The Rebel Faction

“ It is an awesome sight, isn’t it sir?”


There came in reply only a deep sigh. The eyes of a young man fell together, shielding the emerald-orbs beneath from a spectacle of grandeur all around him. It was indeed an awesome sight to behold, with literally thousands of ships creating a visible swarm around the Third Battle Group. Civilian ships ignited their exhaust fumes, setting them aflame in a most impressive display of brilliant fire and flare. Long barges, their holds normally filled with goods of sale, now held parties of people and droids that looked on through makeshift viewports.


The young man opened his eyes to look at comrade in the chamber. Their reflections were similar in purely physical terms: both were tall at over two meters, both had full heads of hair, both wore the green-grey uniform of an officer in the Imperial Navy.


There was however one prevalent difference between the two. The man who watched with interest barely a meter from a wall of transparisteel bore on his chest the insignia of a Captain. His skin was soft and almost feminine, as if he had never seen a hard day’s labor. That in fact the case, as with many members of the Empire’s officer corps. They were competent men and excellent commanders, brilliant in their own right and bearing the burden of command in many a battle: they had never killed a man with their own hands. They saw ships and fleets not as vessels and units that carried men into battle, all too oft to their deaths.


Though not older, the onlooker was wiser. One swipe of his skin gave away lines of age extent decades before their time. Though a member of aristocracy and the elite of the Imperial Fleet, the career of Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria had been forged on his deeds both as commander and soldier. On his chest was an appropriate badge of rank, perched below the ruby-topped form of the Imperial Cross.


“ It is awesome, Captain Vorran. It is also sad.”


Telan Desaria did not doubt the final success of the mission he had been entrusted to carry out. His was a mind made for battle. As well he knew that placed under his command was a potent fighting force, trained and disciplined. He also knew his enemy would be resolute and determined.


Among all this, he knew that many of the ships being given such a glorious send-off by the people of Coruscant would meet a glorious demise taking thousands of young officers and crew with them.


The Admiral sighed anew, softer and resigned. Before leaving the viewing chamber aft of the bridge, he straightened himself and pushed his prediction to the ash-heap of his mind. He was the commander of men and machine alike. He would not let them down.


“ Captain, let us return to the bridge. Our men need us not in words but spirit.”


The flag captain of the Third Battle Group acknowledged his superior and friend, falling in behind after closing the gap. Together they marched down the aft control corridor and onto the bridge-proper, each department-head looking up in acknowledgement. Desaria took his seat at the catwalk’s end, Vorran his position in the port crewpit.


“ Continue on course. Proceed with the jump when ready.”


A yeoman handed the Admiral a datapad, confirming the combat readiness of all ships. Three Attack Squadrons were on the roster, each filled with mighty Imperial Star Destroyers of varying classes. Passing various reviewing stands behind their flagship were two Light Squadrons, composed of every kind of cruiser the Empire fielded. Along were two Defense Squadrons of the frigates and pickets that would perform the essential function of guarding the battleships from the threats not inimicably designed for, and one powerful bombardment detachment.


Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria knew his ships, their commanders, and the commanders of the various formations. He knew it would be a glorious campaign.


On to Tion…

“ Thirty minutes remaining before reversion, Admiral.”


“ Acknowledged.”


Baron Telan Desaria regarded his figure in a full-length mirror adjacent his black-sheeted bed. He stood in partial uniform: grey-green breaches, jackboots, white collared-undershirt. For a man having celebrated three and one-quarter decades’ worth of birthdays, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff did not look as…antiquated…as some of his peers in the upper echelons of the military. While the Regent himself was barely fifty, his sagging features and weathered look gave him a wholly unattractive look. Desaria, on the other hand, spent much of his off-duty time maintaining the physique he had gained as champion of Kuat’s battleball league.


Where his face was concerned, the Admiral thought himself unappealing. His mate on Kuat did not think so, but as the face’s bearer, he disagreed. One prominent scar above his left eye gave a hint of mystery while a lack of facial hair retained its youthful appearance.


Desaria allowed one more look, and given the circumstance of career and stress, resigned himself to the fact he was still mildly attractive as he had been when a mere Captain in the Imperial Navy.


There was no greater reminder of that eclipsed age of innocence and ignorance than the tunic he donned one arm at time. Clasping it together affirmed his responsibility and authority. It had been specially fitted by Artemis Lannsford, the most renowned tailor in all the Empire with a fee to match. Desaria tugged at the collar then adjusted the tunic with a firm pull. It sat perfectly on his frame.


Pleased, Desaria looked left to his nightstand. From it he removed the black and silver Imperial Cross from its case, the Pforr Leaves and Sabres crossed at its top clasp. Affixed at his throat, it was the most sought-after decoration an officer in any branch of the military could be awarded.


Before leaving his quarters, Desaria attached his holster to his belt. The pistol within had been used by his father at the Battle of Brentaal, many years ago. It was ornately crafted and sighted by some of the most dedicated artisans on Kuat; a weapon to rely on it was. The Admiral would doubtfully use it in action, but it was definitely comforting to have.




“ Admiral!” Captain Vorran stood from the command chair on the catwalk and clicked his heels smartly. “ Fifteen minutes until reversion, Admiral.”


Baron Telan Desaria assumed his perch and looked forward without emotion. “ Report, Captain Vorran.”


“ Crew is at battlestations. All guns are manned and ready; fighters are ready for deployment. As soon as we revert, shields will be raised to full.”


Desaria nodded, silent permission for Vorran to adjourn into the crew pit from a position he could command his ship. His place at the Admiral’s side was taken by A. D. Semenov, Flag Captain and Desaria’s adjutant. It was Flag Captain Semenov who would aid Admiral Desaria in dispatching orders in battle.


“ Sir, the 1st Destroyer Squadron is in position around us, the 115th Light Assault Squadron in screening formation. All other ships have dropped out of hyperspace to prepare for phase II.”


All was proceeding as planned. With the previously-top secret report distributed to all ranks, zeal was at an all-time high. Major Kolomeitsev, Inquisitoriate representative on Desaria’s staff, sat back with obvious glee in his cabin as he had no work to do. The ‘Red Terror’ had no loyalty to ensure, the crews and soldiers policing themselves.


Voices echoed through the crewpit stations as the eighteen-thousand meter mass of the Intimidator slowed from astronomical speeds to sublight. Space was anchored and hyperspace cast off. The blue nebula-like state of faster-than-light travel gave way the star-dotted fabric of the abyss.


Nestled in the cold vacuum was Lianna, atmosphere laced with white accumulations of clouds barely covering the brown and gold savannahs below. Seas and lakes abounded, ebbing and flowing with the forceful winds that plagued and shaped the very earth. The world was pleasant, its inhabitants oppositely so.


“ Your Excellency, we are receiving a transmission from the surface.”


“ Put it through,” Semenov ordered, gesturing forward. A panel of the triangular viewports on the bridge transformed into the image of a horned Devaronian.


“ Infidel ships. You have entered the realm of the God-Emperor. For the crime of defiling His domain, you will be executed.”


There was no more said and the image faded back to a partial view of Lianna.


“ Admiral! Four warships are approaching from the lowest-orbit moon.”


“ Specifications?” asked the Admiral. Imperial Intelligence had sent in dozens of operatives to gather information since the commencement of unofficial hostilities between the Galactic Empire and the Children of the Divine as they called themselves. None had returned and little documentation had been made of the forces at their disposal. Many common ships found themselves in the service of the Divine, but had been refitted and transformed beyond recognition.


“ Four-hundred meters, rectangular in shape, only a few weapon emplacements detected. No fighters or bays.”


Semenov turned into the aft control corridor to one of the communications officers. “ Designate ‘Divine Light Cruiser Alpha.”


“ Send the 33rd Defender Wing to intercept, test their systems. Tell Line Captain Asimov to prepare to detach some of his cruisers.”


Admiral of the Fleet Baron Desaria smiled. Battle is joined…

Around the mass of Lianna they came, fifteen ships angrily charging into battle to avenge the death of four sacrifical lambs. Fourteen of them were small frigates, each looking as if it was torn from spacedock before painting or finishing-out could be completed; they had the image of evil, replete with spikes, hellish etchings, useless projections of sheet metal and durasteel. The last ship and most noticeable was considerably larger than its peers, nearing the size of an Imperial III-class Star Destroyer. Long and wide with a barrel-looking structure aft, it still had the features of its smaller escorts.


They rocketed around the planet with tremendous speed and set immediately towards the 90th Light.


“ I see them, Captain,” Admiral Desaria commented before Captain Vorran could report in as to the sudden arrival of enemy warships. The Intimidator’s commander was an excellent officer, but far too unused to working with a flag officer on the bridge.


“ Sir, we’ve designated targets. The small escorts all roughly fit the same basic specifications without all that trim. They are Divine Frigates. Their larger ship has been tagged a grand cruiser.”


Admiral Desaria nodded to Flag Captain Semenov, an aide walking away from him as he spoke having delivered his own report.


“ Admiral, six of the grand’s escorts are breaking off and mowing to directly engage the 90th. Remaining ships are turning for us. Speed has slowed considerably, approximately one quarter-standard.”


The Admiral smiled. The enemy commander, despite his obvious religious fanaticism in a God-Emperor and a great power to one day reclaim the galaxy, was competent. The loss of his four frigates had given him an approximation of what the Imperials could do in offense, and now he was testing their defensive reflexes. He would engage the main body nevertheless, but was moving slow enough to alter his strategy if needed. Desaria had been too long without a worthy adversary.


“ The Light is to engage at maximum range and ease off slowly – let their range close gradually, then move in to skirmish-“


“ Admiral!!!” The Chief of the General Staff turned to see Semenov, aghast and disgusted as he beheld the datapad with an uplink to the main battle computer. His now-pale features glanced up to meet Desaria’s gaze. “ Captain Asimov is attacking, and has not raised his shields.”


“ Range!” Desaria demanded, his eyes now flecked with bulging lines of red.


“ The enemy formation is spreading itself out to prevent a flanking maneuver. We will be in weapons range of the main body in two minutes. Until it is countered, we will not be able to relieve the 90th.”


Admiral of the Fleet Desaria barred his teeth and barely withheld a howl of rage. With the arrogance entitled a man in one of the Fleet’s highest ranks, he stormed from the bridge. Flag Captain Semenov followed and was soon joined by two other officers of the Admiral’s staff. When they entered the lift after Desaria, he was a different man. His rage had been placed under control, evident by clear eyes and the commanding voice in which he ordered the lift’s droid-controlled voice recognition hardware to make priority speed to the flag bridge.

“ I made a grave error in choosing your formation to spearhead this assault. I place the blame for actions this day entirely in my own hands.”


Admiral of the Fleet Telan Desaria sat behind his obsidian desk, moving a stylus between thumb and forefinger, seeming to hope its agitation would spring forth an answer on crystal sheets. Flag Captain Semenov stood to the Admiral’s left, Captain Vorran to his right. Both held a visor cap under arm and were totally motionless.


Standing equally so below the room’s raised ending was Captain Asimov and the commanders of three other cruisers from the 90th Light Squadron.


“ I entrusted Flag Captain Semenov here to handle the logistics of integrating various units into a cohesive battle group until I arrived. When I did, I only reviewed reports on commendations and strengths. This incompetence can be borne by me alone.


“ Your squadron received, as a whole, the Legion of Merit with three Service Clusters from the Regent’s Office, and so I did not give your worthiness a second-thought. I never looked into why.”


Desaria continued rolling the stylus from one end of his hand to another while the other produced a flimsiplast. It crinkled and bent from unseen waves of air pushed forth from ventilation shafts, making the only noise in the room.


“ The 90th Light is an outstanding formation – for dealing with pirates, thieves, brigands, and criminal elements. For the last two years, your command as moved across the entire Delteon Sector providing internal security and doing a wonderful job of it. However, in that time, you never encountered a ship over two hundred meters or that could give any serious resistance to a Hammer-class Light Cruiser or Fire-class Frigate. So here you are, faced with fifteen ships of a virtually unknown enemy, each barely 250 meters on the keel, so you think victory is a foregone conclusion.


“ This arrogance, built up battling privateers, never gives raising your shields priority. And for that, you even attacked despite my orders to withdraw. Casualties were approximately seven hundred for your squadron. To me, those are acceptable casualties in an engagement such as the one we just had.


“ To you, however, those numbers should be staggering. I laud initiative, and attacking was a good idea if you saw a weakness. But for not raising your deflectors you are guilty of gross negligence not to say incompetence!”


Asimov clicked his heels and straightened himself. “ Admiral, if I may – “


“ You may not!” Desaria bit out. “ I cannot blame your men, or the officers under your command. They learn from you. You other captains under him, for not ordering action taken on your own, are just as guilty. One would think that Captains, Imperial Captains, would have the wherewithal to execute basic preparations.”


The Admiral never grew angry or loud, instead letting the calm manner of his dressing down sink into the minds of the men before him. His eyes narrowed as he gazed over the iron-faced officers.


“ The Empire will not tolerate fools. You are being relieved of command and being sent before a Court Martial. I have penned an affidavit in absentia recommending your dismissal from the Service and execution. Dismissed.”

The bowels of the Imperial sentinel- class drop ship held a full company of Imperial mobile infantry. The young men and women that sat stiffly in their harnesses looked at each other with apprehension. They had all seen the report sent down from the highest levels, of the massacre of Fiamatt V. That knowledge that no quarter would be given, that none would be received, sat heavily with the soldiers of the 160th Mobile Infantry division.

The youthful looks on the faces of the Infantry was noted by the man who sat in the command chair at aft of the shuttle. His gaze drifted over the soldiers, their camoflauge, blaster rifles, vibroblades, all looking like a joke. They were probably just out of boot camp.

Colonel Tchort shifted his weight in the high backed chair, his throat mic knocking against his chin as he did so. His eyes were a clear, cool blue, like some chill winter wind they peirced those he looked at, even in the crimson light of the shuttle interior. His countenance was angled, sharp featured, with a haze of stubble covering his lower face. He wore his camo smock with a his visor cap, a confidence about himm that the soldiers picked up upon.

The shuttle hit turbulence as it decended into the cloud cover, rocking the unsettled troopers uncomfortably. They knew not what would await them on the surface, what horror awaited them with baited breath.