Re:Return of the Bishop

[DoS Archive]

Date: 8/16/97 2:04 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Shadowrump




The Bishop sat back in the minimally padded chair of her stolen shuttle. The stormtroopers may have disabled her in the docking bay, but they’d neglected to remove the spare parts from the repair facility, in their usual laxadaisical manner. A good four hours of repair and she was spaceworthy as ever. She might even be a little faster. Leaving the hidden asteroid base had been easy. All the automated defenses were off, after the abandonment of the base, and apparently nobody had probed this far into the
small dark nebula wherein it lay stashed.
With the autopilot on and her black booted feet up on the console, Kurgan leaned back and set about examining the longish black light sabre she had taken from the dead Sith-lord’s twitching hand. Obviously an archaic weapon from its design. Typically a man’s weapon though; longer than it had to be, with knobs and projections making it look bulkier than it actually was. She snorted. Trust an man to believe that the length of his weapon made him invincible. He’d been able to parry her blaster shots well
enough, but somehow he’d missed a simple knife between the ribs. Men. Too simple to live, too damn ornery to die.
The autopilot beeped, signalling a change in course. Kurgan frowned, taking her feet off of the console and peering at the settings. Hadn’t she set in the course for Alderan? Why was the course changing? As she pulled up the logs of her flightplan, her face became a study of consternation: a nav buoy had updated her flightplan, routing her around the Alderani asteroid field. Asteroid field? Alderan didn’t have any asteroids! Making a small noise of disgust, she read further. RhyDin? Why did that sound
so familiar? And why was it labled as non-Empire? What Empire? Where were all the Republic markings on the charts the buoy had downloaded? Ah well, she’d sort it out later. Right now, she needed to meditate.

The Bishop sat back in her captain’s chair, her face forming a small moue of distaste as she viewed the pitiable state of her nails. She pulled a small vial of polish from the pouch at her belt. . . . .