The Rebel Faction

The blood-mist that blinded Rojas lifted long enough for him to survey the carnage. Hundreds - thousands? - of Mandalorian warriors were flooding the streets, having slaughtered the Imperial soldiers and fanning out to visit ruin and devestation on the wider populace. Some had died, but the strong had lived. The imperials were weak, cowering within their fortifications helplessly while his clan ravaged Generis.

His rage subsisted long enough for Rojas to hear the buzzing in his ear. He was being paged by his lieutenant. He clicked the comm in his helmet on.

"This better be important..."

"We're having trouble cracking the Imperial base, chief," said the Mandalorian commander on the other end. "They're too well fortified. We'd get shot up if we tried to strafe them directly."

"Cowardice!" Rojas barked, smashing a bloodstained fist through a burning speeder's windshield. "You'd soil our clan's reputation because you fear the enemy? I'd spit on you if you were but a little closer to the ground!"

Even as he raged, Rojas knew his lieutenant had a point. Throwing their lives away assaulting a fortified position was not a test of strength but a pointless meatgrinder that would waste valuable resources the Mandalorians could ill-afford to lose. Though he despised the idea of swallowing his pride, Rojas had no other choice. "Contact Dubai. Tell him we'll play things his way, for now."


Aboard the Acclaim, Dubai watched on the main screen as the Mandalorian ships broke off from their half-hearted attacks on the Imperial stronghold. Zooming out, the Mandalorian army as a whole was gradually fanning away from that point, contenting itself to pass like a swarm of ravenous locust over the remainder of the unarmed settlement.

"Still no admission of surrender?" said Dubai, eyeing his prize. His aide replied by shaking his head. "I'm surprised Rojas saw reason. This changes things considerably, but we can recover. Order immediate bombardment of the Imperial fortress, keep the firing patterns tight and don't be afraid to cut back on the firepower to keep us from blasting the Mandalorians. Once their outer defenses are in ruins, we can repeat our offering of terms."

With that, Dubai cycled the main screen to fleet status reports, ignoring the rising chatter as his officers carried out their duties.

"All captains, this is the Acclaim. Dubai has greenlighted bombardment, center on the Imperial stronghold, tight dispersal, aimed ordnance only. Fire at will."

The Nyxan destroyers opened up, loosing turbolaser batteries from low orbit above the capital of Generis. Bolts of red that dwarfed the meager bombardment of the Mandalorian raiders poured in a stream towards the Imperial base. There they struck with a sound like an endless series of thunderclaps, gouging fortifications and knocking those caught unaware to the floor. Explosions ripped up the grounds and the land surrounding the base was turned immediately into a blasted wasteland.

The firestorm was intense, driving the last stragglers of the Mandalorian attack deeper into the city. Rojas stopped long enough to glance back and see the blazing red inferno that shone like a second sun, suppressing the distaste and disgust he felt at witnessing such 'warfare'. The very moment their foes were within reach of his blades, Rojas thought, he would command Dubai to cease bombardment so that his men could claim glory on the battlefield before they were done.

For the moment, he found solace in slaughtering the helpless inhabitants, facing forwards and changing down the main city thoroughfare where waves of Mandalorians accompanied him. Screams of fear and bloodlust mingled with equal measure as the stampeding warrior horde overtook fleeing civilians and ransacked buildings in their way.

Rojas leapt headfirst through the front window of a shop front along the main road, firing up his webber and gunning down the family cowering therein - who were they? How many? What was their business? All thoughts instantly forgotten or ignored as the bloodlust took hold again and he kicked through the back door to scour the alleyways.

Hyperspace
Somewhere between In'chion and Generis


The ships floated through an ocean of light as though motionless, as though the stars passing them were themselves moving at incredible speeds. On the bridge of the Tyrant, Wesley Vos contemplated the universe.

It was not a usual thing for him to sit and think, not on this grand of a scale. Up to this point, he had been so focused on defending the Empire from the Confederation, and attacking it whenever possible, that he had had no time to think. Even now he knew that he should be focused on the arrival at Generis and developing a battle plan should the raiders strike again. But instead, he was focused on the universe as a whole. Why did it exist? Why was it the way it was? Was there some larger design at work, or did the rise and fall of galactic powers depend only upon chance and skill?

These questions, he knew, had no place in the mind of a Colonel-General of the Empire, at least not at this stage of life. Perhaps years later he could ruminate on such things, when his duty was done and he was retired, but for now he shook himself away from such thoughts. They could do no good, and would only bring his downfall. So, with some difficulty, he turned his thoughts to the matters at hand.

He knew the area around Generis fairly well; he himself had been involved in its capture. Truthfully, he had argued for its inclusion in the SS Sector, as it had been captured before the Onyxian Commonwealth surrendered, but his arguments were overruled and it was included in the Occupation Zone. Wes had to admit that it made sense; the population was small, allowing for a small garrison to maintain it, and since it had surrendered voluntarily, the population was less apt to rebel, making it a fairly stable base.

Wes suddenly got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he usually got before a fight. His eyebrows narrowed, and a thought came unbidden to his mind. What if we're not the first ones there?


Generis
Planetside


Jaeriel and her team sped from the scene of their recent slaughter, weaving through the streets just slowly enough to encourage pursuit but quickly enough to stay out of range. They wanted the Mandalorians to be so focused on following them that they would miss the little surprise that awaited them.

But there was another problem. Their antics had drawn the attention of several Nyxian and Mandalorian fighters. Swooping down from out of nowhere, the laser cannons began tearing up buildings and road on either side of the speeder. Jacqueline was good, but three fighters directly on one's tail cause problems, especially when one is confined to city streets. Nevertheless, she managed to avoid the blasts as Mika jumped in behind the E-Web and began sending blasts skyward. The repeater, though not as powerful as a ship's cannon, caught the lead ship entirely by surprise. The pilot had dumped his shield energy into speed and weapons, creating a perfect target. The first six bolts slammed through the cockpit, obliterating him and everything inside before he even had a chance to scream. The ship spiraled out of control, taking a stray blast from the second fighter before exploding into a thousand pieces.

The second and third ships peeled away. With the speeder armed, the pilots knew that flying as they were gave the shooter an easy target. Coming in on different vectors, they sped past again and again; only Jacqueline's excellent piloting kept the Onyxians safe. Then, for reasons unknown, Jacqueline made a mistake. She turned down a street that had no outlet for at least two-hundred yards. Bearing down on them was the second fighter, with the third not far behind. She punched the throttle, but hope left her.

Then the fighter exploded, pieces of it flying in every direction. The third fighter tried to pull up, but it was too late; the TIE Schutzstaffel's six cannon tore through the relatively weak shields and into the cockpit, killing the pilot instantly and sending the craft into a death spin that only ended when it hit a five story building nearby.

Jacqueline reached the end of the street and turned once more, only to see two Mandalorian speeders heading toward her. There was no time to stop. Yelling at the others to hold on, she hit the thrusters and increased power to the repulsors, shooting the speeder suddenly upwards and flipping it. As they passed above the enemy, the E-web made short work of the closest. The other, in its attempts to avoid the wreckage, smashed through two buildings before crumpling and throwing its occupants in every direction.

The Schutzstaffel came back around, flying directly above the speeder and matching its speed. Suddenly, a dark form came plummeting from it towards the ground, surprisingly landing directly on the rear of the speeder. The fighter veered off, and Skygge stared at the Onyxian uniforms. Both sides took in the predicament then, as if by understanding, Jaeriel and Skygge both nodded. They may be enemies, but for now they were on the same side.

"In my flyover I noticed a large gathering of Mandalorians behind you, coming up fast. They seem to be rallied around one individual. If I can take him out, it should buy you some time. I assume you have a plan?"

Jaeriel nodded. "We'll give you enough cover to get to him. Mika, E-Web. Alana, grab Amanda's rifle. Jacqueline, turn around. Lock and load, and let's have some fun!"

The speeder turned on a dime, roaring back the way it had come just as the first Mandalorians rounded the corner. Taking no notice of the turbolaser blasts that had begun raining down on the Imperial compound, Skygge made her way to the hood of the speeder even as the E-web started chattering once again. The enemy advance faltered, many of the Mandalorians kneeling to return fire.

As soon as they were close enough, Skygge nodded, and Jacqueline pulled the nose of the speeder up. At the apex of the lift, Skygge launched herself off the nose and into the air, lightsabers coming to her hands and igniting as she flipped several times. Landing, she immediately cleared a space around herself, severing several of the enemy in half as she did so. The E-web kept chattering around the edges of the street, well away from Skygge, serving to push the enemy closer to her. One Mandalorian swung a vibroblade towards her; she whirled and took off his hand and head in one stroke, the other crimson blade coming around to reflect a blaster bolt back at its owner.

Ducking under another blade and rolling, she swept away the feet of another Mandalorian and rose to decapitate a fourth. Into another spring she lept, this time flipping backwards, away from the center of the fight. Landing, she stood face to face with the individual around whom the Mandalorians had rallied.

The third in command on the ground, the Mandalorian Crando, quickly drew his blaster, firing twice, but Skygge was no longer there. She was moving, always moving, and the blasts went right past her. Then she was up, directly in front of him. His blaster flew away in two pieces, then his hand went the other direction. He just had time enough to contemplate his own death before the twin red blades severed his head.

The remaining Mandalorians halted for a moment, staring in surprise at their dead leader and giving Skygge just the time needed to get a running start towards the Onyxian speeder. She lept once more just as the Mandalorians opened fire again. With no one left to lead them, they charged after the speeder, hatred filling their cries and their eyes. Not one of them noticed that this chase was leading them directly towards the Imperial compound.

It was a terrible sight, the storming of Imperial Garrison Base 73262. The Department of Logistics would remember it only by that misnomer, and none of the bespectacled officers whose intellect far outweighed their combat experience would ever equate the innocuous string of numbers to the carnage unfolding on Generis. Their files would be short and simple: Base deployed, base garrisoned, base attacked, base destroyed.

Colonel Alazahr looked on from the safety of his mobile column and watched the unchecked fury of his enemies as they scaled the shattered ramparts using whatever they had at hand - some of the armored soldiers grabbed chunks of steel and ferrocrete and clawed their way up in-tact sections of the wall, while others ran to the breaches and forced entry against smoke and flame. Ash drove against them like a falling snow and had they been rounds expended in anger the aliens would have been killed before they even tasted victory. In they charged and though the clank of walker legs and the roar of panzer engines prevented Alazahr from hearing anything from the base, he knew his rabid opponents had to be loosing a horrific cry.

Here and there, a stray shell landed among the warriors sent to destroy the Empire sending their armored bodies into the air in a whoosh of fire and shrapnel and throwing them down again bloodied, shredded, and dead. The casualties seemed only to fuel their lust. None of them realized that the rounds exploding among them came from the battery of medium artillery emplaced at the rear of the halted Imperial column. They charged through the debris believing the fire came from an enemy still able to fight. From the pounding the base had taken, their only enemies were the wounded. As immobile and defenseless targets the Imperials died not as soldiers, but as victims.

What the frell are they doing? Colonel Alazahr bit his lip and slammed a gloved fist on the armored hull of the command vehicle. Perhaps they had not seen the column leave, thinking their only prey fought from the ruins. Perhaps they were monocular in their battle tactics, seeing only one foe at a time. Either way, they showed no signs of stopping. That knowledge came in tandem with another bit of harsh reality - in doing so, the way was again open for the marauders to slaughter the steady streams of civilians making their way out of the inferno. Ever the soldier, the Colonel's mission was clear. He placed a gloved hand to his neck and keyed up the throat-microphone.

" Captain Winfred, turn us around. Fan out and disperse the men for counter-attack. We have to make them pay."



It was an awesome sight to look out from what remained of Imperial Garrison Base 73262. The armor-clad creatures that defiled the Standard of the Emperor stood upon mounds of dirt and steel and twisted chunks of a once-intimidated facade, peering up a rubble strewn boulevard. They saw the enemy that had eluded them, for the bayonetting of helpless enemies was fun, but no challange at all. Now they saw a threat, a true threat.

Night had set but all was bright as fires consumed

mneed to finish - - - - -

Explosions ripped along the ruins of the now-demolished Imperial fortress. Mandalorian warriors and Imperial soldiers flew through the air screaming, as a rain of limbs and blood soaked the battlefield.

Rojas awoke from his murderous reverie and realized his reduced circumstances. Barely half the warriors he had expected where fighting in the ruins - and worse still, the Imperials he had thought were occupying the fortress were waiting outside, advancing towards him with prepared heavy guns.

The fire from their guns and the unexplained explosions were tearing up his warriors, and the mad killer soon realized he was in no position to counter-attack. He loosed a blood-curdling roar of frustration and anger. "Face me!" he howled, spinning his vibrosword through the air.

It was then that he saw an unidentified. speeder racing for a hole in the far wall. Determined to spill some blood for this outrage, the warrior broke into a flat run, attempting to cut them off.

Arriving at the hole in the wall just before the speeder passed through, the mighty warrior braced himself and swung wildly with his sword, severing one of the repulsors. The vehicle shot out the far side, its' escape punctured by a fresh wave of explosions, but not without the warchief's revenge. Destabalized, the speeder careened forward a few more yards before spinning out and crashing upside down into the earth, kicking up dirt and debries.

Wether any lived was of no concern to Rojas - he turned back to appraise the situation. His shell-shocked brothers were bloodied and confused, picking themselves out of the ruins. Mandalorians are exceptionally hard to kill, but not that hard to confuse, and some continued to beat on the bodies of obviously dead Imperials, uncertain of what to do next.

Rojas tried to shout orders, but his voice was already hoarse from bellowing and there was little to say. His men were sheltering in the very fortress they'd sacked to protect them from enemy fire, unable and unwilling to run across flatlands towards a fortified enemy.

A shadow passing overhead reminded the warchief of his circling fleet, but he saw they were not firing in support of his warriors. If he had not smashed his comm in anger earlier, he might have demanded their assistance, but as it stood he could only fume and curse as the Mandalorian Marauders circled overhead, watching the battle.

It was then that Rojas noticed the explosions were getting louder, and closer. He turned back to the ruined and shattered walls to see that the enemy column was actually advancing on his position - willing at last to engage him in battle! A cry of joy and insane laughter echoed through the wreckage of the Imperial parade ground as Rojas bounded from crater to crater, getting as close as he might to his approaching foe.

"That's it!" he roared, his strained voice still loud enough for all his scattered warriors to hear. "Come and fight us! Come and kill us! Come, so that I might spill our blood together! Ha ha ha ha ha!"


Another tower collapsed as Mandalorians scurried off in all directions, their colourful armour turning grey from thick clouds of dust that rose up while the building fell. Screams of those trapped in side mingled with the booms of the demolition charges, but only for a moment before the apartment floors came crashing down, each resounding crash splattering the women and children inside and silencing another chorus of wails.

Watching distantly from above, Krona listened as his warriors in the field reported. "That's the last major residential building in the downtown core, chief," replied a voice on the comms. "You want us to sweep for survivors?"

"Don't bother," said Krona, with disinterest. "They will be few and cowering. Continue to push your men away from the fortress until you reach the far side. It will be easier to recover you from the outskirts that have suffered less bombardment, and you should find more survivors fleeing the city that way rather than caught between the Imperials and Rojas."

"As you command, chief," the warrior replied, before cutting transmission. Below, countless red and black figures poured through the burning city streets, heading towards relatively untouched neighbourhoods and suburbs. The scanners were already detecting clumps of refugees cowering together in basements and alleyways, but Krona had no time to dwell on the massacre to come and many more civilians had escaped due to the efforts of the Imperials.

For this battle to still be a success, he had to focus on several... personal objectives.

Before he could deliver another order, the door to the command bridge slammed open and a Mandalorian warrior in tattered green power armour stormed in. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the warrior roared, narrowing his gaze at Krona and showering the elder chief with spittle. "You don't think I can see the battle from my gun-deck? The warchief is in danger, we must assist!"

"The warchief specifically instructed that there would be no bombardment to rob him of the glory in battle that rightfully belongs to the Rojas clan," Krona replied. He got to his feet and met the newcomer's gaze eye to eye. "Would you disobey your warchief, Braxis?"

Braxis's lip curled with disgust and he seemed to consider spitting in Krona's face, but managed to suppress his rage enough to growl out "You're shitting on the warrior's code, Krona. You would make the clan weak for your petty politics - weak, like the soft and womanly Nyxans, with their backstabbing and intrigue, weak, like-" His words were cut short and his vision, which had been wonderfully narrowed before, became a slim tunnel.

"Weak like the gap in your armour just under your rib cage," Krona hissed, as he pulled his vibroblade free. Braxis backed away a few steps, staggering as blood spilled out on to the deck.

"I am making the clan stronger by purging the stupid and the reckless," said Krona, who reassumed his command throne and turned away from his dying cohort. "They might remember the bloody-minded 'courage' of the Mandalorians at this ridiculous massacre, but it will be our cold and ruthless slaughters to come that will burn our names into the stars for another five millenia."

Krona glanced back and saw to his disappointment that his audience had already expired. He turned back to his slaves, who had barely paused in their work. For the look of the thing, he bellowed "Work faster!" and slammed a button on his command throne, relishing the volts it sent streaming through his captive crew's bodies.

En route - Generis


The bridge was eeriely silent. Nothing had changed from the day and shift before - there were just as many crew members, just as many droids on duty. Here and there one of the artifically-sentient crewers would warble or beep, ignorant or willfully careless of the subdued tones around them. The flesh and blood hands, however, conducted their operations and reports and calls from station to station with hushed tones as if they toiled at the feet of a slumbering giant, to a man terrified of waking the beast.

In a way, they were not acting irrationally. To a man, they had heard the wild tales of flag officers who lashed out, killing messengers on a whim and demoting Colonels to Corporals for perceived failures. That practice was frowned upon by High Command and the remaining Grand Admirals - save Tredda, who was as fanatical as if the Emperor still held his leash - forbade such wastes of manpower. Those who worked closely with the Grand Admiral now seated on the Intimidator's bridge knew the only quality he and Vader shared as Imperial allegiance. Still, unofficially at least, the men seemed to erring on the side of caution.

Captain Voltaire, for his part, seemed taken in by the pervasive quiet on his bridge. Since he had first met Baron Desaria in the old days of the Brass Protectorate Fleet, he had felt no need to be intimidated and was not proven wrong. He had been with him for victory and defeat and had never seen him place blame on the blameless. But today, the cover-ad for the holozine Modern Imperial, seated with fists balled, his brow furrowed and eyes locked fore, looked to the good Captain more furious than he ever had before.

The Gods help whomever he does lash out at...



Generis



Blue and white faded to blackness, punctuated occassionally by a spec of white and the large, brownish-green orb that was Generis. The stars made a pretty panorama behind the agrarian world, its four moons mere dots in comparison. All together, a not unpleasing scene one might paint were one bored or so inclined.

The arrived parties gave it a significantly more martial tone. Looking up from that small agrarian world one would see the largest warship in the sector, a massive Conqueror-class Star Destroyer raising its shields and training its numberless weapon emplacements on anything they could track. Around it, each imposing alone but insignificant near such a ship, were Cuirassier-class Heavy Cruisers, two leading and another one blinded by the glow of the battleship's drive engines. Seven frigates and light cruisers took up seemingly random positions above and below, each ready to defend against missiles and the smaller craft such a humungous ship looked too proud to fight.

" Report, Captain." The Baron bit out his words, trying very hard to sound his normal self - cold, caluclating, civil. The Grand Admiral was barely succeeding.

" Sensors have detected a flotilla of warships in syncoronous orbit of Generis. They seem to be in a bombardment position. Readings do indicate they have fired. We're too far out to get a better reading, but Vengaris looks to have taken a pounding. Read four battleships, roughly a thousand meters each, a half-dozen Strike-cruiser size, and ten small frigates. There's a second force not in orbit composed of Carrack-sized ships, six in number, that look like dilapidated freightors."

The Grand Admiral stood, his gaze fixed on the enemy formation his eyes could not make out. Now he would come to grips with those who had fouled his command. These raiders, these pirates, had killed and pillaged. Now the military would have its vengeance.

" Unless they are totally inept, communications between us and the garrison - if any survived - will be jammed; these raiders have not survived this long by being stupid. Fighter Ops - deploy four Defender Squadrons from our bays and give them free reign to engage whatever targets they can hit. Captain - flank speed to bring us within range of our guns - we'll give them an STL salvo to get their attention. The frigates will make pursuit speed and engage the group to the rear - I do NOT want any of them in the way when we have targetting solutions."

Acknolwedgements answered the Grand Admiral's command, but he ignored them. He knew his men would follow orders. Though he did not feel the vibrations of the drive engines in the soles of his jackboots, he knew his flagship was picking up speed. He watched the smaller ships speed away from the formation behind a wave of Mark III Defenders, both arcing broadly to starboard. They would hopefully sow enough confusion to prevent a timely escape.

Hopefully...


On Generis


Colonel Alazahr wiped his sleeve across his brow, drawing it back ahead of him. Soot and ash and sweat were on his sleeve now, but no more than elsewhere. Looking around, he watched as tanks pounded stacks of rubble where enemy soldiers hid, making one pile of ferrocrete pieces into many piles of ferrocrete pieces. Two-legged walkers juked about here and there, for some reason singled out for enemy fire. Perhaps the tall vehicles represented some abomination to the pirate Gods - whatever the reason, not a minute could pass without some type of rocket flaring off in their direction.

Alazahr ducked behind an immobilized half-track, taking shelter with a pair of grenadiers each clutching his blaster for dear life. The Colonel swallowed hard - losses were heavy and getting heavier. But the fight was slipping into their corner. The blast that levelled the little that remained of the regiment's base had killed many if not most of the rabid attackers.

" We winnin' Suh?" asked the soldier on the left, his voice dripping with the accent of a farm-boy more at home on Generis than nine-tenths of his comrades. Alazahr grinned widely.

" We are, soldier, we are. Keep goin' and we'll win!"

The Colonel moved away from the half-track then dropped to the ground as a stray blast singed the rear-plate of his cuirass. Alazahr shook his head and realized his fall had knocked his helmet off. Moving to grab it, he was knocked to the earth again, this time by an explosion. Before he could get his senses about him, the long-drawling farm-boy had grabbed him by the waist and drug him over a few meters to a the remaining wall of what had been a store front. There several more troopers leapt up and down to fire over the wall and through embrasures. One dour looking boy wore a weather expression and the thousand-meter stare one expects from a combat veteran. In his hands was a laser rifle with a sniper's scope bearing a dozen or so hash marks - on target shots.

" Here comes a few more!" shouted one soldier, ignoring or not seeing the Colonel's arrival. Alazahr drew his pistol and saw a the armored enemy soldiers approaching at a careless walk down the boulevard. Where the halftrack had been was now a flaming wreck. " Corporal, get over here. That lead guy looks important."

The young sniper moved to the front of the wall, glass crunching under his boots with every step. He aimed, but felt his rifle get yanked up then back. He turned, fearing his comrades had been overrun. Instead, the Colonel of his Regiment looked down at him, angry.

" No." Alazahr looked around the wall, pushing the sniper aside. His gazed locked with the lead armor-clad soldier in his decorative armor and its flehs-leather webbing. " That one caused all this. I kill him."