Black as the soul of the dead reflecting the void of the abyss Fetts Legacy made its way perilously through the Barents, a disputed series of systems along the Hydian Way.
For decades hence the Barents had been fought over by two war-like syndicates, a tribe of nomad spacers called the Warrens Fold and a criminal gang of thugs calling themselves The Wight. Supplied by arms dealers from the Mid Rim, various groups playing the two factions against one another, each had managed to accumulate a deaths in the thousands while somehow recruiting new members from the numerous colonial settlements scattered across the near by regions.
The Legacy, her cloak inactive, passed between the stars at sublight speeds ever hidden by her extensive stealth. Barely active and trailing in the gravity wake of the large cruiser a handful of Uglies, patchwork starfighters, followed behind the Legacy.
On the bridge of the Legacy, charting her progress through the stars, Jorel Fett stared out at the emptiness of space. His hard features and narrow coal colored eyes softened somewhat. Somewhere out there his enemy waited unknowing of the fate he would bring upon them.
“Pirates,” he spat the word like it tasted foul upon his lips.
The Warrens Fold had pushed too far, pushed someone who did not like to be pushed, someone who would not sit idly by and be pushed. That someone had contacted the Guild, purchased their services, and would soon be rid of the irritating nuisance. Too deep into the Rim had they begun to venture; deep into a realm already claimed by another. And unlike the Fold, these people had the capital to see them selves protected.
Fett turned away.
“Call up the tactical information,” Fett ordered his communications officer. “Show me their ship.”
The requested information appeared on the viewer.
They had detected the vessel some hours ago and had been shadowing the ship since. Directed scans had not betrayed their position and so Fett had demanded a complete tactical analysis of their vessel. Bright red energy signatures and dim grey variances indicated that it was a poorly maintained, the subject of much abuse at the hands of an uneducated mass.
“Dauntless class,” said Fett reading back the displayed information.
An aging starship, the Dauntless class vessels had begun life as pleasure liners and massive cargo tankers; a role to which they were well suited. But then the Empire had come along and, thrown into the service of the Rebellion, the starships were refitted for combat operations. After the War many of these ships, damaged or mothballed, were sold to private companies for scrap.
“Scan for support craft and fighter signatures.”
Dauntless starships boasted thick hull armor, a considerable weapons manifest and a flight deck capable of accommodating multiple starfighter squadrons. Whether or not this particular vessel could say the same, however; remained largely uncertain. They had not been that invasive with their scans for fear of giving away their position.
Jorel Fett took a few steps towards the screen and leaned forward, examining the details. The scan would take a few moments longer. They were far beyond visual range at the very perimeter of their scanners effective distance. The information returned was sketchy at best but Fett was not yet prepared to move in.
“These dark spaces, they look like empty weapons brackets,” observed Fett.
The sensor officer confirmed, “They are not just empty, they’ve been blasted out. This photon level indicates a number of serious explosions due to decompression along the ventral hull.”
“It looks like they hit something,” offered the man at the helm, “something big.”
“We are receiving multiple smaller contacts. They read as starfighters. I am counting a total of twelve… no… fifteen ion trails.”
Fett nodded, “Set the flight deck at condition one, prepare for combat.”
He had expected the enemy to have starfighters but had hoped to engage them before the Fold could field their defensive screen. With fifteen birds active in the sky the likelihood of their being spotted increased should the Legacy try and move in close. Of course, the Legacy was not without recourse.
“Action stations,” commanded Fett. “Set condition One across the ship. Stand by to cloak.”
“Aye,” reported the communications officer. “Condition one is set.”
Jorel Fett silently counted off the seconds.
“The ship reports condition one, ready. Cloak standing by and ready,” he said, twenty two seconds later.
“Activate the cloak.”
Dull red klaxons switched on as the deck lighting went down. The bridge was bathed in an eerie crimson glow. “Cloak active and holding at 100%.”
“Give me TRU firing solutions on the Dauntless.” Fett stepped back to his command console, slipping into the captain’s chair. He plucked up his microphone and keyed it directly into the gunnery line. “Set all forward tubes for Slow Run, configure Mk 46 warheads for maximum yield.”
Gunnery command confirmed ready as the firing solution reported set.
“Fire all tubes, repeat fire all tubes,” said Fett.
A shudder, barely perceived, shook the deck. On the view screen, presently displaying a forward bow shot of the Legacy, four barely visible tubes, sleek black against the backdrop of space, shot out of the bow. Riding the inertia given them on discharge they disappeared into the dark beyond.
“Torpedoes away, projecting t-minus one hundred and two seconds until impact,” whispered the tactical officer, his voice low. “Counting down stared.”
On the viewer, in the top left corner and painted in flashing red numbers, a timer slowly counted off the seconds. The bridge of the Legacy was silent with baited breath.
With agonizing slowness the timer entered into the last ten seconds.
At zero, with no confirmation from his tactical or sensor officers, Fett turned and shot a harsh look at each.
They just shrugged.
And then one shouted, “Impact! I am reading four confirmed explosions.”
Fett stood up from his seat, “Engines ahead full and open the launch doors. Fighters away when ready. Sensors, I want a damage report ten seconds ago!”
“Echo one away,” came the first confirmation of launch. Echo, Bravo and Delta units, four of each, reported in similar fashion.
“Sensors are reading massive hull damage on her port side. I’m picking up massive decompression…” he paused. “Their shields are down. We’re detecting an engine plume sir.”
“How long to visual range?”
“Visual coming in now,” the communications officer flipped the view screen over to receive Vid-Cam input. The monitor focused.
At almost a thousand meters long it was not hard to identify the Dauntless. Even with video magnification at full, on the very edge of the cameras range, the thing looked huge. Bright orange flutes of combusting plasma rose up from craters all along one side spewing atmosphere into the cold black.
“Defend with Deck Guns,” shot Fett. “Drop the cloak now!”
The Legacy trembled. On deck, swiveled forward, the massive triple cannon fired blast after blast of ionic energy at the distant Dauntless. At such range, however; they presented no threat to the Dauntless but that was not Fetts intention. On screen, maneuvering wildly to avoid the blasts, the enemy starfighters shot away from the oncoming barrage.
“Torpedoes?” asked Fett to tactical.
“Weapons reloaded and ready to fire on your order.”
“The order is given.”
Another series of torpedoes shot away from the Legacy these riding a blue contrail of discharged ions. Fired hot, they immediately searched for a target and, locating the Dauntless, shot ahead.
“Turn bow plane down fifty degrees,” shouted Fett. “Set aft engine back one quarter and come about to mark oh five oh one. Stand by for broadside!”
As she neared combat range, her weapons now fully effective, the Legacy turned parallel with the stricken Dauntless and unleashed a furious barrage of missiles and opened up with her heavy, side firing particle cannons.
The deck vibrated fiercely with the force of the blast.
“Our fighters have engaged theirs at mark one oh one.”
Fett checked his tactical charts, “Signal them to keep the enemy fighters busy and off our ass. Prepare to come about.”
The Legacy turned hard. Firing with the heavy turret, she continued to pummel the unfortunate Dauntless while yawing hard to port. Coming about in a matter of seconds, the Legacy unleashed another broadside flurry. And, having become visible only moments earlier, the Dauntless had not yet managed to mount an effective counter attack.
Fetts Legacy had taken the enemy completely unaware.
“Signal the enemy. Let’s see if they wish to surrender.”
For decades hence the Barents had been fought over by two war-like syndicates, a tribe of nomad spacers called the Warrens Fold and a criminal gang of thugs calling themselves The Wight. Supplied by arms dealers from the Mid Rim, various groups playing the two factions against one another, each had managed to accumulate a deaths in the thousands while somehow recruiting new members from the numerous colonial settlements scattered across the near by regions.
The Legacy, her cloak inactive, passed between the stars at sublight speeds ever hidden by her extensive stealth. Barely active and trailing in the gravity wake of the large cruiser a handful of Uglies, patchwork starfighters, followed behind the Legacy.
On the bridge of the Legacy, charting her progress through the stars, Jorel Fett stared out at the emptiness of space. His hard features and narrow coal colored eyes softened somewhat. Somewhere out there his enemy waited unknowing of the fate he would bring upon them.
“Pirates,” he spat the word like it tasted foul upon his lips.
The Warrens Fold had pushed too far, pushed someone who did not like to be pushed, someone who would not sit idly by and be pushed. That someone had contacted the Guild, purchased their services, and would soon be rid of the irritating nuisance. Too deep into the Rim had they begun to venture; deep into a realm already claimed by another. And unlike the Fold, these people had the capital to see them selves protected.
Fett turned away.
“Call up the tactical information,” Fett ordered his communications officer. “Show me their ship.”
The requested information appeared on the viewer.
They had detected the vessel some hours ago and had been shadowing the ship since. Directed scans had not betrayed their position and so Fett had demanded a complete tactical analysis of their vessel. Bright red energy signatures and dim grey variances indicated that it was a poorly maintained, the subject of much abuse at the hands of an uneducated mass.
“Dauntless class,” said Fett reading back the displayed information.
An aging starship, the Dauntless class vessels had begun life as pleasure liners and massive cargo tankers; a role to which they were well suited. But then the Empire had come along and, thrown into the service of the Rebellion, the starships were refitted for combat operations. After the War many of these ships, damaged or mothballed, were sold to private companies for scrap.
“Scan for support craft and fighter signatures.”
Dauntless starships boasted thick hull armor, a considerable weapons manifest and a flight deck capable of accommodating multiple starfighter squadrons. Whether or not this particular vessel could say the same, however; remained largely uncertain. They had not been that invasive with their scans for fear of giving away their position.
Jorel Fett took a few steps towards the screen and leaned forward, examining the details. The scan would take a few moments longer. They were far beyond visual range at the very perimeter of their scanners effective distance. The information returned was sketchy at best but Fett was not yet prepared to move in.
“These dark spaces, they look like empty weapons brackets,” observed Fett.
The sensor officer confirmed, “They are not just empty, they’ve been blasted out. This photon level indicates a number of serious explosions due to decompression along the ventral hull.”
“It looks like they hit something,” offered the man at the helm, “something big.”
“We are receiving multiple smaller contacts. They read as starfighters. I am counting a total of twelve… no… fifteen ion trails.”
Fett nodded, “Set the flight deck at condition one, prepare for combat.”
He had expected the enemy to have starfighters but had hoped to engage them before the Fold could field their defensive screen. With fifteen birds active in the sky the likelihood of their being spotted increased should the Legacy try and move in close. Of course, the Legacy was not without recourse.
“Action stations,” commanded Fett. “Set condition One across the ship. Stand by to cloak.”
“Aye,” reported the communications officer. “Condition one is set.”
Jorel Fett silently counted off the seconds.
“The ship reports condition one, ready. Cloak standing by and ready,” he said, twenty two seconds later.
“Activate the cloak.”
Dull red klaxons switched on as the deck lighting went down. The bridge was bathed in an eerie crimson glow. “Cloak active and holding at 100%.”
“Give me TRU firing solutions on the Dauntless.” Fett stepped back to his command console, slipping into the captain’s chair. He plucked up his microphone and keyed it directly into the gunnery line. “Set all forward tubes for Slow Run, configure Mk 46 warheads for maximum yield.”
Gunnery command confirmed ready as the firing solution reported set.
“Fire all tubes, repeat fire all tubes,” said Fett.
A shudder, barely perceived, shook the deck. On the view screen, presently displaying a forward bow shot of the Legacy, four barely visible tubes, sleek black against the backdrop of space, shot out of the bow. Riding the inertia given them on discharge they disappeared into the dark beyond.
“Torpedoes away, projecting t-minus one hundred and two seconds until impact,” whispered the tactical officer, his voice low. “Counting down stared.”
On the viewer, in the top left corner and painted in flashing red numbers, a timer slowly counted off the seconds. The bridge of the Legacy was silent with baited breath.
With agonizing slowness the timer entered into the last ten seconds.
At zero, with no confirmation from his tactical or sensor officers, Fett turned and shot a harsh look at each.
They just shrugged.
And then one shouted, “Impact! I am reading four confirmed explosions.”
Fett stood up from his seat, “Engines ahead full and open the launch doors. Fighters away when ready. Sensors, I want a damage report ten seconds ago!”
“Echo one away,” came the first confirmation of launch. Echo, Bravo and Delta units, four of each, reported in similar fashion.
“Sensors are reading massive hull damage on her port side. I’m picking up massive decompression…” he paused. “Their shields are down. We’re detecting an engine plume sir.”
“How long to visual range?”
“Visual coming in now,” the communications officer flipped the view screen over to receive Vid-Cam input. The monitor focused.
At almost a thousand meters long it was not hard to identify the Dauntless. Even with video magnification at full, on the very edge of the cameras range, the thing looked huge. Bright orange flutes of combusting plasma rose up from craters all along one side spewing atmosphere into the cold black.
“Defend with Deck Guns,” shot Fett. “Drop the cloak now!”
The Legacy trembled. On deck, swiveled forward, the massive triple cannon fired blast after blast of ionic energy at the distant Dauntless. At such range, however; they presented no threat to the Dauntless but that was not Fetts intention. On screen, maneuvering wildly to avoid the blasts, the enemy starfighters shot away from the oncoming barrage.
“Torpedoes?” asked Fett to tactical.
“Weapons reloaded and ready to fire on your order.”
“The order is given.”
Another series of torpedoes shot away from the Legacy these riding a blue contrail of discharged ions. Fired hot, they immediately searched for a target and, locating the Dauntless, shot ahead.
“Turn bow plane down fifty degrees,” shouted Fett. “Set aft engine back one quarter and come about to mark oh five oh one. Stand by for broadside!”
As she neared combat range, her weapons now fully effective, the Legacy turned parallel with the stricken Dauntless and unleashed a furious barrage of missiles and opened up with her heavy, side firing particle cannons.
The deck vibrated fiercely with the force of the blast.
“Our fighters have engaged theirs at mark one oh one.”
Fett checked his tactical charts, “Signal them to keep the enemy fighters busy and off our ass. Prepare to come about.”
The Legacy turned hard. Firing with the heavy turret, she continued to pummel the unfortunate Dauntless while yawing hard to port. Coming about in a matter of seconds, the Legacy unleashed another broadside flurry. And, having become visible only moments earlier, the Dauntless had not yet managed to mount an effective counter attack.
Fetts Legacy had taken the enemy completely unaware.
“Signal the enemy. Let’s see if they wish to surrender.”