The Rebel Faction

Thoraza
Twelve hours after the bombing on Onyx


The Tyrant and its escorts dropped out of hyperspace, the Star Destroyer’s massive bulk a welcome sight to those in the orbital station that had been constructed in the time since the takeover of the planet. An Urukhui voice came over the comm, “Thank the gods you’re alive, General! We thought –”

The voice ended with the hiss of a lightsaber and a thud as, presumably, the Urukhui’s head rolled off its shoulders and onto the deck. A new voice - a calmer voice - came through the comm. “Everything is fine here, General,” said Yuagith, the Iridonian Sith Apprentice Skygge had left with Vos when she went off to rebuild the Sith, or whatever it was she was doing.

On board the Tyrant, Vos smiled, a grim smile. At least things here weren’t entirely falling apart. It had been a wise choice, leaving the young Iridonian in charge on the station. As it was crewed mostly by Urukhui and Troiliari in training, half of which still thought the machines were imbued with the spirits of demons or gods, someone who could manipulate the energies of the Force (and, as the natives believed, therefore control those spirits) would keep their fears at least to a reasonable level.

Of course, his mandate of absolute outgoing communication silence didn’t help matters much. And as his last communication, just after the bombing, had imposed strict silence both ways, he could somewhat understand their fear. Their new leader, who they had elevated to near godlike status, might be dead for all they knew. Still, it did not excuse such unprofessionalism or such a breach of military protocol.

“Thank you, Yuagith,” replied the General. “Have Colonel Selere and the Kommando Squadron leaders meet me in Briefing Room 27A on the station in thirty standard minutes.”

Even as he spoke, Vos recalled the confusion and horror of the last twelve hours. Reports of explosions had come in from across the Occupation Sector. Nearly every planet had been targeted, including Generis. Wes had two haunting suspicions competing with one another in his mind. The first was that these strikes were not just the result of an internal rebellion but were begun, or at least supported, by an external force wishing to see the downfall of the Empire. The second was that the force was somehow connected to the former Onyxian Commando he had pardoned for her actions at Generis. If Jaeriel had anything to do with this, he’d have her head on a platter.

Immediately after the bombings, he had requested permission from Desaria to return to Thoraza and begin coordinating a response from the only unaffected planet in the area. Since the hidden world was only a twelve-hour jump from Onyx, Desaria had agreed, so long as Vos promised to immediately send someone to handle the situation on the ground at the Sector capital. He had also granted Vos’s requests to have free reign in apprehending these terrorists and bringing them to justice.

Without waiting for further instructions, Vos had saluted, boarded a shuttle, and headed for the Tyrant. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way to Thoraza and the beginning of his investigation.

Vos sat back and ran his fingers through his short brown hair. After the conquest of Thoraza, the SS had set up several listening posts in the surrounding area, mostly on unclaimed asteroids and uninhabitable planets in nearby systems. Two more planets had been found with life on them, but considering the problems the SS had been having with the Urukhui and Troiliari, Vos wasn’t quite ready to take on another challenge of the same nature. Yet.

Then again, from the rumors he’d heard from scouts sent to those planets, the skills of the inhabitants might come in useful. It was amazing, he thought, that so much sentient life could be found this far from the center of the galaxy, and yet undiscovered! At least twelve unique and new sentient races had been identified, and that didn’t even account for the variations within the races. It was simply mind-boggling.

It was the listening posts that Vos was most concerned with now, though. These attacks had been coordinated, and if they had had any planning in the last few months – which they must have had, to coordinate their strikes for this day – the listening posts should have picked those communications up. The one blessing from the fact that Generis was also involved was that there was a post directly between that planet and Onyx. Any communications between the two planets would have been heard.

Of course, that assumed that the men on duty had been doing their jobs. They were not regular SS men, but new Imperial Army recruits, recently enlisted to fill out the ranks of the Auxiliary Army Group assigned to the SS. A full battalion of troops manned the post. If they had been slouching, or if by some tragedy the post itself had fallen, or the terrorists knew about the post, then it would be a dead end, and Vos would be starting from scratch.

So much to think about, so many possibilities, and so little actual knowledge. The perpetrators had been incinerated by their own bombs; not enough was left to even attempt a DNA scan. None of the perpetrators had been captured. No wind of the plot had been uncovered before the strike. It was an intelligence blunder of the highest possible magnitude. At least, Wes knew, the SS could not be to blame. Intelligence for the Occupation Zone had been the responsibility of Imperial Intelligence. It was their blunder, not his. For that, at least, he was thankful.

And then there was the uncanny timing of the event. Just as Yaga Minor fell under attack by some strange warships, just as Emperor Hyfe disappeared, just as the Supreme Commander was cut off from communication, these attacks occur. Either the Empire had simply been the victim of coincidence, or there was some connection. Wes didn’t believe in coincidence.


Briefing Room 27A
Thoraza Station


“So we have seen attacks on Onyx itself, on Generis, on Valacar, on Desitus, on Esfandia and Ankus, on Iridonia, on Mobus, and on Ord Mantell. In every attack, a high-ranking Imperial was targeted. This was no coincidence; it was an organized assault on the Empire itself.”

Colonel-General Vos turned back to face the Kommandos. “It is our task to ferret out these terrorists, find their leaders, and destroy them. This is the job you’ve been trained for. This is your area of expertise. Any questions?”

Silence filled the room. “Good,” Vos continued. “Then here are the tasks. Colonel Selere, have you been able to raise the listening post at 2249A?”

“No, Sir,” Selere replied, his heavily accented Basic revealing his Kuati origins. “There has been no response.”

“Then we must assume that the post was taken or has been put out of commission. I want a squadron of Kommandos to go there and find out what happened. Take two battalions of Waffen-SS with you.”

Selere thought for a moment, then replied. “Fleetfire, you and Gray Squadron can handle that job.”

Commander Tarash Fleetfire stood and saluted. “Permission to depart immediately, Sir?” he asked, anxious to be on his way.

Vos shook his head. “No. Wait until you hear the rest of this. I will have further instructions.” Fleetfire nodded and sat. “I also need a squadron to go to Onyx to begin working on the ground there. I want to know what happened and any information you can gather on the identity of the bomber. Even if it’s just the material he used, I want it ASAP. Nyang, you and Red Squadron can have that job.

“Black and Green Squadrons, you’ll be coming with me. You’ll guide the fleet to those planets you scouted some time ago. I’ll need you to compile all the information you collected on them, especially the nature of the inhabitants. I’ll also need any information you have on the worlds themselves, and the surrounding systems. With all the confusion at Yaga Minor, and with the Emperor’s disappearance, I’m concerned that we may need to begin building a new power base here in the Outer Rim. If things go wrong in the Core…”

He let his sentence trail off, but they all knew what he was thinking, for the same thought had been on their minds as well. It had taken a series of cataclysmic events to transform the galaxy in just a few weeks from a stable, safe place in which the Empire reigned supreme to a place where the slightest mistake could bring everything crashing down around them.

Vos had his theories. The Empire had been weakening for years. They had grown stagnant, even lazy. They had allowed the Confederation to grow, allowed the Coalition to escape. They had allowed the seeds of Rebellion to grow, and they had ignored this new threat in the Occupation Zone. They had expanded faster than their infrastructure or their military could support. And now, with this new alien threat, things were falling apart. With the disappearance of Emperor Hyfe, and the presumed death or capture of Supreme Commander Drayson, the crap simply hit the turbofan.

“Any questions about your assignments? Good. Oh, one more thing – Gray Squadron, also take the most advanced company of the Urukhui. I want to see how they fare in combat. Understood? Good.

“Now, final instructions. From this point on you are to maintain a strict communications blackout, excepting only those communications which are absolutely essential. Squadron commanders, you report directly to Colonel Selere, who reports directly to me. I want no loose chatter, no idle talk. Red Squadron, you may report to either Colonel Selere or Grand Admiral Desaria, but no one else. We don’t know who’s in this thing, and I will not stand for lives wasted because the terrorists knew our positions. Understood?” Nods and replies of ‘Yes, Sir’ filled the room. “Excellent. Then you are dismissed. Red Squadron, you leave within the hour. Captain Nyang, take the Bellerophon squadron to Onyx. We can spare them.”

With that, the Kommandos stood as one and saluted, then rushed to prepare for their various assignments. Selere alone remained behind. “General,” he asked, his formality gone now that the two of them were alone, “what is going on?”

Vos sat and shook his head. “I don’t know, Colonel. I just don’t know.”


Imperial Listening Post 2249A
Asteroid Belt between Generis and Onyx


The stealthed fighter dropped out of hyperspace and immediately began reading the asteroid for signs of life. Its small sensors were not calibrated for in-depth readings, but they should have been able to pick up a battalion of troops. They did not. One quick comm signal, and the news was reported. The listening post was devoid of life.

Two light years away lay the rest of the strike force, consisting of several troop carriers, the Stalwart-class frigates Nymph and Erebus, and several Fire-class light frigates. They picked up the signal from the Phantom scout, and Fleetfire gave the go-ahead nod. The storming of the listening post was a go.

A quick hyperspace jump brought the small fleet to the edge of the asteroid belt, directly above LP-2249A. Six troop shuttles immediately detached from the transports, headed for the docking platform of the station. In the lead shuttle, Fleetfire and his Kommando squadron sat in silence, the seriousness of their task filling their minds.

Fleetfire ran through the plan in his mind one more time. The six shuttles, containing his troopers, two squads of Urukhui warriors, and a company of Waffen-SS soldiers would land, and the soldiers would secure the landing platform. From there, the Kommandos would lead the way into the post itself, blowing the blast doors if necessary. They would secure the area, then perform a data dump of any information stored in whatever was left of the post’s computers. Gray Squadron would secure the information on the shuttle, then return to Thoraza on board the Nymph. The other Waffen-SS soldiers would then land, securing the rest of the asteroid and remaining to hold the station against assault.

It was a simple plan, but its straightforwardness was its strength. The Urukhui, with their incredible strength and ability to take damage, would be quite a shock for whatever awaited them, if anything did. Of course, the Urukhui would never be useful for anything but front-line fodder, as their intelligence level was somewhere around that of a space slug, with the exception of a few hand-selected leaders and communications trainees. But they were very good at what they did.

With a bump, the shuttle touched down. The ramp popped open, and the Kommandos rushed out. Around them, other shuttles were disgorging troops as well, and calls of “Clear” could be heard coming through the helmets. All helmets were set to the same frequency, and only to internal communication; outside the helmets not a sound was heard but the slight clanking of armor on the platform.

When the perimeter was secure, or as secure as a company of Waffen-SS could make it, Fleetfire hit the access panel to open the blast doors to the station, not really expecting anything to happen. To his surprise, the doors opened with a whoosh. Tendrils of fear began to grip his heart, but he shook them off. They had a job to do.

“Captain Brin, take point,” he said, and the Kommando immediately stepped forward, nearly noiselessly gliding through the doors, weapon ready. The rest of the squadron followed, spread out, checking every ventilation shaft, every opening. Nothing. Not even dead bodies. Something was drastically wrong here. Yet still they moved further into the depths of the station.


Blast Site
Onyx


Commander Nabbatt Nyang was a man of many talents. He was what might be considered the unsung workhorse of the SS Kommandos, as Red Squadron was. They were rarely in the center of a battle, for their expertise was in intelligence gathering and information analysis. Those skills had landed them here, where the twelve men and women of the squadron sifted through the debris and carnage to try to discover what had happened.

By now, nearly two days after the blast, some bodies had begun to decay, and the smell was beginning to be bad enough that the Kommandos chose to work with their helmets on. In retrospect, Nyang thought, that would be a good idea anyway, in case some fool terrorist sniper decided to take a few pot-shots at the investigators. His men were good, too good to lose even one to such an accident.

They’d landed six hours before, having caught some sleep on the twelve-hour hyperspace jump from Thoraza, and began work immediately. Still, though, they had found nothing to identify the perpetrator or the nature of the weapon used. They’d only found bodies, mangled beyond belief, a few survivors that probably wouldn’t survive much longer, and a lot of debris that told them nothing.

Still, the Kommandos of Red Squadron were nothing if not thorough. It had been their saving grace several times, including in their first mission on Coruscant. And, hopefully, it would lead to the uncovering of clues that would identify the parties responsible for this mess. If General Vos was correct, and Nyang believed he was, it might also shed light on the identity of the kidnappers of Emperor Hyfe.

A single word shook Nyang out of his own thoughts. “Commander!” came the call through his inter-helmet comm.

“Captain Biabru,” he replied, “what is it?”

“I think I found something, Sir,” she said, a bit calmer.

Nyang immediately jogged in her direction. The others continued working in their respective areas, slowly digging through their piles of debris. If there was anything to Biabru’s discovery, they would know soon enough. And maybe, just maybe, they could then focus their search.

Nerisia

He strode onto the bridge of the Fuhrer, his boots clacking on the metal walkway. The crewers working on the bridge paused briefly in their duties to see who it was, then most either saluted and went back to work or approached him with their issues.

"Commodore, we have a report from Coruscant," said his aide, commander Geta, handing him a piece of flimsiplast.

"Any word on the resupply convoy that should have arrived three days ago?" asked Brand, taking the piece of flimsiplast and beginning to read it over. The officer shook his head no, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Brand's eyes scanned over the paper, and at two points did it stop, before reaching the end. Reading the signatures at the bottom of the paper, his eyes widened in astonishment before narrowing in suspicion.

He crumped the piece of paper in his hands, anger and worry coursing through his veins as he stepped away from the nervous officer and walked to gaze out the viewport.

The dockyards and space stations in orbit above Nerisia, normally reserved and used for colonists traveling from the known galaxy into the unknown regions to start a new and adventerous life in the wild unexplored frontier, was now choke full of dead and dying Imperial troops, and damaged starships recieving emergency repairs. From the reports of the senior surviving officer, a Line Captain who had ordered the retreat lest the entire garrison be lost, the Chiss had risen up in revolt and thrown off the Imperial occupation.

Csilla had been lost to them, and knowing how crafty and deadly fighters the Chiss were, Brand hadn't even asked for reinforcements to try and re-take the planet. No, all he had asked for was medical supplies, transports, and fleet tugs to assist the damaged ships and wounded personnel, and take them back to Imperial space where the proper shipyards and medical facilities could heal and repair the garrison back to fighting trim.

But as the contents of the communication had shown, no supplies or ships would be coming. Their simple message? Fend for yourselves for the time being. That was the first point that had made his eyes widen. The second had come when the message stated that Grand Isle was not responding to their hails or pleas for assistance. To ignore a lesser protectorate was one thing, but to ignore the Imperial capital.

But what really got his goat was that the message bore the authentic seal of the Regent of the Empire, Azreal Zell. What in the force's name was a retired moff doing running the Empire? What had happened to Emporer Hyfe, or Drayson? He assumed the woman from Yaga Minor would have assumed Simon Kaine's position, and if the emporer would be deposed, take his place at the head of the galaxy.

No, something didn't feel right at all.

Fend for ourselves. Indeed. With what exactly?

They had already used up their normal supplies. Their normal shipments had ceased as well. Not only would the wounded and dying go without help, but the normal colonists and the local fleet and army garrisons would also have to scrounge.

No, this was not acceptable at all.

He turned away from the viewport, to stare back at his command.

"Commander Geta, issue a summons to all commands. We will be holding a conference in the Fuhrer's command room, effective six hours from now," ordered the Commodore.

He was going to get what he needed, even if he had to go and get it himself....

INS: Do you think they will succeed?

Zell: Who the fuck knows? If they do bring order to their section of the Rim, all well and good. Imposition of order culls lawlessness and brigandry. But, I will say that if they wish for bloody streets, they will get them in droves...

Kerrick Arkanus was laughing. He had cause to laugh. The messenger―a Chev―obviously didn't know what to make of the outburst, and was more than a little nervous as a result. “I made it on INS. I made it on INS! Moff Zell took the time to call me a . . . well, I think he ended up calling me a robot; but he's old, he can't be expected to keep up with which of us bleed and which of us leak.” Kerrick laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh, INS.”

“So you're not worried, sir?” The Chev sat forward in his seat, waiting for the man's response.

“You kidding me!?” He shouted, slamming his fist on his desk. “'The Dirside Speech'. They've got the galaxy thinking we paint our streets in blood and dance on the bodies of our dead mothers; that couldn't have gone any better. Still don't know how that got on the holonet in the first place, though. Was supposed to be a private event . . .”

“Should I set up an inquiry, Sir?”

“Did you miss something, kid?” He barked, though still laughing, wiping at a tear with a black-gloved hand. “What part of 'couldn't have gone any better' didn't you catch? We launch in two days, and when we succeed,” Kerrick smiled broadly, no longer laughing, “no INS broadcast can change what the eyes see and the senses experience, kid.”

The young Chev stood up, saluting. Kerrick returned the motion lazily, and the messenger remained for a moment, hesitant. “Sir? Is this whole . . . stalwart dedication, badass thing just some kind of an act?”

Kerrick sat up straight, remembering his place and casting his face once more into the iron mask it was meant to be. He stood, screaming “Get the hell out of here!” And smashed his fist against the top of his desk. Rushing to the wall, he grabbed some sort of wooden stick, smashing it into the chair the alien had been sitting in a moment before and sending it spinning off toward the opposite wall. He charged the door, smashing the stick against the floor a couple of times and running the messenger out of his office.

The door slid shut as the terrified humanoid scurried away, and Kerrick cracked an irresistible smile, releasing the top clasp on his uniform and adjusting his belt to be more comfortable. He set the chair back in place and returned the wooden stick to its place on the wall, finally pulling off his black gloves and slumping into his own chair. It was great to be Marshall Kerrick Arkanus. INS . . . Azrael Zell . . . story of my life.

They are going to find that laws don't mean much if they can't fucking be enforced. So, who's going to enforce the law?

Pirates, smugglers, thieves, and slavers. They'll meet a new kind of justice, find themselves subject to a new set of laws.

But that's what you get when you have a droid do your thinking for you.

We worked so hard to set this up, and then that tin can gets credited with it on Imperial News? That jackass has got more of his own programs and plots than even his digitized mind can keep up with. He's got no need getting involved with my work.

Regarding the Wookiees, there is an issue that the Wookiees are still classified as a slave race.

This one really did bother Kerrick, though. They'd used the simple presence of Wookiees to distract from the real concern the committee had voiced toward the Empire: that the native species of the former Onyxian world of Ankus was still registered as a slave species in the New Order. It's one thing to be occupied subjects, but its quite another to be outright slaves; which of them the Cragmoloids would be was as of yet undetermined.

Ohh, what a glorious time it is to be alive. Kerrick shook his head one last time, the clips from INS playing over in his mind. Zell . . . if ever that man came to rule the galaxy . . .






Varn orbit

“I don't want this. I'm not supposed to have this. It isn't right.”

Chief Ambassador Traan Shi looked to his friend with a sort of understandable sadness. “It's time, Overseer. The people need you, the Cooperative needs you, the Combined Council needs you. You've brought this on yourself; you're too essential to our fate . . . you've made yourself irreplaceable. We need you more than ever, and in greater capacity.”

The blue-and-black hologram shook its head defiantly. “No, a democracy―”

“A democracy draws its conclusions from the will of its people; its people have chosen you, because you're the only one who can do what has to be done. You've left us with no choice, and if you refuse this, you will do more harm than if you had just disappeared at the onset, and left Varn and the Quelii Sector to their fates. You've been our caretaker for all this time, mending our wounds and bolstering our spirits; you've saved us from internal collapse, and now you have to save us from something else.”

“It wasn't supposed to happen this way.”

Traan smiled, nodding. “It never does. Look: we both know what's going to happen, so just make it happen.”

Somewhere below them, far beyond the protective confines of the starship known as Smarts, on the surface of the planet Varn, the Cooperative Workers' Party had taken to the streets once more, and had demanded radical change in the face of a galaxy changing radically. Once more the Cooperative would adapt, once more it would shed its current form and become something . . . more.

“Thank you, Traan.”

The Togruta shook his head: “Not at all. You have an announcement to make; one that only you can, now.”

Traan took a few symbolic steps backwards, distancing himself from the holoprojector. He waited patiently while Smarts accessed the Cooperative HoloNet, preparing it for an official broadcast.

And then the now-familiar image of the Overseer's holographic representation appeared throughout Cooperative space, relayed by Coalition networks to the far-flung worlds and fleets of the Cooperative of Systems.

He began: “Greeting, friends and citizens. I come to you know on behalf of the Cooperative Combined Council, to present to you our collective response to the recent demands of the Cooperative Workers' Party and the unaffiliated citizens of our collective worlds. By this declaration to you, I acknowledge and authenticate the reorganization of the Cooperative of Systems into a United Cooperative of Peoples; under the Provisional Charter drawn and ratified by the Cooperative Combined Council, and now implemented by me before the collective citizens of the Cooperative, I take upon myself the title of Chief Executive of the United Cooperative, and set into motion―according to the new responsibilities and authorities granted me by this position―the immediate and expedient reorganization of the Cooperative governing body into a form more in keeping with the ideals espoused by you, the loyal and unwavering citizens of this nation.

“We face great adversity, and only together do we possess the means and will to not only endure, but continue in prosperity and strength. We stand as a testament to democracy and Cooperation, the ideals we espouse have preserved us through these dark days, and finally we are ready to reach out to the galaxy beyond our borders, and rebuild there as we have here.

“My friends, my brothers and sisters: I tell you today that we have succeeded! The hope and faith which has fueled this Cooperative since the onset of the Onyxian Crisis has not been offered in vain. We have ascended from that valley of damnation, from that pit of despair, and we have proven ourselves worthy to carry on.

“We usher in a new era not only for the Cooperative, but for the Coalition of which we are a part. The refugees of the Dragon War―most notably the inhabitants of Dac, but there are others―have been committed to our care, and under the tireless leadership of our Ryn companions . . .”

The Overseer would continue for quite some time, enumerating the principle achievements of the Cooperative since its inception, reminding the citizens of what had been gained because of their selfless sacrifices. But all of his patriotic declarations could be summed up into a single statement of numerical fact: the Cooperative―after taking upon itself the burden of both the Onyxian and Calamari refugees―was finally “in the black.” Cost had been surpassed by revenue.

The first global harvest was underway on Amorris, an accomplishment only made possible by a massive reconfiguration of the Onyxian Relocation Plan and a joint Ithorian/Mon Calamari irrigation project. Selcaron―a world once considered a thorn in the Cooperative's side―had metamorphed as its industrialization programs were augmented and accelerated to facilitate the Cooperative Military Creation Act. Convergence StarDrive; a monstrous conglomeration birthed from the merging of relocated elements of Sanctuary StarDrive, a TransGalMeg Industries expansion program, elements of Mon Calamari hardware salvaged during the Exodus from Dac, and funding from the double-edged sword that was the Cooperative-organized “Board” of corporate powers; was finally complete. The Ryn Fleet, which had been growing at an astounding rate since the inception of the Ryn Nation, had finally been organized into civilian, military, and corporate elements, all of which were further subdivided according to―what was for the Ryn―a surprisingly strict outline.

The Cooperative had reached the mountaintop of salvation; unfortunately, it would soon be thrust into another treacherous valley of damnation . . .






Contegorian Confederation embassy, Unity Point, Varn

Traan Shi blinked several times, searching for a response.

“You have our total support,” Beta responded in his “I'm the Overseer” voice, and Traan nodded, still at a loss for words. “I will issue a freeze on all Cooperative stocks on Amorris and Halmad scheduled for export, and ambassadors will be dispatched to Cerea and Leritor immediately, to secure a negotiating platform for you.”

“You understand our desire to keep this quiet, for the time being,” The Confederation diplomat stated firmly.

“Of course,” Traan chimed in, finally having found his voice, “but secrets of this magnitude never stay that way for long. We must move with all haste to secure what stores we are able.”

The man nodded. “Agreed. Now, on the matter of compensation . . .”

Strange forces were at work within the galaxy; the Contegorian Confederation's food stores had vanished, all at once and by no apparent means. The Cooperative was prepared to come to its ally's aide with the strength of all available resources and sort out “the matter of compensation” later, but the remainder of the Coalition would not likely follow such an example, and the Confederation was not the type of government to make itself reliant on such . . . blindly generous acts. The Confederation would accept only a concrete, solid, fair and equal trade; and it would ensure that upon that trade's conclusion, no Confederate owed anything to anyone beyond their own borders.

But it was for such diverse thinking that the Coalition was founded, and the Confederation―whatever it has become―remains an heir to that ideal. Together, the Coalition and Confederation would defeat this crisis and stand ready to guard against the others that were sure to come. Or so they believed . . .

. . .I would like permission to release the Glee Anselm Reclamation Fleet.. they might get there a bit faster and perhaps give us some idea of what is going---."

"Do it!" Regent Zell ordered.

Raioballo Sector declares Independence from Coalition

Cerea

The capital of the West had officially opened itself to the Dac refugees, and the reformed Dac Council had officially accepted the offer. Special allowances had been made for Ryn starships to travel through the Cerean atmosphere, so long as they were on official business and maintained a galactic standard level of acceptable emissions.

Skimming along the surface of the planet's largest ocean, Athan couldn't help but admire the world's beauty and respect its inhabitants' desire to preserve that undefiled nature. The Mon Calamari shared a great many values with the Cereans, Athan mused, content in the knowledge that the massive floating city currently under construction would leave no lasting mark on this world, and its operation after completion would contribute nothing to scar this pristine planet.

The covered speeder dipped suddenly, smashing into the water, and Athan once more thanked whatever deity was praised by the Xi Charrians, that the army of bugs had built another sturdy craft. Down they went, deep below the base of the floating city, to another kind of construct. Here, Quarren and Calamari workers swam about, utilizing tools designed specifically for their physiologies, constructing in the open water one of the deep-sea cities most suited for the Quarren people. It was amazing, really; to watch these two brother species, so often at each others' throats, working together to preserve both their ways of life.

And somewhere high above were the Cereans, sniffing in irritation at the exhaust of Ryn transports and freighters, but willing to endure what would otherwise be a blatant affront to their culture in order to aide a fellow Coalition citizen. The fact that the Ithorians of Lifebloom and some of their friends had offered to share an assortment of atmospheric cleansing technologies with the Cereans probably helped, too . . . but once again, that was just another example of one good alien helping another. Of course, that's what the Cooperative is all about; that's what the Coalition stands for.

Athan's speeder slid neatly into the sub-sea dock, a pressure seal initializing and a vacuum pump clearing the umbilical of water and replacing it with air before the submersible's door opened, allowing the Ryn to cross into the normal atmosphere maintained by the deep-sea command post.

“Now what do we have today, my good fellows?” Athan asked with a false sense of cheer, approaching his friends and subordinates with a rather lively gait.

“Message; take it on the back projector.”

“Private, huh?” He asked, studying the fellow Ryn for some clue.

“It was marked from the office of the Chief Executive,” The other said dryly, intent on his work.

Athan scratched the tip of his ear, moving away slowly. “Alright, thanks.”

Down the hall, around the corner, wait for the door to close and . . .

A hologram sprang to life of its own accord, a shifting pattern of blue and black taking on a vaguely humanoid form. “Pack your things.”

“Good to see you too, Overseer. How's the new job description working out for you, by the way?”

The figure crossed its arms over its chest. “Not bad,” The booming voice responded, “it lets me order you to Glee Anslem at the head of a humanitarian fleet.”

Beside himself with disbelief, Athan forgot to make some grand show of his shock. “You sure that's the best―”

“The Raioballo Sector has seceded from the Coalition.” Athan found that news somewhat disturbing, but that didn't seem to be what the Overseer was getting at. He continued: “The Imperial Reclamation Fleet has departed from the planet. It is imperative that the Coalition maintains a substantial, vested interest in the events unfolding at Glee Anselm, especially if the Empire has deemed its stay there at an end. It's time we show the galaxy conclusively that the leadership that silently built a military base atop the still-dying bodies of the Anselmi people does not extend to the remainder of the Coalition.

“Joren Logan and Marth Meer have vanished into the depths of the Rim; let them stay there, and let them keep the horror and inhumanity of Glee Anselm with them. Go to the Anselmi people, as a symbol of the Coalition's continued commitment to their restoration.”

“I don't know about this,” Athan replied dubiously.

“I'm dispatching you to Tirahnn,” The image continued, unimpeded. “You'll rendezvous with the First Work Fleet, accompanied by the First Medical Division and the Third Rapid Response Squadron. Tirahnn's League representative has assured me that the Anselmi will welcome any sincere aide we offer, and I intend to offer all that we can muster.

“Go in peace, and may the Force be with you.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Athan shouted, moving closer and shaking a finger at the hologram. “The First Fleet is assigned to the Dac Relocation; we can't just abandon our projects to our own people and dump half the Ryn nation on some distant planet because you think it'd be a good PR move. How are supposed to carry on here, now?”

The holographic image shifted uncomfortably. “The First Fleet is the only one equipped for substantial aquatic construction; we have to respond to galactic events, and the First Fleet is our only option right now. I'll worry about our commitment to the Dac Council, Ambassador; your job right now is rebuilding Glee Anselm.”

“But―”

“You know me, Athan,” His voice shifted once more, now calm and reassuring. “I'm not one to make empty promises. Show the League of Nations and the rest of the galaxy that the Galactic Coalition is not concerned only with the wellbeing of those within its own borders.”

The hologram vanished in a flash, and the room's lighting came on automatically. He was running over the numbers in his head, trying to nail down just how many Ryn ships the Overseer was talking about . . .

Damn, the Fishies are going to be mad. Tin Man better have a plan, because kind faces and half-finished projects won't be enough.

Athan turned and left the private room, trying to decide just how to give the bad news.




Varn

They were less than two weeks away from the official completion of the Trans-Rim Trade route, and both endpoints of that route had just declared their independence from the Galactic Coalition. Both the Cren Alliance and Raioballo Republic had been included as additions to the originally planned route; both had added cost and time to an urgent project being headed by a government already neck deep in financial commitments. A single thought occupied Smarts' focus:

“We have to salvage something from this situation.”

“How?” Traan asked seriously.

“We now administrate the only galactic scale trade route completely independent of Imperial oversight. We will express to the Cren and Sinsangese our willingness to negotiate favorable use of that route. Traan, I'm sending you to Sinsang. Nitin,” He added, turning his attention to the Iridonian diplomat, “I'm sending you to Farquak. Just . . . keep the door open.”





Omwat

The six men were on their knees, their fingers interlaced behind their heads, all of their heads bowed slightly. Marshal Kerrick Arkanus of the Rimward Defense Initiative paced back and forth in front of the captives, his pristine Grand Admiral's uniform contrasting sharply with the mismatched dozen Defense Initiative troops spread about the immediate area.

He stopped suddenly, turning toward the captives and leveling a cold stare. He raised his hand, and six blasters snapped into position, each trained on one of the captured pirates. “You have―”

“Wait.”

Kerrick was careful to maintain his emotionless mask despite his personal frustration, but lowered his hand without giving the signal to fire. He turned to the Omwati native who had stayed his hand, the displeasure at being interrupted evident in his eyes. She extended her hand, meeting his annoyed gaze with one of staunch determination. “This is our world; this is our right.”

Kerrick pursed his lips, eventually discerning her wishes and drawing the blaster pistol from his holster, putting it in the woman's hand.

“By the authority of the Rimward Defense Initiative,” She began, her voice uncharacteristically (for her species) harsh, the blaster hanging loosely by her side, “and the ruling of the Omwati people, you have been deemed guilty of crimes against sapience; your executions will take place presently, that your existence would not further hamper the wellbeing of your victims. I offer you final words and pleas.”

One of the men sneered, looking up for the first time to meet the Omwati woman's stare. “Do your worst!”

A flash of red tore through the twilight, and the man fell over, his face gone. She held the blaster with both hands, trained on the next captive in line, waiting silently. The human gave no response, and―after several seconds―met with the same fate.

“I-I-I have information!” The next man shouted, turning away as if the motion would somehow make the weapon less lethal. “I acknowledge the authority of the Rimward Defense Initiative and wish to reform my ways!” He continued, sounding as though he had rehearsed the line several times.

“Coward,” Another of them shouted at the man, and fell silent as the Omwati fired a third time. One of the other started to his feet, and she shot him before one of the watching soldiers could bring his rifle to bear. Two remained now; two of the six who had so recently ruled as tyrants on this peaceful world.

“Do you have information as well,” The Omwati asked, pointing to the one who had remained silent and still.

“Yes,” He answered firmly, staring straight at the barrel of the weapon that had killed his companions.

“You have occupied our world, killed our citizens, destroyed our livelihoods, terrorized our souls; justice demands your death, and you have taken from us all sense of mercy. I have no need for what you know.”

“We'll take them,” Kerrick spoke up, his tone indifferent.

The Omwati paused, the blaster wavering in her grasp. She glanced at the human dressed as a Grand Admiral, at his perfect posture and his military gaze that looked through, not at. The woman smiled, a bitter, malicious smile. “Lucky for you, we owe them.” She returned the blaster to Kerrick, who reclaimed it and turned away in one motion, giving a slight hand signal as he walked away.

The troopers moved to secure the two surviving pirates, the two who had agreed to sell their souls for a chance at life, and the Omwati scurried after Kerrick, her vengeance sated for the time being. She touched his shoulder lightly and his guise faltered for a moment, though he had recovered by the time he stopped and turned toward the disruption. “I'm Anjyl Dal,” She said, holding out her hand for him to shake. “About this Defense Initiative . . .”




Kaloth Battlecruiser Spoils of Freedom, Omwat orbit

The hologram flickered to life, and Kerrick knew immediately that something was wrong. The miniaturized head of the Kadri'Ra was hard to read, but he only moved around like that when something was bothering him.

“Out with it, Saarkon” Kerrick said dully, his facade of tyranny having dissolved as soon as the doors to his quarters closed.

“Captain Antillon is dead,” Saarkon reported, and Kerrick stopped halfway through pouring himself a glass of something that would best serve as fuel for a chemical fire. “Ambush, an elaborate one at that.”

“Who did it?”

The massive Kadri'Ra head shook from side to side, passing partly out of frame as it did so. “We don't know. Kerick, they're organizing to counter us. Empires are predictable, republics are merciful; but Kerrick, what you've made here is a monster that eats evil, pure and simple, and now all the bad guys know it. They aren't simply going to stand by and let you pick them off one by one. We have to change our―”

Kerrick shook his hand at the hologram, squinting bitterly as he forced down whatever he had finally worked up the courage to drink. “No changes; no relief; no submission; no 'new priorities'. We give in to anything, anywhere, even once, and all this is meaningless. I just watched an Omwati woman shoot four men in the head with my blaster, then chase me down the street asking me how her people could sign up . . . talk about bloody streets and savage nonsense.”

“Kerrick―”

“Saarkon, listen to me: these people are taking their homes back. They're rebuilding ways of life they thought they'd lost forever fifty years ago. We're the Rimward Defense Initiative; we go wherever we can find an excuse to, and once we get there we kill whoever's been killing people. It's what we do; it's why we exist. Somebody killed Antillon; their mistake. I'm going to find out who's responsible, and I'm going to kill them right back. And then they'll be dead, and whoever will want to replace them will have to do so knowing that we DON'T BACK DOWN!” He slammed his glass on his desk; then did it again, somewhat more futilely, the loss of Antillon only just sinking in.

He sighed, shutting his eyes tight and setting his jaw. “I need you to send a defense training team to Omwat; full kit.”

“Kerrick, Omwat doesn't help us―”

“Then we help Omwat.” He said harshly, standing up and leaving his glass behind. “This is the Rimward Defense Initiative; we're not in it for the politics, we're in it for the ideals.”

“Sooner or later, we're going to have to reconcile with the numbers, Kerrick.” Kerrick pounded his fist against the door activator, flipping the alien off as he disappeared into the corridor beyond.

The Initiative was founded to protect worlds like Omwat from the lawless forces which ply the Rim, and to equip those worlds with the means to defend themselves, then draw upon those means to extend the sphere of defense cast by the Initiative and its allies. What good was there in defending worlds that could already defend themselves? No, it was in worlds like Omwat that the future of the Initiative rested; it was in people like Anjyl Dal that the true strength of the Initiative was found; no cost/benefit analysis could capture those qualities . . . no numerical listing could encompass that truth.

Kerrick's commlink beeped, and he pressed the response button, talking loudly instead of raising it to his mouth: “Not now.”

“It must be now,” The artificial voice replied.

“Smarts?” He shouted, still hoping to get out of this conversation before the robot pulled him in too far.

“I'm recalling you to Cooperative space.”

Kerrick shook his head, grimacing. “Sorry, tin can; you can't do that.”

“Your list on the Cooperative Workers' Party leadership board says I can.”

Kerrick finally stopped his trudge through the ship, leaning against the nearest bulkhead as he lowered his voice and actually moved the commlink to his lips. “You've got no power over the Workers' Party, and we both know it.”

“Haven't you heard, Kerrick? We're at war.”

The color drained from Kerrick's face, the deathly serious tone of the machine catching him off guard.





“They overran the Paradise outpost; we tried to hold them, but I lost seven corvettes and frigates; one of the ships rammed Redemption and collapsed our forward shields. We had to pull out . . . I don't know . . . I don't know if―”

“It was the only option left to you, Admiral. It was the only right choice you could have made.”

Admiral Jonathan Blakeley nodded at length, still in shock from what he had just experienced in the Paradise System.

“They are advancing throughout the Imperial Borderland,” Smarts continued, not sure if the Admiral was entirely coherent. “The Ryn fleet at Maridun has fallen under attack.”

Blakeley nodded. “We received a distress call from them, but . . .”

“They were attempting to cover their ground forces' evacuation when I lost contact; only time will tell.”

Blakeley shook his head, taking a few deep breaths as he tried to right himself. “If these Reavers enter the Quelii Sector, we have to be prepared.”

“I've put the Cooperative Navy on full alert; Prime Minister Regrad recalled the Onyxian Fleet from the Raioballo Sector after Sinsang declared its independence, and I've taken command of them for the time being.”

“The Drackmarians?” Blakeley asked.

“I've sent word to Emperor Draconis, but General Sarris is still on campaign in the Unknown Regions. The Drackmarians will come as soon as they are able, but it may not be in time. I've recalled Kerrick Arkanus as well.” The comment drew a look of surprise from the recovering admiral. “We have no authority over the Rimward Defense Initiative, but Kerrick will work wonders in the Cooperative Workers' Party.”

“If there's still a Party to be in by the time he gets back,” Blakeley remarked darkly.



The events of Cataclysm...





Selcaron

“To arms! To arms! Glory, death, and bloodshed! You came here feeble, foolish, and green! You now leave as something MORE!” The massive Drackmarian stalked before the ranks of soldiers and officers, ground pounders and star chasers, a new generation of Cooperative warriors. The first generation.

“I would call to you in the name of Drackmar, for the glory of the Empire! But you carbons would balk and turn away, you uncommitted bastards! No, I will dispatch you in the name of something much more basic, much more universal: for life, its preservation, and its holiness.

“Now kill them all! They lost their lives long ago!”

The armed forces of the Cooperative of Systems were soon to be dispatched; maybe these Reavers wouldn't bleed, but they were going to die.



The Quagmire, beyond the borders of the Drackmarian Inner Sanctum


General Sarris stalked across the bridge of the Drackmarian Cruiser Iron Fist, waiting impatiently as the door slid open. He stepped through immediately, the door hissing shut behind him. Sarris palmed the activator on the holoprojector, and the image of Emperor Draconis coalesced before him. “How may I serve, Emperor?”

“Return to Outer Drackmar,” The Emperor said flatly, and Sarris sneered at the implications.

“My task is not yet complete.”

The hologram nodded, but Sarris could read something in the Emperor's eyes. “Our allies in the Quelii Sector need you; something terrible has begun. Admiral Maggog will reassume the defense of the Inner Sanctum.”

“But Emperor―”

“Surely you would not deny the Admiral the chance to redeem himself.”

Sarris shook his head, hissing submissively. “The Inner Fleet is not ready.”

“No, but it must suffice. You will understand when you reach Outer Drackmar; when you see for yourself.”

Sarris' brow shifted uncertainly. “What has happened?”

“General Codru has requested your return personally. You must go now; there is no time to waste.” The Emperor vanished without ceremony, and Sarris returned immediately to the bridge.

“Raise the fleet and set course. Destination: Outer Drackmar. And contact Central Command; I want to know what's happening in the Outer Worlds.”




Amorris

“Shut up!” The room fell silent, conceding to that all-too-familiar voice. Kerrick Arkanus stepped into view. He eyed the gathering, casting contemptuous looks at the members of the Board who had managed to force their way back into positions of policy-making. “Make it happen.”

“You can't order us around!” A short, bald man shouted defiantly at Kerrick, who had already turned his back on the gathering and was making for the door.

Knew it wouldn't be this easy. Stopping, he finally turned around, balling his gloved fists as he got into character. “The ten billion men, women, and children I represent can; and they listen to pretty much whatever I tell them,” He smiled malevolently, sweeping the room with a dark sort of gaze. Of course, that wasn't really true, but if the Workers' Party at large found out there were Board members back in leadership positions, it could be very quickly. “You serve the Cooperative; the Cooperative serves its people; people like to stay alive. Make it happen, or I will.”

“How long can you lead a party of peace from the bridge of a warship, Marshall?” He demanded boldly.

Kerrick laughed, a cold and kindless laugh. “Now if I told you that, you'd know how to stop me.” His tone shifted to something much darker, and all semblance of jest vanished. He spoke softly, his words only carrying far enough for the challenger to hear them. “I'd hate to have to disappear you.” His threatening tone and piercing stare were more than enough to silence the once-bold man.

This time he made it out of the crowded room before anyone could or would try to stop him. The door closed behind him, and Kerrick removed his black gloves, releasing the top clasp on his white uniform and adjusting his belt to be a little more comfortable. Sighing heavily, Kerrick picked up his pace and got as far away from those blood-sucking politicians and money-grabbing businessmen as possible. Whatever empty threats and flashy shows he made, the fact remains that Kerrick Arkanus will not allow the men and women of the Cooperative Workers' Party to be manipulated and coerced by a back-room band of the Cooperative's most selfish and nearsighted beings.




Varn


The Overseer would make another declaration to the people of the Cooperative, but this time it would not be to bow before the wishes of those people, but rather to ask them to bow before their own need. For all of the success their work had achieved, none of it could have prepared them for this moment. No one could have seen this coming. And so he began:

“Good people of the Cooperative, I present myself before you today because you deserve the unclouded truth. In response to the relentless and unprovoked strike on Cooperative and surrounding worlds by forces originating from the Black Dragon Empire, the Cooperative Senate has declared and I have confirmed a state of war between the United Cooperative of Peoples and the Black Dragon Imperium. With the Raioballo Republic's declaration of independence, Prime Minister Regrad has ordered all military vessels of the former Onyxian Fleet to withdraw to standing Coalition borders; I have taken emergency command of those assets, and have recalled the Drackmarian Fleet to further bolster our military capacity.

“All Cooperative industrial assets are to shift from Reconstruction programs to full military production; we will dispatch our forces to the East, and reclaim those worlds lost by Reaver invasion. We will show to the galaxy that the Galactic Coalition of Planets does not abandon those who still call themselves Citizens of that Coalition.

“We are ready; we are strong; we are one. Since the fall of the Onyxian Commonwealth, we have all labored without rest to bring about a new age for the Cooperative and our allies; now we must take up arms and defend the promise of that new age. I have received word that the forces of the Galactic Empire, Contegorian Confederation, and Gestalt Colonies have come under attack from unknown alien forces. Now more than ever, we must stand strong, prepare for the unexpected, and show ourselves unwilling to abandon in war those ideals we so fervently espouse in peace.

“I have taken upon myself the mantle that you have asked of me, to lead you through this great Cataclysm, to defend and protect the ideals we have instilled within one another. I swear to you now, as the embodiment of the Cooperative, that I will labor without rest until those who would destroy our way of life and murder our beliefs are silenced.

“And so I set forth, in the name of us all, to save our dreams.”

That was it. The Overseer vanished into hyperspace, but his destination was neither a time nor a place. His destination was a person.

It was time for the Chief Executive of the most powerful political organization remaining within the Galactic Coalition to have a heart-to-heart with Prime Minister Regrad of Azguard.

Confederation in the Crisis

Kashan Defence Academy, Solace, Kashan

“Confirm with Voice Authentication…”

Corise rolled his eyes. Security can be a hassle at times like this…

“Admiral Lucerne-”

“Confirmed,” interrupted the automated voice.

The blastdoors slid open, and the two leaders nearly fell through the doors; being pressed up against by some fortunate cadets and families who had escaped the initial onslaught. The two dozen of them passed through before Corise slapped a button: causing the blast doors to shut upon not only the alien invaders, but a few Contegorians who had just begun to run for the doors. Through the closing doors, he could make out an either insane or desperate cadet try to stab one of the spiders with his dress sword. The blade merely bounced off the thing with a muted ping. The door shut. The spiders have metal or armor plating of some sort. We’re either dealing with a group of intelligent arachnids that wear armor, or we’ll dealing with a battle droid of some sort. Seeing that we don’t even know of any intelligent beings like that, it’s safe to say it’s a battle droid. Maybe some variant of the dwarf spider droid the CIS used… Thorn grabbed his shoulder.

“Where are we?”

“A panic room essentially,” answered Corise, pushing his way past the woman, “It was built in case of a bombardment.”

Thorn frowned. “Well, they aren’t exactly a bombardment…”

Corise nodded. “Which is why we’re going to solve it with a bombardment.”

The Pro-Consul paused….“What did you just say?”

***

Pegasus-class Star Destroyer Pegasus, in orbit via Kashan

“No, none of this makes any sense,” snapped Captain Thompson, “there aren’t any space vessels around to have transported them-”

“Signal from the surface sir. It’s the Admiral,” reported an officer.

“Erhh…patch it throughout the room…”

“And…it’s done,” continued the comm. specialist.

“Captain Thompson?” questioned a reverberating voice.

“Yes Admiral?” replied Thompson briskly.

“You will have all KDF vessels in the area equipped with magnetic-pulse ordinance bombard Solace and the surrounding communities with the said weapons. Immediately. I want two salvos, and then no more. You will hold your position over Solace then.”

“Ah…yes sir.”

“Lucerne out.”

Thompson dragged his hand over his face. “Well, I guess we do it. Comm, inform all other vessels of the Admiral’s orders. Weapons…well…you know what to do.”

The wedge-shaped starship swung about as if to stab the planet. Pegasus knifed over the emerald greens of the worlds forest, the swirling blues of the sea, the goldenrods of the prairies till it crossed into the planet’s night side to hover over the only gray and lit up part of the world: Solace. A dozen dark darts surged from the star destroyer’s sides…plunged into the atmosphere…and exploded mid-air. Up in space, the lights on the surface faded from view. Several Seraph cruisers and Juaire gunships approached, launching their own Starflares equipped with Mag-pulse warheads.

More detonations, less light.

***

Five minutes later…

Solace, Kashan

Corporal Hrakniss stared out of the upper story window with his militia’s commander, Colonel Spenser. Upon the detection of the invaders, sirens had alerted the Confederation militia to action. Men and women pulled out weapons and uniforms to ready for the coming action…and stayed for the most part in their homes; eliminating spiders that encroached on their own property. The reserve droid legions were called up by High Command, summoning thousands of automated warriors from their earthen bunkers to face the alien invaders. The plasma disruptors of the aliens were matched by an assortment of weaponry from the battle droids: plasma assault rifles, repeating blasters, missiles, corrosive gases, along with any other payload the Paladin IIs were capable of carrying. While the automated warriors fought for each side in the streets of New Solace, Colonel Spenser merely watched from a distance. The spiders in the immediate area were long gone: dispatched by the four dozen Paladins which constituted the defence unit for this, their militia’s command post.

“Command says we’re about to lose our power…energy. Anything that’s either connected to the power grid or that uses computer programming.”

“We’re going to lose our Paladins?”

The Lieutenant shook his head. “Their ionic shielding protects them from ion and EMP attacks.”

Hrakniss winced. “We’re hitting our own city with mag-pulse weapons? There are hospitals and other places that simply need that to survive…”

“I know. But we’re talking about the Admiral. He doesn’t see people: he sees numbers…We’ll lose a dozen people in the hospital and probably save hundreds of others simply hitting our own city. Of course, restarting the city life after that will be a pain, but hey. It’s better than being dead…”

Below them in their house, a quartet of Paladins silently stared out of the open windows. The droids had already decimated down the initial spiders with their proton rockets. What was meant to take out Imperial tanks and walkers had little difficultly wiping out clusters of the interlopers. Of course, in doing so, they had destroyed most of the road that the spiders had been standing on. THX-1138 spotted one of the spiders creeping towards the front door from another house. Perhaps creeping was not the word; perhaps it was stumbling, almost as if it were a certain drunk Kuati admiral. But the droid did not process this. After all, machines are stupid, but they are efficient.

Scanning…

Target acquired…

THX-1138 lifted up its right arm to point at the spider. The thing skittered about uncertainly, dazed, as if it were dying. Maybe it was. Electronics, cybernetics…none of that typically fared against electromagnetic weapons…but it was still not dead. The Paladin II fired its oversized assault rifle: a quartet of fusion slugs smashed into the creature and detonated, sending superheated plasma into the innards of the thing. Another set of slugs smashed into the spider’s legs, this one fromTHX-1142. Two legs of the disappeared in the fusion reaction’s haze, sending the damaged thing sprawling onto the ground with a clatter. The spider seemed to spasm as if in its death knell. THX-1138 ran over to the spider and promptly bashed the broken machine with its rifle onto the ground. The thing stopped moving. Across the capital city, the reserve droid legions of Paladin IIs backed by Confederation militia and armored vehicles began to tediously clear out the surviving spiders which hadn’t succumbed to the electromagnetic bombardment. There were likely spiders in other places on Kashan, but it wouldn’t matter much; simply because there was no-one there. The few places located far away from the capitol city, like Shipwright Academy, were military facilities manned by military personnel with military equipment. It might have been an even battle there, save that the defenders knew their turf, while the spiders did not.

***
Atlas Hall, Brandenburg, Genon

The sublevels of Atlas Hall were known as the center for the COnfederation's governmental elite. Scientists, politicians, corporate officials, and military officers all weaved in and out of the building; all hoping to eventually enter the sublevels to get to the Council. The intrigue and the understanding, the friendship and the animosity, the debate and acception, simultenously repelled and drew in new peoples to the Council, or at least made political life in the Council tumultous. Change was always upon them. But seldom had the Confederation dealt with the sort of change falling upon. In their luxurious settings, instead of discussing intricate political, military, scientific, cultural theories, concepts, and et cetera, they found themself discussing one of the most basic needs known to most people: that of eating. Ideas and alliances quickly formed and broke in the crisis. Everyone had some idea. That is, everyone but B53439, or "Bates". Unsurprisingly, the Uffel Councilor councilor didn't have much to say was that from Uffel; mainly because as a droid representing a moon populated soley by droids, he didn't understand or have much of a stake in the crisis.

“…the debacle at Kashan was devastating. I understand Madame Pro-Consul that you yourself were hurt during the graduation ceremony…”

The Pro-Consul winced. “It was nothing that bacta could not heal...please continue with your briefing however. It is far more important than what happened at Kashan.”

“As I was saying,” continued Councilor Harding, “our government food stores are gone. Even on Kashan, what should have been one of our safest worlds. This suggests that it was an inside job, as no outsider knows the position of the planet, nor the route through the hazardous nebula. But the losses on Kashan are insignificant compared to what we have lost elsewhere. Surplus grains on Audacia and Almas mysteriously vanished into thin air. Our siege stores have mostly disappeared on planets...”

“Does the public know?”

Harding shook his head. “Officially, no. But the problem is widespread enough that it’s bound to escape the lips of some government workers, some guards. CSIS has already rumors about an upcoming feminine…”

Rearden leaned back. “Agriworlds will have to pick up production. It’s not as if every plant or animal on a planet vanished over night, is it?”

“Growing food is not quite as simple as manufacturing ships or droids, as on your planet, sir,” answered Councilor Swits, “growth takes time. And time is something that we do not have. If the people get too hungry, well, riots and worse will occur.”

“If they get hungry,” reiterated Admiral Lucerne, “the obvious key to the dilemma is not to let them even think about being hungry. As much as I hate it, some information is best kept secret from the public. I would like to suggest to the council that we use our trade partners to deal with this crisis.”

“Relying on outside influence? It’s a surprising risk that you’re willing to take; a complete turn-around from your own philosophy to make the Confederation independent of every other country in the galaxy…” mumbled a man.

“The galaxy in general is having a rough time,” replied Thorn, “people will have to rely on people they have never met, never trusted to simply survive. I have talked to several Coalition diplomats. Their agri-worlds Leritor and Ambrossis are both willing to sell the Confederation food…”

“But the question is will it be enough? Enough for over forty worlds?”

“No,” admitted Thorn, “but it solves part of the crisis…”

“I might add,” stated Lucerne, “that the CCMF regularly trades with neutral planets. I have already ordered for a priority for that fleet to obtain as much as physically is possible…”

“Bah,” exclaimed a green-skinned Kon’me, “it sounds like a huge government deficit in the making, if we even manage to survive.”

“The fleet has already netted the government a significant amount of income, both through the Unity ships and the CCMF,” reminded Lucerne, “enough that I believe that the military will actually be able to account for the funds for the Coalition purchases, and likely for many of the purchases made by the CMF. Though I readily admit, it does not solve or pay for the entire crisis…”

“Has the food disappeared from any of your warships, Admiral?” questioned a woman.

“Not that I am aware of. Each ship does have enough foodstuffs to last their crews a little over a year…are you suggesting that the ships offload their consumables to provide for civilians?”

She nodded. “I want it to be a possibility. Better to have a ship run out of food in twelve months when things will be better than let a child starve within the next week…”

Rearden shook his head. “That is an option we should reserve for a last-case scenario. There are not enough consumables in an entire fleet to feed one of our most populous planets, like say, Reaper’s World…”

The representative from the planet nodded vigorously, “But we will take it if nothing else. At for the rest of you, most of the planets can grow food or have things on them for to readily eat. We cannot eat duracrete and steel…”

“No,” replied a blue-uniformed man from the back of the room, “but you may certainly be able to recycle enough to make food…”

“What?”

Lucerne rose from the table to greet the man, “This is my chief advisor on technology, Minister Locris, Councilor.”

Harding frowned. “The Minister of Technology? For food?”

“Technology can solve a lot of problems, or excaberate them,” offered Locris, “I believe that I have talked to several industrial councilmen already here about switching production from military machinery to food-recycling systems…and so essentially, a being’s wastes, along with other chemicals, are turned into edible foods. It is widely used on scouting starships, heck even the Eye of Palpatine-”

“You’ll forgive me Minister,” interrupted Thorn, “if other people might find that idea revolting, if not unappetizing.”

“I have already ordered all military factories switched over to the design,” informed Lucerne, “as of three days ago. They will be used; that is, unless people would rather starve or we find another source. The first production batch was completed nearly twelve hours ago, and I’ve already ordered them to be installed in all military facilities.”

“Rather rash Admiral,” chided Briggins, “I hope for the Maker’s sake that we are not attacked and find ourselves out of missiles or ships…”

“I think we have enough for the moment…” countered Lucerne dryly.



**


Atlas Hall, Brandenburg, Genon

“…the debacle at Kashan was devastating. I understand Madame Pro-Consul that you yourself were hurt during the graduation ceremony…”

The Pro-Consul winced. “It was nothing that bacta could not heal...please continue with your briefing however. It is far more important than what happened at Kashan.”

“As I was saying,” continued Councilor Harding, “our government food stores are gone. Even on Kashan, what should have been one of our safest worlds. This suggests that it was an inside job, as no outsider knows the position of the planet, nor the route through the hazardous nebula. But the losses on Kashan are insignificant compared to what we have lost elsewhere. Surplus grains on Audacia and Almas mysteriously vanished into thin air. Our siege stores have mostly disappeared on planets...”

“Does the public know?”

Harding shook his head. “Officially, no. But the problem is widespread enough that it’s bound to escape the lips of some government workers, some guards. CSIS has already rumors about an upcoming famine…”

Rearden leaned back. “Agriworlds will have to pick up production. It’s not as if every plant or animal on a planet vanished over night, is it?”

“Growing food is not quite as simple as manufacturing ships or droids, as on your planet, sir,” answered Councilor Swits, “growth takes time. And time is something that we do not have. If the people get too hungry, well, riots and worse will occur.”

“If they get hungry,” reiterated Admiral Lucerne, “the obvious key to the dilemma is not to let them even think about being hungry. As much as I hate it, some information is best kept secret from the public. I would like to suggest to the council that we use our trade partners to deal with this crisis.”

“Relying on outside influence? It’s a surprising risk that you’re willing to take; a complete turn-around from your own philosophy to make the Confederation independent of every other country in the galaxy…” mumbled a man.

“The galaxy in general is having a rough time,” replied Thorn, “people will have to rely on people they have never met, never trusted to simply survive. I have talked to several Coalition diplomats. Their agri-worlds Leritor and Ambrossis are both willing to sell the Confederation food…”

“But the question is will it be enough? Enough for over forty worlds?”

“No,” admitted Thorn, “but it solves part of the crisis…”

“I might add,” stated Lucerne, “that the CCMF regularly trades with neutral planets. I have already ordered for a priority for that fleet to obtain as much as physically is possible…”

“Bah,” exclaimed a green-skinned Kon’me, “it sounds like a huge government deficit in the making, if we even manage to survive.”

“The fleet has already netted the government a significant amount of income, both through the Unity ships and the CCMF,” reminded Lucerne, “enough that I believe that the military will actually be able to account for the funds for the Coalition purchases, and likely for many of the purchases made by the CMF. Though I readily admit, it does not solve or pay for the entire crisis…”

“Has the food disappeared from any of your warships, Admiral?” questioned a woman.

“Not that I am aware of. Each ship does have enough foodstuffs to last their crews a little over a year…are you suggesting that the ships offload their consumables to provide for civilians?”

She nodded. “I want it to be a possibility. Better to have a ship run out of food in twelve months when things will be better than let a child starve within the next week…”

Rearden shook his head. “That is an option we should reserve for a last-case scenario. There are not enough consumables in an entire fleet to feed one of our most populous planets, like say, Reaper’s World…”

The representative from the planet nodded vigorously, “But we will take it if nothing else. At for the rest of you, most of the planets can grow food or have things on them for to readily eat. We cannot eat duracrete and steel…”

“No,” replied a blue-uniformed man from the back of the room, “but you may certainly be able to recycle enough to make food…”

“What?”

Lucerne rose from the table to greet the man, “This is my chief advisor on technology, Minister Locris, Councilor.”

Harding frowned. “The Minister of Technology? For food?”

“Technology can solve a lot of problems, or excaberate them,” offered Locris, “I believe that I have talked to several industrial councilmen already here about switching production from military machinery to food-recycling systems…and so essentially, a being’s wastes, along with other chemicals, are turned into edible foods. It is widely used on scouting starships, heck even the Eye of Palpatine-”

“You’ll forgive me Minister,” interrupted Thorn, “if other people might find that idea revolting, if not unappetizing.”

“I have already ordered all military factories switched over to the design,” informed Lucerne, “as of three days ago. They will be used; that is, unless people would rather starve or we find another source. The first production batch was completed nearly twelve hours ago, and I’ve already ordered them to be installed in all military facilities.”

“Rather rash Admiral,” chided Briggins, “I hope for the Maker’s sake that we are not attacked and find ourselves out of missiles or ships…”

“I think we have enough for the moment…” countered Lucerne dryly.

“I would like to offer a more palatable choice,” offered Councilor Yarbrough, “albeit it is not fully my project or responsibility. One of the CMF voyages managed to obtain certain varieties of mushrooms from Ord Cestus when trading with the Cooperative. Now, these are genetically refined and engineered fungi that have been cultivated for hundreds of years by the X’ting people of the planet that they can cultivated to taste as any number of things and to contain any number of minerals and what not. I had one myself, and I found them to be quite-”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Briggins, “but what is your point? We’re not exactly talking about delicacies are people can eat in the future…”

Yarbrough sighed, “Except that we are. Councilor Bartek of Almas can confirm this, but our genetics labs on Almas modified them some more; enough so that we will not have to worry about this hunger crisis-”

“Fungi are naturally among the quickest-growing organisms in the universe,” explained Bartek, “simply by the virtue of their simplicity and energy-gathering abilities as partial detrivores. This makes them also exceeding simply to modify, especially since the one was so minor. What our geneticist have merely done is speed up their growing, or perhaps, aging process. Leaving us with essentially a very fast-growing crop which can fulfill all of our hunger needs if we get enough volume to grow them on…”

“What? We’re going to eat magic mushrooms now?” interrupted Briggins.

“…The beauty of fungi is that they can be grown nearly anywhere with a little work. They need no sunlight or certain temperatures. Cover a warehouse floor with some dirt, sprinkle the spores, and a crop would be ready for harvesting before the week is done. It’s perfect, especially since we are capable of mass-producing spores via our cloning equipment, Councilor Yarbrough?”

The man nodded. “Simple organisms don’t take much time to clone. We can probably make hundreds of spores in a single cylinder within an hour. I have already instructed my advisors to begin cloning them immediately…I imagine the crates are starting to pile up at Saleucami-”

“Such power-mongering the Council has never seen before,” declared Councilor Tevv, “everyone here is so quick to offer their solutions to the crisis in order to garner the gratitude of everyone else, that we have forgotten our past, and our mutual culture. We are not a communal society. We do not simply all gather our goods and distribute them as needed for nothing through a central authority. We are a capitalist society, and as the elected officials of the government, we do not merely shovel in food into people’s mouths when they are hungry. People chose and buy what foods as they want. Whether it be some intergalactic food conglomerate based in Ukio or the farmer next door. The second we interfere with our society in such a mass action, we take their freedoms from them, deprive the ability of people to think and adapt for themselves. Now certainly these are cataclysmic times, and unfortunately we must act in at least little ways in order to see our people survive; but we must not dote upon them like does an infant. You’re grown-up, take care ourselves like adults. I would propose helping the local markets gather up their food supplies from elsewhere, promote trade in foodstuffs to the Confederation via incentives, like waived docking fees for ships carrying them and not other cargoes and what not.”

“Tevv is right,” added Harding, “when the Empire attacked Metalorn, the planet’s government at that time had just learned the foolishness of government-controlled foodstores. They had made a deal with Agamar to provide most of their food to government stockpiles which would then be distributed to the workers as needed. But Agamar failed its end of the bargain for whatever reason, and the workers nearly starved there because of relying on the government. We have seen this lesson before, and we must not fail it again. It is certainly is great the Confederation has never had to rely on foreign sources for anything: it has allowed us unprecedented independence. Imagine what would happen if the Empire lost its agri worlds, if they have any? Their vaunted military would either have to eat the millions of weapons they produce daily…they are so focused on conquest that they’ve forgotten the basis of life or any civilization. But that being said, we have been temporary deprived of our independence by unforeseen actions. We must turn to the outside economies to garner some foodstuffs.”

“No doubt,” answered Lucerne, “but nevertheless, in case a foreign partner fails like Agamar once did, and for the sake of national security, I would like to suggest that both the food recycling and mushroom projects be sponsored and passed via a direct vote on the Council.”

“Worry not about the power-mongering or the dependence on government,” added Bartek, “the Fungi projects were federally funded and produced, meaning that neither myself or Yarbrough had anything to gain. I would suggest selling the fungi to the supermarkets or whatever food stores your planets have, to not only ensure that people do not become dependent on the government, but so that the project can be funded, and perhaps another source of revenue be added to the government…”

Bimmisari
Coalition Battle Line Against The Reavers

Above the world of Bimmisari, Coalition warships from all corners of the galaxy milled aimlessly about, drilling their formations and passing the hours. The planet below had gone from the Coalition's financial capital to the front line of a new war - or perhaps, an old one revisited.

The surface of Bimmisari was home to some impressive spires, although nowhere near the supercities of Coruscant or other galactic megatropoli. One of the greatest such towers was doing more than business, though, it was the meeting point for Coalition forces. Fighters screamed through the storm clouds as Coalition soldiers and tanks rolled through the streets far below. With the chaos of recent events, they were taking no chances.

What chaos it has been... Regrad looked out from the towertop meeting room's huge balcony window into the rain and towards the circling fightercraft. He tried to stand up straight, but his head bumped against the ceiling. At times, his Azguardian physique was a hindrance.

"So," he murmured, "what's the latest?"

Around the table sat Admiral Panacka of the East, Minister Dondana, Chief Ferguson, Lord Yolem, Knight Ruuvan, and a half-dozen other high level government officials. They had been all he'd been able to rally so far for a counter-attack in the Eastern Coalition, which didn't surprise but did disappoint.

"It's not good," said Ferguson. The CIB man threw down his file folders in frustration. "We haven't been able to get anything on this new threat. Our operatives either find nothing or don't come back. Scouting's pointless, there's nothing to see and yet when they want to they can make whole ships disappear. Contact's completely impossible with any inhabited world behind the line."

He fumbled for his jacket flap, from which he withrdrew a battered flask and drank deeply. "What little we do know is that they look like Dragons but they're not following any of the known tactics or patterns. It's like their whole Empire collectively lost it. We sent a few scouts over to Farfalen to see what was up, but they're locked down tighter than a hutt's ass."

"It doesn't matter what kind of game they're playing at," Panacka countered. The perennially exhausted admiral had found himself thrust into the position of provisional leader of the entire East, a role to which he was only gradually adapting. "What I want to know is if we can hold them here, at Bimmisari. If we can beat them! I know we've been discussing the Confederation food situation, but the humanitarian-"

Dondana gave a polite cough, causing Panacka to sigh and start again. "The quality-of-life in the refugee sectors is breaking down. Thank the Force for Fwsvilling, but they're relying on a fleet of import every day now to keep everyone fed and alive. We can't keep this up forever, or even much longer."

"We can't even afford to buy anymore, not even at the friendly prices we've been getting from Brandt," said Dondana. "I asked the Minister of Economics to work the numbers before the meeting. He says we're teetering on bankrucy again, and all the tentative growth we were experiencing post-Onyx was shot to hell when Sinsang pulled out and almost scuttled that trade lane we sunk all our money into."

"Who's still paying in?" Regrad asked, pulling over a stray file folder as he did so.

"The West, the Cooperative, and a bunch of the smaller, one-worlders scattered about. Tirahnn's bringing in some steady, but that's barely covering our expenses feeding the emergency fleet we need to hold the line here at Bimmisari. If we don't lose anyone else we might not dip too far into deficit, but with our luck..."

"The cooperative is a blessing," mused the Prime Minister. "They're the only ones right now building something instead of holding on to what we have or considering when the time's right to bolt."

The cynical comment came as no surprise to his friends and advisors. These were indeed dark times. "I miss Viryn," Dondana muttered. "At least he could keep things funny."

Regrad allowed himself a half-smile. "There are a lot of old friends I wouldn't mind seeing right now. I haven't seen Frakutsk in... it feels like years now."

"That big newt's still kicking around," said Ferguson. "Last I heard my people placed him in Roche. Still sorting that place out."

"His work there was admirable, and his Jedi activities just."

"Ha!" The laugh had come from a bitter Mon Calamari sitting on the far end of the table. "Could really use some of that Jedi justice right now. They're supposed to be good fighters, right? Well right now I'd trade all the justice in the galaxy for another few squadrons."

"Everything we have, everything we could muster in time, is here."

"Yeah, and it's not enough," Ruuvan growled darkly. "The Eastern fleet is in tatters. We've got enough manpower but it's mostly green and replacements at this point, and with none of our shipyards operational we're having a hell of a time gearing up to take back anything. Your Azguardian homefleet's strong, but it's too small to beat the Dragons and too valuable to risk in a head-to-head. The rest is just reserve forces and reinforcements called up from the smaller, planetary members. It's not an army."

"It's all we have," repeated Regrad. "We will make the most of it. The enemy advance has halted, but why? We need more information before we launch a full-on counter attack. We need to know what's going on at worlds behind the line, and if these are still the same Dragon forces fought at Mon Calamari and elsewhere."

"If spies and scouts don't work, then what?"

"Then we send soldiers. We will prepare for a foray into enemy space to gauge reaction, strength, and intention."

"You can't be serious," said Dondana, his eyes wide. "We don't have the best record on military reconnaisence, you know."

"We don't have the best record on anything, Dondana, and desperate times call for overwhelming force. I will prepare an Azguardian foray party to determine the strength of the enemy."

"I would be honoured to lead such a party," said Yolem, rising to his feet (and bowing his head to avoid hitting the ceiling).

"Then it will be so," said Regrad. "Tomorrow we make for the battle line and find out what the hell is going on out there, even if we have to blast our way back in."

"I only pray that'll be enough," said Panacka. He sighed and threw up his hands in frustration. "Why not? Let's give it a shot. It's not like we've got much else to lose at this point."

"I'll keep my ear out for any more intelligence I can." Ferguson sweeped up his documents again and stuffed them under his arm. "If I hear anything about the situation, you'll know immediately."

"Best of luck to all of you. Tomorrow, then." Unless, by the grace of gods, our luck should turn. The meeting was adjourned.