His watch-commander, Commander Cochrell Huft, was busy at his own work station. Huft chuckled drily, "No traffic ... no commerce, no taxes, no supplies, no pay."

"Yeah. It's been tough since Endor. Seems like forever."

"Just a little more than three years ago."

"And now the Rebels have Coruscant," Psillas said in a tone that revealed he still had difficulty believing it.

"But now we have Corellia," Huft replied with grim humor, and only a trace of sarcasm. The two officers were stationed aboard the Corvette Vigilance, collating sensor reports and directing boarding operations for their region of the picket line. Most of the traffic here consisted of starships entering the Corellian system from the Rim. Traffic was heavy enough that it was difficult to properly evaluate potential smugglers, spies, and Rebel shipments. Fortunately, the job was made much simpler by the artificial intelligence system which integrated sensor and transponder data, docking records, and law enforcement records on pilot, crew, and owner. The AI would automatically flag any suspicious vessel, and display the relevant data for human evaluation.

Cochrell Huft leaned forward and examined his displays carefully, then put a hand to his earphones while simultaneously switching the transceiver to the shipping frequency, "Bulk Freighter Monolith, this is Imperial Space Control. Hold your current position and stand by for boarding." Huft then switched to a designated military frequency, "Gamma one, when will you complete your current boarding operation?"

The response from the boarding transport was almost immediate, "Vigilance, please stand by."

Huft switched back to the shipping frequency, "Stand by Monolith ... I said, stand by." Pausing with his hand poised to switch back to the military frequency, Huft's face began to register irritation, "I don't care when you're due in port, captain. You will stand by, or you will be fired upon. Do I make myself clear?" He switched back to his military frequency without waiting for a reply. Glancing at Psillas, he answered the unspoken query, "Bothan registry. Last two ports-of-call were Sluis Van and Coruscant. Could be Rebel." Psillas nodded and turned back to his displays.

It took nearly a minute for the transport pilot to consult with the commander of the boarding party, "Vigilance, Lieutenant Commander Shelby thinks we should be finished in about fifteen minutes, barring any last-minute discoveries. So far only minor infractions, so we probably won't impound the vessel or crew. Just a few fines."

"Please advise if your situation changes, Gamma one. Otherwise, plan on boarding bulk freighter Monolith as soon as you're finished there."

"Confirmed, Vigilance."

Commander Huft nodded to himself and scanned his displays for the next inbound vessel ... he had a few moments free. He glanced around at his watch-crew, and found them all busy and alert. Good crew, he thought. Then he saw Sub-Lieutenant Psillas straighten in his chair and peer at his warning display.

The inbound YT-1300 stock light freighter had a pronounced flutter in its drive signature, and didn't appear to be an any hurry. It obviously needed an engine overhaul, and probably a complete internal refit. Even had he the time to indulge himself, Sub-Lieutenant Kuyat Psillas wasn't curious enough to train a high-magnification optical sensor on the YT-1300 to see if its hull was as battered and neglected as the drive signature suggested. After all, here in the Corellian system, a significant portion of space traffic consisted of these durable old transports built by the Corellian Engineering Corporation.

His warning display lit up again ... third time in the last hour. Sub-Lieutenant Psillas moved his gaze from the tactical sensor display to the warning display, and scanned the AI's report. That old YT-1300 had now become his highest priority.

Any single piece of information that required boarding would be displayed in red, such as the owner or crew being known Rebels or smugglers, or associates thereof. Scanning quickly, Psillas saw no red flags ... but there were several yellow flags that, in aggregate, apparently indicated a boarding operation to the AI. The YT-1300's port of registry was listed as Coronet City, Corellia ... the Midnight Raven, registered to one Milo Morai ... a licensed bounty hunter. Docking records indicated that the Raven had not been to Corellia in over a standard year, nor had the appropriate renewal fees been paid -- her registry had thus lapsed. Transponder codes indicated that the Midnight Raven was an armed civilian transport. Psillas had an immediate adverse reaction to that piece of information, even though he knew that armed transports were quite common in the Outer Rim. He had grown up in the Core Worlds, where civilian craft were not generally armed, and those that were had to submit to boarding by an Insystem security team who locked-down the weapons systems during approach and docking. He pursed his lips and keyed in a query for the AI to construct a map of the Raven's movement over the last two years, based on known docking records and Imperial patrol reports. Then he leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrest, expecting the query to take several seconds. No hurry, he thought, the transport won't be in weapons range for several minutes yet.

"Kuyat, what've you got there?"

Psillas glanced at his watch-commander, "Armed YT-1300. Bounty hunter. Lapsed registry."

Huft lifted an eyebrow quizically, "Board and search?"

Psillas shrugged, "I'm leaning that way ... but first I'll check ship movement over the last year or so. See if he's been spending time in Rebel space. "

"Uhnn," Huft grunted assent, and turned his attention back to his own displays, "Let me know what you find out."

"Yessir," Psillas acknowledged and glanced at his tactical display. An inbound bulk freighter had dropped out of hyperspace near the edge of sensor range. Psillas studied the tactical display while the freighter made course corrections and fired up its sublight drive. Course projections indicated that he had twenty minutes to deal with the YT-1300 before the bulk freighter entered weapons range.

An alert message indicated that the AI had completed a map of the Midnight Raven's movement over the last two years. Psillas activated the map and studied it ... it appeared that the Midnight Raven had spent most of the last year in the Borderland Regions of the Outer Rim. The Borderland Regions are a militarized zone between New Republic and Imperial space, claimed by both sides but controlled by neither. Not a conclusive indication of Rebel collaboration by any means ... but, there was that lapsed registration. Psillas turned to Commander Huft, "Nothing definite, but I'd like to send a boarding party if we have one available."

Huft consulted a display, then spoke, "Gamma three's free."

Psillas keyed the boarding frequency, "Gamma three, this is Vigilance. Proceed to board and search armed transport Midnight Raven. She's a C.E.C. YT-1300."

"Confirmed, Vigilance. Board and search Midnight Raven. Anything in particular?"

"No ... registry's lapsed. Her owner is a licensed bounty hunter."

"Not a Trandoshan, I hope," Psillas could hear the grimace in the tone of voice, "The last one we boarded had drying Wookie pelts hung up on the bulkheads, stinkin' carcasses in the hold, and excrement everywhere."

Psillas chuckled, "No, this one's Corellian. But be careful anyway. Vigilance out." Switching to the shipping frequency, Psillas spoke firmly, "YT-1300 Midnight Raven, this is Imperial Space Control. Hold your current position and stand by for boarding."

Lieutenant Kaari Dlinn studied the starscape before her, but did not see the stock light freighter that her instruments clearly indicated less than five klicks ahead. She keyed the shipping frequency, "Midnight Raven, this is Imperial Space Control boarding transport Gamma three. Activate your running lights."

A smooth sonorous voice replied, "Acknowledged," followed a few seconds later by the appearance of a set of standard civilian running lights. Odd. She still couldn't see the hull of the Raven, nor did she see reflected light from the running lights. She activated her forward search lamps, but still could not see the freighter. Finally, as she approached to within one-half kilometer and began moving to align her Stormtrooper Transport with the upper docking ring, she saw stars being occluded by what must be the hull of the bounty hunter's ship. She activated an infrared camera and was rewarded with the familiar shape of a C.E.C. YT-1300, waste heat radiators glowing brightly, but she was getting negligible signal in the visible. Interesting, she thought, but I suppose that a bounty hunter might have uses for a ship that's difficult to see.

Lieutenant Dlinn keyed the internal intercom, "Lieutenant Rieb, we'll be docking momentarily." As Hotzel Rieb prepared his crew to board the YT-1300, Dlinn switched to the shipping frequency and contacted the freighter, "Midnight Raven, prepare for boarding."

"Acknowledged," replied the smooth, deep voice.

Dlinn slewed her transport into position a few meters above the light freighter, then activated the automatic docking sequence. Moments later a metallic clang reverberated through the transport and the docking seal indicator glowed green. Someone called from the rear cabin, "Hoth, I could've docked cleaner than that!" Dlinn watched the pressure indicator for the docking tube as laughter erupted among the boarding crew. She keyed the intercom and growled in mock irritation, "Backseat drivers walk home." A fresh round of laughter as the boarding crew began kidding the kidder, "That'll be a long walk, Asghar." "Hey, Asghar, you can borrow my emergency air tank if you'll do my KP duty for me!"

"Cut the chatter, or you're all walking home," Lieutenant Rieb's clear tenor cut through the din like a vibroknife through butter. "Buddy up and check your partner's seals. Lieutenant Dlinn, how's the docking tube look?"

"Pressure's up to one-half standard. Should be ready in less than five minutes." Dlinn scanned through the transponder data, but didn't find the life-support system status that civilian transponders often broadcast. She contacted the freighter again, "Midnight Raven, what's your internal pressure?"

"Atmospheric pressure at eighty two percent standard. Seventy five percent nitrogen, twenty four percent oxygen, one percent trace gases ... mostly argon. Relative humidity is twenty nine percent ... cabin temperature is nineteen cee."

Dlinn waited until the pressure in the docking tube reached three-quarters standard, then closed her valves and contacted the Raven, "Midnight Raven, docking tube pressure at seventy five percent standard. Open your topside hatch."

"Acknowledged." Dlinn was watching the docking tube monitor when the Raven's upper hatch popped open. The scene immediately fogged as the cool air from the Raven rushed in to mingle with the warm, moist air in the docking tube. She waited as the docking tube sniffers sampled the air mixture for hazardous chemicals and bio-hazards. By the time she got the green light, the fog had dissipated. She increased docking tube pressure to eighty two percent, then spoke into the intercom in a throaty alto, giving her best starliner stewardess impersonation, "Tube's clear. Air's dry and cool. Pressure is eighty two percent standard. Boarding party is cleared to disembark."

"Alright maggots. We'll board in two groups, helmets on until we're safe behind a sealed bulkhead. First group with me. Second group after we've cycled through the lock."

"YES, SIR!"

Dlinn chuckled softly as Rieb pretended to harshly insult his troops, and they pretended to fear him. They wouldn't be so light-hearted, she knew, if they thought they were entering combat.

The YT-1300 stock light freighter was not a large vessel, as freighters went, nor was the upper airlock particularly commodious. Rieb's team would cycle through two at a time, with Rieb and Corporal Schoch in the lead. A tall figure in a dark hooded robe awaited them as they exited the airlock ... tall compared to the average human, but roughly medium height for a stormtrooper. Rieb was easily four centimeters taller, yet he halted two paces from the robed figure, and glanced around uneasily. He could see nothing of the figure's flesh ... its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood, and its hands were tucked inside the sleeves of its robe, arms across its torso.

Rieb pulled his helmet off as the airlock cycled open and the last two members of his group entered the Raven. Corporal Schoch turned toward the new arrivals to assist them in setting up their portable scanners. Reib gestured with his datapad and addressed the robed figure, "This vessel's registry has lapsed. It will not be allowed to leave port until its registry has been renewed, and the attendant fines and fees paid. We'll now download your logs and search for contraband. Are you the captain of this vessel?"

The figure nodded, and Lieutenant Rieb continued, "What is your name?"

The robed one withdrew black-gloved hands from opposite sleeves and gestured with one hand in a small, circular pattern, "Milo Morai … is the owner of this vessel."

Rieb repeated, thoughtfully, "Milo Morai …"

"That matches the registry records in your datapad," the figure spoke in low, hypnotic tones, gesturing slightly.

Lieutenant Rieb studied his pad for a moment, before repeating slowly, as if his thoughts were mired like an insect in honey, "That matches the registry records in my datapad."

The hood swiveled slightly toward the other three members of the boarding team, busy with the scanning equipment. Seconds passed, as Lieutenant Rieb gazed into the distance, a look of mild perplexity on his face. Then the robed one spoke again, "Let's have a look at those logs now." Gesturing toward Rieb's subordinates, he continued, "Forget the scanners. Just split up and do a quick once-over. We'll meet back here in five minutes."

Rieb focused on the robed figure, "Let's have a look at those logs now." He turned toward his boarding crew and motioned broadly with one arm, "Forget the scanners. Just split up and do a quick once-over. We'll meet back here in five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The robed figure and Lieutenant Rieb headed toward the cockpit. Corporal Schoch clapped his hands together, "Okay, then. I'll take the cargo holds and the starboard escape capsule." Schoch pointed to one of his two companions, "Fallon, you check out engineering and the port-side escape pod." The trooper nodded and walked aft as Schoch turned to his remaining companion, "Check out the cabins, the galley, infirmary, head, and life-support." The trooper nodded and turned to go. Schoch added, "And Asghar, don't stop to make a snack in the galley."

Kaari Dlinn was monitoring ship-to-ship communications when the docking tube activity indicator buzzed. She glanced at the monitor and was surprised to see Corporal Schoch and Private Asghar moving through the tube toward her stormtrooper transport. They didn't appear to be in a hurry, so she waited until they had cycled through the airlock, then activated the cabin intercom, "Forget something, boys?"

"Nope. We're done. The Lieutenant and Private Fallon should be right behind us," Schoch replied.

"Done? In less than ten minutes? Is it Happy Hour already?" Dlinn was incredulous.

Schoch laughed, "Search me. You'll have to ask the Lieutenant about that, but I'm ready if you are."

"Give it up, Schoch. I only date men who's IQ is larger than their shoe size." She smiled as Fallon bellowed in laughter.

"Watch it Private, or you'll be spending two weeks doing KP." Corporal Schoch was only partially joking. Fallon cleared his throat and attempted to muffle his chuckles.

Lieutenant Dlinn turned back to the docking tube monitor and saw Asghar moving toward her transport. Rieb had paused to check the airlock seal on the YT-1300, before continuing across. As soon as he cleared the airlock and pulled off his helmet, Rieb was on the intercom, "We're clear. You can pull the docking tube in."

Dlinn was curious, "That was sure fast. Hadn't they been bathing over there?"

Rieb laughed, "I don't know about that, but everything is in order."

"What about the lapsed registration?"

"Oh …" Rieb paused, sounding slightly confused, "I, ah … call it in to the Vigilance, and ask them to relay it to the Port Authority."

"What's the port of destination?"

"Ahhh …" Rieb paused again, for several seconds this time. "It isn't … I don't … I don't seem to have recorded that … information."

Dlinn shook her head, bemused. What had gotten into Rieb? "Never mind. I'll find out." She activated the shipping frequency, "Midnight Raven, this is Imperial Space Control boarding transport Gamma three. Acknowledge."

"Midnight Raven, acknowledging."

"What is your port-of-call in the Corellian system?"

"Coronet City spaceport."

"Acknowledged, Midnight Raven. Standby until I give you the all-clear."

"Acknowledged, Gamma three."

Burris Goatley was a minor official with the Coronet City Port Authority. He, along with many other minor functionaries, handled the documents and customs inspections for starships arriving at Coronet City. He had just finished filing the customs and registry renewal documents for a recently arrived stock light freighter … and pocketed a nice little "bonus" for expediting the registry renewal. He pushed his chair back and stood at his desk, stretching his arms wide and yawning. From this vantage point he could see over the 1.5-meter panels that defined his tiny cubicle office. His nearest neighbors were both busy with ship's officers. His cubicle, like all the others, had panels on three sides only. The fourth side was open, and faced a long row of chairs where recent arrivals waited for their turn to see a customs official. He noticed, as he sat once more, that one of the people across from his cubicle was looking hopefully in his direction. He shook his head, and held up his hand, palm forward, signaling the man to wait. Then he reached for his comlink and punched in a familiar number.

"Hello," a gravely voice answered through the comlink.

"Mel, let's talk." Having said this, Goatley activated the pre-arranged encryption code.

The comlink squawked softly, then Mel spoke, "What have you got."

Goatley lowered his voice, conspiratorily, "A YT-1300. Single-man crew. He's rented a gravsled and headed toward Treasure Ship Row. Probably won't be back for hours."

"Cargo?"

"Ahhh … I think it's industrial equipment. The pilot unloaded a stasis chamber and took it with him on the gravsled."

"You think? Didn't you do a customs inspection?"

"Yes …" Goatley's voice trailed off as he struggled to remember what had been in the cargo bays, but he just couldn't quite remember. "But the only thing that comes to mind now is the ship itself. It's got some kind of flat-black coating on it. Damn thing almost looks like a hole in the docking berth. The only reflections I saw were on the cockpit canopy."

"What berth?"

"Nineteen bee. Just a minute while I check the customs report for that cargo." Goatley had been leaning back in his chair in a casual pose, facing the panel to the left of his desk. Now he straightened up and reached for his computer.

"Never mind. I'll meet you tonight. Usual place."

"Right." Goatley deactivated the comlink and signaled the next-in-line to come forward.

Mel moved stealthily over to the boarding ramp controls on the starboard-side landing-gear strut. The controls appeared to be standard C.E.C. issue for the YT-1300 series. It took him no more than a handful of minutes to bypass the simple crypto-key and lower the ramp. Servos whined as the ramp lowered, and pneumatic actuators hissed as the ramp settled onto the landing pad. Mel looked around nervously, then crept up the ramp into the darkened interior of the ship.

There was a single overhead glowpanel dimly illuminating the otherwise darkened corridor at the top of the ramp. Mel pulled his hide-out blaster out of its shoulder holster and eased up to the corridor, glancing both ways. Clear. He stepped into the corridor and slapped the corridor light switch, then headed forward. He had taken no more than two steps when he heard the slight hum of a repulsor unit behind him. Spinning about, blaster in hand, Mel saw movement, something big and dark. His scalp crawled as he recognized the ominous shape of an Imperial probot floating up the corridor from somewhere aft.

An observer in docking berth 19B might have heard blaster fire, or even seen the dimly reflected flash of blaster bolts through the open boarding ramp. But there was no one to see or hear. And no one to notice as servos whined and pneumatics hissed, and the boarding ramp rose back into place.

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