The Rebel Faction

More than anything in the galaxy- more than any amount of riches, more than any amount of power- Moff Torston Tollnies loved caek (spelling error intended). Day or night, no matter what the circumstances, a piece of cake could always be found by the obese oaf's side. Regardless of flavor, whether Ser-fruit, Demon, Nerf, or one of a hundred or even thousand more exotic concoctions, he would eat it if given the opportunity. The basement of his massive mansion (located on a huge estate on Toprawa) was nearly all a single massive freezer and was, almost predictably, filled to the brim with cakes, none of them quite the same.

And because all the work he did for the Empire (or rather, the lack of it), he had nothing but time to sit and eat cake at his estate. His company was universally less than desirable to all but perhaps a Hutt, and his hygiene about as good. He lacked social skills, preferring to sit and eat his cake rather than socialize. He wasn't a very good speaker, or a very persuasive person (any Jedi or Sith would tell you he was weak minded). If it wasn't for the powerful political connections his family had possessed for generations, he never would have gotten anywhere close to his present status. In fact, in the Imperial service, he would have been promptly executed for his irreversible ineptness.

His demeanor was rather irritable, unless you were talking about cake (perhaps the only thing he really enjoyed discussing). He had the repulsive tendency to explode in fits of rage at any time with little or no provoking, and when he was doing something, would grow extremely raged if interrupted and start melting down, claiming he couldn't get anything done with all this pressure.

So it was with a bit of reluctance that one of his servants, a human rescued from the slave trade by Imperial Intelligence and, ironically, forced into indenturement for his entire life to repay his part of the cost of the raid. But, regardless of the Moff's severe lack of maturity and the inevitable likelihood he would explode the moment he addressed him, it was an important matter that must be brought to the mans attention. After all, he was one of the most powerful men in the entire Boarderland protectorate.

"Uh, sir..." he addressed the Moff, cowering as if it would protect him from the inevitable fit of rage. "We have just received as series of transmissions from headquarters dealing with the Rebels in the Lahara sector..."

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAX!" Cruxwell suddenly shouted, though completely unprovoked, "You should know better than to interrupt me while I'm eating, you incompetent fool!"

"But sir, the transmissions were marked "Priority." If I waited until you were finished eating (sometime around the end of the universe, the servant noted to himself, unless a heart attack took the fat oaf first), then most of the information will be outdated by the time I read it to you."

"What?" The Moff replied, suddenly becoming calm as if nothing had happened, a stupid, quizzed expression occupying his face. "Well why didn't you say so?"

"I said so sir. I clearly stated that it was marked priority."

"No you did not. If you said it was marked priority I would have ordered you to read it to me without the slightest delay."

The servant shook his head. It was useless arguing with the man because of his childish logic and reasoning combined with his immaturity and unwillingness to admit mistakes.

"I apologise sir," he said instead of his true thoughts, "I should have told you it was a priority message first thing."

"You are forgiven Rax, now quit stalling and tell me the message. What use is a priority mark if you are just going to stand here and argue with me about something. By the time you read it to me most of the information might be outdated.

On the inside, Rax felt like shaking his head.

"Of course sir. Actually, there are several things. First of all, within the past two hours two raids have been launched by the guerrilla forces, one striking a base on Prsoth and the other Mexatas VIII. Several hundred thousand credits of losses are estimated by the bases executive officers, particularly in the form of lost slaves but also in the form of stolen supplies. Most of their fuel and ammunition stores were lost, whether stolen or destroyed. In addition, several light cruisers and a Strike-class cruiser were boarded and captured, with their cost adding up to just over a billion credits..."

"Who put those men in charge?" Peff interrupted. "What kind of incompetent fools would let this happen."

Rax answered without thinking. He knew all of the officer's under the Moff's command by heart. His great memory was why he was made an aide instead of being forced to do standard lower labor like most Imperial slaves.

"Vice Admirals Paladin and Luxwell, sir. And, if I recall correctly, both were appointed by you."

"That's impossible. I wouldn't put such fools in charge of my military forces. I want you to find the man who did and have him demoted. And also have those two demoted down to Captain. I don't want them to mess up anything like this ever again."

"Of course, sir," was the reply, Rax clicked on his datapad as if to take note of his orders (in fact, it wasn't even on. From the full report he knew they'd been badly outgunned and made the best defense possible out of what they'd had, but had no chance of successfully holding the raiders off. However, he never bothered the Moff with the details since he never listened to them anyways.)

"Secondly..."

"While we're on the subject of officers, why don't you stick somebody else in charge? Somebody who knows what he's doing. Get a more competent fleet officer transferred over here. Like that Gilford from the eighth fleet, or that one little bastard who took Myrkr a few months ago, and Bandomeer just a few days? He was on the holonews. His name was Borton, or Klorton, or something."

"You mean Thorton sir," he corrected. The young Commodore had been mentioned in military reports recently for several innovative strategies he invented during fleet exercises. They had now been widely distributed within the navy, with his name attached to every copy.

"I suppose I could look into getting him transferred, though his superiors may not want to transfer him. But we can have it arranged, saying that he's needed for counter-insurgency work and ..."

"Say, Rax, bring me another piece of cake. With you flapping your gums how am I supposed to eat?"

As it turned out, he wasn't. In command of the Prsoth garrison was the capable Vice Admiral Tobias Luxwell, who had (quite literally) wrote the book on fleet maneuvering in long distance engagements to minimize vulnerability to long range salvos.

Now a a gray-haired old man of fifty, his flesh was old but his mind was still sharp. Often described to be a "mountain of a man," the 2.25 meter tall Vice Admiral Luxwell still had a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step possessed only by those most dedicated to serving the Empire and her great Emperor Hyfe. In his thirty years of fleet service he had worked his way up from the bottom instead of starting as an officer by graduating the academy. However, this gave him an unusual sense of compassion for and understanding of the lower enlisted men and officers. He had been through what they'd been through, experienced what they'd experienced, and desired what they desired.

In return, his men loved him- they would even die for him, if he asked it,
without a second thought.

That was good, because, seeing what they were up against, it was likely they would.

Outgunned three to one as it was- he didn't know if they had any reinforcements on standby- things were looking hopeless. In an orbit several thousand Kilometers above his flagship, the Strike-class cruiser Pride of Xenoth (named after an obscure outer-rim gas mining planet who'd anted up the money to purchase it), was the massive bulk of the Imperial-class Star Destroyer, broadcasting herself as theRighteous, and an assortment of escorts.

He had a handful of gunships, three cruisers, and several planet-based wings of TIE Defenders to either delay or destroy them with.

That, and several hundred TIE Phantoms ready for pickup from the little-known foundry buried deep below the garrison.

This was going to be an interesting fight indeed...

With limited resources to draw upon, and most of these resources put into expanding it's small fleet, the True Empire was at a significant disadvantage to the Empire, and would be for some time. However, her leaders were not stupid. Kris, a believer of the mobility school of thought, had managed to divert enough resources to construct a network of probes around the Empire's boarders to detect incoming intruders, and relays to send this information to where it was needed. It was hoped that by rearranging forces to counter attackers they could gain a local superiority of numbers, even if the Empire was far stronger in the big picture.

"Contact Emperor and Supreme Commander Enfield. Give them the details of the situation and request the immediate return of them and their fleets to the capital."

"Yes sir, it will be done with all possible haste."

And to think that this had to happen on the shift of (now) Admiral Hans Pornam, former Captain in the Imperial Navy of the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Admirable.

"Captain," he now called (The Captain being the former Commander of the ship)

"Yes sir?"

"Assemble the fleet. The Central computer has given the enemy fleet an ETA of forty-three minutes, and an approximate location for their arrival. I want the fleet moved around this location to give us the first shot of the engagement. With our numbers, compared to the estimates of enemy strength from their hypermatter trail (a staggering dozen star destroyers and support vessels) it may be our only hope."

"It will be done, Admiral," the captain replied, turning towards the communications station.

***

"Now here this, all crews to battlestations!"

Frack, though Pilot Gordon Hiller, do the brass ever get tired of running drills?

Immediately, the lights in the pilot bunk room, containing another seven men like him, began brightening, a device meant to wake them up. One of them, his squadron leader and a man who took all the drills extremely seriously, immediately hopped up and began sliding his pants on. The rest of them groaned, however, displeased with the interruption to their sleep.

"Now hear this, all crews to battle stations! This is not a drill, this is not a drill!"

Oh Frack!

Two Months Later... Imperial Execution Range on Imperial Center

"... And so, in light of your crimes of High Treason and defiance of the Emperor and his will, this Tribunal had sentenced you to execution on the firing wall."

It is better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees, Kris told himself.

His head was filled with all kinds of thought, a slurry of emotions at what he was hearing and seeing.

"The sentence will be carried out immediately."

On the other side of the firing range, a line of a dozen Storm troopers spread out, guns across their chests.

Kris couldn't see this though, through his blindfold, but he could hear them and his mind painted a picture more than vivid enough for him.

"Do those so sentenced have any last requests, or wish to beg for mercy?"

There was silence, for a moment.

"Could you," Griz said, "Give this old soldier an honorable death, and remove this blindfold. I do not care so much about these binders, but if I am forced to die, I wish to look death in the face to the last."

There was dead silence, and then the messenger spoke up.

"The tribunal has resolved that no concessions be granted to those being sentenced."

"Troops, shoulder arms! Present arms!"

It was silent as a grave yard.

"Arms, up!"

There was a dozen clatters as the executioners raised their blasters.

He was scared, he was nervous. He was twitching uncontrollably.

But Griz died like a true soldier. He stood tall, he stood proud. Death did not scare him.