards at a similar speed to the droid, but a large mass of material still sat at the centre of the hot gaseous cluster.

The actuator subsystem reported that it had finished its checks and there was 75% functionality across all systems. The shortfall was accounted for by the current non-functioning status of the left manipulator assembly. Despite repeated attempts the ActSubSys had been unable to establish meaningful communication with the manipulator and it had decided to close down power and hydraulic flow to the affected area to conserve resources.

The droid now began searching for an Advance Functions controller and found that it had three modules. One marked Defence one marked Offence. The Offence module was flagged as being highly dangerous. Best leave that alone until the DefMod was functioning then. The third Mod was flagged as having Priority 1. That sounded important. Better start with that one then.

On activation the third module caused a message to scroll across the droids display panel. The message indicated it was the property of one Ozie Antares, a pilot and that it’s last position had been as Astromech on their ship the Lost Ranger.

It now knew that its immediate task was to find and return to its master, Ozie. Where to look. Sensor arrays began checking for any homing signal, the memory banks were interrogated for more information. The NavCom chimed in with the suggestion that, if they were travelling in a straight line away from a gaseous cloud, which, incidentally, had now ceased to generate so much heat according to the Sensor Array, and their last known function had been as an Astromench on a starship, then it was possible that their master might be in that direction.

The droid considered this, saw the logic in the argument and began giving instructions to NavCom to calculate a solution that would arrest their forward motion, then send them travelling back towards the supposed ship and hopefully their master. NavCom snapped back that a solution had already been fed to the actuator circuits and only needed the droid to give the instruction to begin the manoeuvre. Only 50% of their available fuel could be used to complete the manoeuvre, in order to conserve enough power to halt their progress once they arrived at the ship. At best, NavCom advised, they had a small to negligible chance of completing the trip.

The instruction was given.

Small gas jets fired and stopped the droids tumbling motion. Heavier bursts of gas and a small explosive charge arrested their forward movement. They had now travelled almost 50km into space. In order to return to the ship they would have to fire all the gas stored onboard and also use the small rocket motor built into the baseplate of the droid. The droid was aware that there was a risk that the explosion and subsequent acceleration could, if there was more damage to its chassis than had been detected, could result in a catastrophic failure. However, the little droid also knew that it now had to find and return to its master.

The blast sent the droid hurtling back towards the site of the now diminished gaseous cloud. It was able to sense the large metallic mass and the smaller organic object inside. The power to the rocket was cut and the droid braced itself for impact.

40km. 30km. 20 10 5 1km 500m 250m 100 50 20…. Final adjustment to



Darkness.


Dim awareness. They hit the ship. They hit the master’s ship. The droid made a maintainence journal entry and scheduled the NavCom for some low level formatting and reinstallation of it’s operating code.

The droids sensor arrays picked up human speech, close, very close.

“R4?”

Bright greenish white light flooded the workshop bay, a humanoid figure was approaching. For some reason it appeared to be walking along one of the walls.

“R4 L7?”

The visual sensors, after a few moments of self alignment, focused on the tall zabrak in grey flightsuit. It was Ozie.

He released a restraining bolt and wrestled the R4 up into a vertical position.

“Arthur? Can you hear me? Let’s get you fixed up…. You hit the port engine nacelle pretty hard buddy. Good job the engine was out of commission after that pirate hit us or you’d have been so much chaff by now….”

The zabrak worked quickly, removing damaged plating, replacing it with salvaged parts from a crate under the bench. “That arm will have to go. Maybe I should fit you with a trap launcher after all?” His voice was warm, friendly and the little droid burbled a response…

11010010 10100101 01001001 11010001 10010010

“Yeah, it’s good to have you home too pal… Let's get the ship squared away and I promise we'll take a few days out for some hunting. Dathomir should be interesting, eh?”

The hunter was tired.

He had been watching the small military base for a long time now. His daily routine had remained unchanged for over a week. Washing, shaving and all other toilet functions had been carried out in the narrow confines of the OP. The waste from these processes bagged and removed before the local wildlife literally got scent of him.

Under cover of dark he'd carefully extract himself from the dugout, covering the entrance and his tracks and scattering the contents of the small bag into the lair of some native scavengers 500m away. Returning to his lair he was wary not only of the local predators but of the small intruder detection sensors he'd hidden to cover the blind area behind his OP. Anyone approaching from that direction would trigger a small vibrating alarm tucked into the lining of his helmet. If necessary he could detonate flash bombs and shrapnel mines remotely from the OP, but so far the enemies patrols had remained a good distance away.

Five days ago the activity in the base had changed. Sentries were more alert, the compound had been tidied and the whole base gave off an air of expectancy that any soldier would know signalled the impending visit of some brass. And three days ago the personal skiff of one of the Divisional Commanders had arrived, flanked by swoops and followed by two large troop carriers.

For the next 48 hours the base literally bristled with blasters, echoed to the sound of barked commands and took on the appearance of a well run Military Establishment.

The hunter had watched all this, recording images of troops for the intel guys to scan over later looking for, well, whatever it was that the intel guys looked for. He'd taken high resolution images of any face that came into view. Most of the troopers were, of course, in full battle armour but the officers and NCO's wore battledress uniforms. Again, the intel boys would pore over those images, trying to marry up faces to information scanned from radio chatter, picked up from data transfers and 'acquired' from the dancers and entertainers in the garrisons home town.

This morning the troop carriers had pulled out leaving the skiff and a few swoops. The Divisional COmmander seemed to have settled in for a longer stay. It was time to head down to camp and find out just what he was up to.

The hunter made one final check of his equipment. Everything was where it should be, harnesses were tight but didn't squeak, additional charge packs for the snub nosed carbine slung round his neck were in ready pouches around his waist. Bacta packs in the thigh pockets of his trousers. Other equipment just in the right place to be reached fast.

Moving quietly out of the OP, he primed the demoliton charges and removed the intruder devices from the scrub behind the dugout. Using dead ground and natural cover he moved down to within earshot of the few troopers now on sentry duty at the compound. A probot droid sat motionless near the fenceline and he primed a carbon fibre chaff unit to detonate if the droid powered up. The resulting flash and explosion would give him warning that the base' defence net had detected him while the carbon fibres would seriously interfere with the droids electronics.

Before proceeding further he activated the cloaking device he had been provided with. To all but the closest observers he was now effectivley invisible. This would allow him to make his way into the compound and possibly even into the officers quarters, but only at the cost of having to move at a slow walking pace. The electronics that drove the image projection unit which was the heart of the cloaking device could not cope with rapidly changing backgrounds, so a nervewracking babystepping walk it had to be.

He further decreased the likely hood of being seen by keeping out of the troopers eyeline, staying in shadows and sliding along walls. The projector could handle largely uniform surfaces, such as walls, so this sideways slide had become known as wall-crawling.

Once inside the building the chances of being discovered went up dramatically and he readied the carbine while stowing the image projector. Keeping low and moving silently he made his way down the short corridor and, using a small mirror, checked there was nobody in the Divisional office. He stepped in, quickly moved to the document folders and map on the desk, recording everything he could see.

Footsteps in the hallway alerted him to the return of the rightful occupant of the room and he quickly moved to a position where he'd be hidden by the open door. As the officer stepped into the room he was felled by a crushing blow to the base of the skull. The body went limp and was, more or less, quietly lowered onto the floor.

Moving quickly into the hall the hunter was horrified to see two more uniformed staff walking towards the office. As their mouths began to form the word HALT! he tossed a small metal tube in their direction which erupted with a blinding flash and thunderous bang, creating thick, choking smoke which, together with the stunning percussion would delay any pursuer for a few moments.

The carbine was now nestled against his forearm and, as he turned and headed towards the exit, it barked noisily, scattering bolts of highly modified energy in the direction of the two confused troopers who had just appeared in the doorway. Despite their training the desire to protect ones self kicked in and they instinctively ducked back and away from the fire spitting from the short barrelled weapon.

The hunter, now very much the prey, dropped another flash bang and sprinted for the fenceline. With his free hand he pressed the trigger on the transmitter on his chest causing the demolition charge in the now abandoned OP and the flare by the probot to detonate. In the resulting confusion he grabbed the nearest swoop, flicked the igniter switch over and roared out of the base directly towards the fireball by the old OP.

As he had hoped the light and vibration had attracted a pair of kimoglia dragons. The careful cleaning of his skin, during the time he was laid up in the OP, with the leaves of native plants helped mask his alien odour slightly. The very different odour of the troopers, stuck inside their hot, heavy armour all day and sleeping in the same ready-suits overnight was far more noticable to the waiting lizards which ignored the single fast moving swoop and instead began lumbering towards the troopers moving out from the base.

Almost predictably the troopers began to fire on the approaching kimoglia pack.

Slowing only long enough to turn and make one last recording of the ensuing carnage, the hunter set his navcom to the waypoint for the exfil point. In a little over 20 minutes he should be safely on his way back off planet and out of this sector, the data he'd managed to capture on it's way to the intel guys, to do whatever it was that they did with information gathered in the field.

*****

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Almagill wrote:
*****

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