B O U N T I F U L - W A R L O R D
The heavy, gold-braided fringe of Vortigern's epaulettes bounced against his shoulders as he marched around the Imperial Throne on the bridge. "Citizens of the High Republic," he boomed, dropping his chin to force his voice into a firmer tone. He swept a gloved hand toward the empty viewport, gesturing grandly to an imaginary audience of billions. "You stand upon the precipice of utter annihilation. Look upon the Flight of Fancy, and despair! For I am Warlord Vortigern Mimkin, and your lives are now—"
"My Lord," a voice interrupted. Vortigern choked on the next syllable, his mustache giving a violent twitch as he spun around. His hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his ceremonial sidearm before he realized it was only Vice Admiral Krennel. The older man was standing at the edge of the crew pit, looking up at him with the flat, exhausting patience of a career officer who had spent the last three months explaining basic war tactics.
"Krennel! Damnit, man," Vortigern let out a hiss, his voice rising higher before he regained his composure and cleared his throat with a rough sound. He repositioned his peaked cap to its characteristic angle, puffing out his chest to assert his perceived authority in the room. "I was in the middle of a tactical oratorical exercise. The psychological subjugation of the enemy begins in the throat!"
Krennel, entirely unfazed, tapped a chronometer on his gauntlet. "The High Republic's HoloNet relays in this sector are currently experiencing a brief, unjammed window, Warlord. If we do not broadcast the ultimatum within the next two minutes, the signal packet will miss the primary routing hub to Naboo entirely. We need to transmit now."
A cold spike of adrenaline shot straight to Vortigern's stomach, tightening the knot that had lived there since they left Pesmenben IV into a painful fist. He looked out the viewport to where the junkyard world of Attahox currently resided. Flanking his beloved, crystal-studded flagship were the meager handful of light cruisers he had managed to scrap together, his so-called blockade force.
It looked imposing enough to a bunch of scrap-merchants and moisture farmers down there, but Vortigern knew the terrifying truth. His pockets were entirely turned out. The astronomical cost of refitting the MIV Flight of Fancy had bankrupted his credit cache, leaving him unable to even fully stock the missile tubes on his escort ships.
He needed credits desperately, or the whole glittering illusion of his warlord status would come crashing down around him. "Of course," Vortigern declared, throwing his shoulders back and letting his medals clink loudly. "Exactly as I timed it. Open the channel. Sector-wide broadcast, maximum gain. Let them look upon their doom." As the communications officer silently counted down from the pit, Vortigern noticed his left eyelid starting to twitch while he adjusted his mustache with two fingers.
He had no intention of destroying the planet; he simply couldn't afford to waste the turbolaser gas. However, the Republic would be unaware of this, as with they were currently preoccupied with Marlon Sularen antics over Corellia to worry about rushing to defend a rather unimportant planet, and so they would have to concede to the ransom.
It was a flawless, brilliant strategy entirely of his own design. The blue activation light on the holo-cam flared to life, and Vortigern instantly locked into posture. He sneered, adopting a perfect expression of Imperial disdain, leaning slightly forward into the lens so the bridge lights caught the glittering regalia on his chest.
"Citizens of the High Republic, and the pathetic, cowering rabble of Attahox," he began, his voice echoing through the bridge with a manufactured, terrifying weight. "Look upon the stars, and know that your freedom has expired. The vanguard of Imperial authority has arrived to claim this system, and we find it... severely wanting."
He took a slow, theatrical step forward, letting the dramatic sweep of his epaulettees catch the ambient light to maximize the visual impact. "I have no desire to waste my munitions turning your pathetic scrap-heap of a world into an asteroid field, though the Flight of Fancy is more than capable of the task. Therefore, I shall offer your Chancellor a singular mercy. You will deliver one million Republic credits to this fleet. You have precisely five rotations to gather the sum."
He held up a single, white-gloved finger, ensuring the hologram captured the gesture. "The credits are to be loaded onto a single, completely unarmed transport. No escorts. No hidden transponders. If my sensors detect so much as a single Mandalorian starfighter within three parsecs of the drop point, I will rain fire upon your settlements until the very crust of Attahox cracks open. Five rotations. Do not test the depths of my patience. Mimkin out." With a grand sweep of his arm, he signaled the tech to cut the feed.
The blue light died, and for a long, agonizing second, the bridge was dead silent. Vortigern stood frozen in his pose, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, the posture deflated as he slipped a hand inside his uniform jacket, subtly wiping his sweating palm against the lining, and shot a sharp, frantic glance toward his vice admiral for reassurance that this plan could work.
