Quarion, Mensyl

Taking in a deep breath of the Vrodian trees which stood just outside the window, Aramil stared idly at the elegant Vorglass goblet. Not quite there yet. She might have mixed it too quickly again. The Irollan extended a slender pale finger and lightly tapped the glass twice, instantly dissolving the cerulean specks within a sea of green. A clammy hand instantly massaged his shoulder.

“Sorry my love,” whispered Valenae with an apologetic smile, “I always forget that you prefer the fey dissolved in your tea.”

Aramil nodded indifferently. She did not, yet she keeps up this routine for the guests. Like her performance will convince them that she is a human despite her clear Irollan heritage. She has truly turned it into an art, perhaps even a mode of theatre. His jade-like slats of eyes quietly made contract with the gushing blues of his wife. And between just the two of them fell a wash of serenity and patience. He could endure his wife’s absurdities for the rest of the dinner party. After all, he had survived with her for some seventy years since their marriage.

“It is of no concern,” dryly replied Aramil, “but come Soveliss, tell me what you think of the Corellon’s decision to absorb Mensyl into the Kingdom.”

The shorter Irollan lightly set his own glass of tea on a highly stylized coaster before forcing a light-hearted yet clearly formal grin on his face. The near-human slipped his slender hands into his form-fitting tunic.

“Some say he’s motivated by power. Some say he just wants to enforce the ancient laws in which Mensyl was a royal territory. Yet others say it is a ploy to garner more tribute out of your hands and out of our people.”

“But what do you think?” questioned Aramil, “You are among the most trusted of my advisors. You are among those still living when we refound the lost colony of Mensyl all those years ago.”

“Roughly seven decades ago,” recalled the scout, “back when you were a mere three decades old at most. And they said it could not be done back then…”

“A cultural bias and taboo, in my opinion…” interrupted Valenae melodramatically.

Aramil’s face stood as unchanged and unreadable as that of a sandblasted sculpture from Tatooine. Well, that she would try to emulate the Confederate humans we have met. That she would copy their…art…and try to pass it off as their reality I did not expect. Realistically portrayal was never her strength…only emphasizing our differences is her only strength. Shuffling those thoughts to the back of his head, he made a mental note to analyze his wife’s recent behaviors with her friends.

“Tradition did have some role to play in Mensyl’s rediscovery for many years,” agreed Soveliss, “yet the Corellon fully blessed and praised the discovery back then. But he has changed since then, my friend…”

“Certainly more liberal,” expounded Valenae, “when he traveled among this people and stopped over at regular people’s homes. He was a people’s king, and among the common man more than the nobles. But now he is so isolated-”

“Valenae, dear, time is short, and we must stay focused” chided Amaril, “my friend Soveliss, what do you believe the Corellon’s next move will be?”

Soveliss’ lip twitched, “There are rumors around the kingdom that the Corellon has ordered sudden arrests and brutal crackdowns on people and groups which could be a threat to his rule or teachings. He now uses lethal weaponry despite the tenets of the Corellon’s rule, and of the Corellons before him. The priest-king has turned his eyes from enlightenment down to power. From serving the people and their aims to serving himself over all other costs.”

“You are thinking in terms of the history that these Confederates have shown us,” considered Aramil, “and there is perhaps some truth in it-”

“The Corellon will always lead his followers to true peace and happiness like he has in the past with his followers and will do in the future,” countered Valenae, “you would do well to remember His Holiness’ power in guiding his people to wisdom and eternal life…”

“Emperor Palpatine promised eternal life to his most trusted servants and their favored,” answered Aramil quietly, “yet he fulfilled this promise to no-one before his deaths. No, his servants found death when they turned against and destroyed themselves. The Kingdom of the Galactic Empire then collapsed like a house without structural supports.”

“You think the Corellon is an evil man?” gasped Valenae.

Soveliss frowned. “Anarcas has not acted like a true Corellon. His actions do not follow the scripture. If he is feeding on the weak and taking from others without compensation, and only thinking about his own personal gain, he is no more than a powerful bully. He uses force, not diplomacy. This is no path to enlightenment.”

“Anarcas is the Corellon in word,” agreed Aramil, “but not in spirit. We cannot both bow down to him and serve the tenets of our forefathers.”

Valenae turned exceptionally pale. “Even if it comes to war? To abolishing the pacifist tenets that our forefathers valued?”

“One can wage a war and hurt few people, dear,” replied Amaril.

Soveliss listlessly shook his head. “Not in our current position, friend.”

Styria-class Galleon Providence, in orbit via Mensyl

“…and five hundred crates of light repeating blasters…” droned the protocol droid.

“Hand or vehicle-mounts?” questioned Tobias.

“For vehicle mounts,” answered the C7PO, glancing at the datapad, “they are for an indigenous patrol-”

Tobias swiftly silenced the droid with a curt wave of the hand, “That is enough C7. I was merely rechecking the inventory. We would have a real problem if they were not for vehicle mounts.”

“Surely, sir, the micro-ion warheads would-”

“I am fully aware that Irollans would simply be excited with that order in terms of trade diplomacy,” replied Tobias, “but I would not be, nor would the rest of the CMF, because we wouldn’t get all of the cargo off Mensyl that we want.”

“The metals, sir? Why can we not procure them elsewhere?”

Ingham’s lips curled into a thin line, “Perhaps because the refinement process which they utilize and any tempering agents which they use on the metals are unknown. There is a secret into how they make it, and sometime we will find out. But right now, the Council merely wants us to acquire as much of it as possible for a project.”

“What project?”

“C7,” growled Tobias, “Yours not to reason why, yours but to do and buy. You’re a supercargo, which means-”

The ship’s intercom pinged.

“Commodore sir?”

“Yes de Vries, what is it?”

“Sir, Prince Aramil wishes to speak to you in person,” reported the Lieutenant, “he has quietly hinted that the sooner would be the better. He didn’t say, but I am not so sure it has anything to do with the trading, sir.”



Some hours later…

Atlas Hall, Brandenburg, Genon

Corise shuffled a few screens on the datapad as Councilor Johnston of Reaper’s World droned on about his concerns of the recent Reaver occupation of former BDE space. It had put the eastern territories of the Confederation in an unusual strategic danger; while the Confederation had always been concerned about the possibility of attacks from that area of space, from the Taj leading the Black Dragon Empire, this new foe they faced was entirely different opponent to face despite their derivation. The Taj would calculate combined diplomatic and military moves with state-of-the-art warships, and often aided by an outside source, to conquer a planet. These Reavers seemed to use less calculations than his sister’s three year old; sending star destroyers in a mad rush after single passenger liners. The Reavers could care less their strategic movements, representing a simultaneous step forward and backward in military thought to Confederation High Command. Councilor Harding abruptly rose from his chair in the middle of another tirade, causing Corise to glance up from his military reports to actually pay attention to a politician.

“Forgive me Councilor Johnston for interrupting you, but as the current rotating head speaker, it is one of my privileges and responsibilities to immediately respond and redirect our agenda as events unfold in the galaxy real-time. Holo-projector, access channel forty-five.”

The automated holo-projector, a recent innovation from Uffel, deftly turned itself on and switched to the said channel; producing a full-colored representation of Commodore Tobias, clad mostly in his CMF duty light grays (which really demonstrated the projector’s color differentiation abilities) and his somewhat pale skin. Corise scooted up closer to the table.

“Commodore Tobias of the Confederation Merchant Fleet,” announced Harding, “current flag officer of the 8th Trading Expedition, flag Providence. Would you please inform the Council of the situation at Mensyl.”

The younger Lucerne quickly glanced around the table; noting confusion and apathy flit about most of the faces that he could read. Thorn seemed particularly troubled by the mention of Mensyl, and the current Kon’me councilor seemed somewhat more irate than normal, though Corise had not yet mastered reading the alien’s body language for even the most obvious ques yet.

“Certainly Mr. Councilor,” replied Ingham, “do the councilors know about Mensyl, or shall I inform you of the basics of this planet’s history with us?”

“Indulge us, Commodore,” replied Harding, “although I am loathe to admit it, I doubt that we all regularly read CMF reports…”

Ingham shrugged, apparently not too surprised by this relevation.

“At one point in time millennia ago, there was no nebula around the Fyre Sola system. But one formed around it as a result of the Cron Cluster supernova caused by an ancient Sith. But that supernova created another nebula, known to some astrologists as the Passacalgia, some parsecs away from the Fyre Sola’s. In any case, one of our scout ships discovered Mensyl at the edge of this nebula during the formation of the Pan-Contegorian trade route. Intelligent humanoids, with basic space travel, known to us as the Irollans were found to inhabit the planet. They possess some unique material technology that we have been trading for in return for such modern conveniences such as hyperdrives, blasters, droids, and you name it. They’ve wanted to try it all-”

“Commodore, if you could kindly get to the most basic crux of the matter…”

Ingham blushed. “Very well. They believe that they are about to be invaded by hostile forces and consequently have requested full membership into the Confederation.”

“Invaded by who?” asked Johnston, “The Reavers?”

“No Councilor,” replied Tobias, “apparently by other Irollans.”

Harding frowned, “Their immediate request is denied. You suggested to us that you only knew of one planet inhabited by the Irollans. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“And now there are possibly more?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then their membership request is denied,” decided Harding, “we cannot ask our people to sacrifice themselves when we do not know what they are fighting for.”

Tobias nodded, “The Prince said that this would be your response, which is why he has provided you all with intelligence reports from his agents about these threats.”

“And you believe his word without seeing the other’s side?”

“I do,” replied Tobias, “Prine Amaril has been nothing but honest in his negotiations with us, and it has cost him dearly in the past in terms of credits and trade goods. I see no reason why he would be dishonest now. If nothing else, we are potentially losing an excellent trading partner and risking a possible intrustion towards the trade route by a foe.”

Thorn cleared her throat. “The Council will be open to reviewing Mensyl’s application to the Confederation as more information becomes available. I will be requiring the testimony of you and your crew as part of this application process, given their anonymity to the rest of the galaxy at large.”

“Until then,” spoke Lucerne, “I am authorizing the CMF units within the immediate area to actively seek out negotiations with this foe, and if inevitable, defend Mensyl until the situation can be sorted out.”

“Yes sir.”

Styria-class Galleon Providence, Quarion, Mensyl

“Yes sir,” replied Commodore Tobias.

The holograph of the Council faded into the white walls of the ship’s communication’s centre. Ingham let a sigh escape him. All CMF units within the area…four galleons and six gunships…let us hope that this Irollan Kingdom isn’t terribly powerful…but come to think of it, I have seen so few large Irollan merchant ships, and no warships of any sort aside from their customs craft…what kind of threat could this be? He felt someone nudging his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Prince Amaril would like to see you, in person,” announced the ensign, “he’s waiting at the bottom of the ship’s ramp.”

Tobias paused for a second. “Did he say why?”

“Ah…no sir.”

“All right,” said the Commodore, “let’s go see him.”

The two men passed through the doors and through the clogged corridors of the galleon itself. It was if they were passing through the arteries of an economy: labor droids hefted up duraplast crates and marched them off the ships in dozens; men pushed other cargo on repulsorlift sleds through the same corridors as the droids; leading to a colossal traffic jam. Tobias edged through the crowd, frequently yelling or flaunting his rank insignia to break through the walls of men and machines. Five minutes later, Tobias broke through the cramped corridors of his ship onto the VIP ramp, and was met by a warm wash of fresh air.

He squinted as he scanned the horizon for Prince Amaril and his retinue. With a ship as large as a Galleon, they could be difficult to pick out among the bustling flow of commerce. He blinked at the sights around him. It’s unlike any other space port I’ve been to… Massive blocks of some metallic material surrounded the ships like castle walls; perhaps they once had been. But it was difficult to tell to Ingham’s eyes: vines and other local foliage covered much of the walls, obscuring the large glyphs found near the top of each wall.

“Commodore Tobias.”

The Budpock native glanced down to see an angular near-human with long, straight hair gracefully advancing towards him. Their eyes met, and Tobias then recognized the being as Prince of Mensyl. Tobias offered a bow towards Amaril, who looked at the man somewhat amused.

“There is no reason to bow,” said Amaril, “I am not your prince.”

“True, your graciousness,” replied Tobias, “but I would rather overly praise your station than offend you or your people.”

The Irollan shook his head. “It is of no consequence. You may call me Amaril If you could free yourself from your duties, I would like you to walk with me; to understand what I seek to defend.”

Tobias cleared his throat. “I have news from the Council. They have authorized me to defend Mensyl with what ships and men I have here.”

Amaril gravely nodded. “All the more reason to walk with me. You should know what you and your people are fighting for. And perhaps more practically to a man such as yourself, who you will be fighting alongside…”

“The Council wishes for me to negotiate a honorable peace between the Kingdom and yourself.”

The prince let a slight smile creep up on his face, “Which is what I would have, if they would let me have it.”

Tobias frowned. “Have you tried?”

“Walk with me.”

Reluctantly assenting, Tobias fell in with the prince’s retinue. The prince’s body guards quickly enveloped the two, surrounding them in a close phalanx as they walked through the space port. Amaril flashed him a wan smile.

“The Irollan Kingdom has not known a full-scale war in three thousand years; not a pitched battle in hundred of years,” informed Amaril, “we have always managed to avoid violence via diplomacy or some maneuvering. But we are at an impasse now. The Kingdom wishes for Mensyl to return to the kingdom, and for me to abdicate.”

Tobias frowned. “Mensyl was part of the kingdom at one point?”

“Hundreds, maybe a thousand years ago,” mused the Prince, “but the planet and its colony became lost; likely overwhelmed by the beasts which we are still forced to hunt to this day. I rediscovered the planet some years ago and settled it with my family, my crew’s families, and all of our friends, and so forth. We prospered, rediscovering our civilization, or rather, the colony’s ancient civilization, like this building. In any case, the Kingdom has taken no interest into our affairs until we began trading with you. I believe they are jealous and fearful of our newly developed power. Let me show you something.”

The retinue abruptly turned past a native Irollan cargo ship and through a narrow gateway; one manned by guards clad in uniforms similar to those of the Prince’s guards. Tobias glanced up and was surprised to see that unlike the rest of the building so far, that sunlight did not light up the area, but rather glowstones that dangled from a roof doubtlessly made up of the same material as the walls. No haphazardly-landed starships or bustling crowds met them. Instead, a few dozen beings clad in the same military uniforms strolled around slim bipedal walkers. They stopped next to one.

“What do you see?” asked the Prince, gesturing at the walker.

Tobias spotted what seemed to be a pair of cannons on the craft. “A military walker.”

Amaril shook his head, “I see a piece of art; one that our engineers have been working on for over fifty years; always reaching for perfection. Do you see the slim, curved lines of the vehicle? It is an aerodynamic perfection…closer to a sculpture than any military walker that I have seen in the outside world. Do you see those guns? Merely sonic stunners. This is no war machine; it is vehicle that we use to subdue the wild beasts which routinely threaten our city. But we may be forced to use it against other Irollans if the Kingdom comes…which brings me to a certain request…”

“Yes, your graciousness?”

“I do want any deaths if it comes to a fight,” gravely stated the man, “stun and capture any opponents. Disable their machinery. We will do whatever it takes to preserve our country without killing; even if it results in our deaths. I would like your people to do the same, if at all possible.”

Tobias considered. “We will try to kill or seriously harm anyone, but if one of my people will die unless one of theirs dies, I will kill them. But you have my word that I will not kill needlessly.”

Amaril nodded. “That is satisfactory enough. I must introduce you to my ground commanders, and then to the custom’s force officers. We have only our customs craft to compete with the Kingdom in space…”

Customs Station Vonas Three, outer periphery of the Mensyl System

“Cargo ship Korlian,” mused the traffic controller, “please come to a full stop immediately and standby for inspection. Customs craft are on their way to inspect your vessel.”

“Korlian acknowledges,” replied a distant voice.

“Four Mitore-class ships,” mused another controller, “it’s been a while since I have seen such a large trading caravan.”

Inspector Sariel strolled over to the station, “Did someone say that the Korlian has just arrived?”

“Yes, I did.”

The Irollan woman frowned, “Why is there a Korlian on the ground then?”

All of the Irollans stared out of the viewport at the approaching quartet of cargo ships. Every eye searched the smooth, organic lines of the large cargo vessels for anything suspicious. Tiny specks began to appear and surge out of the lead cargo ship’s sides. Sariel instantly grabbed her new comlink, made on Metalorn.

“Attention Mensyl Customs Service. The four Mitore ships are hostile. I repeat, the four Mitore ships are hostile.”

The specks resolved themselves in the viewport of the station into small, aerodynamic craft which appeared roughly fantail leaf-shaped. She squinted her eyes at the craft. Sariel shook her head.

“They are headed straight at us…”

Weapons fire erupted from the newly launched fighter craft; tearing up the minute traffic control station and turning it into a brief fireball. Shrapnel from the station blossomed into space like the seeds of dandelion dispersing, and Sariel and her customs crew were no more.



Styria-class Galleon Providence, in orbit via Mensyl

“They just destroyed Vonas Three, and are headed straight towards Mensyl,” reported the ensign, “they are apparently retrofitted Irollan cargo ships. Perhaps only carrying fighter craft.”

“Or very light weaponry, for their size,” considered Tobias, “at nine hundred meters, they should have had weapons powerful enough to blow up the station before they even knew what hit them. Unless they wanted to be detected…”

“Prince Amaril has launched all of his customs gunships, sir,” announced his XO, “and the ground forces are mobilizing in case the enemy decides to land.”

“Open up communications with the Korlian impostor,” decided Tobias.

“Sir, we can detect no open channel being used by those ships. Should we broadcast in the clear?”

Ingham hesitated. If we broadcast in the clear, the Prince and his men are going to hear us. They’re going to see us ask to negotiate so that we don’t have to fight. We’re going to look like weaklings incapable of defending them. Or I am going to have to disobey orders…He cleared his throat.

“We will not broadcast in the clear,” decided the Budpock native, “Lieutenant, bring all of the ships about to nav point sixty-five. We will slingshot ourselves right into their path. Launch all drone fighters, but keep the manned ones in their hangar bays.”

The fleet of mismatched paramilitary ships dove in the gravity well of the mountaineous world and flung themselves at the quartet of approaching ships. No sooner had they passed out of the gravity well did the chief flight controller decide to launch the fighters. A handful of minute drone fighters sprinkled out of most of the Confederate ships, aside from the galleon Blackwell, which released a swarm that was large enough to block out the rays of the system’s star for a fleeting moment. The Piranha drones surged ahead of the Confederate capital ships, followed closely by the dozens of fighter-sized gunships used by the customs forces of Mensyl. Tobias turned an eye towards one of the ermerald-hued craft racing over the Providence’s hull.

“I thought they were slow towards fighting wars,” muttered a lieutenant.

“I think the war has already started…” replied Tobias, “they just want to finish it fast…”

“Sir, we have an open broadcast from the RMS Lydar…”

“Is it an Irollan Kingdom warship?”

“It appears so, sir.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Tobias.

The man nodded and flipped a switch. A bunch of unintelligible words floated out of the comm. speakers and soothed the Confederate crew with their smooth and inflected tones. Some marveled at the language’s sound, but Ingham quietly swore.

“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Tobias, “Someone give me a translator and tell me what that means? Why can’t everyone just speak Basic?”

“Um…our Irollan allies tell us it is an offer for help against these, and I quote the message, Irollan pirates,” reported the liaison officer, “Prince Amaril is deferring to your leadership in this situation.”

Tobias considered. “We refuse. It’s probably a setup by the kingdom. Kindly have some Mensyl officer inform the Lydar that we terminate it too if it enters Mensyl space.”

“We’re entering firing range,” noted a man.

A flurry of sapphire bolts almost immediately erupted from the bows of the four galleons; sending a cascade of ion tags through strategic gaps in the allied force’s fighter screen directly at the “piratical” vessels. The Mitore ships, despite being nearly four times larger than the galleons, began to swing about to turn away from the onslaught. Blue light struck the craft and began to faintly glow as the ion tags imbedded themselves into the cargo ships’ hulls. Prin-pricks of light emerged between the two opposing lines of capital warships as each side’s light craft engaged each other in a furious dogfight: Confederate drone fighters surged forward and pounced on the Irollan starfighters in packs; Mensyl customs gunships methodically thinned down and disabled opposing starfighters with ion cannons and precision quad laser bursts; the fantail fighters ferociously fired their own weaponry with discretion among friend and foe alike in a frenzy. Tobias shielded his eyes as a Confederate drone brilliantly blossomed into an orange swath in front of the bridge.

“The Mitore identifying itself as the Aelnae seems to have lost all engine power…whoever’s onboard is abandoning ship…”

“Escape pods?” questioned Tobias, pivoting to face the crewman.

“Mostly sir, but there seem to be a couple of small shuttles and fighters that launched off to evacuate the crew to the Tahllon.”

“How many people would you estimate could have left?”

“About hundred sir.”

Tobias quietly nodded and turned back to face the ongoing struggle. A hundred crewmen then. It’s either a highly automated warship, or it’s just a carrier vessel. Given the lack of weapons fire from any of the ships, it’s probably the latter… Ingham leaned forward to stare at the Aelnae, awash with glowing blue bonfires, growing exponentially larger in his viewport. Frak…they didn’t completely waste that ship…they locked down the ship’s course to collide with the armada...since if we’re moving too fast from the grav slingshot…

“All ships take immediate evasive actions,” ordered Tobias, “they’ve set the Aelnae on a ramming course with us. Tractor beams, standby to yank us out of the way on my mark…”

Of course. We don’t have the firepower nor the idealogical mindset to completely vaporize a ship of that size in such a short amount of time; which would be the easiest way to deal with this threat. Their commander isn’t as stupid as I would like…

“…Mark.”

The Providence’s tractor beams lashed forward and onto the Aelnae’s hull, pressing downward; with the Aelnae being of a much greater mass than the galleon, the Irollan cargo ship barely descended downward, but the reactionary force placed on the Providence sent the galleon flying up higher than any maneuvering thrusters could have. Tobias shut his eyes as the galleon hurtled close to the Aelnae.

“We’ve cleared the Aelnae,” reported a sub-lieutenant, “but a dozen drones did not clear it in time. They did not take into account the Providence’s maneuvers.”

“A dozen drones are easy to replace,” growled Ingham, opening his eyes, “a fully crewed Galleon is a bit harder.”

“Sir, all of the opposing Mitores are disabled now, except for the Aerael.”

Tobias frowned. “Where is the Aerael?”

“It used the Aelnae’s ramming maneuver as cover to make a hyper-jump into orbit around Mensyl.”

Ingham’s face scrunched itself into a frown. “But how in the hell do they have a hyperdrive?”

“Well, the drive’s signature does not match any that we have sold them,” reported C7, its golden photoreceptors staring over a technician’s shoulder at a console.

Tobias bit his lip. If it’s not a drive we sold them, that either means that there is outside interference, or that the Kingdom or some other Irollan has now invented a hyperdrive for their explicit use. That’s a slight problem…slight…and we’d be clawing against gravity if we don’t use hyperdrives to get to them…but calculating that micro-jump will take a lot of time that we don’t have…there is no choice.

“Launch our manned starfighters and have them move to engage the Aerael,” ordered the Commodore, “I believe our drones can eliminate their remaining fighters. Everyone else should prepare for boarding operations. I want the Aelnae boarded first; give us an idea about what these ships are about without having to fight for them…”

“Sir…the Aelnae is drifting away from the rest of the battle…”

Ingham frowned. Of course…the momentum from the ramming would have sent it flying away from here…but we can’t exactly just leave it or the other ships alone…

“Have the Waterloo and Hope jet off and board the craft by themselves…if they could tow it back here as well, that would be great.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ll take the Korlian….”



Fanyataxë-class Gunship Huisal Five, Mensyl System

Immeral involuntarily winced as one of the Kingdom’s Dryearlian fighters zipped in front of his gunship in a quick pass, hotly pursued by a Confederate drone which just skimmed over his cockpit, its own blaster cannons blazing. The Irollan gently slid the control yoke to his left, sending the gunship in a gentle arc just over the Korlian’s hull. An incessant series of tones reverberated throughout the hull. Someone has locked a missile on us again…Within two seconds, the ship’s front quad laser cannon swiveled to face the incoming threat and blazed to life; sending a never ending torrent of sea green bolts at the missile. One struck the missile. The warhead exploded, the noise stopped.

“Close call,” commented his co-pilot behind him, “it is well that Berrian is still on top of his hunt.”

“Yes, it is well.”

“Perhaps you can turn thirty degrees to your left.”

“Certainly.”

The gunship, not terribly maneuverable, made a slow turn to the left. As it did, a Dryearlian fighter entered Husial Five’s tractor beam projector fire arc. With the opposing starfighter snagged and tractored closer to gunship, the composite beam lasers of the craft opened fire, destroying the fighter’s engines. A tiny flare erupted from the heavily damaged ship. He has abandoned his ship.

“Snag their pilot Jelenneth with the tractor beam, and draw him over to the airlock.”

“Certainly,” replied the co-pilot.

An odd voice speaking the relatively harsh language of the Confederates flowed through the ship’s intercom.

“Attention Husial group,” stated the Confederate flight controller, “please move to engage in boarding operations on the Korlian. Thank you.”

“Certainly,” whispered Immeral to himself.

“Our soldiers have taken the pilot prisoner in the passenger airlock,” informed Jelenneth.

“Excellent. They know of the Commodore’s plan to board the Korlian now?”

“Certainly.”

The gunship slowly veered out of a stream of enemy laserfire. Immeral glanced at his control panel. Shields and hull are still very good…though that they made a leak that the nanobots are now fixing…still very minor and containable. Good. His console’s HUD began flashing a dull cyan; a signal that he had just received new information. I see. We blow our way through the waste disposal unit. They will not be prepared for a boarding there.

“You see where we are to board?” questioned Immeral.

“Yes,” replied the co-pilot, “there is some trash still in the way. Let me take care of it.”

A missile leapt out of each wing and surged towards a cluttered area of the Korlian’s rear. They struck, creating a micro-nova directly in front of Husial Five. The trash is out of the way….the Mensyl starship slowly pivoted about to present is ventral airlock to the trash exit. A dull thud reverberated throughout the craft, announcing that they had managed to get a seal with the gunship’s extendable docking tube.

“Hadarai has burned the way through,” announced Jelenneth.

“What are they doing with the prisoner?”

“They locked him in a cargo compartment.”

“I see,” said Immeral, “let us go join their boarding effort.”

Dwinanea-class Walker Lassemaica Five, Quarion, Mensyl

Caurëo gazed out of the viewport of his walker at the ancient ruins around him, as he had for the last half-hour. Sunlight descended through cracks in the clouds to shine off the element-burnished walls of the starport, which in turn bathed the platoon of emerald walkers in golden hues. He tapped a button for the walker’s environmental controls; a diminutive rustle announced that the vehicle’s air conditioning had started. He spared a glance at his capacitor meter, which announced that the walker would have enough power for several more days before being needed to be recharged.

“Lassemaica group,” casually announced a voice through the cockpit’s speakers, “the Korlian impostor has been spotted making a descent into the atmosphere on a course to Quarion.”

“Activate long-range jamming,” ordered another voice, “and be on the lookout for anything suspicious...”

Caurëo’s hands glided over the contoured control console of the craft to an ill-looking rectangle which jutted out like of the panel like a grey island among green seas. He lightly tapped several buttons of the combat jammer, recently received from the CMF ships, which activated the vehicle’s DERP. He glanced at his own sensor screen, watching the sensor readings of the group’s members gradually fade out into nothingness. That done, the Irollan turned his eyes to the orange-swathed sky. A tiny speck like a burning meteorite accelerated into the hull of the impostor Korlian. As the ship grew nearer, he became aware of tinier specks flying around the cargo ship harassing it like gnats: Confederate starfighters. The massive starship passed just over the platoon to an unused landing field in the middle of the starport. It briefly hovered and descended, ignoring fire from the Confederate’s interceptors. Without a word, the Irollan platoon strode over the ruins and crates, through entryways and swarms of fleeing civilians towards the starship. His walker deftly waded through the people, its semi-intelligence guiding its feet not to crush a person or trip over a customs barrier or stack of crates.

As they entered the landing area, he noticed squads of black-armored droids standing behind crates, sending torrents of projectile fire and missiles at the cargo ship: Contegorian Paladins. The Korlian in turn fired back with ship-mounted blaster cannons as its ramps unloaded an assortment of droids. Caurëo selected one with his targetting computer… A labor droid with swords? He tapped a trigger, sending duel bursts of light from the tips of the walkers cannons. The bolts impaled themselves through the jury-rigged droid, disintegrating the droid and slamming into the droid behind it. His viewport began to flash in violent hues of yellow and orange as bolts slammed into the walker’s shields. One the ship’s blasters…He redirected the laser cannons to target the weapon. As the reticule turned green, a Confederate missile slammed into the weapon; vaporizing it in a minute explosion. His turned his eyes back towards the ground. Droids continued to march off the Korlian in the hundreds, with fierce fire from the Confederate battle droids and the city’s walkers managing to just thin the ranks of droids before they threatened to spill out into the rest of the starport. A quartet of black craft, spewing laser fire, surged just over his walker. The Confederate interceptors cut a swath through the droid’s ranks, which one of the CMF’s few Ares-class tanks waded into, spewing rockets and plasma fire. Ripping apart a gap which more of his platoon followed into, their elevated position allowing the walkers to decimate the droids which no-one else could touch because of the depth of their formation. The last of the droids left the ramp to be turned into charred carbon and scorched dust.

“Watch yourself,” alerted a voice, “there are people running out of the ship.”

The Ares Tank ceased firing, while the walkers switched to their sonic stunners to neutralize this new threat. Fellow Irollans fired at the walkers with their small arms; barely putting a dent into the vehicle’s shielding, much less its armor. Caurëo narrowed his eyes. How could these people abandon the ways of our people and resort to bloodshed? He indiscriminately held the trigger of the sonic stunner; sending continuous pulsating waves. Everywhere he turned the walker, his Irollan enemies fell down in twisted convulsions in the dozens; as if a grenade had exploded in their mists…

Norrerae, Syris Thalla

“Come Knight Ithlin, you must see this treason for yourself,” demanded Lord Vinrael, “they have rejected their own kingdom for that of an outsider dominion.”

The two Irollan Kingdom leaders strolled through the courts of the Corellon’s palace to an alcove with a large holo-projector. Courtiers and other knights surrounded it, paying rapt attention to golden-haired Irollan wearing an elaborate brown and green tunic. Prince Amaril stood before his beloved city of Quarion addressing a crowd of his citizens, speaking powerfully over the autumn winds.

“…Inspector Saeriel Cyred…we will hold in grateful remembrance for the rest of our lives.

To those who cut their lives short like morning frost besetting the blossoms of spring, we say that we will not yield to your tyranny and force. We are the keepers of the legacy of forefathers and their forefathers. We will not let the right to a peaceful life of freedom fall before us. Our forefathers embraced the way, and we shall too be guided by it and their example. And with it we shall fight this old spirit; the specter of war resurrected among our kind by the forces of greed and intolerance. We will meet this new threat with renewed vigor and vigilance, with old and new friends, and with an indomitable will to ensure that all have the right to a peaceful and fulfilled life. We cannot be broken in our pursuit of these I promise you. I say to our citizens, and to those of other worlds, that our way will never be broken. This I promise you.

Lastly, we remember our fellow defenders who were not of this world. They fought for a world that was not their own, a world that some of them never even saw except from the depths of space. They were not all fighters by trade, but tradesmen and artisans, businessmen and chefs, pilots and mechanics. Some never saw Mensyl, or even one of its citizens, but nevertheless, they embraced our ideals and ways before their own so that we may have this life and our own way. We honor that sacrifice, and in turn embrace their ideas as our own; as long-lost kinsmen in a sea of strife.

Confederation tradition does not allow me to present their esteemed names to our nation like our own. But let us remember them as brothers in spirit and deed. In their honor, we embrace a tradition of theirs…”

The Prince stepped back from the holo-camera, revealing green and gray checked firing squad of Mensyl security personnel and CMF crewmen. In front of them, Commodore Tobias lifted his dress sword and pointed it to the sun.

“Company present arms…company fire!”