Seeking Sanctuary and Supplies
The Ruler's Hand, an Imperial yacht built for comfort, not sustained combat, carved a silent path through the hyperspace lanes. The polished chrome and plush seating felt utterly alien to Kaelen and the Xylotians, who were more accustomed to rust and despair.
Kaelen—her side patched with a medical spray from the yacht’s well-stocked medbay—was in the cockpit, setting a course. Her destination was K’Tarr, a neutral, sparsely-populated mining moon in the Outer Rim. K’Tarr was a haven for smugglers, dissatisfied veterans, and anyone wanting to disappear from the galactic census. Crucially, the local government was famously corrupt and easily bought, maintaining a loose neutrality that kept the Empire at arm’s length.
"It will take us two standard days to get there," Kaelen announced to Vexa, who stood in the hatchway, watching the streaks of light warp past. "K’Tarr has arms dealers, ship mechanics, and everything else we need to turn this ship into a warship, and your people into a proper fighting force."
Vexa nodded, her eyes narrowed. "And how do we pay for this 'warship,' Jedi?"
"The Empire is generous," Kaelen replied, gesturing to the yacht’s opulent furnishings. "A ship like this is worth a small fleet of freighters. We'll sell everything not bolted down and strip the remaining systems for parts. We will fund our war with their own luxury."
The Contact
The moment the Ruler's Hand dropped out of hyperspace above K’Tarr, Kaelen knew they were being watched. The Force gave her a prickle of unease—not the cold malevolence of the Inquisitor, but the sharp, greedy focus of a predator looking for a score.
Kaelen didn't dock at the official Imperial-aligned port. She piloted the yacht into the Lower Spire Dockyards, a labyrinth of rickety platforms and ancient, rust-covered cranes.
She left Vexa in command, establishing a defensive perimeter with the few blasters they possessed. Kaelen shed her Jedi-like cloak and dressed in neutral synth-leather clothes she found in the yacht’s wardrobe. She was going to meet her contact alone.
Her only friend in this part of the galaxy was a Weequay smuggler and information broker named Jax O’Fell. Kaelen found Jax in a noisy, neon-lit cantina called The Wretched Hive, his scarred face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood.
"Kaelen Alaris," Jax said, not looking up from his drink. "I heard you were dead. Now you arrive in a stolen Imperial pleasure craft. You always were excessive."
Kaelen slid into the booth opposite him. "I need resources, Jax. Everything you have. Blasters, encryption keys, and a safe place to hide twenty-five people."
Jax took a slow sip of his potent spirit. "A safe place is easy. The Empire won't touch K'Tarr as long as the tax collector gets his due. But arming a rebellion, especially after you just blew up an Imperial facility... that's big coin."
Kaelen pushed a small, data-encrypted chip across the table. "This chip contains the complete financial and operational records of Processing Plant Gamma, which I recently retired. The Empire will pay a very large sum to get this back. Until then, it's collateral."
Jax’s eyes widened slightly as he picked up the chip. "You’re playing with fire, girl. This isn't liberation; this is blackmail."
"It's financing," Kaelen countered. "I need a training facility—a place where the Empire can’t hear them practice. And I need a teacher. A combat instructor. Someone who knows what it means to fight an overwhelming foe."
Jax leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There’s an old clone trooper here. A cast-off. He runs a salvage yard. Hard as plasteel. They call him 'The General.' He's been laying low for years. He hates the Empire with a passion I haven't seen since the war. He won't train a 'rebel cell.' But he might train a group of survivors."
A New Purpose
Kaelen returned to the Ruler's Hand with Jax's promise: shelter in the deep-level hangars and an introduction to "The General."
She gathered the Xylotian rebels, setting them up in the secure docking bay while the yacht was quickly stripped for saleable components.
"The time for running is over," Kaelen told them, her voice strong despite the pain in her side. "We are on K’Tarr, and we have one goal: to become more than survivors. We will be fighters. I can teach you how to use the Force to guide your aim, to steady your mind, and to protect yourselves. But I cannot teach you how to fight a war."
She turned to a figure who had just entered the hangar—a weathered man with grey stubble, a severe limp, and the faint, pale scars of inhibitor chip surgery still visible on his temples. He wore mismatched scavenged armor and carried a wrench the size of a rifle. It was The General.
"These aliens," he rasped, looking the Xylotians over with a critical, unimpressed gaze. "They look half-starved. They won't last a day in a firefight."
"Then you have three days to make them last a week," Kaelen challenged, stepping forward. "They watched the Empire murder their children and steal their world. They know how to hate. You know how to fight. We need you, General."
The clone looked from Kaelen's defiant amber lightsaber to the determined, desperate faces of the Xylotians. He grunted, a cynical, humorless sound.
"Alright, Jedi," he said. "I'll teach your survivors how to fight. But the first lesson is this: there are no rules out here. Only targets, and the will to pull the trigger."
The rebel cell had its sanctuary, its financing, and its first, unlikely drill sergeant. The training for Kaelen’s new, grim liberation force had begun.
