The Rebel Faction

“ Gentlemen, I received this. Would any of you care to tell me why?”


Colonel Marx, one being of eight attached to the staff of Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria representing Imperial Intelligence, shrugged his shoulders as he took a quick look at his peers. Every one donned the ominous black that signified trade and duty, every one capable of unspeakable acts a sophisticate of Desaria’s taste would not fathom. Marx, in particular, wore the Order of the Black Eagle on his chest with particular pride, every glance a wealth of fond memories from the subjugation of Serivus Prime. “ This material was deemed urgent by High Command and distributed to every senior flag officer in the field.”


Admiral Desaria was standing, pacing about the darkened room illuminated only by three lamps dangling from the hull above. His youthful face was cast in a most vile glow, an image not helped greatly by a fire burning in emerald corneas. “ When is it timestamped?”


Major Fieri Lor-asha, female cryptographer from Bestine IV, recalled the document from memory. “ Zero-seven thirty this morning. HoloNet relay times place its receipt aboard at zero-eight nineteen.”


“ The event itself? The one referred to throughout the dossier and its very reason for existence?”


Lor-asha again answered, blinking slowly and deliberately as if challenging an Admiral’s right to inquire. “ Thirteen-zero-niner.”


Until then, Admiral-Baron Desaria had maintained a level of patience as he accepted the typical insolence of his Intelligence staff. That time came to an end as he slammed both hands flat upon the table, doubtless cracking the igneous layers beneath. A pair of white aiguillettes that hung from his right shoulder shook to and fro as silence took hold of the room and its now-uneasy occupants.


“ Four days ago!!! You are my Intelligence officers! I rely on your to remain informed about those things that happen outside of my zone of command. This incident was not anywhere close but considerably important! My lack of knowledge made me look rather foolish before Admiral Zarris from High Command when I had no idea to what he was referring. You see, as an Admiral, I need information to form plans and operate effectively. Without it, you tie my hands and make me little more than a well-dressed, Empire-loyal, Snowkan. So, now that I have all of the facts, I am taking action. You’re dismissed.”


Lor-asha let her mouth fall slightly as a peer moved to speak, but the Admiral-Baron would have none of it. “ Oh no, you may crawl to Coruscant and explain to your Directors that the only reason for your return was your incompetence. I have already requested a new staff that will be arriving within the next twelve hours. Perhaps, if you ever have a next assignment, you will consider letting me decide what is and what is not important. Now get out of my sight!”

On-station - Commenor
Imperial Reign-class Star Destroyer Autarch


“ Enter, Colonel.”


Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria looked up from a copy of Hartzell’s My Fifty Years at War to the newest member of his staff, Intelligence Colonel Maxmillian Lenin. “ What can I do for you at this hour?”


“ Is it late, sir?” the Colonel asked, his mouth waxing indignant under a well trimmed but graying goatee. The features on his face did not belie sarcasm but sincerity – Desaria noticed this and smiled a genuine smile. The gentleman from Balmorra had obviously been working too hard to take notice of his wrist chronometer.


“ It is indeed. Did you bring back the copy of War’s Peace I leant you, what, a decade ago?”


Lenin smiled, his bushy facial bouncing as he did, but quickly lost all jocularity from his features. “ No sir. This report was just filtered through my office and I thought you should see it.”


Desaria accepted the cryshac and placed his thumb overtop its protective seal. When his identity was confirmed, white text displayed itself against an aqua background. The Admiral’s eyes skimmed over word after word, and with every line of text he perused, those eyes grew just perceptibly farther and farther apart.


“ An unidentified ship and two Corellian-model escorts? Lord Lupercus will spawn a calf!”


“ I’ve been thinking about that third ship and I think I know what she is.”


“ Well, the information is doing no good inside you – share!”


Lenin brought himself to his full height as if reporting for parade. “ A Bulwark-class battlecruiser.”


“ A Bulwark-class Battlecruiser?” Desaria repeated, his head tilted in confusion. “ No one’s used them since we were cadets.”


“ Yes sir, but that’s not because they were ineffective. Their weapons were powerful but it simply burnt too much fuel. When hauling a fleet of tenders in tow became unfashionable, out they went. I am guessing they’ve got their hands on several of them and they now represent the bulk of Rebel capital resources.”


“ A Bulwark-class Battlecruiser, eh? It’s odd enough, and if we and really dealing with Reel hangers-on, then they’d do something like that.“ Desaria removed a commlink from its nearby perch. “ Captain Voltaire! Send orders to all of the command-escort squadron to be ready for maximum hyperspeed immediately; course: Tanaab. I’ll join you on the bridge shortly.”


Lenin saluted and departed the room. Desaria began compiling a quick report to High Command, all the while thanking himself for eliminating his previous Intelligence staff. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp

“ We’ve completed our reversion to realspace, Admiral.”


A pair of eyes set deep in a face masked as much by youth as it was etched in years of pain and combat blinked shut for a scant moment of introspection – the same look the Baron of Raenoria donned before every action. His was a position of immense responsibility and without exception he doubted his own right, his own merit, to take so many lives in hand and dispatch them at whim. The exploits that had placed the lauded Imeprial Cross at his throat vested the unqualified and undying faith of millions upon him, and every action’s eve made him wonder if he would let them down. He could not, and never had, even in defeat, for the memory of those fallen was never erased: the thought pervaded time again without hindrance.


“ Sensors, a picture if you please.”


“ Conn-sensors! We have five in-bound tracks! I read three – wait, four – in-bound frigates in escort formation. One Bulwark-class Battlecruiser is the centerpiece. They’re coming in at vector three-thirteen mark zero-three-five.”


“ Let’s give them an appropriate welcome, shall we? All ships: forward emplacements, independent fire by battery on the supporting ships. Captain Voltaire, turn us straight for the Bulwark and ready all torpedoes.”


“ You’re not going to ram them, are you sir?” asked Lieutenant-Commander Mavis, latest aide-de-camp to the Admiral-Baron, to which his charge simply smiled and retuned to the business of war.


The quintet of self-declared ‘Rebel’ ships came straight for the four Imperial Destroyers supporting the command ship of the Demassi Sector Fleet, Tanaab grey-black moon at their backs and its only sun juxtaposed nicely behind their prey. The predator was caught unaware, however, when the Destroyers proved their own combat value against the aging vessels and their expensive but smaller escorts. Wave after wave of concerted turbolaser fire lanced out from the warships’ angular prows to decimate their foes. One after another, the frigates crumpled before the weight of plasmized energy, hulls buckling and turning to molten slag in the cold vacuum of space. Whatever was contained therein could only await termination when every available centimeter of air was consumed by fire.


While the escorts met their demise, inevitable as it was against ships near ten times their size and strength, battleship met battleship: both Bulwark and Reign were the titans of the field, the only ships to even approach parity in their militaristic stance. The former rose high from its level ventral hull like a mountain of metal, flaring aft through many fins and projections along a thirteen-hundred meter length. The latter looked every bit the Star Destroyer descendant she was, gradually rising prow giving way to superstructure and command tower only two hundred meters from the aft engine arrays.


The distance closed between them, their captains staring at one another over open sights: they needed no range calculation or trajectory-bearing, the other’s target so massive as to make such destructive luxuries obsolescent. The numbers on range counters ticked down and down before the order came from the man whose hatred burned faster than the dying ‘Rebel’ escorts.


Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria watched his battleships make quick work of the enemy and gave something of a sadistic grunt as his first balled and slammed down on the arm of his command chair. A few of his teeth were visible as an evil smile creased only a small portion of his mouth.


The commander of the Autarch had served with his admiral in some capacity for the better part o five years, but now was the only time fear coursed through his veins. When his name was called, he met the Baron’s gaze with iron eyes but remained unsure just how long he could maintain such a confident façade.


“ Captain Voltaire?”


“ Admiral!” he replied, snapping to attention out of reflex.


“ Forward warhead batteries are to fire two volleys on my command.”


“ Aye sir.” Voltaire nodded, making sure to rapidly turn his master’s wish into reality. When all was done as the aristocratic officer wished, he was so notified.


“ Fire first volley.”


Desaria’s voice was calm and wholly professional as he issued the singular command for the launching of nearly fifty Mark III proton torpedo-warheads, explosive projectiles on line-of-sight paths that were much slower than their full-torpedo brethren but four-times more lethal. A flare crested over the bow as the weapons parted company with their launchers, bound for a quick end upon first meeting the hull or particle shield of their target.


“ Fire second!!!”


This order was unprofessional in its delivery, for the man who issued it had eyes aflame with anger and a voice trembling with rage. His skin above knuckles grasping the arms of his command chair was turning a dangerous white from the sheer unintentional pressure of their grip. Regardless, the order was given and the missiles sent on their way. Bright plumes of fire erupted where explosive met metal, debris flying in every direction. The second salvo of fifty-odd missiles tore the old structures from one another, fires hotter than hell expanding from within, shining through cracks being pulled in once shining armor-plate.


The Autarch lurched as only a battleship could, dorsal and to starboard to be rid of its prey’s demise and the unwelcome affects thereof: their position irrelevant, the ‘Rebel’ presence above Tanaab had been snuffed out by the vengeful fist of the Empire.

High Command of the Galactic Empire

Imperial City, Coruscant


“ The morning reports, My Lord.”


Lithiss Trachta gracefully accepted the attaché for as long as decorum required then forgot his presence when its memory was no longer mandated. Together with the small pile of pads, discs, and cryshac sheets, Trachta drowned out the world and retreated to a calm and undistressing place. There, he could mull on matters of Imperial Security without allowing the beeping of monitors or the clicking of keys irritate him – it was not only good for him but his aides as well since most senior officers throughout Imperial Intelligence had murderous tempers.


Seated atop the other documents was the early-morning dossier published by the General Staff, or, more to the point, which ever of its members was restless enough the night before to pen a report briefing the reader on all major events of night-time hours. Trachta got a slight amount of pleasure at seeing the signature of Vice-Marshal Reynoldes affixed. Many years ago when the two were…younger men…Reynoldes had tried out for Intelligence but was rejected where Trachta was accepted. There was no lingering animosity as the pair of Academy classmates had little to do with each other after the event; it simply gave the de-facto Director a chuckle.


“ Well well, Maerris, you’ve been busy!” Trachta scrolled down and opened an attached document prepared by the Ministry of Propaganda. Nearly every government of any importance – and many without – condemned the ‘Rebels’ for their use of some sort of black-hole generating superweapon in rebuilding the Alliance to Restore the Republic. Governments that had only recently taken up arms against the forces of the Empire were now insulting and chastising the elusive group.


This could have easily been spun as an internal problem and I am sorry to say I doubted its expansion into galactic proportions. However, Salazar has handled this marvelously! Now when we hunt down and destroy these Rebels, people of his own choosing, there will be no cries of genocide or hatred from beyond our borders. Magnificent!


Trachta adjusted the amount of light his photoreceptors took in via a small knob on the side of his faceplate. Mechanical implants had their usage, Trachta’s favorite being the ability to dim unwanted light at a moment’s notice.


One of the datacards that had so errantly spilled out when he removed their balancing item from on top was labeled as being from Intelligence’s own Internal Security Division, Section V. A moment’s recollection brought forth the knowledge of Section V’s mission: monitor and report all noteworthy activity currently common knowledge among the civilian population. Their reports were often stale and uninspired, to say nothing of extremely boring, but the de-factor Director wanted to keep abreast of all things. It seemed as if the weight of a day’s relaxation slowed his hand as he married the disc with his pad’s port.


Sticking out after a cursory review was a report typed on the recent increase of prison riots, escapes, and attempts throughout the Empire. All told, he number of convicts departed from facilities and penal colonies was staggering, disclosed numbers in the tens of thousands. While that was only a ten or so percent rise in the standard and by far a superior level compared to the rest of galactic civilization, the factual and unreported numbers were much higher.


Commodore Trachta gave another smile and accompanied this one with a hearty chuckle: he realized then where Salazar was getting the manpower to feed his vision of advancement. In reality, Salazar was proving to be quite industrious. The prisoners themselves, if killed, saved the Empire money while the freed up space for those who might take their place. Using prisoners on a sort of lethal parole gave them a determined edge to their combat ability that produced a reality unmatched by any game of chess. The entire line of personnel procurement, while it did cost the Imperial Civil Defense Corps several hundred dead and twenty times that wounded, was genius when Trachta thought of it.


Worse still as a smile crossed his lips, Trachta wondered if he would have to promote this rising star after all.

Imperial Protectorate World of Tanaab, Demassi Sector

Imperial Reign-class Star Destroyer Autarch
In-orbit


Admiral Telan Desaria closed his eyes before he took full measure of his opponent. When he did, those eyes turned to slits so he could not only glare, but glower at the unfortunate soul whose heart had the audacity to override sense and challenge the commander of the Demassi Sector Fleet to a game of strategema.


Captain Voltaire looked back at his superior, glare interrupted by the multi-level chess-like series of boards. The game itself was one of wits, where Voltaire had an edge, and ruthless tactical efficiency, which Desaria had to a t.


“ You’re move, Admiral.”


Voltaire closed his eyes and let out a breath he had not known he was holding. An extended hand held a container of iced tea that the Autarch’ commander readily took, its cool refreshing taste soothing strained nerves. While on the surface he remained the forty-plus year captain of an Imperial battleship, below his typically unfailing wit was made flinch by the throng that had gathered in the officers’ mess to observe the contest.


The Admiral graciously accepted his turn, first in the game’s innumerably possible rounds, and reached assuredly for his second tier ravenhawk. The piece itself displayed its abilities with little effort of explanation: winged, large, fierce-looking and a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. It was the game’s battlecruiser – tough, fast, and hard hitting – and the only one of its kind. While Desaria’s colour of black had the game’s most powerful element, Captain Voltaire’s red was vast in number.


Deftly, Desaria moved the piece to the tertiary level and placed it next to red’s third of four kazaar beasts. At the same time, three black gnair-dragons were moved to the edge of the level where, much like their animate brethren, they waited to strike.


“ He’s going to attack already!” came a hushed realization from somewhere in the crowd. Captain Voltaire had every reason to be apprehensive since most players did not contemplate attacking until their third or fourth turns. In response, the remainder of the four kazaar beasts formed a vicious pact with the one kept at bay by the ravenhawk and attacked. Voltaire hit two keys at the base of the three-tiered structure and watched the randomizer run over computation after computation. One by one, the results of battle were displayed until stopped by a player: neither Desaria nor Voltaire touched the device. One, two, then three of the kazaar beasts were removed from play, but the fourth got the best of the ravenhawk. The fourth was, however, placed out of play as well for four moves to compensate for fatigue.


“ Finally!” Desaria exclaimed, pushing his dragons forward. “ Assault!” he declared, the trio placed atop a small pyramidal structure. Voltaire had no choice according to game rules to show his reserves, which were paltry, and enter them into the computer. The dragons won and thusly so did Desaria, his captain’s fortress captured on the first move.


Credits were heard exchanging hands as Voltaire sighed. He had been bested, but by one of the best, so it was a lesser burden to bear.


“ Another game, Captai-“


“ Bridge to Captain Voltaire; Admiral Desaria. Something is happening on long range sensors you should see,” interrupted the commsystem. The pair looked at each other wearily then headed for the nerve center of the Imperial Reign-class Star Destroyer.