Actions have Consequences
CORELLIA
CORONET CITY
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Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
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SURGICAL - CRYBERNETIC IMPLANTS
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Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise
So, this is the planet where my mother and father met…
A misleading observation. It was true, no doubt, Caltin Vanagor and Chrysothemis Atreides had met on the Gold Beaches. That was irrelevant history, just the tone suggested that Connel had never been here before, yet he had several times. The Shadow had no issue with the Core world, but was never truly impressed with it.
That was neither here nor there, as he noticed all of the alleyways and corners, all of the graffiti. It all made the relatively short drive there. This was one of the much older shipyards, they were expanding into a larger capacity. That was the story…
… story… prophetic words.
This all felt “wrong”.
Dockyards District, Shipwright Complex 17-A
The air on Corellia always smelled like momentum: hot metal, engine oil, and the weight of decisions that moved starfleets. Connel stepped out of the speeder with that scent burning through the fabric of his hood and armor. The shipyard’s steel bones creaked under the construction droids welding an entirely new hangar bay into place — and deep beneath all that noise lay the vault.
His comm clicked twice as he keyed into the Green Jedi frequency.
Vanagor here. I’ve arrived. Tell Master Khoan I’ll review the artifacts myself. If there’s no Jedi claim, they fall to Corellia’s stewardship.
The Jedi on the other end, a Knight as well, responded.
“Understood. You’ll meet an escort at the vault in twenty minutes.”
Copy. He cut the channel before they could say anything else. There was no hostility — only the sense that his mind had already moved ahead of the conversation. Something was wrong, and it had nothing to do with relics.
Workers were too alert. Guards too broad-shouldered, too evenly spaced. The droids scanned people instead of cargo.
This isn’t protection. This is a cordon.
Connel drifted through the noise, posture relaxed, saber hilt hidden beneath his cloak, the other weapons were visible, visible for a reason. His eyes locked on an armored personnel crawler parked against a cargo container. The serial number had been sanded off, but the machining marks were military tech —
Imperial,
not Corellian.
Before he could follow the thread further, someone whistled from behind a stack of hyperdrive coils. A familiar low whistle. A warning whistle. Someone who once ran from him.
Connel’s jaw tightened. He stepped into the shadow between two frame struts.
The figure waiting for him was short, filthy, jittery, wearing a mechanic’s vest and holding a ration pack like it was priceless. Connel recognized him instantly.
Jassik Venn. Slicer. Arms trafficker. Once fled Connel’s blade through the warrens of Brentaal IV. He’d only ever gotten away because Connel let civilians evacuate first.
And Jassik knew it.
He raised his hands slowly.
Give me a reason… one…
“Before you decide I’m overdue for payback, we both know you didn’t come to Corellia for me.”
If you’re in this dockyard, you’re involved in whatever’s wrong with it.
Jassik swallowed. “Then you’re going to want what I know.”
Connel didn’t move. He didn’t ignite anything. He just watched.
Speak.
Jassik nodded twice, then stepped closer like he was afraid someone else was listening. “The vault wasn’t the find. The
vault door was. It’s not storage — it’s a map. An access gate.”
Where? And where is Garon Diko? He was of course referring to one of the foremen, his C.I., the one who contacted him. Did he know about this?
“Old Republic Bastion. Deep under the industrial ring. The Empire wants to refit it — use it as a siege anchor. A buried launch bay. Armored. Unbreakable. Diko disappeared soon after. He wanted to contact Corsec. He didn’t know. I SWEAR!”
Connel’s eyes lifted toward the unfinished hangar overhead. “They’re already loading material down there. I’ve been slicing their shipments. I know the code they’re using. That’s what I’m offering you.”
He held out a datapatch. Connel didn’t take it. He scanned it with his wrist-terminal instead. The data hit immediately — encrypted manifests. Imperial format.
Fresh.
Connel looked at the slicer.
You’re not giving this to me, giving it to me would mean that this is for free.
Jassik shook his head. “For my life. A trade. I leave. Today. You'll never see me again.”
Connel stared long enough to make Jassik tremble. Then grabbed him by the neck, not hard enough to do damage, but to make his point.
If I so much as see you…
“You won’t… ever… I swear!”
Go.
The little criminal ran — not fast, but honest in his fear.
Connel reopened comms, walking calmly through the workers who were suddenly watching him too closely.
Vanagor to Green Temple. The vault may be compromised by off-world military interest. Secure the perimeter. Do not send a civilian escort.
The same Green Jedi responded
“Master Vanagor, we request you wait for us. Do not engage anyone. Corellia’s Treaty—”
If I don’t move now, Corellia becomes a staging ground for another war. I won’t wait for that. You want someone there, send them!
He cut comms again.
No stealth. No flourish. Just silent intention.
Three workers stepped from behind shipping crates ahead of him. Too synchronized. Too heavy-footed. Connel slowed slightly, one hand drifting beneath his cloak. They reached for weapons
before he drew.
They never finished pulling them.
Windu’s Guile snapped to life with a crackle of violet lightning — short-blade, fast.
Two cuts. One deflection. A knee strike. They fell before they realized a Jedi had moved.
He kept walking.
A false foreman shouted into a commlink — Connel seized the device with the Force and smashed it into the man’s throat hard enough to drop him.
Another group rushed him with stun batons. They didn’t get close. A shockwave of telekinetic force crushed them against a cargo lift and left them gasping on the ground.
He didn’t slow down.
A distant, armored lift-tower breaking through the foundation of the shipyard — old stone beneath new steel. Heavy shielding rigs. Reinforcement frames disguised as scaffolding.
A war machine wearing the skin of a building.
Connel stopped and studied it. His saber hummed quietly at his side. He exhaled once — not in anger, but in
decision.
“If the Empire wants a launch site… I’ll make this their last one.”
He started walking again.
This time, no one tried to stop him. No one could.
