| abstract | - OFF THERE to the right—somewhere—is a large island," said Whitney. "It's rather a mystery--" "What island is it?" Rainsford asked. "The old charts call it 'Ship-Trap Island,'" Whitney replied. "A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--" "Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht. "You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh, "and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night." "Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet." "It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting." "The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford. "For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar." "Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?" "Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney. "Bah! They've no understanding." "Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death." "Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?" "I can't tell in the dark. I hope so." "Why?" asked Rainsford. "The place has a reputation--a bad one." "Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford. "Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?" "They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--" "Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill. "There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread." "Pure imagination," said Rainsford. "One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear." "Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford." "I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck." "Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast." "Right. Good night, Whitney." There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller. Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--" An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times. Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head. He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night. Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then—Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato. "Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on. Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears—the most welcome he had ever heard—the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life. When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully. "Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore. He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped. Some wounded thing—by the evidence, a large animal—had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge. "A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it." He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find—the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island. Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building—a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows. "Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality. He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then—opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring—and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen—a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart. Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford. "Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City." The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform—a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan. "I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry." The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand. In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home." Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand. "I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff." Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face—the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew. "Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage." "Is he Russian?" "He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I." "Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot." Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound. "Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think." It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke. The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals—lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone. "You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest—the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china. They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?" "Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly. "Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt." "You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. "That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw." "Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster." "Did he charge you?" "Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute." "I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game." For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game." Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?" The general nodded. "The biggest." "Really?" "Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island." "What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?" The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford." The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense. "We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society." "But what game--" began Rainsford. "I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?" "Thank you, general." The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed." The general puffed at his cigarette. "After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life." "Yes, that's so," said Rainsford. The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase." "No doubt, General Zaroff." "So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer." "What was it?" "Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection." The general lit a fresh cigarette. "No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you." Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying. "It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on. "And that was?" The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said. "A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--" "But the animal, General Zaroff?" "Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits." Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face. "I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."' "But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford. "My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can." "But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford. "And why not?" "I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke." "Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting." "Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder." The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war--" "Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly. Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford." "Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer." "Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded." "Yes?" "Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them." "But they are men," said Rainsford hotly. "Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous." "But where do you get them?" The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me." Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea. "Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights. The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here." "Civilized? And you shoot down men?" A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow." "What do you mean?" "We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check. "It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "—the general smiled--" he loses." "Suppose he refuses to be hunted?" "Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt." "And if they win?" The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs." "The dogs?" "This way, please. I'll show you." The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly. "A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house--or out of it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of song from the Folies Bergere. "And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?" "I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well." "Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room. "Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful--Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest." The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol. General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health. "As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint." To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom." Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?" "General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once." The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting--" "I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened. He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle. "Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I." Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt." The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Ivan's?" He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest. "You don't mean--" cried Rainsford. "My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him. "You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?" "And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily. "I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking. "Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here." "I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford. "Oh," said the general, "in that case--But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--" The general sipped his wine. Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room. From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist. Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth. He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame. "I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil—An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched... That which was approaching was a man. It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic—a small automatic pistol. The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils. Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter. The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry. Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back? Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror. "I will not lose my nerve. I will not." He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy. The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse. Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle. "Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back." When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely. Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand. His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig. Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree. He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand. "You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening." At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds. Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp. The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash. They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels. He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife. He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed. Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. "Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . . When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly. General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game—so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light. A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there. "Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?" "Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle." The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game." Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff." The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." ... He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.
- Hangar Bay - Flickering magnetic containment fields and heavy blast doors protect the massive open ports on the side of the ship. When closed, the doors look like any other part of the ship's hull, but when opened, it looks like a gaping wound has opened in the side of the vessel. The hangar bay is massive, looking to be able to fit five of the Djalin-class Cruisers in berthing slips. Each cruiser has it's own port, which it stays facing, ready to move out at a moment's notice. The 24 fighters are also contained in this bay, sitting on racks in front of the cruiser berths, also looking ready to be scrambled. The flight line is a constant buzz of activity, with the ships being maintained or overhauled by the zealous crewmen who take care of them. Tue Dec 23 23:47:51 2494 Contents: Exits: CRV Hunter Main Corridor Bryn-class Assault Transport The Stormtroopers are forming up in ranks near a landing area. A clear space in the middle, where Jarean stands, pacing slightly, and watching the magcon field. Telal steps off the Hunter alongside Gerrin, marching in as close to Imperial Formation as he can, glancing over at the Corporal, raising an eyebrow at the display. Gerrin shrugs a shoulder slightly to Telal, and falls into the Imperial ranks. Along with the other non-armored, uniformed personnel. Throwing a glance to Jarean, before stopping in line. Looper marches in line with the rest of the Stormtroopers, which form a sea of almost pure white. The sound of the boots clicking and thunking as they march down the ramp and eventualy, onto the floor of the Hangar Bay. The nice thing about the helmets are they allow you to look around somewhat while your helmet still stays in perfect position. Following Looper is Taqion, who happens to not be clad in the infamous white armor of the Stormtroopers. Instead, he is wearing a simple black uniform. He falls into one of the ranks lining the area. Rushii follows the Stormtroopers out of the ship, her dark silhouette contrasting against those Troopers who are yet armored. The soles of her boots sound off as they shift from corvette ramp to the Dreadnaught hangar bay, and a slight twitch on her face marks this event. Not the first time this has happened, and the first doesn't bring back fond memories. The female officer stands at attention, but her eyes slide towards Telal. Jarean settles himself into an at ease position. Facing the magcon field, between the ranks of Stormtroopers, schooling his face into a flat expression. Telal stands at attention next to Gerrin, his face the normal stern look of a soldier, but his eyes show the strain of maintaining his pose, clearly in pain, although a manageable amount. Gerrin remains close to Telal, just in case, keeping a straight posture, in the small sea of Imperials. He says nothing for the moment, just watches, and waits...for whatever. All those times back in basic training that required hours of standing at attention with almost no movement seem to be paying off. He stands at attention amid the sea of white waiting for whatever it is Jarean has planned. The enormous bay doors slowly begin to slide open ... Through the bay doors, the ILS Retribution comes in and docks. The landing ramp of the Retribution arcs downward from the belly of the Lambda shuttle, and a dark figure, armored, looming, with a billowing black cape, begins his descent. Lined up by the landing bay are all the Imperials present on the alien vessel, Stormtroopers, Naval officers, enlisted, and in the middle of them all. Lieutenant Commander Jarean, who lowers himself into a deep bow as Vader disembarks, "Your presence honours us, Lord Vader." are the only words the officer speaks. Taqion shifts his weight somewhat as he risks a glance in the direction of Lord Vader. He gulps quickly, then struggles to perfect his posture, standing as straight as possible. Gerrin remains in his perfectly straight posture, despite his lack of armor, and an arm. Blending in with the rest of he Imperials. His head does not turn towards the arrival. Just remains staring straight ahead. Telal tries to hide the awe at the sight of Lord Vader, his form does not waver in the slightest, however his eyes do widen slightly, his arms held close to his sides. The Dark Lord of the Sith inclines his visored face for a moment, regarding Jarean. "Commander. The Emperor is most intrigued by the opportunities presented by your encounter with these aliens." His gauntleted hand falls to the hilt of his lightsaber. "But I am personally intrigued by an odd disturbance. Familiar, but not known since just before our bombardment of Kashyyyk." Once again, another thing having a helmet is good for: Hiding shocked expression. Such as the one on Looper's face. Well, he's not as shocked as he could have been. He'ld all but known Vader would arrive at some point or another from the time Jarean pointed out Vader's Star Destroyer. He somone manages to remain at perfect attention. Jarean bows his head, "I am...unfamiliar. With any disturbance. Lord Vader. Perhaps one of the Imperials who was imprisoned, when we arrived. Could answer your questions, M'lord." The officer does not move, other than the bowing of his head. Just to the side, allowing Vader a clear path through the arrayed Imperials. Rushii's eyes immediately cease drifting as the shuttle opens, and that glimpse of armored shadow appears in the hatchway. The woman's eyes face forward, whatever internal thoughts she may be entertaining stilled from outward affect. She listens, remembering the last time Vader crossed paths with the 10th. Hssssh-frrrrrsssh. The rebreather hisses intermittently as Vader turns to regard the Imperials arrayed in the docking area. He raises a gauntleted finger, pointing directly at Telal. "You. Step forward." Taqion's gaze hastily leaves the form of Vader, instead coming to rest upon Telal. His eyes widen in response to the choosing made by the Dark Lord, but he quickly suppresses that feeling of jealousy. Telal blinks, before stepping forward quickly before Lord Vader, managing to supress the pain as his right arm snaps up into a crisp Imperial salute, "TK-723 of the 10th Recon, Lord Vader, reporting as ordered." Gerrin remains staring straight ahead, gaze not shifting as Telal steps forward and reports. No jealousy flickers over this Imperial, far better to be skipped over. "I told the Commander of a presence I detected," the Dark Lord intones deeply. "A disturbance. Jedi. Here, on this vessel." He tilts his helmet slightly, the breather hissing through the silence. "And you have faced them. They are still here, yes?" Telal nods crisply, speaking quickly and cleanly, "Yes, Lord Vader. There are 2 Jedi aboard this ship, a male Twi'lek named Nee'luk and a female Human named Heller." Is jealousy appropriate? Rushii remains looking straight ahead, lips pressing together tightly among the Imperial troops. A chance to show off for the Emperor's right hand, yes, and a chance to gain favor. But what if it's unwelcome news. Lord Vader is not one to invite displeasure from. "Apparently, the bombardment of the Wookiee homeworld was not thorough enough," Vader replies, putting his fists against his hips. "I will rectify that in due course. Have the Jedi been allowed to negotiate with the J'rathi without our presence?" Listening with interest in the conversation between the Dark Lord himself, and the Trooper whose insides had to be washed from his gloves, Looper continues standing at attention in the middle of the sea of white. Jarean remains standing where he was, eyes on Telal now, and no words forthcoming, Lord Vader has a new target now, and Jarean has no wish to draw the man back to himself. Janmes makes his way calmly down the boarding ramp of the CRV Hunter, pausing to take in his first view of the huge alien ship. Seeing the imperials, and Lord Vader standing nearby he cautiously and quietly approaches, and takes up a position near the edge of the group. His attention seems, quite naturally, to be focused on the imposing figure of Vader. Telal shakes his head slightly, "I do not know Lord Vader. As soon as the Hunter docked, we were moved there." Taqion remains standing there stiffly, alongside his fellow troopers. He keeps an emotionless expression on his pale face, apparently trying to duplicate a stormtrooper helmet with which he was so used to. Darth Vader nods. He then returns his attention to Jarean. "Commander. Take me to the J'rathi at once. If the Jedi have managed to manipulate them, these aliens would have to be exterminated. The Emperor would be most displeased." His breather hisses. "Pray that the J'rathi are not easily swayed." Jarean bows again, "As you wish. Lord Vader." He waves to a small selection of Stormtroopers to accompany them, as he turns, making his way towards the lift. Rushii arches a brow, and doesn't say anything. Does this Commander know where to find the J'rathi, or what to expect from them? She takes a step forward, attempting to include herself in the group of Imperials Jarean is waving at. Jarean holds up a hand, "Take your men back to the ship Lieutenant. We won't require your expertise here." The Imperials waved along seem to be mostly armored. Armed. Uninjured Stormtroopers. Unless Vader orders anyone along. Janmes seems torn between attempting to join the Stormtroopers, and staying behind with the ship. He glances around himself quickly, and the expression on his face seems to indicate that he would like an opportunity, no matter how limited, to examine the J'rathi vessels. However, no one likes being left out, so he holds his peace waiting patiently to see if he should join the group or not. Newish guys to the rescue it would seem. While not actualy a new Trooper, just new to the 10th, Looper and the group he is with is the 'lucky' selection to follow Jarean and Lord Vader. Click clunk, click clunk. The troopers all march in unison behind the Duo. The Dark Lord's boots thump solidly as he walks with the commander and the trooper entourage. His cape swirls a little as he strides toward the lift. He defers to Jarean to handle the manpower assignments. He steps onto the lift and turns to stare into the docking bay with his implacable visor-shielded face. And waits. Main Corridor - Close to the bottom of the vessel, and the last deck available by turbolift is here, familiar gray plating evident, but only for a short distance before it widens out into the ships flight deck. A black stripe runs the short length of the corridor, the words 'FLIGHT DECK' printed above it. The turbolift here has a small guard bunker beside it, with a gun emplacement, and ready-use weapons for the men within. The maintenance shaft leading down from above, exits into this bunker. Wed Dec 24 00:54:31 2494 Contents: Exits: Shipleader Djalin Turbolift Lord Darth Vader Hangar Bay Engineer Bryn Jarean walks in, beside the dark, armored figure of Vader, the officer appears to have the slightest hint of nervousness as he walks. A faceless squad of white-armored troopers follows the pair towards the lifts. Exiting the very turbolifts that Vader and entourage are making their way towards is a sextet of clear-skinned beings, in two straight rows, just like in that Madeleine show. Leading the pack is a grungy-robed wimp-looking person, walking next to the not-so-wimpy-looking Djalin. Bryn - the grungy robed one - is leaning over and saying something about 'candy' and the human sweet tooth. Following the pair are four security types, looking like a zombie honour guard. The Dark Lord of the Sith stops, motioning with a gauntleted hand for his entourage to do the same. He regards the newcomers in silence, save for the hissing of his breather. Zombie to the extent that their flesh and good number of internal organs are visible through the clear skin. The four guards following at the rear of their leaders are alert and appear fairly skilled in their movements, with the organicly blocky bulks of J'rathi's large assault weapons held - not at the ready, but where they are obvious - against their thin shoulders. The Shipleader, its red shirt much neater than its colleague, signals to the other J'rathi to stop as well. Djalin's occular muscles flex, turning focus on the large black figure. "You just docked?" It questions, straightforward. "Yes," the dark figure replies just as succinctly. Jarean remains quiet for the moment, the officers hand held in a flat, open palmed gesture towards the Stormtroopers, even as it hangs at his side. Hold. Stand ready. And stand ready they do. Looper and the rest of the white Stormtroopers hold and stand at attention. Their weapons resting on their shoulders, reay in case the need arises. Nowhere near as laconic as the other two already conversing, Bryn begins to let its alto voice free. Something moves in its throat as it looks up to the looming figure of Darth Vader and begins to parley. "Ah, well... Greetings, from the J'rathi people. Nice of you to join us, though the breach in protocol, the uninvited visit caused security," it says, glancing toward Jin, "A little fret." It grins heavily, saying, "Join us for refreshments? I assume from your, ah, nonconforming attire that you are some sort of dignitary. Do you have a title that you would rather be referred to than, er, 'you'?" Bryn manages to raise one clear brow while saying this last line. Darth Vader regards Bryn with that implacable visor-covered face. "I have no need of refreshment." His breather hisses. "I am Lord Darth Vader, here on behalf of Emperor Palpatine. You may address me as Lord Vader." His gaze then shifts to Djalin. Jarean remains standing straight, with no further signals to the Imperial soldiers, and no words, allowing Vader to deal with the aliens, his face remains expressionless. Fretting seems to have passed, at least enough that the guards intercepting these Imperials number only four. "On behalf?" Djalin repeats, its voice much more stacatto in pattern than Bryn's. It keeps its focus on Vader, investigative. "Other Imperials offered, as much as they could, to speak on behalf. Much of interest to both... So they say." It looks over at its friendly colleague, "Think this one has more to say?" Still standing ready, Looper and the rest of the Troopers remain motionless. The black gaze of their helmets falling dead ahead on the bulkhead at the far end of the Corridor. "Maybe not more *to* say," Bryn says, nodding to its physical counterpart, possibly playing a joke on the duo's compact way of speaking, "But probably much more say. That is, he-" Bryn glances toward Vader, and says, "Milord is a he, indeed? It is difficult to tell if milord is indeed human, like the others," Turning back toward Jin, it continues, "He could probably actually make an arrangment work. The others were just simple soldiers - they said so themselves. So let us bargain." It pauses, and turns toward Vader. "The Empire may be able to provide us with something that we would like - our continued peace and solitude in the galaxy. Though it is unlikely, seeing as a few of those, oh- rebellious is the word, I believe- ships got away. Every pirate in the galaxy probably has a roadmap to our proverbial portal footcleanser by now." "The Empire can protect your interests," Vader replies, breather hissing softly. "In exchange for certain technology and your assistance in rounding up certain individuals who have proven rather ... troublesome ... to the Empire." Jarean's eyes harden slightly at Lord Vaders last words, gaze flicking to the lift, but he remains in the same spot, silent. Waiting on the will of his Lord. Luckily for stormtroopers, patience is one of the first things they learn in basic training. That and which side of the gun red stuff comes out of. "Technology," Djalin says, tone positive as its focus remains on its colleague. "A trade is best. We haven't seen new models, not recent." Occular muscles turn to study the technology visible on just Lord Vader's armor already. The Shipleaders fingers curl at their extra joints, and then fold together in front of it. "What 'assistance'?" It then questions, specifics important in matters like this. "True, very, very true," Bryn says. "Perhaps just a simple trade of technology and the promise of future intellectual sharing, along with a peace between our two differing factions would be best for this first encounter. After all, no amount of guarding and firepower will bring back our lost invisibility to the galaxy at large." "Individuals calling themselves 'Jedi,'" the Dark Lord responds. "Followers of a dead religion. Dangerous. Insurrectionists. They have plotted against the Emperor, who would see you protected, and engaged in terrorist activities in tandem with a rather small rebellion. Little more than a nuisance, but they have proven ... elusive at times. Two of them are on this ship and, I believe, they may also be seeking negotiations with you." He points a gauntleted finger at Djalin. "Understand this: They can do nothing for you but incur the wrath of the Emperor. You want our fleet on your side, not an insignificant troupe of rabblerousers. You will have protection and technology, so long as you prove loyal to the Emperor. Disloyalty is dealt with ... harshly." Jarean allows Vader to continue is his demands and warnings, just taking a glance over his shoulder at the stormtroopers, to ensure they are all still there. And ready. Ready they still are. All of them, including Looper. The sea of white stands ready to take on any danger that may arise. Though it brings the question, are the Troopers protecting Vader, or is Vader protecting the stormtroopers? Does anyone need protecting? The fragile looking J'rathi stand before the imposing black armor without apparent qualms. The four guards at their backs shift from side to side, but Djalin is steady. "Did they say treaty?" It asks, turning to its colleague. Details about prior negotiation seem to be deferred to the other J'rathi. "The Imperial, the blind one. It, he," it corrects. "Spoke most to me. About negotiating. The others, they acted well. But did not tell me they wanted to ally." It is careful in these words, hearing the insistance about the 'Jedi'. Dylar slowly steps into the main corridor, pausing at the entrance to take a quick look around before he slowly begins to make his way towards the group. Jarean remains silent and watchful, despite the likely audible approach of the Darktrooper behind him. He watches the J'rathi. Most notably, the quartet of guards behind the two speakers. "I wonder how badly the Empire... needs these little Jedi, these not-so-nuisances? And how badly it needs not to commence hostilities with us," Bryn says, making the former statement sound like a question as it looks toward Vader. "An estimate says that while the Empire is indeed more powerful than we are, we would take out a sizable piece of your grand fleet with us. I assume there are more 'pitiful nuisances' out there than these 'Jedi', but how many, I wonder? Enough that a severely weakened fleet could be the Empire's downfall? You see, Lord Vader, we do not really require or want something so intimate as an alliance or an annexation with the Empire or anyone else - we just wish to not be intruded upon. I suppose that since we are already known to the galaxy, now, however, through the Empire and through whoever the pirates were in contact with, we might as well make the best of it and see how the rest of the galaxy has been doing in terms of technology and culture. All we want from the Empire is a peace accord, really. Everything else is extreneous." "It is not extraneous to *me*," the Dark Lord intones. "Nor is it extraneous to the Emperor. I have made clear the terms for our assistance. You have 48 hours to consider. At the end of that allotted time, you will either deliver the Jedi as a good faith offering to the Emperor or we will leave you to the mercies of the Hutts and greedy corporations seeking to absorb your world into their holdings. I will be aboard my ship." Breather hissing, Vader turns - the cape billows and swirls, and he begins to stride toward the landing bay. Jarean waves a hand to the Stormtroopers, and follows, marching back into the Hangar, following behind Vader. Dylar quickly moves to the side of the corridor, saluting the dark lord in proper Imperial fashion. His gray armor glistens in the light, apparently having been recently cleaned. "Do we have Jedi?" Djalin questions, again of its colleague. "Hard to watch. Helping was voluntary. Some might have stayed?" It focuses back on the dark caped Imperial, occular muscles twitching at the second heavily armored shape. Vader still seems in charge. The Shipleader will have to ask someone if armor is a status symbol. "Yes yes. Good faith is best, most advantages to us. We will consider carefully." Later... Hangar Bay - Flickering magnetic containment fields and heavy blast doors protect the massive open ports on the side of the ship. When closed, the doors look like any other part of the ship's hull, but when opened, it looks like a gaping wound has opened in the side of the vessel. The hangar bay is massive, looking to be able to fit five of the Djalin-class Cruisers in berthing slips. Each cruiser has it's own port, which it stays facing, ready to move out at a moment's notice. The 24 fighters are also contained in this bay, sitting on racks in front of the cruiser berths, also looking ready to be scrambled. The flight line is a constant buzz of activity, with the ships being maintained or overhauled by the zealous crewmen who take care of them. Sat Dec 27 20:18:03 2494 Contents: Exits: Engineer Bryn Main Corridor Stormtrooper Looper ILS Retribution CRV Hunter Bryn-class Assault Transport Looper is still standing at the end of the ramp, his rifle shouldered. He is standing so he can look down the Main Corridor, waiting for the J'rathi to show. Bryn shows. Alone, the clear-skinned robed figure walks into the hangar bay of the J'rathi-modified Dreadnaught, making haste toward the Imperial ship docked there, a nervous tension in its clenched left hand. Jarean peers at the approaching J'rathi and folds his hands behind him, stepping off the bottom of the ramp, and watching Bryn's approach. Looper turns his helmet to the clear-skinned figured. He moves a bit uneasily, and keeps his visor's vision trained on the J'rathi. Willing itself to relax, the J'rathi comes to a stop, and straightens up as it addresses the Imperial officer. "The offering of goodwill that you requested should be here, shortly, wrapped in our best wrapping material," it says, clenching its fist again as it reveals the source of its nervousness, "I can only hope that the ship isn't damaged in the process..." Jarean hmms, and nods his head, "I will see that Lord Vader is informed. They will be disarmed?" He tilts his head at the alien, "They will be most upset when they see Lord Vader..." Looper continues watching the interaction between Jarean and the clear skinned alien. He stands ready in case something happens, in case either these ghosts or the Jedi decide to try somthing. "I assume that they will, if they don't decide to come peacefully," Bryn says, left hand fidgeting with the cuff of its robe. "Which I hope they do, so they won't damage the ship." Jarean nods his head, "The Empire will of course reimburse the J'rathi for any damage caused in the capture of these criminals." He smiles faintly, a cold smile, "You have made the right decision." Looper continues to stand watch. Well, the J'rathi might not be planning anything, but his actions are show there is more than meets the eye. However, he hasn't done anything hostile, and is cooperating, so stands watch. "I should hope so. Maybe after this is all over, a tour could be arranged? I'd much like to meet the chief engineer of one of those..." Bryn says, "Star Destroyers." Jarean tilts his head, "Perhaps that would be possible. It will be something I am not involved in. My mission was the liberation of the captive Imperials." He bows his head slightly, "Nothing else?" The stormtrooper continues to stand guard at the base of the boarding ramp. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, but thats all. He remains quiet. "No, that is all. I would like to remain, however, for the arrival of the escort," Bryn says, with a shrug. Producing a pitch black cube wrapped in some sort of plastic from one of its pockets, it glances toward the hangar bay entrance. Turning back toward the Imperial officer, it pauses, then offers the cube forward. "Candy?" it asks. Jarean shakes his head, "No. No candy for me thank you." And looks to Looper. "Private. Inform Lord Vader that the Jedi will soon be arriving. With J'rathi cooperation." Looper turns to Jarean, comming to full attention. A loud, clear, "Yes, sir!" is emited from his helmet's speakers. He quickly turns and starts heading for Lord Vader's Shuttle. Bryn smiles slightyly, shrugs, and says, "Suit yourself," before it begins to unwrap the black cube, turning to look toward the hangar entrance. Looper has left. Looper boards the ILS Retribution. Looper disembarks from the ILS Retribution. Looper has arrived. Looper quickly walks back down the Hangar, comming once again to approach Jarean. He stands at attention and speaks. "Sir, Lord Vader will arrive shortly." Darth Vader disembarks from the ILS Retribution. Darth Vader has arrived. Jarean nods to Looper, "Excellent, Private." And folds his hands behind his back, waiting. Down the ramp of the Retribution strides the looming form of Lord Darth Vader, cloak billowing behind as his boots thump on the angled metal on his descent toward the Hrathi-class vessel's hanger deck. Looper nods and goes back to his post, standing guard at the base of the ramp into the Hunter. Jarean moves toward the looming figure of Vader. The officers features set in a flat expression. Apparently not too keen on making Vader come to him. Vader stops at the bottom of the ramp and waits for Jarean to arrive. "Commander, I was informed that the J'rathi have agreed to our terms." The clear-skinned J'rathi Bryn stands near Jarean, idly watching the entrance to the hangar bay and munching on something as it hears the sound of bootsteps and heavy breathing. Quickly gulping to finish whatever it was chewing on, it turns to face the Dark Lord. Seeing as he addresses the Imperial officer, however, it remains silent, its left hand fidgeting with the sleeve of its robes as it waits, more worried about what might be going on abovedecks than in front of it. Jarean bows and speaks in a crisp voice, "Yes. Lord Vader, they have informed us that the Jedi will be brought down here, and handed over." His head remains bowed slightly as he adds, "I also requested that they be disarmed..if that will not interfere with their transport. The J'rathi there, is the one who delivered the report, M'Lord." He waves a hand towards Bryn. Looper continues to stand guard at the base of the Ramp. His rifle shouldered, his helmet's gaze resting on the J'rathi. Darth Vader turns his visored mask to regard Bryn. Steadily, purposefully, the dark lord strides in Bryn's direction. "Bring them. They may keep their weapons." Jarean follows behind Vader, keeping a step behind the Dark Lord as he walks, his expression remaining even and steady. "They should already be on their way. I must confess that I don't know what's lengthening the process," Bryn says, looking up toward the towering man in black, and adding, "Lord Vader." The Trooper continues his watch. His patience, however is begining to fade as well. He starts to wonder to himself if this is all some sort of trick. Surely, it can't take much more than a few minutes to go from wherever they are held to the landing bay. "They are Jedi," the Sith Lord intones. His breather hisses. "I suspect they know what fate awaits them." He turns to stare at Jarean. "This night, we put a swift end to Obi-Wan Kenobi's ambitions to rekindle the fire of the Jedi Order." Jarean bows his head again, the officer has little knowledge of Obi-Wan, or his ambitions, but answers anyway, "As you say, Lord Vader." "What's the Jedi Order?" Bryn asks, raising a clear and hairless brow as it glances from Vader to his collea... underling. Ah, well that explains some things. Perhaps they really are just prolonging the inevitable. Either way, the tension is building. How powerful are these Jedi? And why does Vader want them armed? Hopefuly, he'll get his answers soon. Returning his attention to Bryn, Darth Vader replies: "An antiquated cult of wizards that has threatened to grow anew. That threat will soon be eliminated." "Oh, so that's what the female did to... I wonder why they never did any wizardry to us," Bryn muses thoughtfully. Jarean nods his head once, backing up Vaders statements but adding no new information of his own. The Dark Lord turns toward Jarean. "Commander, notify your personnel that we will be departing as soon as this matter is concluded." Jarean inclines his head, "As you command, My Lord." And turns away to take a few steps, talking quietly, apparently to himself. With no commlink present. Anyone on the Imperial communications network hears him quite clearly however. After some pause, Bryn says, "I'll go see what's taking them so long." It turns, and begins to walk toward the hangar bay exit. Bryn heads into Main Corridor . Bryn has left. Gelidus approaches the group slowly, then comes to a dead stop as he recognizes the Dark Lord. He snaps to attention, wishing he had his armor and helmet rather than the plain uniform he was issued upon the arrival of the Hunter. Nee'luk arrives from Main Corridor Nee'luk has arrived. Djalin arrives from Main Corridor Djalin has arrived. Darth Vader glances briefly toward Gelidus, but then his visored gaze is drawn toward the hangar bay entrance from the corridor as some newcomers arrive. Looper continues standing at the base of the Ramp. His gaze slowly moves with the Exiting J'rathi back to the Main Corridor. Jarean's gaze drifts to the entering party as well, his instructions complete, back straight he moves back towards Looper. Two pairs of J'rathi soldiers enter, surrounding a single Twi'lek male. This male is none other than the Jedi Knight Nee'luk. The Knight's gaze quickly takes in the hangar bay, coming to rest upon Darth Vader. "I thought I sensed your presence here." There is somewhat of a smile on the Jedi's face as he moves, not looking very perturbed at the Dark Lord's presence. At the detail's halt, he too stops, standing yet a dozen meters from Vader and the others. "I am to be turned into your custody, I presume?" Gelidus allows his at attention pose to relax a bit as he turns to watch the new arrivals, particularly the eerily quiet Jedi. Boots thumping solidly on the deckplates, the Sith Lord approaches Nee'luk. His breather hisses. Placing his fists on armored hips, shifting the black cape enough to reveal a lightsaber, Vader replies: "Custody would imply a longer stay than I intend. You will have an opportunity at freedom, assuming you survive single combat with me, *Jedi*." Jarean frowns faintly, this is...unexpected. Jarean slowly reaches behind himself, reassuring himself as to the presence of the rifle behind him, watching Vader face Nee'luk. While its colleague was speaking with the Imperial contingent, Djalin had other business to make sure this went smoothly. Or. As smoothly as possible. That the Knight seems unsurprised is a relief, and a confusion. The Shipleader's occular muscles pull a deeper focus, even as the other unobscured muscles on its skeletal face relax into a looser expression. Djalin is walking just to the left of the contingent of J'rathi guard, and switches focus to Vader at the words. "Combat?" it echoes, voice clipped as always. Dylar disembarks from the CRV Hunter. Dylar has arrived. Well, this could be bad. The Stormtrooper takes his Rifle off of his shoulder, holding it in front of him, across his chest. He doesn't flip the safety off or aim it at anything though. But if things go bad, he'ld rather have it ready. The stormtrooper is Looper, by the way. Though Nee'luk's clothing is not skintight, it is not nearly as flowing as most robes, and so his lightsabers are already visible. Despite the warnings against anger, the Knight's face blazes for a moment with something other than his eerie calm. "Jedi? I am among the last of that Order, annihilated treacherously by you and your ilk. You cannot fathom what you destroyed. Before you run me through," a slight sneer, a rising in the Knight's voice, "Lord," it ends, the Jedi's voice returning to normal, "tell me. What are your intentions with these J'rathi? They are not human, and so are not fit to reign in your Empire. Will you steal their technology and then annihilate them? Turn them into slaves?" There seems little doubt that this is what the Knight believes will happen, even as he casts his gaze around again. "Single combat? What of my apprentice?" Concern, compassion, and a hint of worry flood into his voice at the mention of Heller. Gelidus listens in stony, but somewhat nervous silence as the Sith Lord and the Jedi Knight confront each other. His expression becomes somewhat strange at the mention of Heller. It might be worry or concern that shows through his eyes. Jarean moves slowly towards Dylar as the Darktrooper disembarks, the mans throat moving, and lips mouthing words faintly as he subvocalises. Watching Vader. "The J'rathi will be allowed to live in peace," the Sith Lord intones, unclasping the lightsaber from his belt and clutching it in his hand. "They have earned the Empire's protection, in exchange for the your life and that of your apprentice. Yes. I will deal with her when you are but a memory." He takes two steps back, thumbs the activator button, and the crimson blade of his lightsaber springs forth. / ***.** / Jarean says, "Sergeant. Ready your men...quietly. If Lord Vader so orders..or other possibilities occur. We will have to destroy the Jedi ourselves...and leave." Looper takes a step back as the Dark Lord's blade ignites. The shock fades away quickly though. He doesn't make another move, as if somthing else has his attention for the moment. Dylar slowly steps out of the Hunter as the comm message is relayed. He then quickly nods to Jarean and turns around, quietly calling for more troops over his comm. He then walks down the ramp to get a better view of the fight. The sharp green glow of Nee'luk's cybernetic flickers for a moment as the Knight lowers his hands, grasping his sabers. "Memories can be painful." At this, he thumbs the activation stud of each saber, two beams of light snapping into being from his hands. One is a brilliant blue, the second the color of lightning. A quiet murmuring can be heard by those nearest the Jedi, "There is no death; there is only the Force." The ending, of course, to the Jedi Code. The Knight stands at the ready, sabers in the en garde position. "You will find, Jedi, that the Force can easily co-exist with death," the Dark Lord says, breather hissing as he draws back his saber. "And that the two may also be inexorably intertwined." Perhaps the Force is indeed his ally, or perhaps he's just faster than most. Either way, the Knight leaps forward, bringing his sabers in a whirling pair of arcs to strike at Darth Vader. One moves towards the Dark Knight's saber, and the second slashes for his midsection, the Jedi taking full advantage of having two striking surfaces. Vader eyes the aggressive style of the Twi'lek, and moves to counter the duel strikes with rapid parrying motions of his own saber. The weapon zmmmmms as it arcs through the air. His cape billows. The glow of the lightsabers of both combatants reflects off his glossy black armor. Nee'luk's attacks slam into Vader's blade, the Knight forcing out his breath with the effort of the slashes. Quickly, he whirls back, trying to move to the outer edge of Vader's saber reach. Still, he remains alert, watching the Dark Lord for any open spot in his defenses. As the Twi'lek backs off, Vader switches to a one-handed grip on his saber and extends his gauntleted left hand toward Nee'luk, trying to use force telekinesis to yank the Jedi's spare lightsaber to himself. The Knight's response is to grip the lightsaber with both his hand and the Force. Both fail to Vader's efforts, and the saber leaps from his hand, leaving the Knight with only one with which to defend himself. Two sabers in hand, Vader steps back, watching for the Twi'lek's next move. Nee'luk, of course, wants his lightsaber back. The one saber forward, he extends his rear hand, concentrating for a bare moment as he seeks to wrench his lightsaber back from the Dark Knight's hand, even while keeping his guard up. A simple tug-of-war, with the added benefit of a complete lack of touch. At last, after a second of tugging, this is revealed as little more than a feint; the Knight's concentration shifts and hurls a wave of Force energy aimed at knocking Vader over and away. The Jedi's efforts are unsuccessful, and he is forced into a barely-controlled leap backwards, to compensate for the wave of energy emanating from the Dark Lord. The only up side is that he is now well away from Vader's sabers. The Dark Lord observes the feint and force telekinesis attack with some measure of amusement. As the energy wave comes at him, he tosses Nee'luk's saber in the air long enough to counter with his own Force-powered blow. Then, as Nee'luk leaps away, the saber returns to Vader's gauntleted hand. He switches it off and begins squeezing the Jedi weapon in the hopes of crushing it. The Twi'lek's saber makes a crunching and popping noise as it is crushed in the vicious grip of Darth Vader's gauntleted hand. He drops the mangled weapon at his feet, then kicks the twisted cylinder toward Gelidus. And then he simply watches the Twi'lek. And waits. Running out of options, it seems, Nee'luk extends his hand once more, seeking to wrench Vader's saber from the gauntleted hand. The Force collects around his hand and then lashes out, twisting in an invisible maelstrom designed only to remove Vader's glowing blade and pass it into Nee'luk's grasp. The crimson blade of the Dark Lord's lightsaber is snapped free of his gauntleted right hand, arcing through the air toward Nee'luk. "Impressive," Vader hisses. And then he uses his right hand to try and fling a cargo crate at the two-sabered Twi'lek. The Jedi's response is not to defend from the object, but instead to evade. A slight bend in his knees, and then the Knight is off like a blaster bolt, leaping towards Vader with sabers extended to strike at him upon landing. The Force, gathered around him like an unseen hand, is used to cushion and propel his flight. Bryn arrives from Main Corridor Bryn has arrived. As Nee'luk dodges the flying crate with his leap toward Vader, the Dark Lord raises his left hand in the Twi'lek's direction, and squeezes that hand into a fist as Nee'luk gets within force choking range. Darth Vader is fast in summoning the Force, and gets a vicelike telekinetic grip on Nee'luk's neck. This is not, however, without punishment. The Jedi's leap has carried him to within easy range of the Dark Lord, and one saber strikes home flawlessly, imbedding itself in the Dark Lord's chest. The other saber glances off of his armor, leaving a sparking scorch mark. The Knight's one good eye is wide in surprise and pain from the impending crushing of his throat, but he is not dead yet. The Sith Lord grunts in surprise as the lightsaber sizzles through his armor and into his chest. He staggers backward, the shock and pain of the blow enough to distract him from the continued choking of the Jedi. Vader clutches a gauntleted hand to the coagulating metal. The hissing of his breather becomes ragged. He falls to one knee, the cape draping around his wounded form. He lifts his visored gaze to stare at Nee'luk. "Finish ... me. Complete your journey to the ... Dark Side." "You have shattered the Order. You and your kind annihilated everything I held dear. Revenge? Yes, I have thought of it." The Knight's saber is wrenched back, both now in the air, ready. "Oft have I failed to control my impulses, oft have I thought of your fall. This is not revenge, dark one, but self defense." The Knight's voice bears no hint of remorse or compassion; his hand pulls back, wielding Vader's lightsaber, and swings in a parallel arc to the ground, at Vader's neck level. This is, of course, aimed to decapitate him. "This is my vengeance, and mine alone. For the Order!" A rather strange-sounding cry leaps from the Knight's throat as he slashes, no longer in flawless control of himself. Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, offers no defense against the aggressive killing blow from the furious Jedi. He says nothing as the Twi'lek's blade separates his helmeted head from his shoulders with a pop and a zmmmmm! The Dark Lord's body collapses forward, the helmet and head bounce behind. Vader is dead, but Nee'luk has fallen from the Light. All the Imperials currently on the flight deck are gathered close to the CRV Hunter's ramp, where they were watching the duel from. "Shipleader Djalin, this presents you with options. If possible, run for your home planet. When news of the Dark Lord's death reaches the fleet, they will undoubtedly engage and attempt to destroy you." These are Nee'luk's next words as his two lightsabers are deactivated, even as he backs away from the Stormtroopers and towards the main corridor. A quiet, almost broken cry from the Knight, towards the J'rathi, "I need my apprentice..." The Jedi looks shattered. Dylar appears to be in slight shock at Vader's Death. He titls his head to look at his fallen leader before he slowly turns to Nee'Luk, raising his rifle slowly to take aim. Bryn is entering the hangar bay as a dark helmet plops on the ground. Eyes bulging, it glances toward the lightsaber-wielding Luck, who's just done the deed. Its eyes move left and right and to and fro, looking between the corpse and the angsty Imperials; the broken Jedi and its own colleague, Djalin. A moment of shock, and then it begins to take action, keeping the same distance from the corpse and from Luck as it makes its way toward Djalin. Jarean holds up a hand, face flat, eyes dead. He speaks in a low, lifeless voice, "Sergeant...evacuate your men. Return to Coruscant, infor...inform the Emperor." He takes one, then two steps slowly forward towards the corridor, reaching into a pouch at his belt to extract a shiny metal sphere. "Go. That's an order." Is the last comment to the Imperials behind him, without even turning back. The shock seems to be around the hangar. He raises his rifle and readies it for a shot at the Jedi when he see's the saber come down on the dark lord. The young Trooper is very confused. Being the trooper clostest to the scene, and not knowing what else to do, he pulls back on the trigger of his rifle. However, just as he's about to, he hears the orders of Jarean. Not in time to stop the Trooper however, the shots are on there way. Looper doesn't check to see if they hit, though, and turns back towards the ship. Everything seems to be in slow motion for the dazed Trooper. Gelidus's jaw drops open in disbelief as the Dark Lord of the Sith's helmeted head falls to the floor. He blinks several times, then looks to his comrades, anger in his eyes at their less than honorable actions. "Lord Vader offered him his freedom provided he faced him..." he begins to state before the thermal detonator wielding officer's suicidal actions sink in. "Shit..." he says softly, turning to head for the boarding ramp. "The J'rathi will be allowed to live in peace." Stacatto voice repeats the late Dark Lord's words, verbatim. Djalin is back from the scene of combat, the quartet of guards who escorted the Jedi Knight ranged behind it, shifting restlessly as they do. "The Emperor's emmessary said," it reinforces, picking up on Jarean's words. It has to remind the ones who might run back with this message to Palpatine of the bargain. That the J'rathi are not a target for retribution. "We did our part. We did what was requested. This is not the doing of J'rathi." The Shipleader knows of heroes, and warriors, and death. More than it's colleague, the engineer. And then it picks up on more than Jarean's words: the weapon held now in the Imperial's hands. Yes, Vader offered Nee'luk his freedom, but more than that disregard is the threat to its ship. "No. Not here!" Nee'luk dodges the pair of blasts with ease, concentration now solely on Jarean. Once more summoning the Force, he reaches out to Jarean's mind, not seeking to harm him. Now, he speaks, "Enough harm has been done today. Return to your ship!" This last fiat is backed with the power of the Force, what energy Nee'luk can muster. Dylar nods to Jarean and turns motioning the troopers back onto the ship, "Let's get out of here, now!" he orders coldly. He then waits by the entrance for all the others to enter, apparently wanting to be the last in. "What exactly... *is* that thing?" Bryn asks in a low voice, leaning over toward Djalin as it reaches her side, and staring toward the Imperial officer holding his doom-globe. Jarean slip the detonator back into his pouch but walks, not directly to the ship. But to Vader first. The Dark Lord's head is placed on his chest, and Jarean begins dragging. Taking the body back towards the Corvette. For all intents and purposes. Reconsidering his plan, it seems. As the Stormtrooper makes his way up the ramp, he turns around, to see what became of the Lt. Commander. Looper eyes the man as he puts the Detonator back into his pouch. "Sir! What are you doing? They're probably sending soldiers! Hurry sir!" He points his rifle back out at the Jedi, whom the trooper thinks is still up to somthing, squeasing the trigger . "SIR!" Gelidus runs up the ramp, his path taking him directly into the still-firing Stormtrooper. "Hold your fire!" he yells as he lays a shoulder into the other Stormtrooper, attempting to bowl him over, carrying them both into the ship. Subtle twitches of muscle under the J'rathi's clear skin react to the shifting actions of the Imperial. The weapon is put away, and Djalin takes a single step forward that intercepts the line of sight its guards had on Jarean. It's occular muscles pull a close-focus on Jarean's face as the human drags away his slain leader, answering Bryn after the fact. "Weapon. Grenade-styled? Area effect, likely. The shooting didn't work." Djalin looks perturbed by the white-armored one's shouting; those words reflect a sentiment unfavorable to J'rathi if they propagate. "No soldiers! The Jedi doesn't act for us. J'rathi want peace..." It holds its position by its colleague, watching Gelidus intervene. Gelidus doesn't manage to bowl Looper into the ship, but he does knock the Troopers aim off, causing the shots to slam into the bulkhead. Well away from the J'rathi and the Jedi. Dylar shakes his head and glares at Looper and Gelidus, "You two, on the ship now, or I'll shoot you both and leave you behind." he says coldly. He then leaves his post at the entrance to go assist Jarean in carrying the Dark Lord's body. "So, they're leaving. What do you suppose is our next course of action?" Bryn asks Djalin, turning to take a glance toward Nee'Luk. Who is departing, or something. Jarean just keeps dragging Vaders body back to the Corvette, with Dylars assistance, now. "We can't leave him here! Cease fire!" Is the growled order, "We're leaving, get in the ship!" The Commander orders, as he reaches the ramp, dragging the corpse up, and inside the ship. Looper hastily turns and heads up into the ship. The Jedi seems to be gone anyway. Once inside, he turns around to watch the rest of whatever's going to happen, and make sure everyone is inside. Gelidus follows immediately behind Looper, his attention still back on the fallen Sith Lord and his impromptu pallbearers. Djalin turns its back on the Imperial ship once Jarean and the body of Vader are inside it. "We let them leave. And we prepare. We have an agreement, but things change. The J'rathi must discuss, must be ready. Even if it is diplomats we see next, we will see more outsiders; we can't hide completely anymore."
- The Most Dangerous Game is an overseer quest and part of The Thrill of the Hunt multi-stage questline in Fallout Shelter.
- The Most Dangerous Game is the main questline of The Most Dangerous Game 2016 Event, released on November 16, 2016.
- The Most Dangerous Game (also known as The Hounds of Zaroff) is the 1924 short story by Richard Connell. Rainsford, a hunter of big game from New York, finds himself shipwrecked on an island. He finds a big mansion with a bored old general there, who describes his one true passion: hunting. The general tells Rainsford that he only hunts the most dangerous game of all... humans. The full story can be found here. The title has a double meaning, referring both to a "game" or contest between the general and his quarry, as well as "game" in the sense of an animal that is hunted. The story has been directly adapted for film at least eight times, though only twice under its original title: in 1932, with Joel McCrea as Rainsford and Leslie Banks as Zaroff, and in 2008, with Brian Spangler-Campbell and Mark Motyl, respectively. However, it has been imitated by a vastly greater number of works, and is the source and Trope Namer of the Hunting the Most Dangerous Game plot.
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