A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
The Magnificent Seven: A Star Wars Story
Tyranny! As the Empire solidifies its reach
across the galaxy, rebellion begins to stir
among former Republic worlds. On the planet
of Aldaraan, Senator Bail Organa begins to
consolidate support against the Empire.
A decade into the Empire’s greedy reign, small
Planets are neglected to crime lords. The desert
moon of Viejo Oeste is at the mercy of the Bogue
Hutt clan, a criminal empire known for its cruelty
and greed. As the people of Rose Creek suffer, they
desperately call for aid from an uncaring galaxy…
Viejo Oeste (9.2.3-Primeday)
The galaxy was a big place, containing thousands of moons and planets. Each planet contributed were millions of sentient beings who worked and thrived, lived and died. Half the galaxy’s inhabitants chose to live on Core Worlds. These worlds received the latest technology, contained every creature comfort imaginable, and were connected in nearly every way to each other. Others chose to live in the Mid Rim, the Expansion, or the Colonies. These areas boasted thriving economies and successful political structures. The galaxy’s “civilized” populations settled in any of those areas, whose rule changed every generation. For some, it was the Old Republic. For others, the Sith Empires of old were the golden standard. Recently, the Galactic Republic created a Senate of the wealthiest and most successful planets in the galaxy. However, that government fell into obsolescence like its predecessors and the Empire rose from the ashes. In the galaxy, change was a part of life. Everywhere except the Outer Rim. The Outer Rim always remained a region fit only for criminals and their ilk. Oh, there were plenty of settlers, hard working folks looking to make a name for themselves or escape from the institutionalism of the Core. But eventually, they were consumed by the machines that were criminal organizations. The Hutts, the Black Sun, the Pike Syndicate, Zygerrian slavers; every criminal in the galaxy had connections to the Outer Rim. The whole region was lawless, savage, and strange. But settlers continued to pour in, desperate to escape oppressive political structures, economic debts, or social restraints.
On the very edge of the Outer Rim, there was a gas planet west and north of Rattatak. The gas giant was about as useless as a planet could get: uninhabitable, no usable resources, not on any major trade routes. Its moon, however, was at least habitable. Viejo Oeste was a dry and dusty little moon. Its only outpost, Rose Creek, was the same. It had little creature comforts, but its inhabitants took comfort in the knowledge that the land was their own. Sure, they might have to share ‘freshers and receive news only from outdated holonews channels, but their work was honest. They would till the land, set up vaporators, and slowly turn the dust bowl moon of Viejo Oeste into a home. The settlers were diverse, united only by their desire to make something of themselves. In the galactic Empire, advancement was found in loyalty to the Emperor. In military service, political prowess, or intellectual genius too brilliant to be ignored. But on the outskirts of the Outer Rim, the unwanted gathered and thrived. No Empire, no rules but their own. Free to choose the life they wanted to live.
This particular moon had been selected a few years ago, then settlers painstakingly interviewed and chosen. Some went ahead of their families to set up buildings, a ship-pad, and start the vaparators. The outpost contained little more than shanties, the cheap grey steel blending into dry tan sand. A tavern, general store, shops for the tradesmen, uniform housing for everyone. Just the basics, nothing more. The only splurge was a church built of white plank wood. Each settler brought bits and pieces from their home worlds, creating a building filled with the soul of the townspeople.
For six months, the settlers toiled. The vaperators brought in their first bounty of moisture. No longer having to import water from off-world, they took to their tilling with new joy and ferocity. Crops had to be planted and tended to before the cool season. Schoolteacher, a Mon-Cala exiled during the Great Purge, set up classes at night for the youngest residents. The Abhean preacher taught the ways of God. Every settler found their place in the little community, bound by the laws they themselves established. However, even far from the reach of the Empire, mentions of democracy and the Republic and the Jedi were only told in bedtime stories, whispered furtively between families.
Nine months after the outpost was settled, an old TL-1200 transport landed 10 clicks from the town. Preacher sent his acolyte Jacob to greet the visitors. Though they didn’t have much to share, anyone hoping to settle away from the Empire would be welcome here. Jacob sent his last transmission from the dune range less than a click from the transport’s landing site. The people were digging in the rock and sand. The transport was carrying mining equipment. He was going to make contact, and would call if the visitors needed anything.
Jacob was never seen again.
The next time visitors arrived, it was in a DP20 frigate. The frigate landed by the dune range, surrounded by fighters of every make and class. A tall, gangly alien strode out, flanked by bodyguards. The alien, upwards of seven feet tall with red slimy skin, introduced himself as Bartholomew Bogue, head of the Bogue Hutt clan. He would be claiming the moon in the name of the Hutts and the town would function as his headquarters. The settlers grumbled, but the Hutt tolerated no dissention. Believing the clan would grow bored of the moon quickly, the settlers grudgingly accepted his men and equipment. Maybe this Hutt would bring trade partners for their crops. The settlers were hopeful and naïve. In their optimism, they forgot one of the principle rules of the galaxy: no dealings with the Hutts ever ended well.
First, the Hutt clan stayed glued to the mine. Their equipment was loud and created dust storms, but otherwise the settlers continued as they always had. Many speculated what they were drilling for. Some thought they found chromite or feldspar. A few whispered the possibility of a Kyber crystal stash. The reality was so much worse: Bogue was mining for Phrik. A metal so rare it was thought to only reside on one planet in the entire galaxy. No metal was stronger or lighter; phrik battle armor could be sold for millions of credits. Rumor said it was even lightsaber resistant. With that news, the settlers finally saw the truth: the Hutts would not leave until they had extracted every kilo of precious metal from the moon.
Soon, the Hutt’s influence left the mine and overran the town. Mercenaries ate the tavern’s food without paying. Huttese visitors stayed in the settlers’ homes. The town suffered as their land was confiscated, crops pillaged when food transports were late. The carefully toiled and planted land would not yield any crops this year. And so they met in the church, to decide what must be done.
The result was not pleasant.
Schoolteacher was the first to hear the tell-tale sliding of Bogue’s passage. He gathered his boy close to his chest as the church doors were thrown open dramatically, leaving space for Bogue’s relatively thin girth to slide through. His goons, a Gamaorrean and a Cliare, strode in behind him and guarded the exit. The fiend's red skin glowed like embers just cooled as he slithered up to the podium usually reserved only for those worshiping. Bogue demanded all their land at a price that wouldn’t even cover passage off the moon. The settlers protested. Many of them died.
One of those was a Corellian man by the name of Mathew Cullen. After the crowd was banished from the church, he spoke up against the Hutt clan. His wife, a Naboo native by the name of Emma, tried to stop him. They didn’t want any trouble. Nothing good would come of rebellion. But Mathew was a man of principles and pride. This Hutt would steal his family’s chance at survival over his dead body. Bogue was only too happy to oblige.
The church was set ablaze, burning the settler’s dreams to ash. And as blood from the dead and dying stained the dry, desert streets, Emma didn’t wail or cry. Instead she clutched her dead husband in the street as her eyes smoldered with rage. Bogue would burn like the church behind them. She swore that on her life.