Chapter Twenty-Three

She realized that at some point she was going to need to buy some furniture for her cabin. Proper furniture, beyond just the folding bed in the corner and the tiny desk with a small screen on it off to the side. It might have been the captain’s cabin but it was still absolutely tiny. She wasn’t going to complain though, not when the rest of the crew had cabins just as small that they had to share.

Yawning, Taylor rolled out of her bed and waddled over to the desk, her robotic arm limp by her side. There was a small battery pack charging on the desk which she picked up and slotted into an opening in her arm.

The three clunky fingers twitched, the whole arm spasmed, then she was in full control of it again. She was going to need to do something about the prosthetic. She was no expert, but she knew that there were better options out there. Options that probably included hidden weaponry.

If she was going to be a space pirate she was going to get a laser hand and anyone who complained could do it at the end of her arm mounted plasma cannon.

She realized that she might still be a little tired. Or she was spending too much time with HK-47. Or maybe she had some sort previously unknown dream of being a space pirate.

Taylor rooted around her tiny closet for a pair of pants and a shirt, then, once she wasn’t wearing nothing but her underthings and a t-shirt, she slipped on her boots and stepped out of her cabin.

Her cabin, on her brand new spaceship.

She could get used to that.

She noticed one the others slipping into her range one floor up. They had come up with a fairly simple system where they would hold onto a bit of flimsy with their destination on it and she would simply walk them over to it until they slipped out of her range. It was teaching her to recognize some words in Basic. Her crew were taking being puppeted in stride.

Taylor stopped by the little dining room one level down, filled a sort of sippy-cup with the drink they called Caf and shoved the equivalent of a microwaveable meal into a device that cooked it for her in a few seconds. Placing everything onto a tray, she balanced it all one-handed and made her way to the very back of the Atlas. She had a throng for scorpions following after her, little feet clicking on the metallic floor and her few flying bugs zipped around her head.

Hk-47 was waiting in the workshop. “Greetings: Hello mistress. I trust your rest was unfortunately peaceful and assassin free?”

Taylor sipped her caf. “It was,” she said. “I had some bugs hanging above the door in case anyone tried something. Which reminds me, we need to stop somewhere to gather more bugs, preferably something with more bite than those I picked off Tatooine.”

“Suggestion: We can find an information archive on most civilised planets, these may include warnings about the dangerous fauna of already-explored worlds which we could then visit.”

“Don’t you have an internet?” Taylor asked as she placed her tray on a workbench. The room was strangely shaped, owing to the fact that it was squeezed in between some of the ship’s primary systems. Still, it was large, with a decent amount of storage for odds and ends in bins at the rear and enough room to disassemble entire droids.

Which was what they were going to be doing. Not only did she want HK-47 to inspect all 75 droids they had been given, she also wanted to paint them in such a way as to make it clear that they didn’t belong to the CIS. So far that meant spray painting them black with yellow stripe highlights on their dog-like face.

“Query: What is an internet?”

Taylor had grown used to explaining words by then, and more recently HK-47 had been teaching her some Basic. She could almost string together a sentence. “It’s a network of interconnected computers meant to share large amounts of information and give people access to... sites, which are repositories for specific kinds of information. There are also games and media and social functions on it.”

“Conjecture: That sort of system sounds ripe for tampering. No, there is no such intergalactic system in place. The various holonet channels provide news and information at faster than light speeds across the galaxy.”

“Huh, alright,” Taylor said. She pulled at a stool, realized that it wasn’t budging, then noticed that it was clamped to the ground with four small magnets. A bit of fiddling later and she was sitting at the workbench and eating her way through her breakfast. “Where are we going next?” she asked. “Our mission parameters are pretty broad. Too much so, even.”

“Statement: I have taken the time to compile a list of potential targets of opportunity.” The droid spun around and placed a datapad on the bench. “Statement: Count Dooku left us with a long list of potential targets.”

“Hrm,” Taylor said as she started to scroll through the list. Most were essentially small pirate outposts or minor slave trading hubs. The sheer number of the later had her gut twisting in distaste. “Is there a way to see these on a map?”

Rather than replying, HK-47 took the datapad and connected it to a small holoprojector at the base of the workbench, one she assumed as for displaying schematics and the like.

An image of the galaxy appeared, then was filled with small markers all across it, each one with a letter-number combination in Aurabesh. It didn’t take a genius to see the links between the numbers and the targets on the list.

Taylor skimmed through each one as she finished up her meal, after a while they all blurred together. Then she noticed a name that stood out. “HK, what can you tell me about Czerka corporation? Are they an affiliate of the Separatists?”

“Negation: They are not, as far as I am aware, tied to the Confederacy.”

A mission to a planet called Nar Kaaga deep in Hutt space just felt... off. “This one,” she said as she pressed the name of the planet. The galaxy map shifted and expanded to zoom into the appropriate sector. “Says there’s a small slaver base here. The slaves are brought in from...” she looked at the list of places the slaves were shipped from and winced. “A whole lot of places. Mostly able-bodied humanoids. But they’re all sold to one client. Czerka corporation.”

“Conjecture: The Czerka corporation have been producing inferior weapons for thousands of years; it is probably that they need the slaves to work their factories.”

“Factories,” Taylor repeated. “Is the company in Hutt space?”

“Sarcasm: Let me verify my large banks of corporate information. Oh no, I’m afraid the information was misplaced.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Right, I get it. I think we should call Dooku, I might have an idea.”

***

Count Dooku was enjoying a fine tumbler of a Corellian wine a dignitary had gifted him some weeks prior when his desk chimed, warning him of an incoming message. He didn’t change his posture, remaining comfortably seated in his chair with only a flick of the wrist to accept the call.

A holoprojector slid out from the wooden surface of his deck and flickered to life, presenting him with the nervous visage of the Neimoidian currently serving as his secretary on his current mission. A mission that was going very well. The Falleen had taken the rescue of their citizens as a sign of good things to come and his personal visit to their pitiful little system was seen as something of an honour.

They still had too much pride in what little they had, but he could overlook that if it meant they joined the Seperatist movement years ahead of his schedule. The Force seemed to rejoice in his action in the system. It was an auspicious sign.

“Count Dooku, sir,” the snivelling secretary said. “You have a call from lady Khepri.”

“Darth Khepri,” the Count corrected. He suspected the girl had chosen the name at random, that was, until he had seen her capture the minds of anyone that slipped too close to her with nary a twitch. A strange and powerful ability, and not one the Jedi would ever approve of.

But she was too placid, too calm and collected to be a true Sith lord, and she failed to recognize his own power. Or, perhaps, she was merely unimpressed by it. A strange mystery, but for now one whose goals seemed to align with his own.

“Darth Khepri, yes,” the secretary said. “Shall I tell her you are busy?”

“Put her through,” he ordered as he sat up.

The projector flickered again. Darth Khepri appeared, angled in such a way that it was obvious that she was sitting at a desk of some sort with her droid translator just a step behind her. She said something with nodding her head once at the projector, then her droid translated. “Greetings: My master greets you and wishes you a day with as little pain and inconvenience as possible.”

“Hello, Darth Khepri,” he replied easily. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Translation: The honour is owed by the simple expediency that any work you wish accomplished requires additional information. In particular, my master wishes to be informed about the Czerka corporation.”

He raised one delicate eyebrow at the last. Czerka were big. Not the biggest, not by far, but certainly one of the longest lived corporations in the galaxy. They produced a few products that competed with the Techno Union, if he recalled. “I see. Might it be possible to know what, exactly, you're planning on doing?”

“Translation: That would be permissible. Though any plans are contingent on the information obtained.”

“Of course,” he said. “Transmit a list of required information and I will have my people fulfill as much of the request as they can. Though I am curious, what makes you aim towards Czerka.”

“Translation: The Czerka corporation was flagged as common purchasers of large quantities of slave labour. They are also mostly based within Republic space. Discovering a Republic company using such under the auspice of the Republic would blemish both sides and disguise any acquisitions made during an assault.”

Count Dooku resisted the urge to smile, keeping his face bland and only mildly interested. “I believe I see what you’re planning. In any case, the largest Czerka factories are in the Anoat system. It is within Republic space, though not an area that is commonly policed or observed by Republic authorities.”

It took a time before Darth Khepri’s reply arrived, time she spent speaking with her rusty droid. That the language remained indecipherable so far was merely another mystery. Perhaps an old Sith tongue? It was certainly ugly and guttural enough.

“Translation: We await further information. Your time was appreciated, Count Dooku. With any luck we will next speak while the factories of our competition burn and the galaxy discovers the idiocy and corruption of their betters.”

The transmission ended soon after, leaving Dooku with much to ponder.

His thoughts ran back and forth until, finally, he reached a choice. His master had told him to begin collecting acolytes, those that were in touch with the darker side of the force. These were to be trained in the most basic ways of the Sith, though he had only found a few candidates so far, all of those were pitiful.

He had thought of adding Darth Khepri to their ranks, but that would obviously not work.

Now it was his duty to relay his findings to his master.

***