The Rebel Faction

“Gevel! Theren Gevel! My god, you’re alive!”

Gevel nodded. “For the moment, anyway. The shield is down, so that could be an entirely temporary situation.” He walked deeper into the room. “You haven’t deserted your post.”

“We’re still…” the man said, trailing off. “We’re still waiting for the order, sir.”

Gevel smiled. “Lucky for you, I bring orders.”

The man in the chair turned. “You want to make a broadcast?”

“Not me,” Gevel said. “Regent Zell is on his way to the Secondary Command Center, as the Palace is taking fire. He’s going to need all our relays and networks operational.”

“Well, as you know, intership communications up there are not working as they should,” the man said. “Or, well, maybe you don’t know.” Gevel shook his head; he hadn’t been told. “Well, the aliens seem to be sending out some kind of broadcast. Constant and overwhelming. It’s all we can do to get hard light through, their signal is so powerful. Audio and data streams. Numbers. Just a lot of numbers.”

“Have you tried cracking it?” Gevel asked, curious.

“The problem is, if we open our ports to accept the signal, the signal begins to reroute our computer networks,” the man said. “We lost a few communications relays because the alien signal commanded…”

The man trailed off and Gevel’s eyebrows rose. “You were saying?”

“Well, somehow, the alien signal enabled on the communication satellites and had them break orbit,” the man said. “With most of our fleet diverting all shield power to their top side to repel the enemy fire, getting rammed from below by their own satellites…”

“If the men had been following their training they’d have picked up the satellites long before impact,” Gevel said, disappointed. So confident the soldiers of the Empire had become. So self assured that their shit didn’t stink.

Now, their home world was rotten and dead.

No surprises.

“Either way, intersystem is out. If the alien signal weren’t jamming communications, we’ve lost too many satellites,” the man concluded.

“What about cross planet? Or deep vac holonet lines?”

“Worth a shot,” the man said, turning to his switchboard. “We’ve lost a few relays across the planet since the shield went down, but we can still get about ninety percent coverage.”

“Good,” Gevel said. “I want you to start by telling everyone who is still at their stations to tune…” Theren started, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to the man. “Tune all relays to this signal.”

“A ping?”

“Essentially,” Gevel said. “I’m going to make sure that Zell is on that channel, so every relay should be shouting his words out across the planet.”

“Alright,” the man said, hitting the relevant buttons on his instrument panel, and then picking up the microphone. He went to open his mouth, but then turned. “Would you like to give the order, Sir?”

Gevel nodded. “That might be wise,” he said. He took the microphone. “Attention all Imperial Personnel, attention all Imperial Personnel. This is Moff Theren Gevel. As you are no doubt aware Imperial Center is under attack by hostile alien forces. The battle is proceeding but it is not going well. The Regent is going to make a public broadcast in a few hours where he will order the evacuation of Imperial Center. This is a temporary measure and is not a surrender. In preparation for the Regent’s announcement I would ask all broadcasting stations across the planet to tune to the signal provided on this line and then to evacuate your station with your equipment operational. I repeat; evacuate Imperial Center. This is not a drill. You have your orders soldiers. Gloria Imperium.”

The man took the microphone back and set it down. “So… we’re really going to evacuate?”

Gevel shrugged. “Might as well go somewhere cool until they put the fires out.”

The man chuckled, nervously. Gevel was very cool, even under intense pressure. “Well,” the man said, standing up. He offered a salute. “It’s been an honor, Sir.”

Gevel dismissed the salute. He offered his hand instead. “The honor is mine.”

The man shook his hand. Had a good, firm handshake. “When we come back here, I will tell the Regent of what you did. Walking in here, alone. You’re a hero, Gevel. A true to life goddamn hero.”

But in that moment, as the man ran from the building, in that moment Gevel didn’t feel like a hero. He sat down at the control panel and spun around in the office chair, contemplating the nature of the choice that he had made.

Of course, Gevel didn’t feel alone either. Zeratul was not long behind, once the man had run from sight. “Is it done?”

Gevel nodded. “I’ve done what you’ve asked. I dropped the shield, I’ve rerouted power to the communications and transmission infrastructure, and I’ve tuned said infrastructure to the signal range provided.” He saw Zeratul’s eyes darken.

Knew, instinctively, that the alien was considering whether now was a good time to kill Gevel, or if he had anymore usefulness.

“If you want,” Gevel said, “I have a passkey. Since we’ve stabilized the power, the doorlocks in my office should still work. I can give you a copy of the Bastion Conclave’s information databases.”

Zeratul’s eyes lit up again. That kind of information was worth keeping the Imperial alive. “So be it.”

The two left the communications bunker and Gevel gasped. Saw a squadron of stormtroopers firing at… Gevel wasn’t even sure what it was. It must have been twenty feet tall… metal plates over pink, muscular flesh. It took numerous heavy blaster shots and didn’t even slow down; offered only a grunt and then a swing of his massive arm, sending trooper after trooper spirally into the empty abyss below.

“The hell…?” Gevel began, stunned and motionless.

“Armorlin,” Zeratul said.

“More robot zombies?” Gevel said.

The blue skinned alien shook his large head. “No, the Armorlin are a special breed of soldier designed to function almost akin to your Imperial Walkers. You have a doctrine on the nature of fear as an effective means of control. The Armorlin dwarf your people by a size differential of almost four times and they can absorb everything you fire that isn’t from a starfighter. Surrender of your ground forces will come soon.”

Gevel nodded slowly. “I have to ask, alien. Why here? Why Coruscant? Why start with such an exposed target, somewhere that you know we will never surrender without a fight to the death? Somewhere that you have to know you can never hold?”

The alien scoffed, a deep hiss coming from his nostrils. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, Gevel.”

“I’m serious,” he said, stopping. “You’ve asked me to do things to hasten your acquisition of control and I’ve done it, but I need to know why. I need to know what you want to do here, why all this fighting, death, destruction. I need to know why I am betraying my own people. If only so that I can die with a clear conscience.”

Zeratul turned to him, eyes flashing.

“Don’t pretend otherwise,” Gevel said, straight. “When you don’t need me anymore, you’ll kill me. I know you’re a spy and that’s what spies do with assets they don’t need anymore. So just level with me.”

Zeratul nodded. “Very well; you should know, Gevel, that I know of you, and I respect what you have done. I will not make you suffer.”

“I appreciate that,” Gevel said. “Now, why you’re here.”

Zeratul turned his back to Gevel, spreading his arms to the burning skyline beyond. “This world… a marvel. An entire planet of cities, an entire world of hubs, relays… the communications capital of the Galaxy. Signals come and go from here to the greatest outer reaches of the rim. The world of Coruscant outputs more energy through its communication relays than most worlds use energy in total.”

“It has to be more than that, though,” Gevel said. “Surely, a people such as yourself have… relays, transmitters of your own. You didn’t really just come here to send a few broadcasts did you?” Zeratul didn’t say anything, and Gevel ran it through his head. “No… no you didn’t. You’re not going to send a broadcast at all.”

Zeratul turned back. “Go on.”

“You want a network of relays and transmitters to…” Gevel said, sighing. “To transmit energy.”

“At its heart, be it data, light, or sound, all transmissions made from one source to another are a form of energy,” Zeratul said. “No one planet in the entire galaxy has a better system for delivering massive amounts of energy across an established communication and transmitting system than this one. The backbone for your communications network here is truly awe inspiring, and capable of delivering massive amounts of focused energy with very little modification.”

“But what is your endgame?” Gevel asked. “A weapon?”

Zeratul shook his head. “Better, then, to simply commandeer your fleet. You think too small, Gevel. Think back to how this all started.”

Gevel reached back into his head. It had been a day like any other, with the fleet preparing to jump to reaver space, when they detected massive ener… “…oh.”

“Now you understand,” Zeratul said. For effect, he ran a talloned finger over Gevel’s forehead. “With that kind of energy all channeled correctly…”

“…you can use all the harnessed energy from a 13 km planet to open a wormhole that those seven meter ships of yours could never manage,” Gevel said, the wheels beginning to spin in his head.

“Essentially,” Zeratul said. “Now…”

Gevel gulped, realizing that the alien was losing patience with him. “Yes, my offices,” he said. He looked around… not far. “This way.”

The two walked for a few moments, Gevel looking around at what had once been the Capital Of The Galactic Empire. Now, it stood in ruin, flaming wreckage crashing to the surface from space, the fires, and the dead. This world had once been a home to thousands, and now, was merely their graveyard.

Gevel internally cursed the alien even as he externally led him on. “Here,” Gevel said, pointing to an electronic keycode reader. He inserted his codekey and portions of the wall slid away to reveal a door with a code terminal. Gevel put in the password into the terminal and the door opened, allowing him to slip inside.

Zeratul strode past him, heading immediately for the desk. The computer there… the books alone piled atop its metal surface would keep him occupied for days. Gevel had…

…Gevel had stopped in the doorway.

Zeratul turned, and when he did, his eyes flashed with flame. “Gevel.”

Standing against the wall, flanking the Imperial Moff, were four troopers, all with raised blasters to the alien. “Are you really all that surprised, Zeratul? You think I would willfully trade the secrets of the Empire to you and then just let you kill me?”

“Your child will…”

“My only child is an eighteen month old son on Bastion,” Gevel countered. “You know, for a spy, your intelligence gathering leaves a lot to be desired.”

“And the girl in the photo?”

“Never met her,” Gevel answered back. “No idea who she is, where she is. Don’t really care either; she served her purpose and did her part for the Empire. She will be remembered even though this incident will never be spoken of.”

As Zeratul began to contemplate the trap he had walked into, he tensed. “You plan to kill me?”

“It’s what spies do when their assets become expendable,” Gevel said. “You’re no doubt wondering why you can’t simply turn into mist and reappear in orbit. That device of yours… and thank you for the demonstration before, it was very informative… turns out to be susceptible to interference from a second degree quantum descrambler… or something. Tech could tell you more, but suffice to say, you’re stuck here.”

“Then let me ask you,” the alien said. “Why? Why walk with me, knowing I planned to kill you? Why do as I said to help our plans?”

“Because I’m a history teacher, Zeratul Daz’da’mar, and a good teacher is himself a good student first,” he said, and watched Zeratul’s eyes flash. “Oh yes, we know about you, Zeratul. Former student of The Naboo Sith Order. Intelligence kept a file on you, just in case. Turned out to be a wise precaution.”

Zeratul opened his arms. “Killing me stops nothing. You have still lost this world.”

Gevel nodded. “Maybe so, but now that we know what you’re planning, we can make sure you inherit nothing more than a burnt husk.” He turned, pressing a button on the wall. “Soldier, this if Moff Gevel.” He paused as the man spoke back but Zeratul couldn’t hear him. “I know you’re busy. I’m not an idiot, I can look at the bloody sky. Just tell Thornton this. All of the com relays on Coruscant that are still operational are currently broadcasting on this frequency. Tell him he’s to plot firing solutions and destroy them.” He paused again. “Yes, destroy them! Yes, bomb Coruscant! Don’t ask fucking why, just do it! Tell him it’s an order from Zell himself if that will get him to fucking do it, just get it done. Gevel out.”

Gevel reached down and pulled out his cigarras, putting one between his lips. He turned back to Zeratul, standing unarmed and frozen at the desk. “Kill him. Make it quick and don’t make him suffer,” Gevel commanded, offering Zeratul the same respect that the alien had offered him.

As Gevel lit his cigarra he heard the shots behind his back, not letting them phase him as he took a long, satisfying drag.

Now, to get the fuck out of here.

Five seconds after seeing the throng of beleaguered Coruscanti pushing their way onto the docking platform, Runo was at the landing ramp with several of the Legionnaires who had stayed behind while Solir escorted their employer to see Azrael Zell. In addition to Eleddol and Soshiomn, he had also summoned Forwl, their hulking Yuuzem warrior, and Herret Myyl, the newest soldier to join their company.

“Can’t let them on ship,” Forwl murmured in his broken Basic. His snout twitched in concern as he shifted his heavy blaster rifle to a better grip.

“No, we can’t,” Runo agreed. “At least not until Solir gets back.”

“He’ll be back,” Herret spoke up. The Iktotch had the slightly distant look on his face that indicated he was receiving one of the premonitions, which had come in quite handy for the Legionnaires of late. He looked directly at Runo and added, “He’ll be back soon.”

The Legionnaires’ second-in-command stared at Herret for a moment, having never been entirely comfortable with that kind of foresight, and then simply said, “Then this won’t take long.”

As the five men descended the landing ramp, the sound of heavy footsteps filled the air. Runo looked out to the landing plan to see that the desperate survivors of the assault had already cleared half the distance from the other edge of the platform to the Dagger. Even from afar, he could tell that they were all frightened, frantic, or completely hysterical, and he frowned. This was going to be very complicated if he wanted to keep a stampede of random people from filling every empty space on the Legionnaires’ ship.

“Fan out,” he ordered the others. “No one gets aboard unless I say so.”

The Legionnaires nodded and did as he said. As he unclipped his twin SoroSuub S-5 blasters, he added, “Set weapons on stun.”

The crowd was massive as it surged toward the two ships at the end of the landing platform. There were several armed men and women in the lead, though thankfully none of them held anything better than a battered vibroblade. There had to be at least fifty people heading toward them. With odds like that, Runo knew that there was no way to keep them off the Dagger or the Tooth if they truly wanted to get onboard. They would have to rely on a show of force.

“Kuwa, you there?” he asked, raising his voice so that the miniature comlink in his ear would pick it up.

“Ready and waiting,” the young Twi’lek girl replied from within the cockpit.

“Charge the forward energy cannons and keep the engines primed in case we need to make a quick getaway,” he ordered. “Cartan, you do the same.”

The pilots aboard the Legionnaires’ two vessels acknowledged.

By this time the crowd had slowed to a stop a few meters away. They were eyeing the five armed mercenaries warily, unsure how to proceed now that there was a challenge to their escape. Several people began murmuring worriedly in the back of the group.

Runo took a step forward and smiled. “Good afternoon!”

Unsurprisingly, no one returned the salutation. Instead, one of the armed men replied, “We’re getting on your ship, friend. All of us. We need to get off this planet.”

“Well, you see,” the middle-aged Naboo said, “that’s going to be a bit of a problem for us. This isn’t exactly a passenger liner –”

“There’s an evacuation in progress!” a woman in the crowd shrieked. “We need to leave now. You can fit all of us in that ship!”

“Actually, we can’t. I’ve got an entire crew of people clogging the cabins in there, and there isn’t exactly a whole lot of floor space. We only have so much oxygen and so much weight that we can take on before our ships won’t fly. Not to mention that since our commander isn’t even here, I also can’t lift off yet.”

People were starting to grumble angrily. They were all frightened, he knew, frightened of being killed or captured by whatever force was laying siege to their homeworld. Runo had heard scattered reports of what was happening elsewhere on Coruscant, and quite frankly he didn’t blame these people for being terrified out of their minds.

Unfortunately, he had told these people the truth. He had already figured out that they couldn’t safely hold all of these people on the Legionnaires’ ships, and there was no way that he was leaving until Solir and the others came back. He could tell by the looks on these people’s faces, though, that they were not going to leave; either they were going to get aboard, or die trying. And in his heart, Runo knew that he couldn’t just turn them away. He hated to admit it, but he wasn’t nearly as hard as some of the people under his command. He had learned from Solir that sometimes helping people was more important than waging a fight or collecting credits. It couldn’t always be every person for themselves.

“All right, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Runo said to the crowd. “I’m not lying when I say that we can’t take all of you. We’re also not leaving just yet, but it is safer for you on our ships than out here in the open. So … we’re going to do this the old fashioned way. Women, children, and wounded first, and then we’ll see what we can do about everyone else.”

The crowd looked at each other nervously, obviously not entirely comfortable with such draconian tactics. Runo saw the Legionnaires shifting to either side of him, in case the situation turned ugly. Then, from the middle of the group, a grizzled man in a torn pilot’s uniform stepped forward, leading a young woman who was very pregnant and a small boy of ten.

“These are my children,” he said with a grim set to his face. “Their mother and my son-in-law were lost along the way, and we’re all that’s left. I would like for them to go with your ship.”

Behind them, the crowd continued to shift as the individuals that Runo had requested moved to the front. His eyes remained fixed on the family in front of him, though, and he felt his worn heart cracking beneath his chest, as memories of his home, and the horrors that befell it long ago, flashed before his eyes. Without a word, he nodded to the old pilot, and moved aside so that the last members of his family could board the ship.

Then he gestured for the next survivors to come forward.

The feliniod sat grooming itself incessently. Its course tongue lapped at its thick cream-coloured coat.

Approaching from behind came two human males one commenting to the other, “That's disgusting.”

Its hearing far beyond that of a mere humanoid, the cat-like being hissed drawing a chuckle from the other human.

“They have trouble with our vocalization, but they understand our language just fine,” said the second man. “I don't think it likes you.”

The first asked, “What did it say?”

“It said,” translated the latter with a smirk, “that you're the one with piss stained underwear.”

At this the first was silent, shocked.

“Yeah,” added the second man. “They have a strong olfactory sense too.”

With a gesture the second man montioned the first to a chair, “The bridge is yours, Captain.”



The story of the Outsider is a convoluted one.

Once upon a time she served the Republic as an enforcement picket and earned a name for herself plugging pirates and raiders that strayed too close to claimed space. In her territory, at the time, she was known by sight and name; most illegals knew to keep their distance and those who did not quickly came to wish they had. With the demise of the Republic proper she was sold to privateers, mercenaries working within the laws of the Empire which rose in its place. She hunted the traitorous mystics who saught to overthrow the Emperor, tracked down and captured the rebellious and generally earned a new name for herself as a loyal servant of the Empire and enemy to those who would become enemies of the state themselves. As time wore on and the Empire dwindled the Outsider found herself mysteriously without lawful ownership and somehow or other the prize pot in a game of cards. Won, made the property of a man who was better with cards and drink then money or holdings, she sat for years slowly becoming a derelict. Luck was on her side, however; the lone survivor of a Reaver attack she drifted from her berth and was lost in the blackness of space until, by chance or fate, a salvage ship stumbled across her. The salvagers, chalking her up as derelict, were looking to sell her for scrap but before the deal could be finalized an ecentric financeer and student of miltary history, who just happened to be at the same scrap dealer looking for that diamond in the rough, recognized the Outsider and bought her out from under the scrappers. That man, an older human of means, had run afoul of the Reavers himself and saw in her a chance for redemption and so, pouring considerable credits in to the Outsider, he saw that she was overhauled, modernized and outfitted for war. And so, once again, the aged ship found herself of use nearly one hundred years after her inaugural voyage.



In the mess hall of the Outsider gathered her crew, he captain and her benefactor.

The latter, an aged human of wiry stature and wiry stance, stood at the head of the officers table and called for the attention of all present. His style of dress was oddly out of place. Wearing a tweed jacket, a duster atop his head and pleated slacks he was a stark contrast to even the motly crew of the Rotanga who, a mixed bag of aliens, for their own part lacked any uniformity of their own.

Rapping his fork against his glass, he waited until all were quiet with eyes turned his way before speaking.

“Welcome, brave crew, to the first in what I hope will be a long list of staff meetings. Some of you know one another. Others, our Captain included, are newly arrived. But regardless, we are all brothers and sisters in arms. Without further ado, I would like to introduce the senior staff of the Outsider...”

He gestured to the Captain who rose at his beckoning.

“Captain Robert Sweet, whom some of you will recall distinguised himself at the battle of Corellia against the invading Reavers. A life long merchant marine, I know he will stand for each and every one of you and that you, in turn, will do him proud.”

The Captain nodded once, sat back down. A man in his forties, he kept his hair cropped short and his face clean shaven. Wearing a leather bombers jacket and cargo-style trousers, he looked every part the merchant sailor.

“Second in command, Commander Keith Bowie,” he gestured to a younger human male. Rising in turn, he snapped off a quick salute. His tunic was smartly pressed, as were his slacks also. On his feet, a pair of expertly polished jack boots. “Commander Bowie served the Imperial Navy under Baron Desaria, but we won't hold that against him!”

To a man, woman, or alien everyone shared in a boisterous laugh.

“Chief, if you would...”

At the far end of the table, deigining to remain seated, was a square shouldered near-human alien. A blocky fellow, his pale features and sallow eyes marked him as a half-breed. He raised a hand to signify his presence.

“Chief Stucky, engineer and Chief of the Ship. There isn't a man alive who knows more about the Rotanga, having worked aboard a ship of her class when he was but a lad. The Chief personally oversaw the refit of our fine vessle and you can all count on him to know her like the back of his hand.”

“And to his left,” he gestured to the large felinoid seated to one side of the Chief. “Lobo, our security specialist. His people have been particularly hard hit by the Reaver incursions and as those of you acquainted with his species know he is a top knotch fighter, detective and all around bad-ass.”

Again the crew shared in a laugh.

And so it went, round the table and back. The old benefactor introducing the officers corp, though none held any legitimatly recognized rank, until he reached himself.

“As for myself, I am the one man you should all know since I sign your pay stubs. I am Zane Von-Zucker and aside from being rich, and eccentric I want to see those Reavers kicked right out of the galaxy which brings us to the point. I have assembled you, the finest crew money can buy, given you this fine ship, and lay before you one task and one task alone; to make hell for the Reaver scum where-ever they dare show their zombie faces!”

A riotous cheer went up filling the mess hall with a chorus of rousing hollers and shouts.

In to the chorus, Von-Zucker added, “And if you save a few people along the way, so much the better.”

“Lord Artanis...”

Shran Badaar began, but Artanis could see. Where once was only open space now was an Imperial warfleet. They had jumped into no mans land; the area of battle away from the escape corridor, between the Cree'Ar fleet and the planet.

Maneuvering to avoid the Cree'Ar gravitic manipulation arrays had been some feat, and to do so while avoiding the planet as well...

“Dez'ro'shan,” Artanis commanded. “Shift our forces from enforcing the corridor to the new reinforcements.”

“Incoming fire,” Badaar said, and both Cree'Ar reached for the nearest metal railing, prepared for an enemy bombardment from the hundred strong fleet.

Both stood, and waited, as the turbolaser fire began pelting the ship. The ship did not rock, or tear.

Badaar blinked. “It sounds almost like rain,” he mused of the sound of the fire dissipating across their hull.

“Tactical assessment,” Artanis asked, more serious, and Badaar went to retrieve one.

“Their turbolasers are almost completely ineffective against our gravitic shield,” Badaar said. “As did the previous Imperial forces, their laser based weaponry is useless against us.”

“Only a matter of time before they begin firing missles,” Artanis responded, remembering the original wave of Imperial attacks. “What is the tactical assessment of the Parrow Lin?”

The Parrow Lin vessels had slowly lumbered to the fore; outside the effective range of the Cree'Ar shield ship. They would bear the brunt of the attack, but had the thickest hulls of all the vessels. “All vessels currently operational, but absorbing that barrage...”

“Then let us cut down that barrage,” Artanis said. “Order the Parrow Lin to fire on the new reinforcements with their heaviest weapons.”

Their heaviest weapon were the Redundent Focusing Blaster Cannons. Named so for the focusing emitters along the 200 meter barrel, the beam was bent and compressed and bent and compressed and bent and compressed until the resultant emission was capable of destroying even the most heavily armored vessels.

The Reign Class Star Destroyer was not a new vessel, but for most governments, it was still an impressive vessel. The Dominion, however, did not hold these technologically inferior people in very high regard. The Reign stood for several seconds; the shields stopping the tip of the beam, and the first two pulses sent along it, but after that, the localized emission of the shields collapsed, and the beam tore through the hull. Each pulse caused the tear in the vessels hull to grow; the ship, decompressing from the sudden penetration of it's hull, jerked against itself, which only served to spread the damage.

Each Parrow Lin Battleship targeted two of the mighty cannons on a vessel. In mere moments, the middle range destroyers of the Imperial fleet began to go inert.

Of course, the Parrow Lin then had to cease their assault; such massive energy was required for such a massive weapon. They slowly reversed thrusters, dropping back to the safety of the envelopment of the Cree'Ar shields.

But not before launching more Armorlin.

This time, the pods containing the massive warriors could not reach the surface; but they would reach the fleet, and if they should happen to strike the vessels that no longer had shields...

“Lord Artanis.” Badaar said. “The new Imperial enforcements have begun targeting the broadcasting relays.”

“What?” Artanis demanded, angrily. “How can this be? Zeratul had a clear purpose; how could he...” Artanis stopped when Badaar looked down. “Judicator Badaar, for why do you lower your head?”

“There was a report received,” Badaar said. “The body of Zeratul Daz'Da'Mar was found.”

Artanis' eyes flashed. “The Skey'g'aar... he is... dead?”

Badaar nodded. “He was executed; he had not drawn any weapon.”

Artanis felt himself weaken. He found the chair; the only one on the bridge of the vessel, and collapsed into it. He hadn't even liked the creature; had, in fact, hated him. But Zeratul had been one of the most highly regarded Skey'g'aar alive. His rank within their society was nearly legendary. It was no coincidence that, despite not being related, Artanis and Zeratul Daz'Da'Mar shared the same surname.

Zeratul had earned that honor.

He had earned better than an execution!

He had earned the right to die in battle. To be slain by a better foe; killed by a warrior in hand to hand combat. To be... executed... unarmed...

“Judicator Badaar, transmit a directive for me to all vessels who may hear my voice,” he said, clearly tired. Badaar made arrangements and then nodded.

Artanis used what strength he had to stand; the Nexus would record and transmit his words regardless, but he didn't not feel like delivering them as a collapsed, defeated man. These were the words of a resolved man. So he resolved himself to stand.

“To all vessels of Imperial and civilian identification, hear my words. I am Lord Artanis Daz'Da'Mar, leader of The Dominion. Our God And Glorious Benefactor, Borleas Quayver, has designated the world you know as Coruscant to belong to The Dominion Under His Red Sun. Your resistance, while a valiant effort, only prolongs the suffering that must be born on your people. We have no wish to harm you; we merely want what is rightfully ours.

We respect your will to fight however the time to fight has ended. This world will be ours and how many will be lost before we take control is up to you. I offer you a direct choice now; we will cease firing on your vessels as you will on ours, and you may have two days to evacuate all personnel from the surface and orbit that you wish.

However, if you do not accept this proposal, than you will be forced to deal with the consequences. Even with your recent reinforcements, you are still at a technological and numerical disadvantage, as well as an inferior tactical position. You will lose the fight in orbit; even more of your vessels will hang, listless and exposed to space, crews dying. Not to mention the surface of the planet.

If you not cease firing on our vessels than Borleas Quayver has authorized that we do what we must to force you to accept your honorable defeat. If you are still firing offensive weapons on our vessels in one standard hour, than I will launch torpedoes that will distribute The Phage nanovirus into the atmosphere of Coruscant, killing the entire remaining military and civilian population and rendering it uninhabitable to organic life for the next one hundred years.

I wait your decision. Ra’esh’ra a’le’esh’a . Artanis out.”

When his address was finished, Artanis stood for a moment, shaking with all the summoned anger and fury. Then, he collapsed into his chair, unable to stand it any longer.

Nebula-class Star Destroyer ONS Axiom, Reaver Space Border Patrol

There was something altogether disturbing about staring out into the blackness of space and knowing what horrors lay in wait.

The past few months had been particularly hard on the Ossan Navy, with the threat of the Reavers seeming to loom overhead everywhere one turned. In the initial weeks of the outbreak, several Ossan vessels had responded to distress calls from neighboring systems that had the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the border they now patrolled.

Most were never heard from again.

Those few lucky that were, however, limped back home to tell the nightmarish stories of what they had encountered. In those early days there had not even been a name for the threat they now knew all too well. After pressure from the military, Parliament ceased stalling and finally discussed at length what could be done about the threat.

A full scale rescue fleet was voted down almost unanimously. The sole planet simply didn't have the resources to spare, and in those days it was unknown where Reaver space began and ended, or if it would continue to grow after the initial burst of activity. Planetary defense came first.

Eventually, however, resolutions were passed to send out small scouting parties. Some were lost, but most managed to break through or sneak by Reaver hot spots and make contact with several planets that once had relations with Ossus.

It was there they began to get some idea of the true nature of the beast they faced. Many worlds were in a state of near anarchy, their governments having broken down completely, but some had managed to persevere with a continued sense of planetary authority. It was there the scouting parties could sift through the rumors and finally get hold of theories and tentative facts about what was, by this time, rapidly becoming known as the 'Reaver scourge'.

These parties returned to Ossus with stories of planetary cullings, crippled portions of defense fleets that suddenly came alive again on the side of the Reavers, fallen soldiers mutated into the enemy they died fighting. But to Parliament, the most important piece of information the scouting parties came back with was this:

Reaver space, by all appearances, was no longer expanding. Ossus was on the safe side of a stabilizing border.

"Admiral on deck!" came the call, and Captain Anton Yemin turned, snapping to attention.

"At ease," Admiral Zark Ekan said, his reserved voice somehow resonating throughout the spartan bridge of the Axiom, and the crew returned to their posts. Yemin clasped his hands together behind his back and turned slightly to continue his stargazing, awaiting the...Admiral's arrival at his side.

The ONS Axiom served as the flagship of the Ossan Navy, the New Republic crest still proudly displayed on its hull as a reminder of what once was. It was also one of the very few vessels with crew serving at near optimum capacity. Anton Yemin had been its Captain for several years now, and had been on the fast track for promotion to Admiral of the Fleet, until...

"Sir," the Captain curtly acknowledge his superior.

"Captain Yemin," Ekan returned the greeting with an equal measure of formalism, his expression unreadable as always, "Status?"

"All systems in the green, Admiral," Anton recited the words as if having prepared them in front of a mirror, "Still operating under comm silence, per protocol. No anomalies have been detected thus far."

"Glad to hear it," the Admiral grinned darkly, surveying the bridge as he said so before turning once more to face the other man, "If it is alright with you, I'd like to make a quick round of the bridge."

"Not at all, sir," Yemin nearly stammered, caught off guard by what seemed to be a polite request, "Is that all?"

"One more thing," Zark said as he turned to leave the Captain's side, "If you have no pressing matters to attend to, I'd like it very much if you would stop by my quarters in the next hour to talk. I don't feel we were given nearly enough time to become properly acquainted."

"Yes sir," Anton nodded, his eyebrows furrowing as the Admiral turned fully, "I'll do my best to accommodate."



Yemin had considered skipping the meeting. It wouldn't be too difficult for him to invent some urgent issue that at the same time did not require the Admiral's presence, but he had been unable to resist the temptation to speak privately in a one-on-one manner with Ekan. They had almost never been alone together since he had arrived on board right before the Axiom began its patrol.

He raised his hand to alert the Admiral to his presence when the door slid open. Yemin stood there awkwardly a moment, his hand outstretched, before regaining composure somewhat befitting a man of his status and entering when Zark beckoned.

"Have a seat, Captain," Zark offered, motioning to the chair that sat across the Admiral's desk.

"If its all the same to you, Admiral," Yemin replied almost immediately, standing in much the same posture he had been on the bridge, "I would rather stand."

"Well it isn't," Ekan said without missing a beat, the grin on his face betraying his attitude, "I insist, Captain...please."

Yemin paused a moment before hesitatingly sitting down. Somehow the Admiral always managed to catch him off guard with his attitude. It was...unprofessional was not the word. Zark Ekan was anything but that. It was just...disarming. In the way his favorite uncle might be.

"Cigarra?" Zark asked, pushing a case slightly toward Yemin in a display of offering.

"I don't smoke, sir."

"Good man," the Admiral nodded, smiling to himself as he took a cigarra from the case and lit it, "Nasty habit. Never pick it up. Can't seem to quit myself."

A brief moment of silence ensued as Zark took a few long drags.

"Why did you start then, sir?" Yemin asked, uncomfortable and not knowing exactly what to say.

"You don't need to call me sir, Yemin," Zark chuckled as he smoked, "Not in here. I won't stand for it. Call me Zark."

"Very well...Zark," Yemin said, as if playing with the word in his mouth, "Why am I here?"

"Straight to the point, then," the Admiral nodded, smiling as he did before, "As I said on the bridge, we're here to talk. Get to know each other better. But more importantly, we're here because I need to figure out just what it is about me you can't stand."

"Sir?" Yemin sputtered, his eyes bulging.

"I told you, don't call me sir. Zark suits me just fine, has for most of my life," he said, obviously finding amusement in the Captain's reaction, "Don't worry, Yemin. We're not here because I'm going to demote you or chew you out or murder you. We're just talking. You don't like me, I want to know why."

"I...its not that I don't like you, sir...Zark," Anton managed, sighing. In all his dreams of confronting the Admiral, he had never quite expected it to play out like this, "I don't even know you. For that matter, nobody does."

"Oh?" Zark motioned for him to go on.

"I've been in the military my entire adult life," Yemin continued, caught up in the spur of the moment. Maker, was he really going to say what he was about to? "Many of those years have been spent serving aboard the Axiom. I've Captained her myself for three years. I earned my way here-"

"And just as you're about to make Admiral, here I come out of thin air to take it all away?" Zark finished, "Is that about right?"

And then Anton Yemin surprised himself.

"No, it isn't!" Yemin nearly roared back as he prepared to kiss his career goodbye, "Not by a long shot! Here you come out of thin air is right! From where? Who are you?! Haven't been on planet in years, come out of Knossa for Maker's sake! Frack, they almost didn't let you on board because they had to confirm your citizenship! And now you're an Admiral? Like I said, I earned my way here, Zark. You wanted to get acquainted? Lets start with you."

And then, for what seemed like an eternity, there was the most still silence in the room that Yemin had ever experienced. Until finally, something even more unexpected even than his own outburst happened.

The Admiral burst into laughter, even standing up and applauding the man across from him.

"S...sir?" Yemin asked tentatively, feeling suddenly so small before the figure towering before him.

"You impress me, Anton!" Zark smiled broadly, putting out his near-finished cigarra in the tray and lighting another before he sat down once more, "I think I like you."

"I...I don't understand," Anton said, fully bewildered.

"But I understand perfectly," Zark said, his tone reassuring, "I wasn't sure you actually had it in you."

"Had what in me?" the Captain replied, beginning to grow frustrated.

"The sheer capability, Anton!" Zark explained, a shit eating grin on his face, "The capability to look past your preconceived notions, your exterior sense of why you disliked me. There is a huge difference between fearing for your career and fearing for your men and your planet. I think you can come to your own conclusion on which is the more desirable character trait."

"How did you...never mind," Anton said, shaking his head, "None of this changes things. Whether or not you like me, I still don't trust you. And I won't ever trust you."

"Even if I could prove to you, without a doubt, I am who I say I am?" Zark asked.

"I don't see any way you could," Anton argued, then shrugged, "But yes, if by some miracle you could, I would trust you."

"Then I'll do my very best to do so," Zark began, taking another drag of his cigarra, "I served Ossus first during the Thrawn invasion. I commanded any ground forces I could muster under Master Jiren. The military...it was in shambles. There wasn't a shred of organization left in the beast. So we rounded up as many good men as we could, gave them rifles, and became the resistance. When we had to evacuate the world...our world, I was given command of an old, beaten up Star Destroyer by the name of-"

"I know this already!" Anton cut him off, glaring at the Admiral he had just berated, "It was in your file. Celebrated veteran of the Thrawn Crisis! Never mind that our records were reduced to slag during the orbital bombardments. Never mind, as you said, our military apparatus was completely disorganized. We couldn't even keep track of where Admiral Jiren was half the time! And here you come, with little more than a name and a heavily redacted and half-lost file! A name that isn't even yours! Arix!"

"And now we come to the part you don't know," Zark continued, not perturbed in the slightest by the renewed vigor of the Captain's wrath, "The reason why that file was redacted so heavily. The reason why your superiors have not been more forthcoming to you about me or why I am here. The truth, Yemin..."

With a gesture of his hand, there was the sound of the door locking behind them. Before Anton could pause to speculate, the Admiral leaned forward and stared at him intently.

"What you are about to see must never leave this room," Ekan said, his voice now deathly serious, "Secrecy is the price of knowledge. Secrecy is the price of the truth. Do you swear?"

"We shall see."

"Not good enough, Anton," Zark's eyes narrowed, "This is not a game. Swear it."

"...I swear," the Captain said at last, his curiosity overwhelming to leave empty handed now.

"I hold you to it," Zark nodded and stood. Yemin slid back in his chair almost on reflex. There was no sparkle left in the Admiral's eyes as he lifted his right hand, staring down at it as if it were a curiosity, "I lost this hand on Naboo. Lupercus Darksword cut it off. A quick, clean amputation. If you knew Lupercus, you'd know he must have missed his mark. And if you knew the Lightside, you'd know that where some might see despair..."

To Yemin's utter surprise and faint horror, the Admiral's right hand seemingly began to fold in on itself, and it wasn't until halfway through the process that Anton realized it was indeed robotic, and meant to do so. As soon as the hand fully collapsed, out shot a brilliant lance of golden yellow light sprung forth with a characteristic snap-hiss!

The entire transformation had taken place in seconds, and suddenly Admiral Zark Ekan stood before him with a lightsaber emanating from his wrist.

"...others find hope."

"Frack me..." Anton whispered to himself, "There were rumors, but..."

And indeed there had been. The type of mythos that inevitability develops around the persona of military officers. Crewmen get to talking and in no time at all a thousand stories heard from "friends of friends" crop up throughout a capital ship. No one would dare openly say it, but everyone thought it. Especially the old vets who had served with them and under them during the days of the New Republic. He just had that feeling about him...

The aura of a Jedi.

"But a Captain must always be above such groundless speculation," the Jedi nodded, and moments later the lightsaber had deactivated and Zark's hand was back, looking as human as ever, "You are not to blame. If I didn't want you to know, you never would."

"But why?" Anton asked, "Why keep it a secret? And why are you here? Are there more of you?"

"One at a time, Anton, please!" Zark laughed, sitting down, "It must remain a secret because there are more of us. We are not yet ready to reveal ourselves. There are...too few. Far too few. And I am here because I possess a certain ability that might prove to be vital in future encounters with the Reavers."

"And that would be?"

"An ancient Jedi technique known as battle meditation," the Jedi explained, "In short, it is the capability to coordinate the Ossan fleet on a mental level, boosting their performance to its most efficient. I studied the art during my time within the Rogue Jedi Order."

"You can...you can control the fleet?" Anton asked, his voice nervous, "Control our minds?"

"No, nothing like that. That way is the Sith way," Zark shook his head, his expression grim, "I would never invade another's mind without both their consent and a good reason. Neither would any other true Jedi. I am merely...brushing against the crew's consciousness, soothing them and enhancing their willpower with my own."

"You mean...you're doing it right now?" Yemin's mouth went agape.

"To a certain extent," Zark nodded, taking another cigarra from the box and lighting it, "It is...taxing. The cigarras help me concentrate. Its a very passive effect at the moment. If we encounter Reavers, I shall enter a state of heightened meditation and the effect will become more active. I'll depend on you, Captain, to give most of the orders."

"I...I see," Anton managed at last, "Forgive me. This is...this is a lot to take in."

"I apologize for springing it on you," Zark said sincerely, "But when it comes to telling people...what I am...there's really no other way to go about it."

And then, before either of them could say anymore, klaxons began to blare throughout the vessel. Anton's eyes shot up in surprise. The Admiral was already accessing the bridge readouts through his personal station.

"Unauthorized comm activity, what the frack?" Ekan muttered to himself before keying the bridge comm, "Bridge, this is the Admiral. What the frack is going on up there?! Who used comms?"

"Not us, sir!" came the reply from the bridge.

"Reavers?" Anton wondered aloud.

"Reavers don't use comms, they only find you through them," Zark reminded the other man before keying the comm again, "I'm on my way, battle stations!"

And then the Admiral was out of his seat, motioning for the Captain to follow as they nearly flew out of the room and sprinted down the corridor. A few tense minutes and a turbolift ride later and they were on the bridge.

"Status?!" Zark and Anton bellowed simultaneously.

"Incoming vessels, sir!" came the call from the crew pit, "Bearing vector...wait, getting an I.D. They're...they're Coalition, sir!"

"Coalition? All the way out here?" Anton whispered to the Admiral.

"Hail them, let's see why they're stopping by," Zark ordered.

The hail went out, and it was returned. The Coalition scout vessels relayed their prepared message, and as the message played Zark Ekan began to smile.

"Tell them their fleet has clearance to enter Ossan space," he said, embers burning bright within his eyes, "And prepare a shuttle. I would like to meet the Prime Minister personally when he arrives."