1.08

Being on the receiving end of a stun blast sucked. It sucked more than getting hit by a tazer, which drops you to the floor, nerves scrambled, unable to move for minutes. That was because ten thousand years of research into the biology of the nervous system enabled neural regeneration treatments (Yoda only pretends to be senile), fully integrated prosthetics, functional synthetic flesh, and organs, but also biotech mind control (hello, Order 66), emotion modification, memory and personality downloads, and the discovery of the exact currents and frequencies needed for neural disruption. The ability to make any humanoid being not only fall asleep but just stop thinking with a minor gadget added to any weapon on the market was downright scary.

"Are you OK, Lady Andrim?"

"Ratty... that is... a... stupid question," I managed to force out, then mentally patted myself in the back for the achievement. My mouth was so numb I couldn't even feel my tongue.

"If you're well enough to be snide, Daughter, get off the floor and get ready. We are not safe yet." Father's tone was more serious than usual, so something had gone wrong... again. With some effort I opened my eyes, the bridge's lights stabbing into my retinas. I had to lean on Ratty to get on my feet, even as the tutor droid pulled my now wild, tangled black mane into a braid. The ion charge had not been kind to my hairdo, either.

"What is... going on?" Judging from the terrified civilian crew, the dead bodies, the clear tactical display, and the blaring alarms, whatever the danger was, it was neither on the bridge, nor an attack from that pirate corvette. Confused at what else could have gone wrong, I said as much out loud.

"That corvette landed in the main hangar, and a hundred heavily armed pirates are making their way here as we speak," Father informed me succinctly.

Oh. Yeah, that was bad. Me and my big mouth.

"Oh, it's worse than you think," Father added after correctly interpreting my expression, almost happy to share the bad news. "The chief traitor put in the mutiny codes into the computer core. He couldn't control the ship without more authority than he had, but he could turn off various security measures that were supposedly turned against the legitimate owners; that's how that corvette approached without being blown to bits. And these new friends of his are too well-armed and armored; all I can do is delay them with maintenance droids."

Father's emotions were all over the place. His anger was obvious in his narrowed eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his claws coming in and out of his fingers like a mad cat about to tear someone - anyone - apart. But that tilt of his head was... curiosity? And the straight back, shoulders pulled back... pride? It struck me then; he was proud of me, of his daughter that had finally proven to be more than a useless socialite, a girl interested only in the latest Coruscanti fashion. My recent actions had vindicated his belief in Arkanian superiority, as it extended to me. He was treating me now as, if not an equal, then someone he could trust, share his worries with, and potentially expect a good idea from. Too bad I wasn't exactly Astra, wasn't it?

"Could we space them?" I offered, but he was shaking his head before I'd finished making the suggestion.

"Already tried; their armor can seal up and has miniature thrusters. Not a full jetpack, but it was good enough for getting back to the ship."

"What kind of armor?" Since we were armed only with light blasters, this could be problematic. Unless...

"Here, see for yourself." With a few clicks in the Captain's command console, the holoprojector giving a detailed image of the surrounding space was replaced by that of a long corridor where several dozen men covered in grey plastoid plating and wielding heavy blasters were mowing down a veritable tide of slow, unarmed maintenance droids that were failing to overwhelm them with sheer numbers and trample them underfoot. Unlike communications holoprojectors that were limited to low-resolution bluish images, the bridge's equipment was full-color, just like those used for movies. And its fine detail was enough that my eyes could not tell the difference from reality; everything about the attackers was clear as crystal. And while their weapons were unfamiliar, their armor was so well-known back on Earth that pretty much anyone could recognize it despite the grey colors and slight differences; Clone-era Stormtrooper armor.

"These are no pirates!" I shouted in near-panic. Clones weren't supposed to be ready for a good eight or nine more years!

"I agree," Father said darkly, his deep scowl forming wrinkles in his youthful face. "See the double-ended blue arrow sign on their left pauldrons? These bastards are Nebula Front! The same terrorists that killed your Mother, not to mention the Trade Federation Directorate!"

No, they weren't. Just seeing them like this, hearing Father's words... it was the last piece of the puzzle, the solution to why this whole situation had felt off from the beginning.

The Nebula Front had been terrorists. They had killed the Directorate. But their leaders had been killed by Jedi in the process, the organization broken. Their attacks had also been directed by Palpatine himself, conveniently letting the Neimodian members of the Directorate survive, who then voted for more Neimodians as replacements. Human members of the Federation were not amused... especially the Kuati who not only lost control of the formerly human majority but also had dead noble family members to mourn - and avenge.

And now, with Kuat considering breaking from the Techno Union and its Trade Federation ally over that matter, another "Nebula Front" attack on a Kuati-owned Federation ship suddenly transpires, one that carries family funds in the form of a huge Bacta shipment? The Ruling Ten would kick the Federation off their sector, break with the Techno Union, and turn to the Republic before a Gungan could say "mesa".

"I have an idea, Father." One of Palpy's plots was about to be Alderaned, with dangerous consequences. It beat dying to his goons then and there, though. "But you are not going to like it."

xxxx xxxx xxxx

​

A hundred heavily armed and armored thugs marched around the corner, entering the corridor that led to the bridge only to find a twelve-year-old girl with a light blaster sitting on a chair at the other end. The 'Imperial March' sounded in my head as they came to a couple of hundred feet and paused, but I wasn't frightened. Not at all. I was actually terrified as their leader put his hands on his armored hips and stared at me, not bothering to aim his gun at all. What was I going to do, shoot him and his army?

"Look sharp, boys! A youngling with a gun!" Much laughter followed and I didn't twist nervously, honest. I was just trying to enjoy the chair to its fullest; despite its lack of repulsors, it was very comfortable.

"So what're you supposed to be, girlie? Entertainment?" He snickered, amusement mixed with malice hiding behind that expressionless faceplate of his.

"Your doom." Apparently, my high-pitched, not-at-all trembling voice was highly entertaining because all of them laughed again. They kept laughing until something invisible and inaudible smashed into them with the strength of a titan. Several of the fake terrorists fell badly, their armor not protecting them at all from bone-breaking impacts or even neck-snapping whiplash. Most of them survived but fell groaning into the floor, unable to move. Even the few that landed on their hands and knees struggled to keep the position as if an immense weight pressing down on them.

Because it did; that's exactly what happens if you turn the artificial gravity for the entire ship as far up as it will go. Countless crashes were heard from all around us as a quarter-million droids also toppled, their humanoid frames and balance not built to handle five times standard gravity. Unlike our uninvited guests though, they would probably survive intact and if not, they could always be repaired.

"Not so funny, is it?" I told them with a grotesque smirk, hypergravity pulling down on my face and lips. Unlike most in the Star Wars galaxy, I had recently trained under increased gravity for months. Why would anyone do the same when artificial gravity had existed for fifteen millennia, and most inhabited worlds were smaller than Coruscant? It was not as if anyone on a ship could survive a compensator failure exposing the crew to hundreds, if not thousands, of standard gravities.

I lifted the light blaster, working against a pull of nearly forty pounds. It was damn heavy, but I was sitting on a comfortable chair, had nothing weighing me down, and I was young. Someone older would have trouble even sitting on the chair. Those without a chair and wearing heavy armor? It was a miracle any of them could even remain on their knees. The leader was one such, so I swallowed my fear, my disgust, my rising nausea, and shot him again and again and again until his helmet and chest plate were blackened and melting.

Imagining Palpatine's grandfatherly old face in place of the fake terrorists' grey faceplates, I aimed at the next struggling killer and pressed the trigger...