Private Blood Money

[Mira Kess]

>>> SPACER LOG – MIRA KESS
>>> ENTRY # 00002
>>> STATUS: Active
>>> LOCATION: Meridian Star - Refuel Depot G-47

Makar Clyne

The Meridian Star had docked with Refuel Depot G-47 just after third shift. The maneuver had been rough—guidance clamps grinding against the hull with enough force to rattle the corridor panels—and no one on the crew seemed surprised. That was how things worked on ships like this: barely held together, patched one weld at a time, and always one bad jump away from becoming another debris field in a forgotten sector.

Mira Kess stood near the loading ramp, leaning against a rusting support strut with her arms crossed over her chest plate. Her security armor—freighter-standard composite—was scuffed, scraped, and patched in three places. It still fit well enough. The matte-gray plates were dull beneath the harsh floodlights of the station's cargo bay, and she hadn't bothered polishing them. Polish didn't stop blaster fire.

She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, eyes scanning the cavernous hangar. The station's interior was worse than the ship. The walls were stained from engine exhaust and coolant leaks, pipes hissing now and again like they were exhaling after a long shift. There were service droids moving back and forth with crates, but even they looked like they'd been salvaged from a scrapyard and barely reprogrammed. One of them sparked every time it turned left.

She didn't trust this place. Too many unknown faces. Too many reasons for someone to try something.

To her left, a fuel line the width of her torso was slithering its way into the side of the freighter, locking into place with a loud metallic clang. It made her flinch slightly—not out of fear, but instinct. Loud sounds on the Star usually meant something had broken.

"You're too tense, Kess," a voice drawled behind her.

Mira didn't bother turning. She recognized the voice—Brin Duro, fellow security crew, part-time drunk, full-time talker.

"I'm too alert," she replied flatly.

Brin stepped up beside her, wearing his armor half-clipped and carrying his helmet under one arm like it was a fashion accessory. "This place is a ghost town. I've seen cleaner airlocks on Nar Shaddaa. You really think anyone here's going to care enough to rob us?"

Mira tilted her head slightly. "I think people get desperate. And desperate people don't care what your cargo is. Just that it can be stolen."

Brin chuckled, but he didn't argue. He leaned against the bulkhead beside her, chewing on something synth-flavored. The smell hit her nose—a faint hint of fried spice and battery acid. "Got some from the canteen," he offered.

She gave him a glance. "That stuff's one step above reactor coolant."

"Two steps, thank you."

Mira returned her gaze to the hangar.

Beyond the refueling crews, a tall man in a heavy coat was speaking with one of the station dockmasters. Mira didn't recognize him. The coat was Imperial-style—not the recently collapsed Empire of the Lost, but old, like 900 years old. He was flanked by two others, both with their hoods up and hands tucked away. Civilians, maybe. Maybe not.

Her hand unconsciously rested on the grip of her sidearm. Not to draw. Just to remind herself it was there.

The datapad clipped to her belt chirped once—a flicker of life in an otherwise slow day. She unclipped it, thumbing the screen. Supply manifest update. Food packs, coolant tanks, three crates of unregistered tools, and a shipment marked "personal effects" from a private client on the station. Her brow furrowed.

The Meridian Star didn't deal in private clients.

Brin leaned over to glance at the screen. "We picking up a hitchhiker?"

Mira didn't answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Could just be some exec's baggage," he offered.

"Could be spice. Could be weapons. Could be a corpse." Mira slid the datapad back into place. "Doesn't matter. If it's being loaded, I'm watching it."

Brin exhaled through his nose, amused. "You ever get tired of this job?"

Mira gave him a sideways look. "You mean being underpaid, underappreciated, and always in the line of fire for cargo no one tells us about?"

"Yeah."

"No."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Mira looked out across the hangar again, watching as the two hooded figures began moving toward the ship's ramp.

"Every day on this freighter," she said quietly, "is another lesson. Another reminder of how this galaxy works."

Brin didn't reply. He just nodded slowly, then pushed off from the bulkhead. "Well, I'm gonna hit the canteen. Try not to shoot anyone while I'm gone."

Mira didn't respond. Her eyes were still on the figures approaching.

Her hand stayed close to her weapon.

She could feel it already.

Something was going to go wrong.

She just didn't know what yet.

>>> END LOG

 

[Makar Clyne]

Another station in ass end of space, a place that most wouldn't stop at for more than a day or two, it was perfect! Places like these worked as perfect meeting places for certain parties, parties who didn't want to be see by prying eyes. The station window was in the right position to catch sight of the next ship in docking order. It was a fairly large Corellian Cruiser with a yellow-gold paint scheme, and emblazoned on that ship was an insignia of a snarling wolf.

Pirates...

The ship had the minor ware of a recent battle, scars from a great shootout of the Galactic Alliance. Makar stepped off the ship shortly after it docked, many people made way for the massive Epicanthix. Despite his status as a Captain of a pirate ship, he didn't dress with any subtlety one might expect. When he walked in, he wanted all eyes on him. From the gleaming gold parts of his armor, to the red accents of his underclothes, he radiated confidence. Some may have even found his hair accessories a bit gauche, but no one he passed seem to risk saying such. Flanking the man were two aliens with quite the mean disposition.

On his right was a gruff old quarren carrying an old blaster in his hands, a path over one of his eyes. On his right was a small woman, a Sephi by the look of her, while she was lean and lithe, she had a sadistic look in her green eyes. Both of them stayed close to the captain, not for his protection, but to make sure he didn't get too aggressive with anyone.

"Deko, Marni, go have some fun in the canteen. I will handle our meeting with the contact..."

The two other pirates looked at one another before giving an "Aye, Captain." in unison. It was dangerous to leave Makar alone, but even more so to talk back to him. He kept walking, unaware others might be following him than just his crew. As he stepped towards their meeting point, he twirled his well-used halberd in one hand. It was quite the impressive length of songsteel, a testament to his prowess with the weapon that he could so idly move it.

"Now where are they, I don't feel like waiting around here all cycle for someone to address me, if they want my cargo, then they had better get moving..."

The cargo in question was a load of recovered Imperial starship parts and other equally valuable articles, picked from the bones of a Dark Empire fleet over Empress Teta. It was worth a fortune to the right party, but it was hard to get around space when loaded with such trinkets. People asked too many questions when you had Imperial salvage in your hold.

Mira Kess

 

[Mira Kess]

>>> SPACER LOG – MIRA KESS
>>> ENTRY # 00003
>>> STATUS: Active
>>> LOCATION: Meridian Star - Refuel Depot G-47

Makar Clyne

Docking Bay G-47 had gone quiet the moment the Corellian cruiser dropped out of hyperspace.

Not because anyone was surprised. Places like this saw all kinds—smugglers, runners, scavvers, and silent transports that offloaded crates with more locks than serial numbers—but this ship was different. It had the look of a predator that didn't bother hiding its teeth. The yellow-gold hull shimmered with arrogance, and the snarling wolf emblem didn't just announce its affiliation—it dared anyone to challenge it.

Mira Kess didn't move from her post near the base of the freighter ramp. She just shifted her weight, adjusting the grip on her blaster and letting her eyes trace the new arrivals as they strutted onto the deck like they owned it.

Pirates.

Not your average low-rent pirates, either. Not the desperate kind who raided agri-convoys and ran at the first sign of a patrol. These ones had scars—fresh ones. The hull bore the story of a firefight, recent and vicious. Probably Alliance ships, judging by the pattern of plasma burns on the upper port side. The cruiser survived. That said more than words.

Her gaze narrowed as the gangplank extended, and he stepped down.

Even without the gold embellishments and the ridiculous red underlayers, the man commanded attention. Tall, broad, and armored like a war trophy, the Epicanthix captain strode into the station like he expected the durasteel to part before him. Mira didn't know his name—but she recognized the type.

A man who wanted to be seen. A man who thought being seen meant being feared.

He was followed closely by a grizzled Quarren, aged and ugly as rust, cradling a blaster with the kind of ease that came from years of using it. And a Sephi, small, wiry, and cruel-looking—her eyes scanned the room not for threats, but for opportunities to hurt. Mira clocked her immediately as the real problem.

The pirate captain barked something at them—Deko and Marni, she caught—and the two peeled off toward the canteen. That left him alone, dragging a gleaming halberd behind him like it weighed nothing.

That weapon stood out more than his armor. Songsteel.

Her stomach twisted, not with fear—she wasn't foolish enough to let that settle in—but with wariness. People didn't carry songsteel unless they were either very skilled, or very rich and surrounded by bodyguards who were. Either way, he wasn't someone to underestimate.

Mira's comlink buzzed once on her hip. She didn't check it. She didn't take her eyes off the Epicanthix.

He was heading into the inner deck, toward the station's lower concourse. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere private. Mira knew that corridor—it led to a few unused docking cradles and an empty storage bay they'd passed earlier in the day. Good place for a deal, or a back-alley murder.

She tapped her fingers against the grip of her pistol, thoughtful.

Imperial salvage. It clicked. That's what the transmission had hinted at. Crates marked "personal effects." A fortune in military tech, weapon cores, encrypted systems—things the Meridian Star should never be carrying. Things that could get someone killed for even asking about.

So that was the cargo.

Mira turned slightly, her voice a low murmur over her comlink.

"Bridge, this is Kess. We've got incoming on Bay G. Yellow-gold cruiser with war damage and an Epicanthix captain. Confirm if this is part of the 'private manifest' we received. If not... we've got bigger problems."

There was no response. Static. Too much interference or—more likely—someone was jamming signals.

She frowned.

No time to wait. She gave one last glance toward the pirates' ship, then pushed off the strut and started walking—quiet, measured steps, keeping to the shadows of support beams and scaffold piping.

The captain was walking alone, but Mira had a sinking feeling he wasn't unwatched.

And neither was she.

Time to find out what the hell the Star had gotten itself into.

>>> END LOG