Jackdaw

[Deep Core, 6 ATC 4] Mission: Harvest Moon

Is there a particular format you’d like for characters specific to this RP?

[Approved] Zaek Saxon, Mandalorian mercenary

Approved.

Star Wars PW Discord

Pssst, it's invalid now....can we make it...persistent?

@Thkaal

Permanent link here: discord.gg/vvaMb2W

[Coruscant, 6 ATC 4] A House Divided II: A Little Wrong

Rensler – Offices of Ku’lya, Kast & Vosadii

---

Callum sat at his desk, Raya Navi in one of the two seats across from him. Between them, laid out on the glass surface, was her datapad. A small, holographically manifested Rodian, seated at a desk, hung in the air just above the device. He was in the middle of a fiery rant on state of the galaxy.

“I’m talking about Rendili StarDrive, I’m talking about Republic Fleet Systems, I’m talking Czerka Corporation, Hoersh-Kessel, SoroSuub,” he pronounced, counting them off on his long, presumably green fingers, “they’re all working together, pouring money into the Senate, into their campaign accounts, into their bank accounts, into their friends’ bank accounts to make sure they get what they want. And what do they want, New Republic Nation? That’s right. They want to bring down Corellia. They want to bring down the CEC, they want to bring down StarDrive . . .”

“Who is this?” Rensler asked. He'd asked the team to look into whatever leads they might dig up on lobbyists and interests with the money and a motive to buy a fifth of the Senate. This Rodian, who as far as Rensler could guess was some fringe media personality, was not what he was expecting.

“Neero Bext. He’s the netshow anchor for Holonet Free Coruscant, the leading broadcast on this Rim-wing media outlet called The New Republic,” Raya explained. “He’s a big name on the Holonet conspiracy forums.”

“. . . the deep state is telling us, they’re shouting it in our faces, that they don’t care about your freedoms! They don’t care about the free
market . . .”

“And you think he’s on to something here?” Callum asked, eyes on the furiously gesticulating Rodian.

“He’s a bit, well, unhinged, I guess,” Raya said, looking down at the broadcast. “But he’s talking about the same kind of voting trends we’re looking at here. The idea of the seizure bill being some kind of subversive conspiracy isn't exactly a fresh idea. It seems like it gets talked about a lot in these circles, and this is the guy everyone talks about when they discuss it.”

“. . . but the mainstream news,” Bext continued as they spoke, nearly spitting the word mainstream, “tells us the deep state isn’t real. That these are crazy, fringe conspiracy theories and that people who question the system are out of line . . .”

“I guess this is the territory we’re in,” Callum said. He did not go to law school for this. Lobbying was a career field roughly adjacent to the practice of law to begin with. Delving into a crazy, fringe conspiracy, especially one that might be real, that wasn’t covered in the books. That wasn’t something you picked up professionally, either. “Where is his studio?” Studio. Could be this Bext character was filming this out of a cramped, one-bedroom apartment somewhere.

“The address on their incorporation forms is a postal box down in the low 4000’s, Sector L-81.” That was only an hour’s trip from the Federal District’s upper levels. “They’re probably in the area, but,” she said with a shrug, “there’s no address. You want to talk to him?” she asked. This was a stretch as far as a lead went, and he could tell she knew it. She was probably surprised he was taking it seriously.

"Right now we have nothing. If he's in the area, we might as well," Callum said. He could hardly explain it himself, though. There was, literally, no reason to think this Neero Bext was grounded on any planet in the galaxy. All the same, again, conspiracies weren't his area of expertise. Maybe an expert would be helpful.

"Right, of course," Raya agreed.

“Let’s get that address through Coronet, then,” Callum said. “Give Jast a call and put him on it. And see if we can hire out one of his security contractors for the trip. This Bext doesn’t seem like the most stable person.”

“Do you want me to go down there?” Raya asked. If Callum had to estimate a guess, he’d say she wasn’t terribly excited at the prospect.

“No, I will. I’ll take Ben, too,” Callum said. “Force knows that child isn’t doing anything worth his billing rate up here.”

“. . . I don’t have all the answers. I’m just saying when you look at Project Corona, when you look at the Strategic Intelligence Service, when you look at the military-industrial complex, when you look at the facts, you know, you just know something is going on. It’s time to wake up, Coruscant!”

[Approved] Commander Corvane Voycnor, Imperial Navy Diplomatic Corps

Approved.

[Coruscant, 6 ATC 4] A House Divided II: A Little Wrong

Towler – Offices of Senator Towler

---

“I am aware of the proposal, Senator,” the Secretary-General said. Garrec Dallender, leader of the United Nations of Loronar, was a trim-looking man in his mid-forties, young for the position but, as Towler knew from meeting the man in person, wizened for the experience. The blue holographic render of Garrec Dallender’s bust did not properly convey his stately wrinkles or quickly whitening hair. “President Carrigher is hosting a holoconference to discuss a naval deployment into the Corellian Sector in a half hour. Ten of the largest Colonies worlds in the region will be there.”

“What’s her angle?” Towler asked. “Isn’t the Republic’s response enough?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Senator,” Dallender answered.

Towler thought about it. The Iseno-Denon Conflict had made the Hydian Way and Corellian Run hazardous. The last embers of the Galactic War still burned in those systems, and had made refueling there all but impossible due to a lack of publicly accessible stations. Even ships with the fuel were vulnerable to being waylaid by pirates and slavers in transit, and if that wasn’t enough both Iseno and Denon were fielding privateers that did not strictly limit themselves to preying on the enemy’s supply lines.

The Corellian Trade Spine was the last major hyperlane connecting the southern reaches of the Republic to Coruscant and the Republic’s northern heart. If Free Corellia successfully destabilized the Corellian Sector, the Spine would be unviable as a trade route as well. Every major hyperlane connecting the South Colonies to Coruscant would be lost.

“I understand the need to secure the sector,” Towler started. “The strategic value of the Corellian Sector is immense. There might be other ways to navigate from the southern regions of the Republic to the north, but I’m guessing the economic impact of a slowdown would be large in the aggregate, to say the least. On top of that, maybe it’s a moral victory for the South Colonies? Maybe Hosnian Prime wants to demonstrate that we are keeping the Republic together?” Towler leaned back in his chair. “What better way to do that than to very literally keep the Republic together by securing its hyperlanes.”

“So you think it’s a good idea?” the Secretary-General asked. Towler exhaled sharply. He wasn’t sure he liked Dallender. He liked that the Secretary-General listened to him. He did not like that the Secretary-General would make a decision of this magnitude based on Towler’s opinion. Not that he hated it. To have the influence was nice, but it felt wrong. Towler had been elected to represent Loronar in the Senate, not lead its people as its planetary governor.

“If it's a limited anti-piracy campaign, I think so, especially if the Republic can provide military support soon. If we have the full strength of the Republic on its way, we just have to look competent until they arrive, and we collect a victory for the Colonies,” Towler said. "Not bad for the polls, either, now that I think about it." Was is that simple, though? A cross-sector military deployment for the sake of local political capital? He counted back in his head, trying to determine if Carrigher was in an election year. Maybe it was next year?

“Thank you for your input, Senator,” Dellander said. Towler nodded. “I do have to ask, though, why did President Carrigher contact you? I’m glad to have your input, but it would have been more proper for you to have heard a briefing from me first.”

“President Carrigher is also the Senator for Hosnian Prime, Secretary-General,” Towler explained. Under Hosnian Prime’s senatorial election process, the President of Hosnian Prime appointed the Senator every election cycle. Naturally, President Bar Carrigher had appointed herself, and maintained proxies to represent her on the floor of the Senate. “I’m not sure why she felt the need to come to me, though. This is your area of control, after all, not mine.” It was always good to reassure your betters that you didn’t intend to step on their toes. It kept things civil.

“Of course,” Dallender said, seemingly pleased. “Thank you again, Fosten.” And his holographic image winked out of existence.

Towler pursed his lips as he sat, thinking. Why me?

- - -

Jumproot – Deep Space Refueling Platform 5, New Plympto System

---

Running an effective criminal enterprise, as far as Kragg Jumproot could tell, was all about standards.

The Nosaurian had worked the platform’s bridge comm controls for a few years now, deep in the black of space, and his time as a communications officer with Plympto Refueling Co. had gave him a front-and-center view of just how a profit-minded enterprise like PRC dealt with the pirates and smugglers operating in and traveling through the Corellian Sector. The first step was to be a legitimate business. Any group of pirates could cobble together a private refueling station, but it was a lot easier to deal with the authorities when you could flash a license at them. As for questions, the second step was to maintain a nice, comfortable set of rules. The small crew of Platform 5 had become very comfortable enforcing those rules over time. There weren't many, but they were important.

No slaves, for example, was a big one. PRC didn’t service slaving ships. Not necessarily for moral concerns, though Jumproot had a few of those regarding the business himself, but the authorities had a particular distaste for slavery and tended to look a little closer at where a slaving ship had come from and where it was going. It was a quick way to land yourself in an orbital prison somewhere. Management at Deep Space Refueling Platform 5 refused to let the station be either port of origin or call for those ships.

Another example, no obvious callsigns. Plenty of dumb would-be merchant raiders thought up a blood curdling name for their gunship and took to the stars, looking to scare a freighter captain shitless as soon as it came on comms. Management didn’t deal with those types either. It’s very difficult to refuel a gunboat flashing the name Throatslitter over broadcast and convince the law you didn’t know what they were up to. Again, quick way to land yourself in an orbital prison somewhere.

Third example, no nameless ships. Every ship in the galaxy had some sort of identifying code. Anyone refusing to fly a BOSS-registered signifier didn’t know what was what, and management didn’t like to work with amateurs to begin with, let alone dumb ones. That, or they were up to some real bad shit. Working with a professional refusing to broadcast a name was, again, a quick way to land yourself in orbital prison.

So, when one such nameless ship appeared on scanners, Communications Officer Jumproot politely advised it to go away.

“They’re not responding,” Jumproot said, gesturing to the comms screen with his mug of caf. Gatt Rockjaw, commanding officer on Platform 5’s bridge at the moment, stroked his chin. “They did make some course adjustments though, so someone’s home over there.”

“And there’s no distress signal?” Rockjaw asked, again. Jumproot shrugged.

“No, not on any channel we’re picking up,” he answered. The ship was far off in the depths of space, a solid blip on their scanners. It seemed to be a large ship, some sort of heavy freighter maybe. At this range, a smaller vessel would have been barely noticeable to Platform 5’s sensors or might not have been picked up at all.

“Try to hail them again,” Rockjaw ordered, and Jumproot obliged. There waited patiently for a moment. No reply, it seemed. He shifted uneasily in his seat. He had a bad feeling about this. Just nerves, he figured. But then, a voice shouted from the sensor controls on the far side of the room.

“Captain, we just picked up an energy discharge!” a female Nosaurian shouted. Rockjaw and Jumproot, at once, swiveled to look at her. The speaker was a new transfer from another PRC station. Jumproot didn’t know her name, but he thought her very attractive, with horns in all the right places. Considering the gravity of her words, he wondered if her horns were an odd thing to be thinking about. “Heavy turbolaser fi—”

She was cut off as Platform 5 roared and rocked. The small crew stationed on the bridge gripped tightly to emergency handholds until the ship stabilized. When they had regained their poise, they found the ship’s electronics dead. Jumproot frantically attempted to reboot his systems, hoping to surrender, but to no avail. He turned around and found another Nosaurian trying the door, but it refused to open.

Rockjaw stared out into the starred blackness of space through the bridge’s transparisteel viewport, looking at, as far as Jumproot could tell, nothing. Useless as it was, Jumproot stared too, looking for some glimpse of the vessel that had just given Platform 5 a sour taste of what seemed to be heavy, military-grade weaponry. He could feel his heart pounding in his head, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Prey, in the jungle, stalked by an unseen but known predator. Jumproot took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself.

“Officer Jumproot,” Rockjaw said, slowly, “please open a comm channel and inform this vessel that we are an unarmed civilian refueling platform.”

“Comms are down, sir,” Jumproot answered. The words ran out of his mouth, slurring together. He was shaking. What happened to bodies exposed to the vacuum? He couldn't remember, wasn't sure he wanted to remember. “Everything’s down.”

Rockjaw didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes had fixed on something in particular, and as Jumproot looked back to the viewport, he saw it. It was a pair of bright red lances arcing through the void, and the bridge of Platform 5 was very much in their way.

“Ah,” Rockjaw said, perhaps speaking to Jumproot, perhaps not. And that was all there was to say.

[Denied] Captain Adam Exodus

OK. I was told that Friday.

Is it allright if I enter another CS some time this week? I will be logical, immersed, and know the guides.

@officaz

Of course, you are welcome to resubmit whenever you like.

[Denied] Captain Adam Exodus

Your character, who apparently has Sith ancestry, was born on the capital world of the Republic, was given a misappropriated lightsaber by his mother, briefly joined the Jedi Order (maybe?) despite not being force sensitive, dropped out of the Jedi Order, traded his lightsaber to a homeless man, and was recruited to join the Imperial Army.

This character construction suggests, at best, an insufficient understanding of the setting.

We do not have particularly high standards. The Persistent World is meant to be an inclusive roleplaying experience appropriate for all writing levels. That said, we do require that applicants have some understanding of the Star Wars setting and create characters appropriate to that setting. The sheet presents a character that, for a long list of reasons, is entirely disconnected from the Star Wars setting and cannot be accepted without a substantial overhaul.

The GM team has put a great deal of effort into creating guides that are intended to guide prospective players who are unfamiliar with the setting in their character creation efforts. I would consult those in the editing process, as well as the Star Wars Wiki.

[Coruscant, 6 ATC 4] A House Divided II: A Little Wrong

Towler – Offices of Senator Towler

---

It was a slow day.

Until they had word about the Outworlds Resources amendment, there wasn’t much to be done. The last few other amendments had already been forwarded to the drafting team and were in the process of being incorporated at that moment. Towler found himself with little to do in the meantime and occupied himself with meaningless tasks. He reread the morning issues of the Star-Herald and the Galactic Times. After that, he checked in on the Avenue Journal and Y’Toub Post. He went through the various media channels from Loronar, Byblos, and Hosnian Prime as well, and when nothing caught his eye he moved on to his holomessages. Then his personal messages.

Then, as a last resort, to the legislative proposals docket.

He rarely bothered reading them. Thousands of bills were proposed every year, but if a bill was worth voting for, you’d hear about it. If a bill crossed Towler’s desk without an endorsement or an interesting headlining sponsor, it remained unread until someone gave him a reason to look at it.

He was just in the middle of reviewing an exceedingly ill-conceived proposal outlining a payment of several billion credits to the Sith Empire for the repurchase of several annexed border worlds when the light about his office door lit up, signaling a visitor.

“Come in,” Towler said, setting down his datapad.

The door slid open, and Roker stepped in. “I just got off the phone with Teft. The amendment’s passed. I’ve already sent it to the drafting team,” the chief of staff reported.

“Excellent to hear. Let the undersecretary know we’ll have it to her by the end of the day,” Towler said. “Looks like our Pantoran friends came through.”

“Senator Pharliis wasn’t at the meeting, actually.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Towler asked, disinterestedly.

“I’m not sure. There are rumors going around, though. I heard her chief of staff was found, ah, passed away this morning,” Roker said. “But I haven’t gotten a confirmation on that.”

“Hm,” Towler said. That was something. When he’d visited the Pantoran senator’s office he had been keenly aware of the relative age difference between his staff and hers. It almost seemed that Pantora was being represented by a group of children. It certainly didn’t seem likely that any of them were looking at death by natural causes in the near future. “Well, if you get confirmation of that, send over flowers. Same florist as usual, and make sure they’re nice.”

“Of course, sir,” Roker answered. Towler noticed a flashing indicator on his datapad’s screen. “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” The indicator was a bright, pulsing white, of a tone and size reserved only for the most important people in the galaxy (and Mrs. Towler).

“No, Paul, I think that’ll be all,” Towler answered, opening the notification with a swipe of the holographic projection. Roker nodded and stepped out, the doors sliding shut behind him, while Towler considered the holomessage he’d just received from the President of Hosnian Prime.

FT:

Congress looking to deploy joint PDF/SDF TF against F Cor in conj w/ GRN. SC coalition possible?
Pres. BC

Towler was rarely surprised, but he found himself reading and rereading the message to make sure he understood it properly. This was partially due to the President's apparent reluctance to write out her words in full. Once he'd convinced himself, he reached for his desk holocomm and dialed the Secretary-General of Loronar.

[Coruscant, 6 ATC 4] A House Divided II: A Little Wrong

Towler – The Trentana Café

---

Artificially managed evening settled in on Coruscant’s Federal District with the assistance of the planet’s enormous orbital mirrors, and the well-dressed diners on the sky patios of the Trentana Café found themselves looking out on a twinkling sea of light in the darkness. The Senate building was lit with a soft blue that night, the structure ringed with white lights in more of the windows than not. Government never truly slept at the center of the galaxy.

“This is delicious,” Towler said, swallowing the last of the steak and setting the silverware down.

“Amazing what money can buy, isn’t it?” Callum Rensler said, leaning back in his chair across from Towler, dark eyes narrow in the fading light. Towler gave him a pursed smile.

It was just the two of them at dinner. Towler knew, as soon as Rensler had called, that it was about the seizure bill. Rensler wasn’t a social friend these days.

“Directly to business. I like it,” Towler said. He certainly did not like it. He had a long working relationship with many of the Federal District’s lobbyists, Rensler in particular. Ku’lya Kast had held the Loronar Corporation account for a solid eighteen years of Towler’s career, right up until Ven Panteer had poached the contract from Rensler. Towler hadn’t worked as much with Rensler since, as the lobbyist had gone on to work other interests outside the scope of Towler’s constituency. Corellian interests, specifically.

“The seizure bill is going to die, Towler,” Rensler said. “The CEC won’t let it happen. That’s a fact you need to accept.”

“You sound like me, Callum, I’m glad I’ve rubbed off on you after all these years,” Towler answered. “But it’s early days yet, and we’re a long way from the floor.”

“The CEC has written twenty million credits’ worth of checks in donations today alone, Fosten,” Rensler parried. “There’s going to be another twenty million credits tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. The CEC is willing to empty the war chest killing this bill.”

“And here I thought this was a social call,” Towler said with a smirk. “I think you’re bluffing. The seizure bill in its current form allows only for a temporary occupation. No more than hwhat's necessary to protect the Republic's interest in the shipyards,” he continued, reaching for the glass of whiskey beside his plate. “I don’t see the CEC wasting its extensive resources to avoid a temporary seizure.”

“Is the duration at the discretion of the Chancellor?”

“We don't have the legal language down yet,” Towler said sourly, knowing full well where Rensler was going with this train of thought, "but that's my expectation.”

“A temporary suspension at the discretion of the Chancellor is as good as permanent. If Free Corellia holds out for ten years, does that mean the CEC operates as a state-owned entity for a decade?” Rensler asked pointedly. Towler saw an opportunity.

“Are we arguing over the sale or the price? What if the bill had a hard cap on the length of the time the Republic could occupy the shipyards? Say, six months?” Towler said.

“Don’t misunderstand me. There’s no room for compromise,” Rensler retorted sharply. Towler pursed his lips and took a sip of the whiskey.

He spoke again after a long moment. “You have to see there’s a compelling interest in securing the shipyards, Callum,” Towler tried. That was weak. Better to not say anything than say something weak. This was not going well. He was being stonewalled at every turn.

“What I think has nothing to do with it. I represent the CEC, and if the CEC doesn’t see a compelling interest, neither do I. This is not a negotiation,” Rensler said. Now that was not true, Towler knew. Rensler represented the CEC, yes, and it was his job to represent the CEC’s interests, yes, but it was also his duty to advise the CEC. What Rensler thought mattered very much as far as advising the CEC went. Towler stayed silent, taking another swig from the glass, and waited for Rensler to speak again. “Could you put a time limit on the possession?”

There it was. The lawyer's ethical obligation to keep the client fully informed. “Maybe. I can’t guarantee anything, but I can try.” Towler thought about it. “For every senator who wants to pass a bill that’s fair to both the Republic and Corellia, there’s another who wants to hurt the CEC so their corporate sponsors can take a piece of the Republic’s naval budget for themselves.”

“Hosnian Prime,” Rensler said coolly.

“You might very well think that, but I certainly couldn’t say,” Towler said. He could, though. Hosnian Prime, Chair World of the South Colonial Caucus, had just finished a massive shipyard in orbit over the planet the previous year, and while private business was booming, they were looking for a seat at the military contracts table. That table that was opening up as Corellia fell out of favor with the Republic, which meant Hosnian Prime was eager to keep up the pressure. “Ask your people if they’d be able to work with a six-month limit on the possession.”

“Four months. They won’t take it, but I’ll float it. It’s an invasion of Corellian autonomy and they won’t stand for that.”

“Fine, float four months too, if you have to. If it’s really an absolute ‘no’ based on the principle of the matter it won’t hurt, but if we’re haggling over the terms they might as well know the option's on the table,” Towler answered. Rensler reached for his own glass and took a sip of liquor, considering the offer.

“Fine. But I have to tell them that you can’t guarantee a delivery on that,” Rensler said.

“I can only do what I can.”

“If the CEC turns the offer down, I’d advise you to give up, Fosten,” Rensler warned. “The CEC will find the projects you care about and kill them, and they’ll find the projects your opponents care about and pour money into them. The only winners are the people who oppose you. Someone else might be sitting in your office in a couple of years.”

That was a threat, and Towler didn’t like threats. He shifted in his seat, taking his time as he collected his thoughts. Rensler watched him expectantly. Aware that he had struck a nerve, maybe? Towler couldn’t tell. Rensler was hard to read, which made him an excellent choice for an advocate and a poor choice for an adversary.

“Let's not say things that'll make us look foolish when the cards are played out," he began, doing his best to keep the venom out of his voice. Cooler heads always prevailed in these talks, he knew well enough. Rensler lifted his chin a bit. Defiance, Towler figured.

“The Rim Faction hates the CEC because it’s a corporate monolith that receives all the favorable treatment in the galaxy from the Republic,” Towler continued, slowly and deliberately, setting his elbows on the table as he spoke, “and the Core Faction hates Corellia because it refuses to stand with the Republic as part of a unified galactic state. The CEC has far fewer friends than you’d like to pretend, Rensler, and I've always found it very difficult to win on the Senate floor without a few of those.”

“Money makes more friends than ideologies. We don’t have to be enemies, Fosten,” Rensler said. “If you want to come over to the winning side, you have my number.”

“I agree. We don’t have to be enemies. If your client comes around to see that the value in compromising with the Republic outweighs the cost of ‘winning,’ if that's what you'd call wasting billions on a losing fight, you have mine,” Towler answered. “I’ll propose a time-limit to the possession to my side if you propose it to yours.”

“They won’t take it, but I’ll run it by them anyway. It was nice seeing you again, even if we’re on opposite sides this time around,” Rensler said, and he stood to leave.

“Likewise,” Towler said, and honestly at that. He liked Rensler, circumstances aside.

“Don’t worry about the bill, by the way. Dinner’s on the CEC tonight,” the lobbyist said, buttoning his jacket and turning away. Towler watched him leave, and then looked into the shallow finger of liquor that was left in the bottom of his glass. Much less than half-full, far more than half-empty.