Nar Shaddaa

[Ambrose Veshok]

The repurposed Lambda Shuttle T-5 Deliverance Angel’s Wing lurched from hyperspace into real space, safely arriving at the Imperial stronghold of Nar Shaddaa. Her weapons systems depleted and smoky gray steam spewing from a punctured coolant line into the void of space where it dissipated to a thin haze before vanishing completely.

 

”Looks like the Miscericordia made it out in relatively one piece. They’ve already picked us up on comms. We’ll dock and get these kiddos the attention they need.” the pilot radioed over the shipboard speakers.

 

Back in the rather crowded medical bay, which was a converted passenger area complete with state of the art, front line medical equipment, Ambrose sat cross legged in the corner. He was trying to keep his bulky form as out of the way as possible. Aside from basic first aid he did not know much about medicine, and these kids required more than he knew. He was forced to trust the capable hands of the ships’ crew. As such, he was forced to content himself with sitting motionless in the corner. In his new(er) mechanized body sitting still was not a problem; but still, he could not find a way to shut himself down. Thus he was left with his own swirling thoughts. Thoughts of Query, of Emma, Nal Hutta, his men, his death, Bespin, the fall of Kuat, all that had transpired. These were not thoughts he was pleased to ponder over, but he could not help himself. He wanted to escape. He needed to get out and run. Run or fight, he had been reduced to his most base mental state. In combat he had been clear and focused. He just needed to get back to fighting; maybe then he could work through everything.

 

Maybe Query had been right. There was something wrong with him.

 

Looking down at the small body of the sleeping child in his arms, Frond sighed, mentally. Even through the haze that was his twisted swirling mind, he could do something right. His massive imposing form seemed to be the only thing that helped calm the otherwise screaming youngling. Amongst the symphony of beeping machinery and hushed voices, Ambrose could sit there, a silent sentinel, the small being swaddled safely in blankets, cradled in the crook of his massive phrik arm.

 

Looking up at the pilot’s announcement, Ambrose mentally began to try and compartmentalize his thoughts. He was going to have to give a report of his actions on Kuat. He was, or had been, a storm trooper. Failure was not something the corps took lightly. Just another failure. . .

 

Soon enough, the T-5 had landed in the hangar of the mighty Imperial warship and as soon as the hangar crew had secured the heavily damaged vessel and rendered it safe to be around, swarms of medial techs flooded the already cramped interior and began to expertly carry out the injured children. Through it all, Ambrose sat, devoid of any outwards signs of life. When the last of the injured were removed, slowly, with a creaking and grinding knee, Ambrose stood up, stooping to exit the ship and descend to the deck plating below.

 

Standing there as the hustle and bustle of the ship went on practically unnoticed around him, Ambrose found himself wondering where he needed to go next. His knee needed looking at, he needed to file his after action report, he really ought to probably seek out some sort of psychological assistance which meant even more paperwork, and then there was this:

 

Looking down at the lightsaber he had taken off the fallen Sith warrior on Kuat still clipped to his belt, Ambrose knew he had to turn it over to someone. He had no need of it and an after action report usually only had a small box to check and list items seized from enemy combatants. Normally, he’d turn it over to his commanding officer. In his current state, Ambrose did not even know who that was. The Empress had pardoned him and said he had worth to the Empire, but beyond that she had been silent. He highly doubted that he could return to his old unit in such a state and his last special assignment had ended in complete failure. Truth be told, all of his actions since he had awoken on Carida had been of his own decision, not under orders or alongside any semblance of a military unit. Sure, there had been soldiers battling alongside him at Kuat, but he had been an outlier, an Imperial piece of tech that, in the chaos, was a welcome addition to the fight. Where did he even belong?

 

As he stood there puzzling, an Imperial clad lackey rushed up, eyes darting from his datapad up to the towering mechanized being’s face and back, ”Captain Ambrose. You are to report to Conference Room Epsilon-2. Grand Admiral Beck has ordered any and all commanding officers to assemble there A.S.A.P. to give their reports on the Battle of Kuat.” Without another word, the weasel-like lackey turned and scurried away, leaving Ambrose to figure out what to do next.

 

At least he had some direction though. Truth be told, he was not looking forward to standing for his behavior planetside on Kuat. He had not been acting under orders and under his watch a hospital, still filled with who knows how many sick and dying Imperial citizens, had collapsed; a Moff, in as much as he knew had gone missing and was most likely presumed dead, Imperial fighter craft had been shot down trying to assist him, and he had, technically, without authorization, taken a piece of experimental weaponry that now lay somewhere buried in the rubble that was Kuat. In anyone’s book, that was stealing.

 

Hanging his metal head, the 9 foot colossus began to shuffle across the hangar, each metal-on-metal footfall clanging across the bay.

 

Soon enough, he found himself outside Conference Room Epsilon-2. It looked like he was the first to arrive. Stooping even further he, squeezed through the shorter door into the room. Inside, it was clear that the black polished tables and chairs were designed for much more humanoid-sized beings. He was but a droid after all, a second-class citizen at best. As such, he took up a standing position in the furthest back corner, his features obscured by the shadows as he towered over the angled lights directed at the conference room table.

 

Now all he had to was wait for the arrival of Admiral Beck and whoever else outranked him.

 

Again, he was left with none but his thoughts. Captain? he pondered, last I checked, I was a lieutenant, if that anymore. . .

[Ambrose Veshok]

Ambrose stood there, the topmost portions of his domed head shrouded in the shadows near the ceiling as he took in every word that Admiral Beck said. He had never seen the man before, only heard tell of him amongst whispers in the ranks. Truth be known, Ambrose was still not even sure how he had come to be here. In so few months he had received what seemed to be one promotion after another. Yet still, in his own heart, Ambrose knew he was a failure. He had lost the Moff, failed to defend refugees, fallen in battle, fought against his own brothers, and allowed the destruction of an entire hospital with who knew how many deaths inside.

 

With a heavy heart and mind, Ambrose took one clanging step forward towards the table and his comrades, most if not all of whom outranked him. The others remained silent and Ambrose had to wonder if they too were contemplating their failures and how they came to stand here at Nar Shaadaa.

 

Before saying a word, the newly minted Imperial captain, unclasped the saber that he had taken from the nameless Sith lord he had defeated on Kuat and hefted it easily out unto the middle of the table with a clatter and a clang.

 

”I am RG-126, formally of the Ryloth Stormtrooper garrison before a series of unfortunate events befell me in the service of the Empress. I command no men. I have no duty station and no assignment. I have been pardoned by our Empress and I serve the Empire in an effort to bring peace and order to the Empire; to defend the poor, the weak, and the innocent. Such is my duty. That duty is what brought me to Kuat in the first place. Moff Hohenlohe’s estate on Kuat was besieged by Sith armies and men that appeared to be servants of the Black Sun Syndicate. I do not know what became of the Moff. He was lost to me during the din of battle, escorted by other Imperial forces when the wilder of that,” he pointed a massive metallic finger at the lightsaber lying on the table, ”came for him. Whatever monster it was, I left smoldering in a crater on the field of battle, his weapon claimed from his severed arm.” Ambrose paused to look around at the gathering about the table. If he had a throat to swallow with, he would have to try and wet his windpipe before he continued with the highlights of his activities on Kuat. ”The destruction of the fleet in orbit caused massive destruction to the planet, raining down burning chunks of durasteel and death on the people of Kuat. As the battle of the Moff’s estate drew to a close, I set off towards the city, destruction falling all around me. I was able to pick up a distress signal and with the assistance of a single medical transport and two fallen TIEs we were able to evacuate eighteen ill and wounded children and their caretakers before. . .”[/Ambrose paused, yet again, composing himself, ”the enemy descended on the Palpatine Memorial Hospital and reduced it to rubble; it and all the defenseless within. I had no choice but to evacuate with the ship.”

 

Ambrose hung his head as he fell silent.

 

”I had no choice. The hospital fell beneath my feet. Wherever the Empress deems that the monstrosity I have become to serve, so shall I serve.”

 

With that, Ambrose stepped back, his magnetized foot clanging again against the floor as the room fell silent awaiting Beck’s response.

[Ambrose Veshok]

Ambrose offered a half-hearted yet professional salute at the Admiral’s instructions. ”Sir yes sir. I do have one request however. If it is acceptable, I would like to offer whatever limited skillsets I have and my new Imperial issued iron body to the cause of the safe return of our Empress. She saved my life. I owe it to her to try and do the same sir.”

 

Before he could receive a response, Ambrose marched out of the conference room and down the hallway. The few Imperials still moving about gave the walking arsenal a wide berth.

 

Training new recruits was one thing. Training commandos was different. Some would have limited combat experience; others would be fresh out of training, having never even stared down a true enemy; still others would be returning for refreshers on the latest and greatest combat maneuvers, technology, and theories. Ambrose Veshok was no teacher. He was willing to do what he had to though to ensure the Empire’s survival and by that the survival of peace, order, and the rule of law. Ambrose would do anything to protect those he loved. He would even teach.

[Ambrose Veshok]

LOCATION: Temporary training outpost Omicron three six - Nar Shaddaa.

 

Ambrose stood in the corner watching as three sets of the Empire’s more seasoned veterans and commando hopefuls squared off. Fluidly, as if by second nature the trio of duos threw themselves at each other, trained moves, interrupted by the occasional improved strike learned via extra, off duty training, or cantina brawls. It was probably a good thing that Ambrose was all of and nothing more than a brain in a jar nestled within the massive Dark Trooper Phase III suit he currently called home. How he longed to interject himself into these training sessions. He could not. His hulking metallic form would easily crush the warriors seeking to advance themselves. He had learned that early on after sending an entire squad of rookie Stormtroopers to the medical ward with a variety of concussions and broken bones. So here he stood, resigned himself to observing and pointing out apparent inconsistencies. These men were not commandos yet. Drawn from the ranks of enlisted naval, army, Stormtrooper, and Intelligence personnel, many of the soldiers here had shown exceptional bravery, fortitude, and outside the box thinking during the battle of Kuat or the innumerable minor skirmishes that had erupted since with the Axis forces.

 

As he stood watching, his mind grimacing at the clear divergences from Imperial hand-to-hand combat training techniques, but he did not move. He had been tasked with training Imperial commandos, not reprogramming their basic training techniques. If these warriors had made it this far in their careers, clearly they were doing something right. Inwardly, Ambrose Veshok doubted that he was the right man for this job. After all, hadn’t he been the one to throw an entire ship full of soldiers into the planetary shield of Bespin? Hadn’t he been the one to wreak havoc on the Imperial medical base at Carida? Perhaps he was being punished. That was all he could resign himself to. The Empress was gone, the fleet had fallen, and the scattered remnants of the remnants of the once mighty galactic Empire were making with all haste here, to Nar Shaddaa, by all rights not an Imperial world, but one that belonged to the Hutts. They had not even tried to mount a rescue of the Empress yet. For all he knew, she was dead and the upper ranks were squabbling over what to do. No, this was not the Empire he had joined so many years before. Yet he was a good soldier even in his failures. He would stay and train the next generation of Imperial commandos, even if it was his punishment. They would be the best damn commandos the remnant had ever seen!

 

”No! No! No!” he bellowed, his mechanical voice echoing across the relatively desolate training arena as one of the commandos tapped out after being flipped through the air and slammed to his back, his opponent’s hand around his throat. He was not stopping the drill because the trainee with the advantage was clearly pressing it, pushing his fellow to the point of black out. No, Ambrose stopped the drill because the other trainee had tapped out. ”There is no room for surrender where you are going. Do you think the Rebellion showed mercy to soldiers on Endor? OF course not! What about all the soldiers aboard the Death Star who died without a chance to face their foes head on? Do you think they were showed mercy when they cried out for their mothers? You play like you practice! There is no tapping out. There is no surrender. We are the last razor’s edge of the Empire. After us, there is nothing. Do you understand? Nothing! Without us the Axis runs roughshod over the galaxy. We are the final wall!”

 

The rage and pain of Ambrose’ proverbial heart poured out in his words. He meant every word and if these jockeys thought that they could tap out when the going got rough he had no use for them. Stepping forward, his metal foot sending dust billowing upwards from the packed earth, Ambrose hefted the supine combatant into the air, his massive mechanized hand crushing the man’s frame beneath it. ”AND WE DO NOT ABANDON THAT POST!” he bellowed angrily before sending the hapless soldier careening back down to the dust.

 

”Again!” he snapped as he turned to eye the five others who were watching. Only one had a smile playing across his face. Whether that was at his brother’s suffering or because he understood what Ambrose was talking about, Ambrose did not know; but he was pleased to see that his actions had gotten a reaction. As the fallen trooper picked himself up, the group began to square off again, as Ambrose took back up his post, only to be interrupted a moment later by the arrival of a courier who handed Ambrose a note.

 

Crumpling it in his hand, Ambrose held up his free hand, signaling the half-dozen to stop. ”Report to your quarters. We’ve got orders. he spoke, all tell of his emotions now gone from his dark mechanized voice. In that moment, Ambrose saw clarity. It was a clarity he had not seen since he had arrived on Nar Shaddaa, except when he tried to throw himself into his assignment. Here, he was finally being tasked with something fitting the tortures he had undergone for the Empire.

 

The Empress.

 

She spared my life. It is time that I honor that mercy.

 

Making his way into what counted as an office for a cybernetic ranking soldier of the Empire, Frond clumsily uncoiled the large wire from under the desk that held is assigned computer. Expertly, he wove it through his armored plates and plugged it into a hidden port. With practiced expertise, he cycled through a myriad of unread disregarded messages from fellow officers looking to find joy in their off duty hours with the company of attractive young ladies and spiced Corellian wine, messages adjusting the weekly mess menu, messages advising new arrivals to Nar Shaddaa, known survivors, and known losses for the troops searching for friends, family, and battle buddies. None of that mattered to him, so he had pretty much forgone ever even checking messages. If someone needed something, it was not hard to find Ambrose Veshok. After all he was the only nine foot three inch mechanized death machine authorized to walk about the base without an escort. Cycling through the messages, he found the one he was looking for. Apparently Command still had not caught up with the fact that he had forgone this level of communications. Scanning the message, Ambrose would have smiled if he had the muscles to do so. He was to hand pick a squad of Commandos and report to Admiral Beck Pilon within the hour.

 

Within the hour?

 

Ambrose glanced at the holoclock on the wall and then back at the message timestamp. That hour was 17 minutes ago.

 

Whoops!

 

Standing, Ambrose wrenched the cord free, disconnecting himself from the computer. He strode out. He knew just who was going to go and rescue the Empress. For a venture like this, rank did not matter. For a venture like this, all that mattered was having the best of the best. They needed soldiers hardened by their training, their missions, and their environment; soldiers who could not just complete their mission, but that could survive and if the need arose willingly lay down their lives for their Empire. There were only so many men Ambrose would trust with such a task. The 73rd Cold Weather Combat Battlegroup was where Ambrose had spent the bulk of his career, engaging hostiles on the most desolate windswept godforsaken planets in the galaxy. Even though he had not monitored his messages, Ambrose still kept an ear out for word that any of his old battle buddies had resurfaced on Nar Shaddaa. With luck seven of his fellows had. Each one a trained and experience snow trooper with a myriad of tours with the 73rd and otherwise.

 

Walking down the narrow hallways that connected the makeshift surface barracks, Ambrose found the central command center. He had grown accustomed to the looks of shock and fear that his hulking form was met with, so he did not even notice as the lowly private began to voice a protest but drew back at the site of Ambrose plated forearm and the clearly concealed hatches that houses the duel blaster cannons in each. Without a word, Ambrose scanned the private’s computer screen until he found what he was looking for. A few minutes later, his fellow members of the 73rd had been ordered to report to Beck in orbit immediately. All they needed to do was grab their gear and go. Orders would follow.

 

”Seven plus one makes eight. We need one more.” Ambrose growled to himself. Although the green soldier at the desk did not think that as his mouth gaped open and shut several times trying to engage his mind and fathom an acceptable response. At the same time Ambrose’ mind whirled thinking about who could fill the final slot. He knew, even as much as he did not want to consciously admit it. That smiling buffoon in the arena. What was his name? Kesto? Ketsy? Ambrose scanned down through the list of soldiers in the barracks. There it was. Ketso Kast. That smiling idiot would do well. He had grit and determination and the experience to prove it. Ambrose had read his file. Well, more so glanced it over. Several promising years as a member of the Imperial Army serving as an advanced recon scout in some of the hottest, most humid regions the galaxy had to offer. The man had taken not only blasterfire in the name of the Empire, but apparently the man still had a few aged slugs floating around inside somewhere too. Yes, he’d work. Pushing the same buttons, Ambrose sent a message to the man’s room, summoning him to Beck as well.

 

Standing up, Ambrose’ head scraped the ceiling, raining sparks down on the desk where the terrified private sat still trying to muster the courage to blink much less speak. ”At ease soldier. You saw nothing,” the cyborg growled before turning with stooped head and stalking off. His seven fellow stormtroopers and the commando recruit made eight. The traditional Imperial squad was made of nine. There was no way Ambrose would let Beck fill that slot with anyone but himself. He’d be damned if he was not going to rescue the Empress too.

 

Quickly, he made his way to the massive lift that connected the surface with the orbital station above; a recent addition to expedite Imperial movements from space to the surface and back. It did not take long for the massive war machine to carve a path through the crowds and find a seat aboard the lift. Glancing to his left and right, Ambrose was content to see his fellows finding their own seats, whispering amongst themselves wondering to what special task they had been summoned. Ambrose doubted any of them recognized him. Rapping a metal knuckle against his freshly repaired metal knee with a light gong that was lost in the din of voices, he had undergone quite the transformation. Still, it was good to see some of his old comrades. Their presence gave him a sense of peace and knowledge that wherever the Empress might be that they actually stood a chance of wrestling her away from the grasp of whatever slimy darkness had her in their clutches.

 

It was not long before the eight men and Ambrose were all standing at attention aboard the Heaven’s Taint. All that was needed now were their orders from High Command.