The storms of N’orlannia were always harsh. Sheets of rain battered the Luminous Quarter until the streets gleamed like mirrors, the citizens rushed within the shelter of the city’s walls. Yet even the fury of the storm paled beside the tension brewing within the Abattoir.
Inside, the room was starved of light, save for the cold shimmer of a holoconference. Two figures flickered into being in front of Jahelli of the Malsonikes, second in command to his brother Kusla, sat in silence. His armor, woven of Beskar thread, dabbled the line between ceremonial regalia and combat utility. A soldier’s shell tailored for a statesman’s poise. Behind the dark visor of his helm, his expression was unreadable, his voice, when it came, was steady the slow, deliberate tone of a leader too used to loss.
Through the holofeed stood Konembay, the Hutt crime lord whose glistening folds exuded menace and indulgence in equal measure, and Linda Morgan, a human woman in her forties her blonde hair drawn neatly back, her posture a perfect portrait of executive control.
Jahelli spoke first.
“After numerous complications,” he began, voice low and clipped, “our joint operation to secure the artefact and transport twenty Imperial prisoners of war has... failed.”
The word hung heavy in the static.
Konembay’s lidless eyes widened, the half eaten Gorg in his grasp slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.
Linda did not flinch. When she spoke, her tone was ice-cold, the precision of a boardroom predator.
“I beg your pardon? My understanding was that all assets were secured and en route to Republic space.”
Jahelli drew in a slow breath, collecting his words with the discipline of a soldier restraining anger.
“That was true until twenty-eight standard hours ago. A Mal Clan convoy intercepted our transport mid jump. They overpowered our escort and seized the vessel. Tracking data confirms the ship is now grounded on Taris. Due to heavy Imperial and Republic presence, direct retrieval is... impossible. Intelligence from the black markets indicates a bidding war between the Obsidian Court and the Sith Empire, both prying for the ship and its contents. The exchange is expected to conclude by the end of the standard week.”
He sat back in his chair. The lightning had just struck, and he could already hear the rumble of thunder on its way.
Konembay’s voice oozed through the holofeed like thick oil.
“Most troublesome,” the Hutt rumbled, his accent soft yet serpentine. “This will wound the Cartel’s interests... and the Trandoshan negotiations. The intel those prisoners hold on trade routes is not something the Sith should taste. If the ship cannot be reclaimed... it must be destroyed.”
He leaned closer, tongue flicking between words.
“Jahelli... the Cartel’s support for your clan’s return to N’orlannia was not given lightly. I would... hate to see such an investment dissolve in incompetence.”
The silence that followed was as loud as the storm.
Linda broke it with corporate precision.
“Regardless, Konembay, the facts are immutable. Should the Mal clan align with the Empire or the Obsidian Court, all our operations will suffer. Our trade routes compromised. The technology aboard that vessel alone, the engineers, the artefact in Sith hands, it could tip the scales. We cannot allow that.”
Her eyes narrowed in thought before she continued.
“Jahelli, you and your forces will intervene on Taris. The Republic will provide logistical support.”
Konembay’s heavy rumble followed.
“The Cartel will contribute material assets. Discreetly.”
Jahelli’s gloved hands clenched, the table vibrating faintly beneath them. His voice, though calm, carried restrained fury.
“You can’t be serious. It’s been six standard months since we reclaimed this world. The Malsonikes are not in a position to wage open war with the Mal clan doing so would raze N’orlannia to ashes. Your investments would burn with it. I won’t let that happen again.”
Linda’s voice was quiet but unyielding.
“Then propose an alternative, Jahelli.”
“Deploy the M-16 combat droids,” he countered sharply. “They can handle close-quarters combat and extraction.”
“Production has only just begun,” Linda replied evenly. “I can spare perhaps three operational units, no more.”
Konembay’s rumbling tone turned grave.
“And the Cartel cannot risk open conflict with the Sith. They will not choose a side not yet.”
Linda leaned forward.
“Then what do you suggest?”
Jahelli’s tone hardened like Beskar.
“We turn to mercenaries and front organisations. We strike from the shadows take back what was stolen. Quietly.”
Both the Hutt and the corporate envoy nodded in agreement.
“There’s a Mandalorian Clan, Clan Skirata,” Jahelli continued. “Pro-Republic sympathies. Capable, discreet, and for the right price loyal.”
Linda’s lips curved slightly.
“Yes... and their involvement will make it appear as Mandalorian infighting. Clever. We’ll also need independent transports, unaffiliated vessels. There’s a new shipyard I’ve had my eye on, one with ties to paramilitary contractors, I believe. I can open and attempt negotiations.”
Konembay’s deep laughter vibrated through the channel.
“Ha! I, too, know of a few... professionals. I’ll bring them in. We’ll host the meeting on Nar Shaddaa neutral ground.”
Agreement rippled between them.
Jahelli gave a nod.
“Then, one final matter the Malsonikes will fund the operation. But our involvement must remain anonymous. The clans cannot afford further exposure.”
Konembay’s grin widened.
“Very well, Jahelli. You shall be... our silent benefactor.”
The transmission flickered out.
Konembay turned back to his meal, the low hum of Nar Shaddaa’s nightlife filling the void. Business resumed, dancers swayed, credits flowed, the galaxy turned.
In her office, Linda was already at work, the faint smile on her lips betraying thought of profit and new alliances.
And on N’orlannia, the storm raged, and so did Jahelli. His grip tightened until the air around him seemed to tremble, furniture rattling as fury coiled in his chest. This mission would decide a lot of the fate of his clan, his world, perhaps more?
The calm before the storm had ended.
They needed that artefact back.
Inside, the room was starved of light, save for the cold shimmer of a holoconference. Two figures flickered into being in front of Jahelli of the Malsonikes, second in command to his brother Kusla, sat in silence. His armor, woven of Beskar thread, dabbled the line between ceremonial regalia and combat utility. A soldier’s shell tailored for a statesman’s poise. Behind the dark visor of his helm, his expression was unreadable, his voice, when it came, was steady the slow, deliberate tone of a leader too used to loss.
Through the holofeed stood Konembay, the Hutt crime lord whose glistening folds exuded menace and indulgence in equal measure, and Linda Morgan, a human woman in her forties her blonde hair drawn neatly back, her posture a perfect portrait of executive control.
Jahelli spoke first.
“After numerous complications,” he began, voice low and clipped, “our joint operation to secure the artefact and transport twenty Imperial prisoners of war has... failed.”
The word hung heavy in the static.
Konembay’s lidless eyes widened, the half eaten Gorg in his grasp slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.
Linda did not flinch. When she spoke, her tone was ice-cold, the precision of a boardroom predator.
“I beg your pardon? My understanding was that all assets were secured and en route to Republic space.”
Jahelli drew in a slow breath, collecting his words with the discipline of a soldier restraining anger.
“That was true until twenty-eight standard hours ago. A Mal Clan convoy intercepted our transport mid jump. They overpowered our escort and seized the vessel. Tracking data confirms the ship is now grounded on Taris. Due to heavy Imperial and Republic presence, direct retrieval is... impossible. Intelligence from the black markets indicates a bidding war between the Obsidian Court and the Sith Empire, both prying for the ship and its contents. The exchange is expected to conclude by the end of the standard week.”
He sat back in his chair. The lightning had just struck, and he could already hear the rumble of thunder on its way.
Konembay’s voice oozed through the holofeed like thick oil.
“Most troublesome,” the Hutt rumbled, his accent soft yet serpentine. “This will wound the Cartel’s interests... and the Trandoshan negotiations. The intel those prisoners hold on trade routes is not something the Sith should taste. If the ship cannot be reclaimed... it must be destroyed.”
He leaned closer, tongue flicking between words.
“Jahelli... the Cartel’s support for your clan’s return to N’orlannia was not given lightly. I would... hate to see such an investment dissolve in incompetence.”
The silence that followed was as loud as the storm.
Linda broke it with corporate precision.
“Regardless, Konembay, the facts are immutable. Should the Mal clan align with the Empire or the Obsidian Court, all our operations will suffer. Our trade routes compromised. The technology aboard that vessel alone, the engineers, the artefact in Sith hands, it could tip the scales. We cannot allow that.”
Her eyes narrowed in thought before she continued.
“Jahelli, you and your forces will intervene on Taris. The Republic will provide logistical support.”
Konembay’s heavy rumble followed.
“The Cartel will contribute material assets. Discreetly.”
Jahelli’s gloved hands clenched, the table vibrating faintly beneath them. His voice, though calm, carried restrained fury.
“You can’t be serious. It’s been six standard months since we reclaimed this world. The Malsonikes are not in a position to wage open war with the Mal clan doing so would raze N’orlannia to ashes. Your investments would burn with it. I won’t let that happen again.”
Linda’s voice was quiet but unyielding.
“Then propose an alternative, Jahelli.”
“Deploy the M-16 combat droids,” he countered sharply. “They can handle close-quarters combat and extraction.”
“Production has only just begun,” Linda replied evenly. “I can spare perhaps three operational units, no more.”
Konembay’s rumbling tone turned grave.
“And the Cartel cannot risk open conflict with the Sith. They will not choose a side not yet.”
Linda leaned forward.
“Then what do you suggest?”
Jahelli’s tone hardened like Beskar.
“We turn to mercenaries and front organisations. We strike from the shadows take back what was stolen. Quietly.”
Both the Hutt and the corporate envoy nodded in agreement.
“There’s a Mandalorian Clan, Clan Skirata,” Jahelli continued. “Pro-Republic sympathies. Capable, discreet, and for the right price loyal.”
Linda’s lips curved slightly.
“Yes... and their involvement will make it appear as Mandalorian infighting. Clever. We’ll also need independent transports, unaffiliated vessels. There’s a new shipyard I’ve had my eye on, one with ties to paramilitary contractors, I believe. I can open and attempt negotiations.”
Konembay’s deep laughter vibrated through the channel.
“Ha! I, too, know of a few... professionals. I’ll bring them in. We’ll host the meeting on Nar Shaddaa neutral ground.”
Agreement rippled between them.
Jahelli gave a nod.
“Then, one final matter the Malsonikes will fund the operation. But our involvement must remain anonymous. The clans cannot afford further exposure.”
Konembay’s grin widened.
“Very well, Jahelli. You shall be... our silent benefactor.”
The transmission flickered out.
Konembay turned back to his meal, the low hum of Nar Shaddaa’s nightlife filling the void. Business resumed, dancers swayed, credits flowed, the galaxy turned.
In her office, Linda was already at work, the faint smile on her lips betraying thought of profit and new alliances.
And on N’orlannia, the storm raged, and so did Jahelli. His grip tightened until the air around him seemed to tremble, furniture rattling as fury coiled in his chest. This mission would decide a lot of the fate of his clan, his world, perhaps more?
The calm before the storm had ended.
They needed that artefact back.
