The Rebel Faction

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, edges of the Gestalt System

With muted sigh, Admiral Lucerne closed the holo-link with the flick of the wrist.

“Cor?”

The blonde spared a glance at Commodore Fyre. Somehow, his old friend had already mirrored his mood. Fyre shook glumly shook his head. Among the murmurs of the CEF’s command crew, the two walked off towards to one of the bridge’s exit. Corise casually saluted the new officer of the watch along with a pair of slate gray Padalin IIs which fell in step behind the two. The quartet exited into a sparsely occupied corridor that led to the Admiral’s quarters.

“I’m going to guess that didn’t go as well as planned,” said Fyre.

The younger Lucerne managed a snort, “Our modern culture is so defective.”

Fyre feigned a smile, “Those new alien ships got you down already?”

“No,” said Lucerne, “they do not worry me as much as the attitude of our allies.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Did you hear Mar-Veil about the loss of his star destroyer?” questioned the admiral, “he downplayed it considerably. Have we really become so removed from reality that the common man is a pawn in the bid for piece? That we sacrifice national rights and defenses to please some new alien species? Peace at any price…it is not something I expected from Shipwright, perhaps. I thought he knew better.”

“You think so?”

The two entered the younger Lucerne’s quarters.

“You do not?” said Corise, raising an eyebrow, “this is the guy that should know about alienation if not aliens. If Gestalt’s command structure is to the point where they don’t see the value of one of their own ship’s crew, what are they going to think of us? We are not bound to them by the bonds of citizenship. Are we just as disposable as some young David floating in the void of space among the charred remains of the warship?”

“Life is never built on solid ground,” muttered Fyre, reclining on one of the man’s argent chairs, “the fact of the matter is, relationships are always shifting with the sands of time. Perhaps it is time we moved past the Colonials and leave them with this mess.”

The Admiral paused, “But it is our mess now too. Regardless if the Colonies have made piece with these beings, the fact remains that we have not. We have not even made contact with them. At the very least, the people will require closure, whether by force of words or arms.”

Fyre cocked his head to the side, “And so we do what?”

“Nothing, yet.”

Star Forge Station

The modified freighter dropped out of hyperspace with a flare of starlight. The nebula made for an interestingly serene background, Cendar thought, to what was a collection of some of the most dangerous men in the galaxy. Flipping on his transponder, Cendar sent out his personal ship signal as well as a private signal to Beff Pike, leader of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. They needed to talk.

Fifteen Months Earlier

“I hear you wanted to see me,” Beff Pike said slowly, hand near his blaster. “Now you found me. Who are you, and what do you want?”

Cendar Robutha stared at the image of the perfect bounty hunter for a few moments, sizing him up. As good as Cendar was, especially with his cybernetic parts, he would be no match for the likes of Beff Pike. “You can relax,” he said slowly. “I’m not here to fight you. Just to sell some information.”

Of course, his words did not put Beff at ease. Not in the least. “Oh?” came the reply. “And what makes you think I would want to buy this information you have?”

Cendar blinked, hesitated a moment, then dropped his bombshell. “Because it involves your position as Mandalore.”

Beff seemed taken aback. His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Cendar remained stoic. “It involves your position as Mandalore. More is going to cost you.”

Beff’s eyes narrowed further. “How did you know about that?” he asked, hand now actually resting on the grip of his weapon.

Cendar kept his hands well away from his. “Don’t worry about how I know. It’s enough that I do. Now, do you want to know what I know or not?”

“How much?”

Cendar started to relax. They were negotiating; this was good. It meant that his life wasn’t in immediate danger now. “To start, I want five thousand credits. It takes a lot of money to maintain this body, and the trip here has cost me.”

Beff, his senses nearly as acute as Cendar’s cybernetic eye and ear, had already noticed the modifications to the large human before him, so the request didn’t come as a surprise. “What else?”

“I want a position within the Guild. I grow tired of working alone – the management of my accounts and jobs is taking up too much of my time.” Reaching into a pocket of his overcoat, he retrieved a datapad and offered to Beff. “Here’s a record of the jobs I’ve completed. I’m more than qualified.”

Beff gave the pad a quick glance, still not relaxing. “Impressive,” he commented, his demeanor still not changing, his hand still not moving. “What else?”

Cendar smiled. “Beyond that, I trust you’ll give me whatever the information is worth. How’s that work?”

Beff considered the offer for a moment, then nodded. “Acceptable. You have a deal.”

Cendar smiled. “Good.” Taking a breath, he continued, “There’s apparently a new Mandalore.” He heard Beff’s sharp intake of air and smiled inwardly. “And it appears that this claim is serious. This new fellow is gathering all sorts of criminals to himself from across the galaxy and calling them Mandalorians. He apparently has a few of the real ones with him, as well. He’s also recruiting from legitimate smugglers – and bounty hunters.”

Beff swore profusely. “What’s his name? I’ll kill the little –”

Cendar cut him off. “I don’t know his name,” he said quickly. “But I will soon. I’ve just been recruited myself.”

Understanding dawned on Beff’s face, and he considered what was being offered. “And you’re willing to spy for me, is that it? Is that the deal you’re offering?”

Cendar nodded. “For a steady income, yes.”

Beff smiled and, finally, relaxed. “Five thousand per month, payable on return. Assuming you have something worthwhile to tell me then.”

“Ten,” Cendar countered, and the negotiations began in earnest. Cendar finally walked away with five thousand credits and the promise of 6500 credits per month and a position in the Bounty Hunters’ Guild if he returned with information on the new Mandalore. Now, for the job…”

Present

The comm crackled to life. “State your name and purpose, or be shot down.”

Cendar shook his head. Hospitality certainly hadn’t improved since he had last been here. “Star Forge Station, this is Cendar Robutha. I’m here to see Beff Pike.”

“Robutha?” A new voice was on the comm. “I’d about given up on you. This is Pike. Bring her on in.”

Hundred of miles away from Wes and his fleet, Kach Thorton watched the event happen live on the status monitors of the Stormhawk. Live, and in the horrifyingly true technicolor of real life, the bulk of what had been a bit over one hundred Imperial Fleet and S.S. Ships emerged from hyperspace together behind the enemy fleet, where only a few enemy vessels were stationed in defense of the fleet's rear. A few, however, emerged too early, striking a number of vessels emerging from wormholes. Others, including some frigates and small cruisers plus one fairly large Borderland battlecruiser emerged too late and went careening off into several of the large enemy warships just beyond Vos' fleet, disintegrating them with their massive kinetic energy. With an urgency brought upon them by their desperation, the remainder of the fleet – around 90 ships including the Borderland compliment he had supplied Wes – opened fire with all guns on the surrounding enemy.

Behind his vessel, for hours now behind the Imperial fleet more and more evacuation vessels had cleared the planet and been free to fly through the evacuation corridor. This flow slowed, however, as the evacuation neared it’s end. Nearly every ship on the planet from fighters to massive luxury liners had been filled to capacity and had left the planet, with only stragglers remaining behind. The tremendous undertaking of evacuating Imperial center, which so large as to be almost impossible, was nearly complete to the best of the Empire’s ability. For four days the citizenry of Coruscant had remained besieged and now, given a brief respite in the form of an evacuation corridor by the enemy they had taken advantage of it and left en masse in just twelve hours.


He was interrupted from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder. “Grand Moff Thorton,” an unfamiliar officer said – with more than 300 crew on the bridge of this ship alone he hadn't learned everyone's name yet – there's something you need to see in the sensor pit, and I stress that it's urgent.”


The calmness of the bridge Lieutenant's voice surprised him, considering they were in a combat zone. But beneath the serenity of his tone there was another, subtler sense of importance and urgency.


“Of course,” he said, turning to follow him. On the brisk walk to the sensor pit he found the man's name, which was now stiched on the collars of issued navy uniforms for Captain's benefit.


Or at least it had been, before the Reaver's had happened, and the attacks at Yaga Minor. Now, such trivial things were considered a waste of time and valuable resources.


“Look at the CGT readout,” the Lieutenant told him, Lieutenant Mischel. He vaguely recalled looking at the man's record once. He was from the planet Krant (or was it Handooine?) and showed himself promising at a minor fleet academy in the Mid-Rim before being returned to his home sector of the Borderland. Hopefully now he would prove his mettle.


“I see it, Lieutenant” he said without giving it his full attention, before something caught his eye – the enemy fleet was seated within an ocean of gravitational pulses in what would be normally calm space. Like a sea, the very fabric of space time was covered in flowing waves and ripples emanating in weak but visible pulses from somewhere in the enemy formation. No origin was discernable at this range, with the waves and pulses distorted by the gravity of the planet below and the massive fields of wormholes surrounding the planet. A static-distorted voice emanated over the comm: (Crackle) “Going to…. Missiles,” and then all was again silent. At this long range very little could be passed between ships with line of sight lasers – though reliable at short ranges between capital ships, at long ranges and between fighters communication was patchy, especially for the former scenario. Apparently in obedience to whatever half-heard order had just been broadcast, most of the ships at the far end of the battle began firing missiles at whatever nearby targets they could hit. Very little acted to stop the missile flights, suggesting that the alien attackers had very little if any anti-missile weaponry like the Imperial Phalanx system.


He turned to one of the bridge lieutenants assigned to follow him everywhere and carry out his orders. “Lieutenant, I want you to signal the Dictators and activate one of them. The enemy isn't letting us talk. I don't think that it's fair we let him talk too. He was tempted to ask if they could find a way to cut through the fighter band jamming, but jamming was jamming and if it was easy to get through what would be the point? From the reports he'd heard the enemy jamming was one step short of impenetrable, just like that of their own Dictator.


Briskly moving toward the prime tactical display in the middle of the bridge he was just in time to see the four Reigns dispatched to intercept an approaching groups of enemy ships disabled by what seemed to be miniature superlasers, each ship taking out one vessel in a single shot before turning away. They weren't left undamaged, though, as huge flights of torpedoes and missiles launched by the Reigns impacted with them and gave them a parting gift they wouldn't forget as they limped back to the body of their fleet.


* * *


On the bridge of the Tarkin's Fury


Emergency lights, disconnected from the ship's primary circuits, burned across the ship and casted an eerily faint glow across the Reign-class Star Destroyer's bridge. Shadows jutted across the room, projected by the edges of consoles and control panels and explosions and turbolasers flashing outside the room, making the shadows flow eerily like the gravity field she had seen on the ship's CGT display. Half the ship's crew lay on the floor next to their stations or slumped over their positions as medics attempted to tend to as many as possible. Few were on their feet and moving under their own strength.


Every muscle within Captain McCarrde's body felt as if he had spent the past eight hours in a weight room and every movement was defined by an extreme soreness, a burn that almost made her wince with even the slightest gesture. Breathing hard in the thinning cabin atmosphere, she could see her breath condense before her eyes with every breath in the slowly cooling room. Around her, anyone still moving attempted to help the wounded, some of whom had been cut badly or mangled and were spilling blood across the deck.


With aching arms slowed by the cold, she pulled her comlink to her mouth and dialed in the number for the head engineer. “Jenkins,” she asked after he had picked up. “What the hell is going on?” She coughed, and her throat burned. Something was in the air now and she reached down to her belt for her gas mask only to have her hand brush along her leather belt, empty. Looking down, her blond locks fell over her shoulder as they fell out of the clips she had held it in. The case was on the floor and she picked it up and then with some difficulty from her slowly numbing fingers pulled out the mask, slid it over her face and cleared it, slightly muffling the sounds of the bridge.


“The lower decks are a mess,” she heard her Chief Engineer reply over the comm link – everything electrical on the bridge had been burned out but comm links, independent of the ship's power system, continued to function. “The last big hit, whatever that was, destroyed the entire powersystem. The shields tried to absorb it but backed up into the rest of the power system, dumping the entire load onto the power grid and burning out the whole thing. We're trying to get the reserve grid online but it was only meant to support one or two subsystems that had been knocked out at once and so we can't start it all together. Right now we're trying to get power, communications and life support going.


All of a sudden there was an eerie whistle, static and white noise all mixed together that caught her attention – communications were back online but overwhelmed by enemy jamming. Behind it was a faint garbling that was overwhelmed by the fading enemy noise, slowly weaking for some purpose. After a few moments it was entirely gone, leaving what was now clearly the fighter pilot band open and adding to the surrealness of the situation. Noting the return of communications, pilots used the chance to say whatever needed said quickly.


“Droids? That’s crazy!”


“I've got two on me, I need them taken out!”


“Mayday, ejecting! Sending coordinates now!”


“Black squadron, hit the big guy with missiles!”


“Boys, the fighters weapons are useless when they're in their gravity zone, take advantage of it.”


And then there were screams. One was a horrifying, bone shaking scream as one pilot's cockpit was opened to space and he literally froze to death over the course of a few moments. Others rang continuously, almost drowning out their comrades chatter.


From the sound of it, the Imperial pilots were handling themselves against the enemy fighters very well. TIE Defenders were still almost unmatched performance-wise in fighter-to-fighter combat after nearly forty years since originally introduced, and the SS craft and pilots were also some of the best. If the enemies were droids – as a former TIE Defender pilot herself she knew that droid pilots were easy to pick out because they flew in a highly coordinated, completely consistent manner and showed no initiative in their actions – then the Imperial pilots could likely take on a two or three times their own number with no problem under normal circumstances. Without communications, they couldn't do nearly as well but if the droids were jammed – and Grand Moff Thorton's fleet had just sent out a two minute warning on a complete communications jamming net – then they would be on equal terms again and the Imperials would be able to hold their own.


All of a sudden there was a loud, strangely accented voice on the comm and the reason for the jamming lift suddenly became clear.


“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.”


Right she sarcastically thought to herself as some of the mental fog hazing over her mind lifted. That's why thousands of Imperials and your warriors alike are lying dead here and on Coruscant.


“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.”


At this moment some of the room's sensor consoles turned back on as the reserve sensors came online – visible on the central tactical display was a wing of transports of some kind slowly approaching the four disabled Reigns. Borderland TIE Defenders tangled with them and their escorts, doing their best to stop them but not quite succeeding. Droids, even if they had the best of equipment, would never be the equal of organic pilots with instincts and the sometimes less than rational thinking that made them unpredictable in combat. Even remote piloting – as with TIE Devils and Swift-class fighters – took something unknown away from the pilot that made them inferior to those who were actually present. With strong numbers, however, they could beat an organic foe.


“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.


Outnumbered? Two to one, maybe. Maybe two and a half worst case. But with the powerful Coruscant surface defenses continuously pounding away at the attacking fleet – it had been found over the course of the siege that Plasma based weaponry, due to it's extremely low density, was almost useless for atmospheric bombardment and it was necessary for fighters and bombers to do this sort of dirty work for their enemy – they still had some advantages. So far, ground based defense fighters had kept the surface defenses safe from aerial threats, though several positions had been knocked out by ground attacks.


(RL note: This assertion of mine about plasma has a scientific basis. Check out “The Science of Star Wars” and read the chapter on weapons to learn about this.)


“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.”


How could anyone make a decision like this?


And who the fuck again was Artanis?


* * *


“Is this guy joking?” Kach asked those standing around him – half a dozen junior officers who's job it was to execute his orders and the ship's Captain - “Did he seriously ask us to turn this place over to him?” He shook his head. The retention of Courscant was no longer necessary – the functions that the planet had once served were now done on half a dozen other worlds in close coordination and Imperial Center was now on Vladet according to Moff Park Kraken – Brandt had taken the time to inform them what had happened over the course of the siege – but the loss of Coruscant was simply out of the question. If it was destroyed by the virus then they could pack up and leave saying there was nothing they could have done, but giving it up without a fight – like Zell had done – was out of the question.


Or was it?


He looked around at those standing around him – half a dozen junior officers who's job it was to execute his orders and the ship's Captain - “I don't want to be known as the man who lost Coruscant,” he said in a quiet, calm tone. "I don't want to be the man who just threw it away."


"At the same time, I don't want to be seen as the man who pursued a lost cause."


The entire bridge was silent. Kach stepped over to the viewport of his flagship, looking down on the city-planet below. Fires burned across Coruscant's badly scarred face, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the atmosphere.


"The evacuation is complete," he said, after a long and deathly silent pause. "We can serve no further useful purpose here today."


“Tell Brandt we're moving out through the evacuation corridor and he's free to stay or leave as necessary. Instruct General Vos to microjump around the planet or maybe even through the enemy fleet to the corridor as well. Make it clear this isn't a suggestion, we're finished here. Navigation, set course for the 4th Reserve Fleet's position, where we'll rendezvous with Gilford and plot our next move."


And slowly, almost as if the ships were solemn as well as the crews, Kach's fleet turned and pulled back from the planet, jumping through the corridor with the last of the evacuation vessels



** *


During the opening stages of the Battle of Coruscant, shortly after the capture of Zell’s Message…


Within the headquarters of the Smuggler’s Alliance, half a dozen slicers gathered around a central table in one of their number’s quarters. On a screen in front of them they watched lines of codes scroll past as the computer attempted to identify it.


“Imperial Diplomatic code,” one of them insisted to the others, his voice ignored as the computer continued it’s search through all the cyphers and encryptions available to it in it’s database.


“I’m telling you, it’s Imperial Diplomatic Code.”


A few moments later the computer stopped, having found a positive match, and the precise type of encryption was revealed: 2048-bit Encrypted Imperial Diplomatic Code. It would only take a few further moments to completely decrypt the well known code before they could watch it’s contents. After the short wait, a figured appeared on the small holopad next to the monitor and a message began to play.


“My God,” one of them said – a tall red head – using the long-obsolete expression that was still widely retained in the galaxies Basic vocabulary. “That’s Moff fuckin’ Zell himself.” For several minutes he spoke, stating his case on what had happened to the Empire, his role in it’s happening, and finally his successor as Regent: Grand Moff Park Kraken. With it’s completion, the simple one-line insructions they had been given became clear. The only line below the letterhead on the paper in the center of the table simply read “Change it to Grand Moff Kach Thorton.”



As underworld slicers they were some of the best at what they did, and so for twelve hours they worked, doing everything from changing the movement of the Regent’s mouth when he said “Park Kraken” to the proper movements for “Kach Thorton,” to creating a vocal synthesizer for the Regent to create the words in the proper tone and at the correct speed. Finally, they borrowed a basic upload program designed long ago for this purpose to allow it to be uploaded to the original file on the message-recorder without changing it’s update time, making it appear it had been originally been recorded on Coruscant while bypassing the device’s self-destruct anti-tamper features. Finally, the whole package was returned to Kach Thorton’s flagship via holonet and they moved on with their lives, while the Imperials transferred the message to the original vessel around the time the COMPNOR taskforce that had been stationed on Coruscant was evacuating to Vladet.


** *

Shortly After the Battle of Coruscant




Communique from Grand Moff Kach Thorton on the Reorganization of the Central Empire


Effective immediately, by the authority vested and recognized in him by the powers of the his majesty Hyfe and his Regency Zell, the following planets and/or administrative regions are to be reorganized under a common CENTRAL EMPIRE PROTECTORATE: Empire Proper, Mechis Cluster, remaining loyal Imperial planets of the Corellian Diktat, and all Core or Deep Core planets not mentioned not part of the Mid-Rim Protectorate. The seat of government for said new Administrative region shall be the current capital of the Mechis Cluster under the leadership Grand Moff Kach Thorton. All fleet and army units stationed in the region are henceforth placed under the command of a Fleet Admiral to-be-appointed by Grand Moff Thorton along with all Borderland Fleets, which will be placed under a separate to-be-appointed command but operate from within the region and shall remain at the Grand Moff’s immediate disposal. Gloria Imperium!

“This is Guardsman Aeacus, with a transmission for Colonel-General Vos, authorization zero-two-seven-alpha-gamma-four. I am aboard the independent transport Spinning Dagger with a number of refugees. We are under attack by alien starfighters and request assistance and docking clearance. I repeat: we need immediate assistance!”

The message came through clearly, and Wes chuckled. “It would appear that communications are working again,” he said dryly.

Directly on the heels of that communication came another, this one from Grand Admiral Thorton’s flagship. Wes considered the two for a moment, staring out at the ever-fluctuating battlefield in front of him. “Sir?” came a voice from behind him. “What do we do?”

Wes blinked, and he turned to Admiral Typton. “Admiral, you’ve heard the saying about killing two birds with one stone? Well, we’re going to kill three. Order the fleet to form up on us. We’re going to drive straight through the center of the alien armada, firing all sides and picking up this Aeacus as we go. Then we hit the planet as we past, make sure there’s nothing left for the enemy to get; our trajectory should take us right over the communications and government sectors. Then we jump.”

Wes turned to the rest of his bridge crew. “The enemy has ceased fire; they think we’re going to run, just like Thorton’s forces did. But I’ve seen too many good Imperials slaughtered this day to just give the battle to the enemy. So now…

“So now – let’s waste ‘em.”

Cheers went up all along the bridge. Wes himself stepped to the piloting station and laid in the fleet’s course; right through the center of one of the weaker portions of the enemy fleet. Then he shoved the throttle to full. Stepping to the comm station, he gave orders for Commander Sarus to take his fighters and clear a road for the Imperial in distress. Then he stepped back and watched as the Tyrant made its lumbering turn, then drove straight at the enemy fleet. “May the gods have mercy on your souls,” he whispered, his face turning hard as stone, “for I will now have none.”


Commander Sarus received his orders and immediately heeled his fighter over ninety degrees, heading for the small blip that signaled the craft in distress. “All fighters, form up on me. Standard formation. Hurrikanes, center formation; Storms, back to the ship. This is fighter work.”

The remaining fighters obeyed his instructions, the Schutzstaffels forming in front of the Hurrikanes, and the Storms breaking off for the capital ships. Even as they did, Sarus checked the tactical display. It looked like two wings of those pesky enemy crap-fighters were harrying a Suwantek transport. “Now that’s just not fair,” he muttered to himself.

Still, the transport seemed to be holding its own; but that couldn’t last too long. “Alright, let’s even those odds.”

Pushing his fighter’s throttle to full, he dove down on the unsuspecting fighters, all six cannons blazing. He blasted right through the center of their formation, eleven other fighters on his heels and fifty-five more on theirs. The alien formations scattered; several actually collided. Sarus turned just in time to see the Hurrikanes begin to pick off what was left of the enemy.

These fellas aren’t very smart, Sarus thought to himself. Into the comm, he said, “Unidentified Suwantek freighter, this is Wing Commander Sarus of the Imperial SS. Form up on us, and we’ll get you to safety. We’re heading for the General’s flagship, and it may get a little rough, so stick with us.”


The SS fleet broke through the gravity shielding exactly where it wanted to. Its lasers were still somewhat ineffective, though now that they were inside the shielding and at point-blank range, they did at least impact on the enemy vessels. But the missiles were deadly. At point-blank range, they could concentrate their volleys, and they smashed up ship after ship.

The enemy, confused and disoriented, tried firing back, and they did significant damage. But every shot that missed hit a Cree’Ar vessel. It was a tactic dating back to the days of warfare on the oceans, and it worked charmingly. The SS got hurt, but the aliens got hurt worse.

By the time the SS fleet emerged from the other side, they were all badly damaged. Several of the ships had to be left inside the alien fleet, their self-destruct mechanisms activated. Others were so badly damaged that their captains had taken the initiative and pointed them at the largest alien vessels they could see and rammed them, taking several of the enemy ships out in the explosion.

Wes smiled grimly. It was a great loss; a very great loss. But they had hurt the enemy, and that was what mattered. And, from all appearances, they had hurt him a lot worse than he had hurt them.

“Alright,” he said, speaking to the gun crews through the intercom. “Target Coruscant. Communications and government targets first. Full planetary bombardment. And pray that Thorton was right when he said the evacuation was complete.

The red and green energy bolts lanced out, breaking through the non-existent shield and through the atmosphere, slamming home into their targets with incredible destructive force. Each ship that passed fired, destroying so much of what was once the seat of Imperial governance. The center of the galaxy. Now not much more than a smoking pile of rubble.

But such was the way of all things.

When they had passed, the enemy fleet had organized, or at least regained some semblance of organization. But by now the SS fleet had moved too far out of range; they were close to the corridor and very close to escape. “Lieutenant, open me a channel to the enemy commander.”

A hideous face appeared on the screen before him. “Lord Artanis, I presume?” Wes said. Without waiting for a response, he continued, “I am Colonel General Wesley Vos, of the Imperial SS. Look carefully on my face, Artanis, and remember it well, because it is the face of the one who will hunt you down until one of us is dead. You will not go unpunished for the atrocity you have committed against the Empire this day.”

And with that, Wes closed the link and nodded to a bridge officer, who flipped the switches and sent the Tyrant rocketing into hyperspace, the rest of the SS fleet following close behind. Coruscant was abandoned; the seat of the Empire was lost.


Hyperspace
Quarters of Colonel-General Vos
ISS Tyrant


“Commander Sarus. Good.” Wes stood and returned the man’s salute. “Have a seat. I wanted to commend you on your performance today. Excellent job interpreting those orders, and following them. And you showed incredible initiative; I hear it was you who came up with the strategy to defeat the enemy fighters, and to rescue the Suwantek.

“Thank you, Sir,” came the automatic response.

“Which reminds me,” Wes continued, “The occupants of that freighter – are they alright? I should wish to see them next.”

“They seem to be, Sir.”

“Well, I shall send for them next. However, I did not call you in here just to tell you that. Here.” Wes stood and handed Sarus a sheet of flimsy. “That is your commission, placing you in command of all snub-nose craft in the fleet.”

To his credit Sarus kept his smile under control, allowing only the hint of it to show at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Sir.”

Wes continued, “You are promoted to acting Flight Commodore, to be approved whenever we figure out exactly who is in charge of the Empire now. Your first task is to take inventory; I want to know how many fighters we have, where they are, et cetera. I especially want to know the state of the fighters from this battle, and how long it will take to repair the damaged ones.”

Sarus nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

Wes returned the nod. “Dismissed, Commodore.”

An exchange of salutes, and Sarus left the office. Moments later, two others entered. One stood at taut attention, saluting, while the other was a bit more relaxed. “Guardsman Aeacus, Mr. Marakis, I believe. Please, sit. Tell me what you can of what happened on the surface.”

Kach Thorton:

---

Upon arrival into the system the two battlegroups had spread out among the Imperial squadrons who were working hard to maintain order above the planet. They were barely as numerous as the force arriving to assist them, a sad testament to the strength of Coruscant’s remaining defenses because to muster these forces Coruscant Command had been forced to leave multiple sectors above the planet completely undefended. The ships, especially the dozen large Star Destroyers, were readily welcomed by Coruscant command, who had despaired of ever receiving assistance.

Though more vulnerable from their scattered positions it also gave the flotilla a broader view of the escaping vessels, allowing not one ship to escape without being scanned.

Despite all the fleets had been through in the past months moral was still high and the crews were committed to doing their duty to the Empire, especially now. “Do you reckon, Admiral, that we’re out here on a wild Vornskyr chase?” cooly asked one of the ship’s bridge crew, a weapons system technician. At the moment his skills weren’t in demand, with no enemies in sight or overzealous vessels attempting to blast their way through the corridor. The Admiral, Admiral Paisly, had always found himself charmed by the former country-boy’s informal ways, even when speaking to a superior, smiled, chuckled and spoke softly back to him.

“I don’t think so, Vernon. You’re just not privy to the big picture. Follow me.” He turned toward the Sensor Officer on deck and walked over to the central Sensor Analysis pit, where a tactical situation display board showed all of the surrounding space. “Do you see that red area?”

“Yeah sir, I do,” Vernon said in his country boy accent.

“That’s an anomaly picked up by our Strategic Sensor Suite. We’re not sure exactly what’s there, though we’ve made a few guesses. It’s chugging along just outside the invasion corridor and it’s cloaked, so it’s almost certainly one of ours. And from the size it looks like a Shroud. The anomaly in question is 300m in diameter, which at this range gives an approximate ship size of only 125 to 150 meters.”

“And you want us to intercept that thing?” the subordinate asked, unsure about what action the Admiral was taking.

“Not quite,” Paisly replied. “The Administrator, an ISD V from the other battlegroup, is en route now to intercept them along with the Interdictor Constrainer. Each ship is escorted by six TIE Phantom IIs to provide support. We’ll spring our trap and find out exactly what they’re carrying – and exactly what it is – in a few minutes.

“And,” he added, his voice going steely, “what exactly it is Zell doesn’t want us to see.”

Kach Thorton:

---

The crew of Shroud K-384 probably didn’t suspect someone was on to them when the gravity well appeared outside, but without a doubt when they felt the tractor beam latch onto their location and begin pulling them into the cavernous hangar bay of the Administrator they knew they had been caught by someone because they dropped their cloak and gunned their engines in a brief attempt to escape from their unknown pursuer before identifying it as an Imperial-III Star Destroyer from the Borderland Protectorate. The Star Destroyer’s directional jamming unit, used to prevent targeted craft from sending distress transmission, lit up the Shroud and cut off it’s transmission capabilities. Someone sent the Shroud a communiqué on a frequency that was temporarily unjammed for the sake of the message. At the first sign of a transmission to someone other than the Star Destroyer it would be filled once again with static and white noise: “This is a customs inspection. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

The Shroud was silent for a minute as it was drawn into the Star Destroyer’s docking bay. Finally the voice of a grizzle veteran spoke. “This is Captain Ahab of the K-384, let me speak to your Captain.” Without a moment’s wait the Captain of the Administrator, who had been standing by ready for this, was on the comm. “Captain Piet here. Go ahead.”

“Captain, this is Captain Ahab of Shroud K-384 on a maximum clearance courier mission for His Regency Zell Himself. What is the meaning of this and how did you get our location?”


Captain Piet didn’t bother to mention the Star Destroyer’s Strategic Sensor Suite. With the outbreak of hostilities there hadn’t been time to outfit any ships outside the Borderland protectorate with the greatly augmented sensor package, and even those ships just barely. “We have reason to suspect men wanted by the Empire for high treason are on board and were provided your location and vectors by Coruscant High Command for inspection. It is of the highest priority these dissidents be captured. The Regent himself ordered it. After a brief inspection and the arrest of any offending crew you will be free to continue on your way unmolested, Captain.”

“Captain, I emphasize the priority of this mission and respectfully request we be allowed to continue. Need I remind you of the rigorous moral qualifications necessary for Shroud crews? Our message is time essential. We cannot be delayed.”

“Your objections are noted, Captain. Prepare to be boarded. If you attempt to interfere with your inspection and arrests understand you will be arrested too. Is that clear?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Captain Ahab and the other crew of the shroud were in no position to object to any requests the Captain of the larger ship made.”

“Rodger, Administrator, we are shutting down are engines, shields and weapons and preparing to be boarded.”

The Administrator’s crew, in a true show of loyalty to their cause, immediately rounded up the Shroud’s crew and sent them to the Brig and sent the lone diplomatic message holocube on board to the Administrator's captain.

** *
The Past, just before the withdraw of the Imperial Defenders and the completion of the evacuation…


For at least a good sixteen hours now, Captain Piet of the Administrator reflected, the Imperial fleet has just sat here, looking across the huge chasm of space at the enemy, alien fleet. When would it end? And to make matters worse, there was no more good company. Admiral Gilford, who had made this Star Destroyer his Flagship before going on a jaunt to Kuat just days ago along with the still-critical condition Doctor Goddard, was no long around to keep him company, and there was nobody else on board he cared to talk to. He was too nervous to read, which left him with two options – wondering the ship and making sure things were in good order or sitting here, at his desk in his quarters, looking at this cube they had taken off the Shroud early this morning. It was a standard Imperial diplomatic holocube, regular in every way…

Except now, without warning, it flashed. A green light began flickering on and off repeatedly, then a blue one. Finally, together they glowed for around five seconds before shutting off.

Thorton.

He picked up his comlink off the massive yet clear mahogany desk he was seated behind. Though there was jamming outside, as a Captain he route it through the ship’s line-of-sight laser comm system to reach the Grand Moff. He dialed in the appropriate number and then his great, black chambers were strangely silent – lacking even the normal vibrations carried from the idling engines through the frame – until there was ringing. He was afraid the Grand Moff - an extremely busy man now that circumstances were the way they were - wouldn’t be able to pick up but just when he’d given up all hope for an answer and was about to close the line a familiar voice answered.

“This is Kach. Go ahead.”

“Sir, the cube just updated.”

There was a hiss and some static. There two ships were several hundred kilometers apart, and even using several vessels in between them as midpoints this method of communication wasn’t perfect. “…check records.”

“Repeat,” he asked his superior. “You faded.”

“Check the digital seal,” the Grand Moff told him. “It should say it was last viewed on Coruscant.”

Picking up the three-inch square cube, he spun it around in his hand and noticed there were only two buttons on it – one blue and one green. Guessing, he clicked the blue button, which queried him for a diplomatic password. Swearing a mild oath he clicked the other and a viewing log came up. There were no entries on it other than “Sealed (date and time) by Regent Azrael Zell” and one later view that corresponded to shortly after the time of capture, which was a reasonable thing to expect after a search of the ship. No modifications of the contents, however, were recorded.

“There’s no record of our access, Moff Thorton.”

There was a moment of silence. “Replace the cube on board the Shroud. Then return the crew to their ship, stating that they’ve all passed full background checks and they’re free to resume course to Vladet.

“Then get your crews to battle stations. The message is about to go out so I’ll just tell you now – General Vos is about to come in behind them and we’re going to attack.

** *

Ortho Gutt:

---

“Look at that patchwork on the …” the Sensor Officer was reading the recognition data slowly coming in, “..Administrator!”


Captain Gutt, in an effort to ignore the sweaty drops forming on his forehead, frowned at the hazy monitor. “What is that? Is that plating? Were they in a ..? Where did they come fr--..”



Whatever mechanism in Ortho’s mind that seemed to snap, click and clickety clack inside seemed to be doing a number as the mathematics of stellar cartography urinated all over his bravado and an unreasonable fear shot way up.


“Moff Thorton’s forces were Borderlands..”


“There is no Borderland any..” someone started and they fell silent.


“Do you think?”


“Getting some strange signal through the recognition system…” The Sensor Officer murmured.


“CUT THE LINK!!” Ortho shouted and the Officer, to his credit, did not hesitate. Not that the link was very good to begin with all the damage to the Predator’s systems.


The purple discolorations on the Administrator were not replacement plating for battle. It was, in fact, a tell-tale sign of an infestation.


“Reavers!” Ortho whispered and the bridge crew went white.


“What the hell is that?” someone shouted as flashes nearly overwhelmed the visual sensors causing the monitors to white out.


Ortho gasped trying to take it all in.

Kach Thorton:

---

On the Outskirts of Reaver Space – Operation Overlord

The bridge of Admiral Gilford’s capital ship, the Administrator was silent as the first images and sensor data from the Ferret recon vessel QXR9-ZD came in. Dispatched minutes prior to observe what was about to take place, it had found their query exactly where they had been expected, but the images were none the less breathtaking. Visible was half a squadron’s worth of light cruisers and frigates, some more familiar models than others.

“Farfaleen and Tion mostly, he muttered to himself, “except for the captured Carrack.” The group was clustered together in a wedge formation in orbit around a large asteroid in deep space for no apparent reason – there was nothing special about the asteroid in terms of mineral content or any other measurable variable. This was not unusual, however. Imperial tacticians had noticed no particular logic to Reaver movements and actions. Reaver vessels would cluster together for no apparent reason in groups a dozen or a hundred vessels strong for weeks on end before scattering or moving as a group to another equally unspectacular location for another round of waiting. In battle they followed no strategy and used no formations or tactics.

Temporarily distracted, even the operation’s technical team was looking up at the target of their venture and not outside at the robotically-operated Action IV transport outside the Star Destroyer – the key to this operation. When it was ready the Chief Technology Officer for the project pressed a button and it disappeared in a flash of light, reappearing seconds later on the bridge’s primary holomonitor, still projecting the Reaver formation in the center of the bridge. It’s engines glowing, it charged forward toward the alien ships. Slowly the Reaver vessels rotated toward the Action IV and opened fire, far slower than even the most inefficiently run Imperial vessel would have. Despite the lack of even the most rudimentary evasive maneuvers no fire so much as skimmed the transport.

Tobias tapped the CTO’s shoulder and the officer turned around, acknowledging him. “How is it managing to avoid fire, Chief?” he asked.
“It’s our new model of the Illusion Sensor Deciever, Admiral. What it does is . . . well, I don’t want to get too technical, but imagine capturing enemy sensor beams and sending back streams of false targeting data to provide false readouts on their sensors. This makes it nearly impossible to hit, because they see several dozen Action IVs in formation rather than just one. In addition, the vessel seems to twist and change positions at the same time. Though it’s practicality is limited in large formations it makes single vessels nearly impossible to hit.”

Gilford smiled. As long as men like this and other equally brilliant engineers continued to serve the Empire the New Order would stand strong, regardless of alien threats.

Buried within the ship’s hold was a massive EMP device, large enough to disable a Star Destroyer. As the ship dove into the formation of Reaver vessels, now sustaining some inevitable hits, the hyperdrive flux capacitors dumped all power into the EMP at the same time all shield energy was diverted to it, creating a massive electo-magnetic burst and instantly causing all active electrical systems on the vessels to go dead. On the holoprojector all seven ships stopped moving and firing and all shields registered as dead on energy readouts of the battle.

Within the Action IV, the ship’s corridors went dark as the electrical and lighting systems died.

“Bring the squadron in” Gilford ordered. “Move all boarding troops to posts.”
Unsure exactly what to expect, the four Star Destroyers jumped toward the silent vessels. Many mysteries were about to be revealed and many unanswered questions, answered.

In the brig of the Administrator

“I apologize for the delay, Captain Ahab,” Piet said to the commander of the detained shroud and reaching to shake his hand. “As I’m sure you understand, the presence of a Shroud leaving Imperial Center this late sets off some alarm bells. A rogue Admiral or official may be trying to make an escape when their presence is still demanded on the planet below or even defect and we have to be on the lookout for any treasonous activity. Your crew however has passed full background checks and you’re free to continue on to Vladet.”

“Vladet?” the Captain asked, eyeing him suspiciously and gently taking his hand.

“Vladet.” Piet replied. According to your navigation records, you were in route to Vladet when we detected…”

He stopped as a familiar vibration ran through the deck of the ship, as if it had launched a salvo of fire. But that was preposterous. The Administrator was along side the evacuation corridor, far from the enemy formation and even the main Imperial body.

“What the hell just happened!” he shouted to no one in particular, cut off mid way by ringing klaxons and red flashing lights. A call came over the intercom, announcing “General Quarters. All hands to battle stations.” Behind it, the sound of the klaxons changed in pitch and rhythm from the “General Quarters” alarm to “Boarders present.” At the same time his comm link rang.

Pulling it up to his face, the Captain wasted no time. “Piet here. Go ahead.”

“Captain” started a familiar voice – his administrative aid on the bridge. “The specimens have broken loose and cleared the medical quarantine area. They’ve reached the forward fire control room!” The feeling of Turbolasers firing suddenly became clear.

“Dispatch Marines to clear the area. Activate the Naval Anti-Intrusion System on the infected corridors of the vessel and inform nearby vessels what’s going on.”

“Nearest vessel is the Predator under command of a Captain Gutt. Establishing a connection now…”

Piet cut him off sharply. “I need to get the crew of the Shroud to their vessel and on their way – they’re on a diplomatic mission. As soon as they’ve reached the hangar I will get back to you – use your best judgment in the meantime.” He clicked it off and turned to the Captain of the Shroud. “Some of your men had sidearms – which are locked up somewhere in the holding area. The rest of your men will have to stay together as we move to the hangar and trust my Storm troopers and soldiers to guard them. I don’t know how far the outbreak has reached, but I doubt it’s contained yet.”

Ahab looked at him, condescending and amused. “And what exactly is happening, Captain?” he asked slowly, enunciating carefully.

Piet replied hurriedly, summing the story of them capturing the Reaver specimens up as fast as he could. “We had four of them on board in a medical quarantine zone – kept under strict observation and no one was allowed in or out without a thorough decontamination. Somehow they resisted further sedation and attacked the personnel attending to them, infecting them and causing the infection to break loose. The medical area they were in was the forward hospital, near the forward fire-control unit. Somehow they’ve taken control of the main guns and opened fire on any nearby ships.” The shock of another salvo vibrated through the ship, emphasizing his point.

He looked at the squad of troops manning the brig. “You’re coming with us.” And then outside there was an explosion.

** *

Halfway between the detention area and the hangar they came across their first one at the intersection of two corridors. Bent over a black-uniformed body, the Reaver looked at them with crazed eyes and red human flesh dangling from it’s lips. Growling, it glared at them before jumping up and charging, screaming like a Vornskyr and running almost as fast. Too slow to shoot it, Piet ducked to the floor and braced for impact as a storm of blaster bolts from the perpendicular corridor dropped the beast, followed by a storm of footsteps as a squad of storm troopers appeared.

“Captain, are you alright?” the groups commander asked, looking him up and down. Satisfied he hadn’t been bitten – the virus strain that was on board had an incubation period of just thirty seconds – he reached a hand down and pulled his commander up. “Lieutenant Midas. We’re leading a platoon toward the infection area.” The remainder of the mentioned group, following the point squad, appeared down the hallway and walked slowly toward them.

“We were on our way to the hangar,” Piet replied, looking for a turbolift as the ship shook from another large explosion. “This is the Shrouds crew and they need an escort. I need to get to the bridge immediately! Can you take them?”

The Storm Trooper Lieutenant nodded. “Yes sir! I can see to it.”

“Good,” he said, stepping toward a turbo lift and placing his rank cylinder in a slot that would override all other ride requests and give him immediate priority. “I’ll be on the bridge. See to it.” A moment later his ride arrived and he was gone.

** *

“Captain on deck” came the cry as he stepped onto the ship’s command deck. The bridge crew, too busy to stand at attention, continued with their work.
“Officer on deck,” Piet shouted as he looked out the forward viewports “I need an update.” From the nose of the ship a huge salvo of green energy launched, impacting on the nearest Star Destroyer, presumably the ship they had tried to contact. In response another salvo slammed into them, punching through their weak foreward shielding.

“What the Deus are they doing!” he shouted at an officer making his way toward him, the ship’s second in command Commander Kratas.

“We can’t get a communications link with them. They cut it as soon as we made contact and returned fire as soon as the infected station opened fire on them. We’re trying to cut power to the forward turbolasers, but they overran the forward distribution station and we can’t cut it from here without cutting life support and all other forward subsystems.

“Transmissions?” Piet asked.

“The enemy dropped the jamming and full communications are back online.

He turned his attention from the Commander to the forward viewport of the bridge, looking out at the mile-long battleship under his command. Running across the forward hull was a massive pink/purple scar of discolored hull plating. Through principles not yet known, a harmless substance secreted by Reavers interacted with metal in a manner similar to a molecule, causing a uniform color change from the inside of the hull to the surface outside wherever this gas touched. Though the exact mechanism was unclear despite their best efforts to look into it, it’s results were well known to the Borderland because infected Reaver ships turned this shade of pink/purple after being taken over and were easily identified visually. Now nearly half the Administrator had changed color, telling them exactly how far the infection has spread. Escape pods, manned by either confused Reavers or desperate crews surrounded by the infected shot out, automatically guided toward the nearest Star Destroyers by their navicomputers. In addition to the discoloration, huge chunks of the vessels front had been blown off by salvos from the Preditor.

The sight of his massive ship, once strong and proud, now on the brink of destruction was humbling. “Commander, order a general evacuation. Marines are to sweep the forward of the vessel to rescue survivors before evacuating and Navy personnel are free to board escape pods starting now.” He turned away from the Commander to the crew in a nearby communications pit he ordered, “Broadcast a general distress transmission and an evacuation notice, then get off of here. Commander, I want you to follow me.” Heading back to the rear of the bridge from which he came, Piet and Kratas stepped into a turbolift and plunged toward the hangar and the Shroud, K-384.

Packed from bulkhead to bulkhead with evacuating crew the Shroud left as soon as they were on board, headed toward it’s final destination: Imperial Center. Vladet. The Administrator, mortally wounded, dove toward Imperial Center. Slowed by the planet’s atmosphere, thick with smog and smoke, the Administrator tumbled into the planet's surface intact and released it’s Reaver scourge upon the Cree’ar and the once proud, now scarred, jewel of the Empire.

** *

Just before Kach Thorton’s jump to hyperspace…

“With the confidence that he is the best man for the job,” came the haunting voice of Azrael Zell. The blue figure in front of Kach mouthed each word carefully, as if he was sad he had to give up his authority. “I transfer the Regency over the Empire to Grand Moff Kach Thorton. As a strong, well known leader who transferred the protectorate under his control from a backwater region, almost an afterthought in the minds of Imperial Bureaucrats, to an Industrial Powerhouse and a brilliant if individualistic commander, I feel at this time he is the logical choice to take the reins of the Empire as I go into retirement effective immediately.

Retirement. Something about that word stuck out to Kach. Zell was of course now presumed dead, Missing in action during the battle of Coruscant. Trachta’s commandos had been unable to recover the Regent for a long list of reasons, the greatest among them the presence of a Force User, but even the strongest force user would have been unable to survive the collapse of the Command Tower Zell was in, let alone save the Regent in the process, so he figured it was safe to assume Zell was out of it.

Now he was in route to Vladet himself. There was a man he had to meet.

A man named Park Kraken.