Skull and Bones (IV)

There's an undeniable irony in arriving at an Imperial Moff's residence flanked by a squad of Imperial stormtroopers. Just six years ago, these same troops were hunting him across the Mid Rim, eager to bring him to justice for his assaults on Imperial aristocrats and his ties to pirate enterprises. Yet now, those very soldiers are offering employment to those once deemed irredeemable scum. If the rumors circulating within the pirate underworld are to be believed, the reward for their services is quite substantial.

** Pirate Tyberos, the Captain of the "Rampant Ewok" ** 

Still, if the offer proves to be a ruse, Tyberos could always make a swift and violent exit—after all, he has done nothing to offend the current Imperial regime. The New Republic, on the other hand, has suffered significantly at his hands.

As Tyberos eyed the pretentious braggart Yazuo Vane and the cigar-chomping Niles Ferrier, he thought that eliminating these two insufferable figures might be the quickest way to make this ordeal more tolerable.

However, it appeared that they were in league with the Imperials. And Tyberos was eager to work with them. For now, he would have to play along.

Tyberos was particularly grateful for the respirator mask he wore. Its origin was quite remarkable—it had once belonged to a Mandalorian renegade, a warrior whose skull was crushed in his youth while fighting in gladiatorial arenas. Since acquiring it, Tyberos had never parted with the mask, just as he never let go of his other trophies—two claws forged from beskar and other alloys. They were his first battle spoils, trophies he had kept for over a decade, ever since he was left orphaned and alone on the streets.

He found nothing particularly remarkable about the Imperial building they were heading toward—simple, angular, and constructed from dull gray duracrete. Boring, in a word.

Tyberos paid little heed to the stormtroopers' commands, disinterestedly unloading an assortment of weapons from his belongings—a pair of blasters, throwing knives, a flail with a retractable handle, several grenades, another blaster, a mine, a stiletto, various fuses, a garrote, and combat gloves. It wasn't until they demanded he surrender his primary weapon, the Klevtsy, that he showed any resistance. He scrutinized the stormtrooper towering over him, sizing up the soldier encased in snow-white plastoid armor. Then he glanced at the two soldiers nearby, their blasters trained on him. Finally, with a heavy sigh—eerily reminiscent of the respirator hiss once emitted by the late Darth Vader, a figure Tyberos idolized in some respects—he placed his weapon on the table beside the metal detector and walked through the scanners, grimacing at their beeping.

The stormtroopers tensed, instinctively backing away and raising their blasters in unison, ensuring they had him in a crossfire should a confrontation arise. Judging by the sounds, Niles Ferrier, who stood not far away, had soiled the air, while Yazuo Vayne dramatically pinched his nose.

"Weapons on the table! All of them!" the stormtrooper demanded.

"What, these?" Tyberos said calmly, pulling out several more vibro-knives from the hidden pockets of his battered vest. "They're just for scratching those hard-to-reach spots."

"More," the stormtrooper insisted. He might not have known for sure, but he certainly suspected that Tyberos wasn't being entirely forthcoming about his concealed weapons. Apparently, these soldiers were sharper than they appeared at first glance.

With a deliberate gesture, Tyberos raised his leg, armored boot and all, and withdrew another pair of throwing knives from his footwear. Without waiting for the stormtrooper's realization, he pulled out another blaster from his second boot. And when the stormtrooper still didn't lower his weapon, Tyberos detached the soles from both boots, revealing a pair of custom-made portable mines.

"Is that everything?" the stormtrooper asked, his tone cautious.

"If you want, you can rummage around in my trousers and look for a large-caliber gun," Tyberos suggested, clearly enjoying the stormtrooper's failure to catch his sarcasm.

"Either you remove the blasters from your secret holsters, or we will—off your corpse," the stormtrooper warned. The colored shoulder pad indicated he was the commander of this squad of snow-white imbeciles.

"Fine, fine," Tyberos replied with a smirk. "No need to cry about it, 'doll,' okay?"

The stormtrooper commander pretended not to notice the insult.

Rebel fighters often referred to stormtroopers as "dolls," mocking the identical nature of their armor. They'd joke that one day, these soldiers would emerge from their cocoons only to become prime targets for rebel blasters.

Seeing that the stormtroopers were in no mood for humor, Tyberos theatrically unbuckled his belt and reached into his pants. His hand found the right holster, secured between his legs—a spot the security officers rarely dared to search. Inside were his secret blasters, tiny but deadly, often called "lady farts." But when thoroughly modified, their power was far from insignificant.

After removing the weapons from both his right and left holsters, the pirate smiled.

"Feel free to check if I left anything else unnecessary down there," he offered.

"Move along," the stormtrooper instructed, stepping aside and nodding toward the narrow corridor ahead. "You two," he added, directing his gaze at Ferrier and Vayne, "come along."

Accompanied by several stormtroopers, they were led down the corridor to a room guarded by another squad of "dolls." Hmm, who exactly were they so afraid of?

"Captain Tyberos," one of the stormtroopers standing by the door addressed the pirate. "Wait here."

"And what exactly are we waiting for?" Niles Ferrier grumbled, his tone laced with impatience.

"Just wait," the stormtrooper replied curtly.

With a mocking glance at the others, Tyberos stepped through the door as it slid open before him.

The room he entered was not typical of the Empire—no harsh, blinding lights. The lighting panels were deliberately dimmed, casting deep shadows in the room's corners. Tyberos had no doubt that hidden dangers lurked in these dark recesses, perhaps secret guards or the personal bodyguards of the person he was about to meet. But they certainly weren't stormtroopers—those snow-white uniforms would have been visible even in this twilight.

"Have a seat, Captain," a voice called out from the darkness. It was barely discernible, but Tyberos could make out a rectangular table and an officer sitting at it in an Imperial uniform. Judging by the pristine white jacket, this one fancied himself a Grand Admiral. Clearly, this guy thought highly of himself. Everyone knew that twelve of Palpatine's elite guard dogs had been slain by the rebels. Yet ambition had surged among the Imperial ranks after the Battle of Endor. And honestly, what difference did it make?

Tyberos strolled over to the only vacant chair and settled into it, crossing his legs.

"So?" he asked with a hint of mockery. "What happens next?"

"I'm interested in the same question, Captain," the officer replied, his tone smooth yet commanding. "What happens next?"

"I'm here for a job," Tyberos shrugged.

"Is the Imperial base on Tangren acting as a recruitment agency now?" the officer asked, his tone edged with sarcasm.

"Well, considering the Empire's recent efforts to hire pirates and smugglers, it seems so," Tyberos replied with a grin. "Word has it you're looking for privateers."

"And where did you hear such intriguing information?" the officer inquired.

"Rumors," Tyberos said nonchalantly. "Here and there. They say the Empire gave the rebels a good thrashing in the Dufilvian sector. That's newsworthy enough to pique my interest."

"And what motivates you, Captain?" the man in the white jacket asked, leaning forward slightly.

"I'm passionate about my craft," Tyberos responded. "And when there's a bounty on top of that passion, it's all the more enjoyable."

"Indeed?" the officer pressed, his tone probing. "Is there anything else you wish to say?"

"There is," Tyberos admitted. "This semi-darkness is starting to irritate me."

"And why would that be?" the officer asked with a slight grin. "After all, your mask is equipped with night vision."

"It's no surprise that Imperial Intelligence earns its keep," Tyberos chuckled. "Although they're a bit off this time—the mask is damaged. The visor's processor failed during one of my recent battles, so as you can see, I'm without any of those high-tech wonders. And getting it fixed is incredibly expensive. I'm hoping for an advance to cover the repairs."

"You seem quite confident that you'll be given work," the stranger remarked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Well, why not?" Tyberos responded, slightly puzzled. "It's hardly a secret that a certain Imperial commander despises the rebels so much that he seizes any opportunity to strike them. A series of raiding operations a couple of months ago, the assault on the rebel base on Ord Pardon, and even bombarding them with asteroids—all point to someone who's got it out for the current rulers of Coruscant. I admit, I share the sentiment. That's why I'm willing to hunt down their transport ships and diplomatic vessels for a modest fee. I've heard they have a bad habit of using disarmed warships as cargo freighters. I've always dreamed of capturing a Mon Calamari star cruiser."

"And here I thought your greatest ambition was to become a champion in the gladiator arenas of the Outer Rim," the stranger noted. Tyberos narrowed his eyes. "It seems Imperial Intelligence truly does earn its pay."

"Are you trying to show off your knowledge?" Tyberos smirked.

"If I wanted to impress you, I'd recite facts from your past," the stranger said calmly. "Like how your father, a gladiator in illegal fights, was stripped of all his titles and disgraced after losing a battle to Aurra Sing. And how it was she who later became your mother. It's curious that you never told your prospective employer that your desire to kill rebels stems from the murder of your parents just over seven years ago. After that incident, you started your career as a gladiator, and following your parents' deaths during a Rebel Alliance raid in the Outer Rim, you shifted your focus from robbing Imperial outposts to striking at the rebels. Am I correct in assuming that your operations ceased because your ship was badly damaged in your last battle, and now you need assistance to repair it and resume your vendetta against the rebels?"

"You know quite a lot," Tyberos observed. He felt no anger or irritation from what he had just heard. The pain had long since dulled. His mother had taught him many things... but she wasn't the only one.

"On the contrary," the stranger said, leaning back slightly. "There are still mysteries that elude me."

"So, I suppose you won't keep your interests a secret?" Tyberos asked, eyeing the stranger.

"Of course not," the stranger replied. "Tell me, Captain Tyberos, did you inherit your mother's sensitivity to the Force?"

Tyberos felt a coldness settle inside him. He wanted to curse, to lash out, but he forced himself to remain calm. Instead, he tried to concentrate, as his mother and Eymand had taught him, attempting to probe the mind of his interrogator, to discern whether he intended to hire him or was merely continuing the Inquisitorius's hunt for Force-sensitive individuals...

But instead of the usual jumble of thoughts, he found nothing. It was as if there was no living, sentient being before him... No, not even that. He could usually sense droids as well. But here, there was nothing. It was as if the Force itself had been stripped away from this place.

Tyberos redirected his feeble efforts outward, to the space around him... and realized that the room was enveloped in a void where the Force seemed to be absent, save for the small area where he sat.

"I see you've figured it out, Captain Tyberos," the light in the room began to brighten slowly. The pirate shielded his eyes with his hand, avoiding being blinded. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a figure sitting opposite him. No, not a man!

The figure was humanoid, with blue skin and glowing scarlet eyes. In the arms of this being, a lizard lay dozing rhythmically, while the stranger stroked it as one might a cherished pet.

Tyberos realized his initial conclusion was wrong when he glanced around. In the previously dim corners of the room, he now saw cages containing similar creatures. In one corner, a gray-skinned humanoid squatted, his jaw jutting forward, armed and alert—a bodyguard, no doubt.

"What kind of menagerie is this?" the pirate blurted out, uncharacteristically unsettled. There were few things that could throw him off balance, but the sudden absence of the Force was terrifying. Yes, he was weak in the Force, and unlike the Jedi or Sith of old, he could not wield it continuously. Despite Emand's efforts to train him after his mother's death, he had never fully mastered it. Perhaps he simply wasn't as "gifted" as they had hoped.

"I don't believe an answer is necessary, is it, Grand Admiral?" Tyberos asked, regaining his composure.

"No, it isn't," the blue-skinned being replied. "So, I take it the Force aids you in your activities?"

"A little," Tyberos admitted, careful not to reveal too much. It seemed the Imperial was unaware of Eymand's existence. That was a relief. He wouldn't want to endanger his old friend. "So, what now? Are you going to kill me?"

"For what reason?" the Grand Admiral asked, genuinely surprised.

"The Empire despised the Jedi," Tyberos noted. "My mother lived in constant fear that the Inquisitors would come for her."

"But they didn't, did they?" the Imperial inquired.

"No," Tyberos agreed.

"Did you ever consider becoming a Jedi?" the Grand Admiral asked, shifting the conversation.

"Nope," Tyberos grinned. "Quite the opposite. I dream of meeting them face to face someday and..."

"And?" the Grand Admiral prompted, leaning in with interest.

"...and cracking their skulls," Tyberos finished.

"What has caused such animosity?" the non-human asked, intrigued.

"I despise the Jedi," Tyberos explained. "My mother hated them, and so do I. But I also see them as excellent hunting targets."

"Is that so?" the Grand Admiral smirked. "So why haven't you dealt with Luke Skywalker yet?"

"Someday," the pirate shrugged. "I'm too weak in the Force to face him on equal footing. But if I can get my hands on some Sith or ancient Jedi knowledge, then we'll see who comes out on top."

"Well, that's an interesting answer," the Grand Admiral said, clearly intrigued. "But let's return to the matter at hand, the reason you're here."

"Yes, that would be helpful," Tyberos said with a grin. "So, do I get my letter of marque?"

"You will receive it," the Grand Admiral assured him, "but only if we come to an agreement on the terms of our cooperation. Otherwise, I have no use for you."

"What an amusing Imperial," the pirate thought to himself.

"And what might those terms be?" he asked aloud.

"Don't rush," the Grand Admiral advised. "This concerns not just you, but the rest of our guests as well. However, I must admit, you've piqued my curiosity. What would you say if I told you I have a way to teach you the Jedi arts?"

"If you pull out a lightsaber and start levitating, I'll admit that the Empire has some surprises left for me," Tyberos chuckled. But, recalling Emand's warnings, he added, "But I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I'm content with what I've got. I'm sure your offer would come with too many strings attached. I prefer to operate as a regular corsair. Damn lucky, but a corsair nonetheless. I'm not interested in becoming a Jedi."

"Well, that's your choice," the Grand Admiral replied, a note of disappointment in his voice. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Of course," Tyberos almost laughed, but maintained his composure.

"Now, send in Mr. Ferrier and Mr. Vane, and make yourself comfortable," the Grand Admiral instructed. "We have business to discuss."