Gevel nodded. “For the moment, anyway. The shield is down, so that could be an entirely temporary situation.” He walked deeper into the room. “You haven’t deserted your post.”
“We’re still…” the man said, trailing off. “We’re still waiting for the order, sir.”
Gevel smiled. “Lucky for you, I bring orders.”
The man in the chair turned. “You want to make a broadcast?”
“Not me,” Gevel said. “Regent Zell is on his way to the Secondary Command Center, as the Palace is taking fire. He’s going to need all our relays and networks operational.”
“Well, as you know, intership communications up there are not working as they should,” the man said. “Or, well, maybe you don’t know.” Gevel shook his head; he hadn’t been told. “Well, the aliens seem to be sending out some kind of broadcast. Constant and overwhelming. It’s all we can do to get hard light through, their signal is so powerful. Audio and data streams. Numbers. Just a lot of numbers.”
“Have you tried cracking it?” Gevel asked, curious.
“The problem is, if we open our ports to accept the signal, the signal begins to reroute our computer networks,” the man said. “We lost a few communications relays because the alien signal commanded…”
The man trailed off and Gevel’s eyebrows rose. “You were saying?”
“Well, somehow, the alien signal enabled on the communication satellites and had them break orbit,” the man said. “With most of our fleet diverting all shield power to their top side to repel the enemy fire, getting rammed from below by their own satellites…”
“If the men had been following their training they’d have picked up the satellites long before impact,” Gevel said, disappointed. So confident the soldiers of the Empire had become. So self assured that their shit didn’t stink.
Now, their home world was rotten and dead.
No surprises.
“Either way, intersystem is out. If the alien signal weren’t jamming communications, we’ve lost too many satellites,” the man concluded.
“What about cross planet? Or deep vac holonet lines?”
“Worth a shot,” the man said, turning to his switchboard. “We’ve lost a few relays across the planet since the shield went down, but we can still get about ninety percent coverage.”
“Good,” Gevel said. “I want you to start by telling everyone who is still at their stations to tune…” Theren started, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to the man. “Tune all relays to this signal.”
“A ping?”
“Essentially,” Gevel said. “I’m going to make sure that Zell is on that channel, so every relay should be shouting his words out across the planet.”
“Alright,” the man said, hitting the relevant buttons on his instrument panel, and then picking up the microphone. He went to open his mouth, but then turned. “Would you like to give the order, Sir?”
Gevel nodded. “That might be wise,” he said. He took the microphone. “Attention all Imperial Personnel, attention all Imperial Personnel. This is Moff Theren Gevel. As you are no doubt aware Imperial Center is under attack by hostile alien forces. The battle is proceeding but it is not going well. The Regent is going to make a public broadcast in a few hours where he will order the evacuation of Imperial Center. This is a temporary measure and is not a surrender. In preparation for the Regent’s announcement I would ask all broadcasting stations across the planet to tune to the signal provided on this line and then to evacuate your station with your equipment operational. I repeat; evacuate Imperial Center. This is not a drill. You have your orders soldiers. Gloria Imperium.”
The man took the microphone back and set it down. “So… we’re really going to evacuate?”
Gevel shrugged. “Might as well go somewhere cool until they put the fires out.”
The man chuckled, nervously. Gevel was very cool, even under intense pressure. “Well,” the man said, standing up. He offered a salute. “It’s been an honor, Sir.”
Gevel dismissed the salute. He offered his hand instead. “The honor is mine.”
The man shook his hand. Had a good, firm handshake. “When we come back here, I will tell the Regent of what you did. Walking in here, alone. You’re a hero, Gevel. A true to life goddamn hero.”
But in that moment, as the man ran from the building, in that moment Gevel didn’t feel like a hero. He sat down at the control panel and spun around in the office chair, contemplating the nature of the choice that he had made.
Of course, Gevel didn’t feel alone either. Zeratul was not long behind, once the man had run from sight. “Is it done?”
Gevel nodded. “I’ve done what you’ve asked. I dropped the shield, I’ve rerouted power to the communications and transmission infrastructure, and I’ve tuned said infrastructure to the signal range provided.” He saw Zeratul’s eyes darken.
Knew, instinctively, that the alien was considering whether now was a good time to kill Gevel, or if he had anymore usefulness.
“If you want,” Gevel said, “I have a passkey. Since we’ve stabilized the power, the doorlocks in my office should still work. I can give you a copy of the Bastion Conclave’s information databases.”
Zeratul’s eyes lit up again. That kind of information was worth keeping the Imperial alive. “So be it.”
The two left the communications bunker and Gevel gasped. Saw a squadron of stormtroopers firing at… Gevel wasn’t even sure what it was. It must have been twenty feet tall… metal plates over pink, muscular flesh. It took numerous heavy blaster shots and didn’t even slow down; offered only a grunt and then a swing of his massive arm, sending trooper after trooper spirally into the empty abyss below.
“The hell…?” Gevel began, stunned and motionless.
“Armorlin,” Zeratul said.
“More robot zombies?” Gevel said.
The blue skinned alien shook his large head. “No, the Armorlin are a special breed of soldier designed to function almost akin to your Imperial Walkers. You have a doctrine on the nature of fear as an effective means of control. The Armorlin dwarf your people by a size differential of almost four times and they can absorb everything you fire that isn’t from a starfighter. Surrender of your ground forces will come soon.”
Gevel nodded slowly. “I have to ask, alien. Why here? Why Coruscant? Why start with such an exposed target, somewhere that you know we will never surrender without a fight to the death? Somewhere that you have to know you can never hold?”
The alien scoffed, a deep hiss coming from his nostrils. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, Gevel.”
“I’m serious,” he said, stopping. “You’ve asked me to do things to hasten your acquisition of control and I’ve done it, but I need to know why. I need to know what you want to do here, why all this fighting, death, destruction. I need to know why I am betraying my own people. If only so that I can die with a clear conscience.”
Zeratul turned to him, eyes flashing.
“Don’t pretend otherwise,” Gevel said, straight. “When you don’t need me anymore, you’ll kill me. I know you’re a spy and that’s what spies do with assets they don’t need anymore. So just level with me.”
Zeratul nodded. “Very well; you should know, Gevel, that I know of you, and I respect what you have done. I will not make you suffer.”
Zeratul turned his back to Gevel, spreading his arms to the burning skyline beyond. “This world… a marvel. An entire planet of cities, an entire world of hubs, relays… the communications capital of the Galaxy. Signals come and go from here to the greatest outer reaches of the rim. The world of Coruscant outputs more energy through its communication relays than most worlds use energy in total.”
“It has to be more than that, though,” Gevel said. “Surely, a people such as yourself have… relays, transmitters of your own. You didn’t really just come here to send a few broadcasts did you?” Zeratul didn’t say anything, and Gevel ran it through his head. “No… no you didn’t. You’re not going to send a broadcast at all.”
Zeratul turned back. “Go on.”
“You want a network of relays and transmitters to…” Gevel said, sighing. “To transmit energy.”
“At its heart, be it data, light, or sound, all transmissions made from one source to another are a form of energy,” Zeratul said. “No one planet in the entire galaxy has a better system for delivering massive amounts of energy across an established communication and transmitting system than this one. The backbone for your communications network here is truly awe inspiring, and capable of delivering massive amounts of focused energy with very little modification.”
“But what is your endgame?” Gevel asked. “A weapon?”
Zeratul shook his head. “Better, then, to simply commandeer your fleet. You think too small, Gevel. Think back to how this all started.”
Gevel reached back into his head. It had been a day like any other, with the fleet preparing to jump to reaver space, when they detected massive ener… “…oh.”
“Now you understand,” Zeratul said. For effect, he ran a talloned finger over Gevel’s forehead. “With that kind of energy all channeled correctly…”
“…you can use all the harnessed energy from a 13 km planet to open a wormhole that those seven meter ships of yours could never manage,” Gevel said, the wheels beginning to spin in his head.
“Essentially,” Zeratul said. “Now…”
Gevel gulped, realizing that the alien was losing patience with him. “Yes, my offices,” he said. He looked around… not far. “This way.”
The two walked for a few moments, Gevel looking around at what had once been the Capital Of The Galactic Empire. Now, it stood in ruin, flaming wreckage crashing to the surface from space, the fires, and the dead. This world had once been a home to thousands, and now, was merely their graveyard.
Gevel internally cursed the alien even as he externally led him on. “Here,” Gevel said, pointing to an electronic keycode reader. He inserted his codekey and portions of the wall slid away to reveal a door with a code terminal. Gevel put in the password into the terminal and the door opened, allowing him to slip inside.
Zeratul strode past him, heading immediately for the desk. The computer there… the books alone piled atop its metal surface would keep him occupied for days. Gevel had…
…Gevel had stopped in the doorway.
Zeratul turned, and when he did, his eyes flashed with flame. “Gevel.”
Standing against the wall, flanking the Imperial Moff, were four troopers, all with raised blasters to the alien. “Are you really all that surprised, Zeratul? You think I would willfully trade the secrets of the Empire to you and then just let you kill me?”
“Your child will…”
“My only child is an eighteen month old son on Bastion,” Gevel countered. “You know, for a spy, your intelligence gathering leaves a lot to be desired.”
“And the girl in the photo?”
“Never met her,” Gevel answered back. “No idea who she is, where she is. Don’t really care either; she served her purpose and did her part for the Empire. She will be remembered even though this incident will never be spoken of.”
As Zeratul began to contemplate the trap he had walked into, he tensed. “You plan to kill me?”
“It’s what spies do when their assets become expendable,” Gevel said. “You’re no doubt wondering why you can’t simply turn into mist and reappear in orbit. That device of yours… and thank you for the demonstration before, it was very informative… turns out to be susceptible to interference from a second degree quantum descrambler… or something. Tech could tell you more, but suffice to say, you’re stuck here.”
“Then let me ask you,” the alien said. “Why? Why walk with me, knowing I planned to kill you? Why do as I said to help our plans?”
“Because I’m a history teacher, Zeratul Daz’da’mar, and a good teacher is himself a good student first,” he said, and watched Zeratul’s eyes flash. “Oh yes, we know about you, Zeratul. Former student of The Naboo Sith Order. Intelligence kept a file on you, just in case. Turned out to be a wise precaution.”
Zeratul opened his arms. “Killing me stops nothing. You have still lost this world.”
Gevel nodded. “Maybe so, but now that we know what you’re planning, we can make sure you inherit nothing more than a burnt husk.” He turned, pressing a button on the wall. “Soldier, this if Moff Gevel.” He paused as the man spoke back but Zeratul couldn’t hear him. “I know you’re busy. I’m not an idiot, I can look at the bloody sky. Just tell Thornton this. All of the com relays on Coruscant that are still operational are currently broadcasting on this frequency. Tell him he’s to plot firing solutions and destroy them.” He paused again. “Yes, destroy them! Yes, bomb Coruscant! Don’t ask fucking why, just do it! Tell him it’s an order from Zell himself if that will get him to fucking do it, just get it done. Gevel out.”
Gevel reached down and pulled out his cigarras, putting one between his lips. He turned back to Zeratul, standing unarmed and frozen at the desk. “Kill him. Make it quick and don’t make him suffer,” Gevel commanded, offering Zeratul the same respect that the alien had offered him.
As Gevel lit his cigarra he heard the shots behind his back, not letting them phase him as he took a long, satisfying drag.
Kach Thorton was not the only one to receive that order.
For at that moment, the fleet of Colonel-General Wesley Vos dropped out of hyperspace...outside of the Corridor.
Hyperspace is a tricky thing, requiring physicists to truly define what exactly it is. The method by which ships travel through hyperspace is even trickier; most ship commanders never understand it. Even most Admirals, who rely on hyperspace to move fleets from place to place, never understand how it works.
General Vos made it his business to know.
The reason a ship can jump through hyperspace safely is that there is a safety catch built into the hyperdrive of every ship built that will pull a ship out of hyperspace whenever it detects a mass shadow. This safety catch prevents a ship from crashing into a planet or flying through a black hole or star. Disabling this catch, or jumping blind through hyperspace, is generally considered the quickest way to kill oneself.
Unless you can touch the Force.
Twelve hours earlier
The shuttles dropped out of hyperspace, dozens of them. Vos smiled as he watched them approach the ISD-V Tyrant, knowing that they brought with them the means by which the SS fleet would reach Coruscant and would be acclaimed as the victors of the battle. Unlike Moff Thorton, who had to go through a corridor opened by someone else and thereby blocked refugees from fleeing the planet, or Park Kraken, who simply decided to sit in the middle of the Corridor, he would come in on a different vector and would be able to claim victory this day.
The shuttles broke formation, each heading to a different formation of SS vessels. One shuttle approached the Tyrant, hailing the massive flagship as it did. Vos nodded that they should have clearance to land, then retreated to his command chair to await his visitors.
Ten minutes later, twelve Sith Apprentices knelt before General Vos. The eight techs had already taken a turbolift to the hyperdrive, where they would get to work on the first part of Wes's daring plan. The Iridonian Sith, who seemed to be the leader, spoke first. "General Vos, per Lady Skygge's command, we are at your service."
Vos nodded. "Apprentice Yuagith. Thank you for your promptness. I have need of your services.
"Tell me," he continued as he rose and began walking towards the viewport, "are you proficient in what has been called battle meditation? I am told it is an ancient Sith technique."
Yuagith turned to walk with the General. "I have some practice in it, General. Though it is actually a neutral Force technique, using it with the power of the Dark Side behind it greatly enhances its value."
Vos smiled. "Excellent. Can the apprentices with you form what is called a Force meld?"
Yuagith's eyes went wide as it dawned on him what he and the others were going to be asked to do. "Certainly, General. We can certainly do what you need."
Coruscant, Present
And so it was that Wes's fleet arrived safely and nearly right on top of the enemy fleet. The techs had disabled the safety catches on the hyperdrives, which took some doing, and had then slaved each ship to the Tyrant. Then, the Sith Apprentices had begun to meditate, sinking into a full Force meld. Yuagith himself took control of the ship's hyperdrive. If this worked, the entire fleet would arrive at Coruscant safely. If not, they could crash into the planet, completely destroying themselves and, quite possibly, the planet itself.
Vos thought it was worth the risk.
And so they had jumped into hyperspace, bypassing the gravitic anomalies created by the Cree'ar as the Sith piloted the ship around and through them to avoid being torn to pieces by the fluctuations. Reinforced by the power of the other eleven Apprentices, piloting the fleet through hyperspace was no difficulty at all.
Neither was dropping the fleet out at the proper time.
Within five seconds of their reversion to realspace, every gunner on an SS ship who had an opening to fire did so. Thousands and tens of thousands of turbolaser bolts slammed into Cree'Ar vessels, wrecking havoc on what was left of their fleet. Fighters, which had been ready since before the jump, launched, shields were raised, and the SS fleet prepared for battle.
And then Wes received the message from Moff Gevel.
The SS fleet used the most advanced Imperial fighters in service - the TIE Schutzstaffel, TIE Hurrikane, and TIE Storm - and it carried a lot of them. The current fleet had, combined, 1104 Schutzstaffel fighters, 144 Hurrikane fighters, and 144 Storm bombers. That was a lot of firepower, and not all of it would be needed for the assault on the aliens.
"Storm squadrons 9, 10, 11, 12, you are receiving new targeting data. You are to target all towers on Coruscant broadcasting on this frequency. Hurrikane squadrons 9 through 12, escort them. All other ships, engage the enemy at will."
Five seconds after seeing the throng of beleaguered Coruscanti pushing their way onto the docking platform, Runo was at the landing ramp with several of the Legionnaires who had stayed behind while Solir escorted their employer to see Azrael Zell. In addition to Eleddol and Soshiomn, he had also summoned Forwl, their hulking Yuuzem warrior, and Herret Myyl, the newest soldier to join their company.
“Can’t let them on ship,” Forwl murmured in his broken Basic. His snout twitched in concern as he shifted his heavy blaster rifle to a better grip.
“No, we can’t,” Runo agreed. “At least not until Solir gets back.”
“He’ll be back,” Herret spoke up. The Iktotch had the slightly distant look on his face that indicated he was receiving one of the premonitions, which had come in quite handy for the Legionnaires of late. He looked directly at Runo and added, “He’ll be back soon.”
The Legionnaires’ second-in-command stared at Herret for a moment, having never been entirely comfortable with that kind of foresight, and then simply said, “Then this won’t take long.”
As the five men descended the landing ramp, the sound of heavy footsteps filled the air. Runo looked out to the landing plan to see that the desperate survivors of the assault had already cleared half the distance from the other edge of the platform to the Dagger. Even from afar, he could tell that they were all frightened, frantic, or completely hysterical, and he frowned. This was going to be very complicated if he wanted to keep a stampede of random people from filling every empty space on the Legionnaires’ ship.
“Fan out,” he ordered the others. “No one gets aboard unless I say so.”
The Legionnaires nodded and did as he said. As he unclipped his twin SoroSuub S-5 blasters, he added, “Set weapons on stun.”
The crowd was massive as it surged toward the two ships at the end of the landing platform. There were several armed men and women in the lead, though thankfully none of them held anything better than a battered vibroblade. There had to be at least fifty people heading toward them. With odds like that, Runo knew that there was no way to keep them off the Dagger or the Tooth if they truly wanted to get onboard. They would have to rely on a show of force.
“Kuwa, you there?” he asked, raising his voice so that the miniature comlink in his ear would pick it up.
“Ready and waiting,” the young Twi’lek girl replied from within the cockpit.
“Charge the forward energy cannons and keep the engines primed in case we need to make a quick getaway,” he ordered. “Cartan, you do the same.”
The pilots aboard the Legionnaires’ two vessels acknowledged.
By this time the crowd had slowed to a stop a few meters away. They were eyeing the five armed mercenaries warily, unsure how to proceed now that there was a challenge to their escape. Several people began murmuring worriedly in the back of the group.
Runo took a step forward and smiled. “Good afternoon!”
Unsurprisingly, no one returned the salutation. Instead, one of the armed men replied, “We’re getting on your ship, friend. All of us. We need to get off this planet.”
“Well, you see,” the middle-aged Naboo said, “that’s going to be a bit of a problem for us. This isn’t exactly a passenger liner –”
“There’s an evacuation in progress!” a woman in the crowd shrieked. “We need to leave now. You can fit all of us in that ship!”
“Actually, we can’t. I’ve got an entire crew of people clogging the cabins in there, and there isn’t exactly a whole lot of floor space. We only have so much oxygen and so much weight that we can take on before our ships won’t fly. Not to mention that since our commander isn’t even here, I also can’t lift off yet.”
People were starting to grumble angrily. They were all frightened, he knew, frightened of being killed or captured by whatever force was laying siege to their homeworld. Runo had heard scattered reports of what was happening elsewhere on Coruscant, and quite frankly he didn’t blame these people for being terrified out of their minds.
Unfortunately, he had told these people the truth. He had already figured out that they couldn’t safely hold all of these people on the Legionnaires’ ships, and there was no way that he was leaving until Solir and the others came back. He could tell by the looks on these people’s faces, though, that they were not going to leave; either they were going to get aboard, or die trying. And in his heart, Runo knew that he couldn’t just turn them away. He hated to admit it, but he wasn’t nearly as hard as some of the people under his command. He had learned from Solir that sometimes helping people was more important than waging a fight or collecting credits. It couldn’t always be every person for themselves.
“All right, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Runo said to the crowd. “I’m not lying when I say that we can’t take all of you. We’re also not leaving just yet, but it is safer for you on our ships than out here in the open. So … we’re going to do this the old fashioned way. Women, children, and wounded first, and then we’ll see what we can do about everyone else.”
The crowd looked at each other nervously, obviously not entirely comfortable with such draconian tactics. Runo saw the Legionnaires shifting to either side of him, in case the situation turned ugly. Then, from the middle of the group, a grizzled man in a torn pilot’s uniform stepped forward, leading a young woman who was very pregnant and a small boy of ten.
“These are my children,” he said with a grim set to his face. “Their mother and my son-in-law were lost along the way, and we’re all that’s left. I would like for them to go with your ship.”
Behind them, the crowd continued to shift as the individuals that Runo had requested moved to the front. His eyes remained fixed on the family in front of him, though, and he felt his worn heart cracking beneath his chest, as memories of his home, and the horrors that befell it long ago, flashed before his eyes. Without a word, he nodded to the old pilot, and moved aside so that the last members of his family could board the ship.
Then he gestured for the next survivors to come forward.
There was an underlying intelligence behind the drones of infection. If, intelligence was the correct word to use in this case.
When someone shouted "Reavers!" they invariably meant one of two things:
A starship identified as a Reaver vessel or one of the infected.
But what did that really mean?
Only after sectors of star-space had become the hunting grounds of the Reavers and the horror of their very presence ebbed did rational thought take over.
After the loss of freighters, transports, and military warships from nations such as the Commonwealth, Coalition, Confederation, League and Empire, a loose group of scientists from all governments had come to the undeniable conclusion that the Reaver Threat could not be so easily contained and destroyed as first thought.
A ship full of infected zombies blown from the stars was usually enough to make any Hunter Fleet (those units tasked by individual governments to destroy Reaver vessels) pound a fist in the air in triumph.
However, after reviewing scores of footage of those Reaver raids that took place on planets and the behavior (or lackthereof) of those infected, one had to ask oneself just how these infected actually "flew" the starships they captured?
The infected could run, claw and bite their way to their victims on a planet but the danger was not the infected themselves. This was seen when groups of Kashan Shock Troopers and Coalition Special Forces happened to be on a world during a Reaver raid. With devestating defensive fire, the military units of the Coalition and Confederation cut down every rushing infected person that had landed and the civilian population had, as the Hunter Fleets did, raise their fist in triumph and government leaders galaxy-wide began to issue new contact procedures when it came to dealing with landing Reavers.
Simply shoot them from afar!
It was simple and it could be carried out with minimal expenses to existing budgets.
Clearly, a government agency's dream.
Unfortunately, it did not address the real problem.
For the bodies of those infected were themselves victims.
In the beginning, those victims of 'secondary outbreaks' (those infected due to handling of the original Reaver bodies for incinerating) were much more devestating and were only halted due to some unknown, unexplained reason. Perhaps some unseen quota had been reached? The Reaver ships returned and picked up those former Shock Troopers and Special Ops soldiers until they became fodder for other defenders on another world.
It was soon understood that it was infection itself that was the problem.
And it was the study of the infection itself that was hardest to achieve for those study groups eventually erred in some form or another causing yet another outbreak and unless their findings were recorded and the machinery left intact, others would have to retread the ground lost.
It was a very dangerous and devestating trial and error process.
Still, there was observational data and what these scientists observed was that the data they had seen (so far) on the Reavers inferred some sort of intelligence.
For the infected were more mindless in their pursuit of those not infected and had not the soundness of mind to effect even the simplest of starship handling tasks.
And so the questions remained:
Who (or what) drove the ships of the various Reaver fleets?
And what was the nature of the inferred Reaver intelligence?
*
The Dracconis has reasoned that the road to perfection might be reached through various roads instead of a single route. This pleased the Dracconis sense of efficiency and it was an attribute that would carry over into the Reaver infection.
Especially since the nature of those uninfected varied greatly.
That was why the Imperial doctor has succumbed to an overwhelming psionic blast when he stepped foot onto the Reaver ship.
A powerful voice intruded into the good doctor's thoughts:
The feliniod sat grooming itself incessently. Its course tongue lapped at its thick cream-coloured coat.
Approaching from behind came two human males one commenting to the other, “That's disgusting.”
Its hearing far beyond that of a mere humanoid, the cat-like being hissed drawing a chuckle from the other human.
“They have trouble with our vocalization, but they understand our language just fine,” said the second man. “I don't think it likes you.”
The first asked, “What did it say?”
“It said,” translated the latter with a smirk, “that you're the one with piss stained underwear.”
At this the first was silent, shocked.
“Yeah,” added the second man. “They have a strong olfactory sense too.”
With a gesture the second man montioned the first to a chair, “The bridge is yours, Captain.”
The story of the Outsider is a convoluted one.
Once upon a time she served the Republic as an enforcement picket and earned a name for herself plugging pirates and raiders that strayed too close to claimed space. In her territory, at the time, she was known by sight and name; most illegals knew to keep their distance and those who did not quickly came to wish they had. With the demise of the Republic proper she was sold to privateers, mercenaries working within the laws of the Empire which rose in its place. She hunted the traitorous mystics who saught to overthrow the Emperor, tracked down and captured the rebellious and generally earned a new name for herself as a loyal servant of the Empire and enemy to those who would become enemies of the state themselves. As time wore on and the Empire dwindled the Outsider found herself mysteriously without lawful ownership and somehow or other the prize pot in a game of cards. Won, made the property of a man who was better with cards and drink then money or holdings, she sat for years slowly becoming a derelict. Luck was on her side, however; the lone survivor of a Reaver attack she drifted from her berth and was lost in the blackness of space until, by chance or fate, a salvage ship stumbled across her. The salvagers, chalking her up as derelict, were looking to sell her for scrap but before the deal could be finalized an ecentric financeer and student of miltary history, who just happened to be at the same scrap dealer looking for that diamond in the rough, recognized the Outsider and bought her out from under the scrappers. That man, an older human of means, had run afoul of the Reavers himself and saw in her a chance for redemption and so, pouring considerable credits in to the Outsider, he saw that she was overhauled, modernized and outfitted for war. And so, once again, the aged ship found herself of use nearly one hundred years after her inaugural voyage.
In the mess hall of the Outsider gathered her crew, he captain and her benefactor.
The latter, an aged human of wiry stature and wiry stance, stood at the head of the officers table and called for the attention of all present. His style of dress was oddly out of place. Wearing a tweed jacket, a duster atop his head and pleated slacks he was a stark contrast to even the motly crew of the Rotanga who, a mixed bag of aliens, for their own part lacked any uniformity of their own.
Rapping his fork against his glass, he waited until all were quiet with eyes turned his way before speaking.
“Welcome, brave crew, to the first in what I hope will be a long list of staff meetings. Some of you know one another. Others, our Captain included, are newly arrived. But regardless, we are all brothers and sisters in arms. Without further ado, I would like to introduce the senior staff of the Outsider...”
He gestured to the Captain who rose at his beckoning.
“Captain Robert Sweet, whom some of you will recall distinguised himself at the battle of Corellia against the invading Reavers. A life long merchant marine, I know he will stand for each and every one of you and that you, in turn, will do him proud.”
The Captain nodded once, sat back down. A man in his forties, he kept his hair cropped short and his face clean shaven. Wearing a leather bombers jacket and cargo-style trousers, he looked every part the merchant sailor.
“Second in command, Commander Keith Bowie,” he gestured to a younger human male. Rising in turn, he snapped off a quick salute. His tunic was smartly pressed, as were his slacks also. On his feet, a pair of expertly polished jack boots. “Commander Bowie served the Imperial Navy under Baron Desaria, but we won't hold that against him!”
To a man, woman, or alien everyone shared in a boisterous laugh.
“Chief, if you would...”
At the far end of the table, deigining to remain seated, was a square shouldered near-human alien. A blocky fellow, his pale features and sallow eyes marked him as a half-breed. He raised a hand to signify his presence.
“Chief Stucky, engineer and Chief of the Ship. There isn't a man alive who knows more about the Rotanga, having worked aboard a ship of her class when he was but a lad. The Chief personally oversaw the refit of our fine vessle and you can all count on him to know her like the back of his hand.”
“And to his left,” he gestured to the large felinoid seated to one side of the Chief. “Lobo, our security specialist. His people have been particularly hard hit by the Reaver incursions and as those of you acquainted with his species know he is a top knotch fighter, detective and all around bad-ass.”
Again the crew shared in a laugh.
And so it went, round the table and back. The old benefactor introducing the officers corp, though none held any legitimatly recognized rank, until he reached himself.
“As for myself, I am the one man you should all know since I sign your pay stubs. I am Zane Von-Zucker and aside from being rich, and eccentric I want to see those Reavers kicked right out of the galaxy which brings us to the point. I have assembled you, the finest crew money can buy, given you this fine ship, and lay before you one task and one task alone; to make hell for the Reaver scum where-ever they dare show their zombie faces!”
A riotous cheer went up filling the mess hall with a chorus of rousing hollers and shouts.
In to the chorus, Von-Zucker added, “And if you save a few people along the way, so much the better.”
Solir knew something was wrong when he saw that the door to the landing pad was open.
He increased his pace as his entourage of Legionnaires and stormtroopers stepped through the large doorway and onto the platform. At the end he could see both of the Legionnaires’ ships, standing like a beacon in a terrible storm. After weeks of trying to get back, marching across the ruin that Coruscant’s cities had become, he could hardly believe that they had found their home once more.
The crowd that had gathered in front of his home, however, was a cause for worry. As his group approached, Solir could tell that these were Imperial citizens, no doubt trying to find a way to escape Coruscant. Some of the people in the back noticed the mercenaries and stormtroopers approaching and began to move out of the way to let them pass. Only when a path had been cleared completely did Solir see that some of the civilians were being escorted up the Spinning Dagger’s landing ramp or led around to the Nek’s Tooth.
Runo was standing in front of the crowd, effectively directing traffic. He had just ordered Herret and Soshiomn to escort a wounded man onto the ship when he noticed Solir approaching. A huge grin spread across his weathered face as he stepped forward to greet his commander and friend; behind him, Forwl bounded forward as well, excited to see that the man who had saved his life had returned unharmed.
Solir clasped arms with his second-in-command and pulled him into a quick one-armed embrace, and then experienced Forwl’s powerful grip as the Yuzzem wrapped both its arms around him and lifted him off the ground. Runo laughed as Solir was deposited back onto the platform.
“Good to have you back, Solir,” he said in earnest. “I’d ask where the hell you’ve been, but I can probably guess.”
“You’d be better not knowing,” Solir replied. He gestured at the crowd beside them and added, “I can see we’re taking on new passengers.”
Runo shrugged and said, “I got the impression they weren’t going to take no for an answer. We can’t fit them all, but I figured we should try to take some, what with the evacuation and all…”
“Don’t worry, you made the right decision, my friend,” the commander assured him, gripping his shoulder for emphasis. He saw Brel leading Sammel Kersh past them and called out, “We’ll be underway soon, Councilor. Let Doctor Bool examine you before you return to your cabin.”
“Thank you, Captain, for everything,” Kersh said. The stout politician definitely looked the worse for wear, but Solir could see some of his old confidence glimmering in his eyes now that they had made it to the Dagger. “May I ask, Captain, are we taking all of these citizens aboard?”
Solir sighed resignedly. “We’ll be taking on as many as we can, I assure you.”
“Like hell you will!” someone shouted behind him, and Solir turned to see Sergeant Raythe approaching. His stormtroopers marched by, heading immediately for the landing ramp without so much as a glance toward the beleaguered citizens that they passed. “This transport has been commissioned for service by the authority of the Imperial High Command. You are required to take me and my men to our destination immediately.”
“Since when did we become Imperial property?” Runo demanded angrily. “We’re independent contractors, pal, and we can do whatever we want!”
Solir held up a hand to prevent Raythe’s reply and said to his second, “I’ve already agreed to transport the sergeant and his men, Runo. However,” he added, turning back to Raythe, “that does not mean that we will be leaving these people behind. I’m sure that your superiors can take custody of their citizens, or permit us to transport them elsewhere once you have disembarked. I would think that the Imperial High Command would be more concerned with the safety of its people than your timely arrival.”
Raythe was visibly fuming, and Solir could only guess at what the sergeant wanted to say. Instead he simply brushed past them toward the ship. Two of his men were still standing at the bottom of the landing ramp, and he quickly ordered them to remain on the platform to hurry the civilians along before disappearing inside.
“So much for the pride of the New Order,” Runo scoffed.
“Captain, there is something else that you need to be told.”
Solir turned to see Lee standing behind him. The droid was standing surprisingly close, and had noticeably decreased the volume on his vocabulator. “What is it, Lee?” Solir asked.
“After we joined forces with Sergeant Raythe and his men, I overheard the sergeant speaking in low tones with one of his soldiers,” Lee reported. “They mentioned being in contact with Aeacus, the head of the unit of Guardsmen tasked with protecting Regent Zell. Raythe made it clear that he and his squad are using our services to link up with Aeacus, and that their ultimate goal is to kill the Regent.”
Solir stared in open disbelief at the droid, momentarily wondering if Lee’s modified programming had given him the capability for delusions. Then he realized that the droid had never been wrong before, and would never have said anything unless he was sure that he was speaking the truth.
“Why does Raythe want to murder Azrael Zell?”
“I do not know,” Lee said. “The only other fact that I was able to determine is that Raythe and his men are acting alone, and are keeping their scheme hidden from Lord Aeacus.”
“By Hyfe, that man must be insane!” Runo exclaimed in a low whisper after glancing back to make sure that the two stormtroopers nearby were not eavesdropping. “Aside from how difficult it would be to get close enough to Zell, there’s also the possibility that he’s already dead. The Imperial High Command tower was destroyed by that last bombardment.”
“That would put a slight chink in the sergeant’s plan,” Lee replied, eliciting a sharp laugh from Runo.
Solir had fallen silent, trying to think of what they should do. The stormtroopers were already aboard the Dagger, and they had enough armed men and women to make it difficult for the Legionnaires to defeat them without casualties. Not to mention that Solir did not want to start a firefight in close quarters with innocent civilians aboard his ship. That meant that, for the time being at least, they would have to keep their knowledge secret from the Imperials until they could come up with a real plan.
“Can I make a suggestion?”
The Legionnaires turned as Kersh stepped forward, a mischievous smile on his round face. Solir hadn’t even realized that the councilor was still there, assuming that Brel had already led him onto the ship. The last thing that he wanted was to burden their employer with even more complications. Not surprised that Kersh would want to make his voice heard, Solir gestured for him to continue.
“As long as we do everything that Raythe asks, he’ll never catch on to what we know,” Kersh said, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Once he tells us where he’s going, we can send a coded transmission to Aeacus or whoever else is there to warn them about what he’s planning. He won’t have a clue until we’ve landed and an armed guard shows up to grab him.”
Solir smiled at the simplicity of it, looked at Runo and got an encouraging nod in agreement. To Kersh, he said, “Councilor, you may have made an excellent mercenary.”
“I may not be useful when blasters start waving,” Kersh admitted with a grin, “but secrecy and subterfuge are written in a politician’s playbook.”
As he grinned at the councilor, Solir mused that even after three centuries of life, he could still be surprised by the tenacity of people around him. Many Anzat, his late father included, seemed to think that they were superior because of their culture, enhanced by the exceptionally long lives of their people. Solir refused to think that way, having realized long ago that there were men and women who were truly exceptional because of their mortality, the understanding that their time in the universe was limited and that they had to make their mark while they were able. Sammel Kersh was such a person, the kind of politician who knew when to play his cards to help the people around him, how to play those cards in almost any situation, and when to back off and let other people take the reins. Solir knew that this was one of the few individuals he had ever known that he could truly respect.
He was about to say something to that effect to Kersh, omitting the part about Anzat versus other beings, when the entire platform shook beneath their feet. Several people nearby stumbled and cried out in surprise. Solir drew his blaster and spun to look at the other end of the landing platform just as the wall separating it from the boulevard on the other side exploded outward, raining debris in all directions and eliciting more screams from the civilians.
The being that emerged from the cloud of debris was, for lack of a better word, a true monster. It was at least twenty feet tall, covered entirely in metallic armor, and had the features of a demon. One hand wielded a massive plasma cannon, while the other hung empty.
The latest alien terror to visit Coruscant roared, causing the civilians to scream again. Then it started toward its newest victims.
The Coruscanti who were still on the landing platform began rushing as one toward the safety of the Legionnaires’ ships. Solir knew that they only had seconds before this monster would be among them.
“Everyone aboard the ships!” he shouted at the civilians. “Legionnaires, fan out!”
The screaming civilians fanned out behind them, some pushing up the Dagger’s landing ramp and others following Cartan toward the Tooth. Passenger capacity was forgotten in the face of this immediate threat. Solir shoved Kersh in the transport’s direction before joining his men in facing down the monster. In unison, they opened up with their blasters, aiming for all parts of the monster’s plated body.
The creature didn’t even slow down. Solir and the others kept firing, but the Anzat already knew that their weapons were having no effect.
When the monster stopped several meters away, he thought that somehow they may have caught a break. Then it aimed its plasma cannon and fired, vaporizing the two stormtroopers who had remained outside, several civilians, and a jagged chunk of the landing platform. Solir was thrown to the ground from the blast, as were the Legionnaires. The beast roared again and began marching directly toward the mercenaries, obviously choosing to take out the potential threat before unleashing its wrath on the frightened, unarmed citizens nearby. It raised its unarmed hand, intending to crush the Legionnaires with its brute strength.
The whine of cannon fire filled the air as red blasts of energy suddenly soared over Solir’s head and slammed into the creature’s chest. He spun around and realized that there was someone manning the portside gunwell on the Dagger. The monster staggered beneath the onslaught, but the lasers still were not getting through its armor. Solir desperately thought of something that could fell this beast; looking back at his ship, he quickly came up with an idea that he shouted into his comlink.
Two seconds later, a concussion missile roared out of the Dagger’s nose, connecting with the creature’s breast plate. The force of the blast knocked the monster onto its back, shaking the entire platform with the impact. Solir was already on his feet, ordering the Legionnaires to get aboard their ship immediately, following the last of the civilians.
They were just starting to climb the ramp when the monster got up again and started to stagger toward them. The armor over its chest was mangled, showing seared and broken flesh beneath, but aside from that the creature simply looked angrier. The port gunwell opened up again, concentrating on the damaged midsection, managing to keep the creature from progressing any further. Solir watched the beast in fascination as he followed Runo up the landing ramp, wondering what else these aliens could possibly have in their arsenal.
He pushed past the frightened civilians that were crowding his ship in order to get to the cockpit. Kuwa’aven was there at the helm, finishing the ignition sequence for the engines, Renneth in the copilot seat to speed up the process. Solir stared out the viewport at the creature, which continued to march onerously toward them, roaring as its flesh was ripped away by the blasts from the gunwell.
“Cartan’s already lifting off,” Kuwa reported.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” Runo ordered, and Solir could not have agreed more.
As they lifted from the platform, the creature suddenly surged toward them, flailing with its arms to try to reach the escaping ship. Renneth was faster at the controls, though, firing another missile before the beast could reach them. The missile sailed not into the creature, but into the metal at its feet, breaking into millions of tiny fragments. The creature roared one final time as it followed the remnants of the platform into Coruscant’s depths, disappearing in the shadows far below.
Solir settled into the seat in front of the sensor console, closing his eyes as adrenaline suddenly gave way to exhaustion. The past few weeks had taken their toll, and not just because he had not had any of the soup necessary for his survival in several days. Fighting his way across the city had been a brutal endeavor. His body wanted nothing more than rest, even though his stomach was churning for want of food. He almost felt that he could fall asleep in front of the sensors.
Then he heard the sounds of booted feet, opened his eyes to see Sergeant Raythe marching toward the cockpit from the lounge, and remembered that their adventure was far from over.
Shran Badaar began, but Artanis could see. Where once was only open space now was an Imperial warfleet. They had jumped into no mans land; the area of battle away from the escape corridor, between the Cree'Ar fleet and the planet.
Maneuvering to avoid the Cree'Ar gravitic manipulation arrays had been some feat, and to do so while avoiding the planet as well...
“Dez'ro'shan,” Artanis commanded. “Shift our forces from enforcing the corridor to the new reinforcements.”
“Incoming fire,” Badaar said, and both Cree'Ar reached for the nearest metal railing, prepared for an enemy bombardment from the hundred strong fleet.
Both stood, and waited, as the turbolaser fire began pelting the ship. The ship did not rock, or tear.
Badaar blinked. “It sounds almost like rain,” he mused of the sound of the fire dissipating across their hull.
“Tactical assessment,” Artanis asked, more serious, and Badaar went to retrieve one.
“Their turbolasers are almost completely ineffective against our gravitic shield,” Badaar said. “As did the previous Imperial forces, their laser based weaponry is useless against us.”
“Only a matter of time before they begin firing missles,” Artanis responded, remembering the original wave of Imperial attacks. “What is the tactical assessment of the Parrow Lin?”
The Parrow Lin vessels had slowly lumbered to the fore; outside the effective range of the Cree'Ar shield ship. They would bear the brunt of the attack, but had the thickest hulls of all the vessels. “All vessels currently operational, but absorbing that barrage...”
“Then let us cut down that barrage,” Artanis said. “Order the Parrow Lin to fire on the new reinforcements with their heaviest weapons.”
Their heaviest weapon were the Redundent Focusing Blaster Cannons. Named so for the focusing emitters along the 200 meter barrel, the beam was bent and compressed and bent and compressed and bent and compressed until the resultant emission was capable of destroying even the most heavily armored vessels.
The Reign Class Star Destroyer was not a new vessel, but for most governments, it was still an impressive vessel. The Dominion, however, did not hold these technologically inferior people in very high regard. The Reign stood for several seconds; the shields stopping the tip of the beam, and the first two pulses sent along it, but after that, the localized emission of the shields collapsed, and the beam tore through the hull. Each pulse caused the tear in the vessels hull to grow; the ship, decompressing from the sudden penetration of it's hull, jerked against itself, which only served to spread the damage.
Each Parrow Lin Battleship targeted two of the mighty cannons on a vessel. In mere moments, the middle range destroyers of the Imperial fleet began to go inert.
Of course, the Parrow Lin then had to cease their assault; such massive energy was required for such a massive weapon. They slowly reversed thrusters, dropping back to the safety of the envelopment of the Cree'Ar shields.
But not before launching more Armorlin.
This time, the pods containing the massive warriors could not reach the surface; but they would reach the fleet, and if they should happen to strike the vessels that no longer had shields...
“Lord Artanis.” Badaar said. “The new Imperial enforcements have begun targeting the broadcasting relays.”
“What?” Artanis demanded, angrily. “How can this be? Zeratul had a clear purpose; how could he...” Artanis stopped when Badaar looked down. “Judicator Badaar, for why do you lower your head?”
“There was a report received,” Badaar said. “The body of Zeratul Daz'Da'Mar was found.”
Artanis' eyes flashed. “The Skey'g'aar... he is... dead?”
Badaar nodded. “He was executed; he had not drawn any weapon.”
Artanis felt himself weaken. He found the chair; the only one on the bridge of the vessel, and collapsed into it. He hadn't even liked the creature; had, in fact, hated him. But Zeratul had been one of the most highly regarded Skey'g'aar alive. His rank within their society was nearly legendary. It was no coincidence that, despite not being related, Artanis and Zeratul Daz'Da'Mar shared the same surname.
Zeratul had earned that honor.
He had earned better than an execution!
He had earned the right to die in battle. To be slain by a better foe; killed by a warrior in hand to hand combat. To be... executed... unarmed...
“Judicator Badaar, transmit a directive for me to all vessels who may hear my voice,” he said, clearly tired. Badaar made arrangements and then nodded.
Artanis used what strength he had to stand; the Nexus would record and transmit his words regardless, but he didn't not feel like delivering them as a collapsed, defeated man. These were the words of a resolved man. So he resolved himself to stand.
“To all vessels of Imperial and civilian identification, hear my words. I am Lord Artanis Daz'Da'Mar, leader of The Dominion. Our God And Glorious Benefactor, Borleas Quayver, has designated the world you know as Coruscant to belong to The Dominion Under His Red Sun. Your resistance, while a valiant effort, only prolongs the suffering that must be born on your people. We have no wish to harm you; we merely want what is rightfully ours.
We respect your will to fight however the time to fight has ended. This world will be ours and how many will be lost before we take control is up to you. I offer you a direct choice now; we will cease firing on your vessels as you will on ours, and you may have two days to evacuate all personnel from the surface and orbit that you wish.
However, if you do not accept this proposal, than you will be forced to deal with the consequences. Even with your recent reinforcements, you are still at a technological and numerical disadvantage, as well as an inferior tactical position. You will lose the fight in orbit; even more of your vessels will hang, listless and exposed to space, crews dying. Not to mention the surface of the planet.
If you not cease firing on our vessels than Borleas Quayver has authorized that we do what we must to force you to accept your honorable defeat. If you are still firing offensive weapons on our vessels in one standard hour, than I will launch torpedoes that will distribute The Phage nanovirus into the atmosphere of Coruscant, killing the entire remaining military and civilian population and rendering it uninhabitable to organic life for the next one hundred years.
I wait your decision. Ra’esh’ra a’le’esh’a . Artanis out.”
When his address was finished, Artanis stood for a moment, shaking with all the summoned anger and fury. Then, he collapsed into his chair, unable to stand it any longer.
It seemed entire galaxies could fill the space in the gaps of knowledge the Imperial General Wes Vos knew about hyperspace. However, this could not be counted against the man for he and his vaunted SS were not generally known for their naval experience as much as their ground-pounding experience. It is what General Wes Vos created on the ground, namely, victory, that led to his rapid promotion and, in the grand tradition of the Empire at that time (though unwise), given command of of a fleet.
This practice of giving successful ground commanders their own naval units was started when General Simon Kaine became Grand Marshall Simon Kaine and used his newly acquired rank equivalent of a Grand Admiral to wrangle a naval command to carry out his plans. It was always said that no matter how successful a ground-pounder was, they still needed the navy to take them anywhere. And, in the case of the Empire, the Imperial Army was always dependent on the Imperial Navy.
But not for those up and coming officers who wanted to take charge of their destiny and be dependent upon no one. Simon Kaine had successfully made the transition weathering his learning curve despite his defeat at the hands of Gash Jiren going on to make a name for himself. And so it would be with General Wes Vos.
Unfortunately, Coruscant was to be for General Vos what Dantooine had been for General Kaine.
A grand defeat.
This defeat was, as historians a hundred years into the future would conclude, attributed to several key misunderstandings.
The first, the nature of hyperspace travel and, secondly, the nature of the Sith.
While General Wes Vos understood that it was the safety catch that detected the gravity anomalies that would pull his fleet out of lightspeed and thus break up his formation, he seemed to forget the reason the safety catch was put there to begin with: To keep the vessel traveling at lightspeed from hitting anything.
So, while General Vos was correct in presuming that disabling this safety catch would ensure his ships would not stop when the gravity anamolies were detected, he seemed not to realize that there was nothing ensuring his ships would not hit the source of those same anomalies and blow up. Or did he?
You see, to compensate for the fact that his fleet was jumping in and would not (could not) stop until manually action (rather than by computers) was taken, he placed his safety, along with those of his men and fleet into the hands of Sith.
The Sith apprentices' area of responsibility was three-fold:
Pilot the flagship Engage in a Force-Meld Engage in Battle-meditation
While these apprentices could link into a Force-Meld and start rudimentary Battle-Meditation techniques, the Battle-Meld could not be initiated fully because they had to concern themselves with their more important duty, namely, piloting the flagship.
There was a reason why intersystem jumps were rare except in instances of combat maneuvering. There was always that chance that the ships might run into something that would cause them to explode.
While it is true that a Jedi or Sith might be able to detect the anomalies littering their entry vector (given their inherent force abilities though even this did not mean that every force users could detect such anomalies going faster than the speed of light), they would not really be able to do anything about it besides what the hyperdrive safety catch would have done, namely, bring the ship out of lightspeed before hitting the anomaly.
The stresses of piloting, coupled with the knowledge that their ship was plunging through any anomaly they encountered along their approach vector would definitely have had an impact on the effectiveness of any battle-meld.
For, you see, starships moving at lightspeed cannot maneuver. From Point A to Point B, your vessel moving at lightspeed is stuck on that vector. But what happens if there are things between Point A and Point B? Well, you could trust your navigational systems and not make the jump or you rely on those things having sufficient mass to cast a shadow that is detectable to your hyperdrive for the safety-catch to work and switch off the hyperdrive.
Or you can disable your safety-catch and hope you do not run into those things between Point A and B.
Either way it was a crap-shoot since starships and wreckage did not cast mass shadows and if such objects were struck by another going faster than the speed of light, entire areas of space would light up like a celestial celebration.
So, while some anomalies were merely projections cast to trip this safety-catch and thus prematurely bring vessels out of lightspeed, out of formation and to cut them off, other anomalies were also wormholes discharging enemy warships intent on their maneuvers throughout the system.
The conclusion was that many warships of the Imperial SS were lost that day.
Nebula-class Star Destroyer ONS Axiom, Reaver Space Border Patrol
There was something altogether disturbing about staring out into the blackness of space and knowing what horrors lay in wait.
The past few months had been particularly hard on the Ossan Navy, with the threat of the Reavers seeming to loom overhead everywhere one turned. In the initial weeks of the outbreak, several Ossan vessels had responded to distress calls from neighboring systems that had the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the border they now patrolled.
Most were never heard from again.
Those few lucky that were, however, limped back home to tell the nightmarish stories of what they had encountered. In those early days there had not even been a name for the threat they now knew all too well. After pressure from the military, Parliament ceased stalling and finally discussed at length what could be done about the threat.
A full scale rescue fleet was voted down almost unanimously. The sole planet simply didn't have the resources to spare, and in those days it was unknown where Reaver space began and ended, or if it would continue to grow after the initial burst of activity. Planetary defense came first.
Eventually, however, resolutions were passed to send out small scouting parties. Some were lost, but most managed to break through or sneak by Reaver hot spots and make contact with several planets that once had relations with Ossus.
It was there they began to get some idea of the true nature of the beast they faced. Many worlds were in a state of near anarchy, their governments having broken down completely, but some had managed to persevere with a continued sense of planetary authority. It was there the scouting parties could sift through the rumors and finally get hold of theories and tentative facts about what was, by this time, rapidly becoming known as the 'Reaver scourge'.
These parties returned to Ossus with stories of planetary cullings, crippled portions of defense fleets that suddenly came alive again on the side of the Reavers, fallen soldiers mutated into the enemy they died fighting. But to Parliament, the most important piece of information the scouting parties came back with was this:
Reaver space, by all appearances, was no longer expanding. Ossus was on the safe side of a stabilizing border.
"Admiral on deck!" came the call, and Captain Anton Yemin turned, snapping to attention.
"At ease," Admiral Zark Ekan said, his reserved voice somehow resonating throughout the spartan bridge of the Axiom, and the crew returned to their posts. Yemin clasped his hands together behind his back and turned slightly to continue his stargazing, awaiting the...Admiral's arrival at his side.
The ONS Axiom served as the flagship of the Ossan Navy, the New Republic crest still proudly displayed on its hull as a reminder of what once was. It was also one of the very few vessels with crew serving at near optimum capacity. Anton Yemin had been its Captain for several years now, and had been on the fast track for promotion to Admiral of the Fleet, until...
"Sir," the Captain curtly acknowledge his superior.
"Captain Yemin," Ekan returned the greeting with an equal measure of formalism, his expression unreadable as always, "Status?"
"All systems in the green, Admiral," Anton recited the words as if having prepared them in front of a mirror, "Still operating under comm silence, per protocol. No anomalies have been detected thus far."
"Glad to hear it," the Admiral grinned darkly, surveying the bridge as he said so before turning once more to face the other man, "If it is alright with you, I'd like to make a quick round of the bridge."
"Not at all, sir," Yemin nearly stammered, caught off guard by what seemed to be a polite request, "Is that all?"
"One more thing," Zark said as he turned to leave the Captain's side, "If you have no pressing matters to attend to, I'd like it very much if you would stop by my quarters in the next hour to talk. I don't feel we were given nearly enough time to become properly acquainted."
"Yes sir," Anton nodded, his eyebrows furrowing as the Admiral turned fully, "I'll do my best to accommodate."
Yemin had considered skipping the meeting. It wouldn't be too difficult for him to invent some urgent issue that at the same time did not require the Admiral's presence, but he had been unable to resist the temptation to speak privately in a one-on-one manner with Ekan. They had almost never been alone together since he had arrived on board right before the Axiom began its patrol.
He raised his hand to alert the Admiral to his presence when the door slid open. Yemin stood there awkwardly a moment, his hand outstretched, before regaining composure somewhat befitting a man of his status and entering when Zark beckoned.
"Have a seat, Captain," Zark offered, motioning to the chair that sat across the Admiral's desk.
"If its all the same to you, Admiral," Yemin replied almost immediately, standing in much the same posture he had been on the bridge, "I would rather stand."
"Well it isn't," Ekan said without missing a beat, the grin on his face betraying his attitude, "I insist, Captain...please."
Yemin paused a moment before hesitatingly sitting down. Somehow the Admiral always managed to catch him off guard with his attitude. It was...unprofessional was not the word. Zark Ekan was anything but that. It was just...disarming. In the way his favorite uncle might be.
"Cigarra?" Zark asked, pushing a case slightly toward Yemin in a display of offering.
"I don't smoke, sir."
"Good man," the Admiral nodded, smiling to himself as he took a cigarra from the case and lit it, "Nasty habit. Never pick it up. Can't seem to quit myself."
A brief moment of silence ensued as Zark took a few long drags.
"Why did you start then, sir?" Yemin asked, uncomfortable and not knowing exactly what to say.
"You don't need to call me sir, Yemin," Zark chuckled as he smoked, "Not in here. I won't stand for it. Call me Zark."
"Very well...Zark," Yemin said, as if playing with the word in his mouth, "Why am I here?"
"Straight to the point, then," the Admiral nodded, smiling as he did before, "As I said on the bridge, we're here to talk. Get to know each other better. But more importantly, we're here because I need to figure out just what it is about me you can't stand."
"Sir?" Yemin sputtered, his eyes bulging.
"I told you, don't call me sir. Zark suits me just fine, has for most of my life," he said, obviously finding amusement in the Captain's reaction, "Don't worry, Yemin. We're not here because I'm going to demote you or chew you out or murder you. We're just talking. You don't like me, I want to know why."
"I...its not that I don't like you, sir...Zark," Anton managed, sighing. In all his dreams of confronting the Admiral, he had never quite expected it to play out like this, "I don't even know you. For that matter, nobody does."
"Oh?" Zark motioned for him to go on.
"I've been in the military my entire adult life," Yemin continued, caught up in the spur of the moment. Maker, was he really going to say what he was about to? "Many of those years have been spent serving aboard the Axiom. I've Captained her myself for three years. I earned my way here-"
"And just as you're about to make Admiral, here I come out of thin air to take it all away?" Zark finished, "Is that about right?"
And then Anton Yemin surprised himself.
"No, it isn't!" Yemin nearly roared back as he prepared to kiss his career goodbye, "Not by a long shot! Here you come out of thin air is right! From where? Who are you?! Haven't been on planet in years, come out of Knossa for Maker's sake! Frack, they almost didn't let you on board because they had to confirm your citizenship! And now you're an Admiral? Like I said, I earned my way here, Zark. You wanted to get acquainted? Lets start with you."
And then, for what seemed like an eternity, there was the most still silence in the room that Yemin had ever experienced. Until finally, something even more unexpected even than his own outburst happened.
The Admiral burst into laughter, even standing up and applauding the man across from him.
"S...sir?" Yemin asked tentatively, feeling suddenly so small before the figure towering before him.
"You impress me, Anton!" Zark smiled broadly, putting out his near-finished cigarra in the tray and lighting another before he sat down once more, "I think I like you."
"I...I don't understand," Anton said, fully bewildered.
"But I understand perfectly," Zark said, his tone reassuring, "I wasn't sure you actually had it in you."
"Had what in me?" the Captain replied, beginning to grow frustrated.
"The sheer capability, Anton!" Zark explained, a shit eating grin on his face, "The capability to look past your preconceived notions, your exterior sense of why you disliked me. There is a huge difference between fearing for your career and fearing for your men and your planet. I think you can come to your own conclusion on which is the more desirable character trait."
"How did you...never mind," Anton said, shaking his head, "None of this changes things. Whether or not you like me, I still don't trust you. And I won't ever trust you."
"Even if I could prove to you, without a doubt, I am who I say I am?" Zark asked.
"I don't see any way you could," Anton argued, then shrugged, "But yes, if by some miracle you could, I would trust you."
"Then I'll do my very best to do so," Zark began, taking another drag of his cigarra, "I served Ossus first during the Thrawn invasion. I commanded any ground forces I could muster under Master Jiren. The military...it was in shambles. There wasn't a shred of organization left in the beast. So we rounded up as many good men as we could, gave them rifles, and became the resistance. When we had to evacuate the world...our world, I was given command of an old, beaten up Star Destroyer by the name of-"
"I know this already!" Anton cut him off, glaring at the Admiral he had just berated, "It was in your file. Celebrated veteran of the Thrawn Crisis! Never mind that our records were reduced to slag during the orbital bombardments. Never mind, as you said, our military apparatus was completely disorganized. We couldn't even keep track of where Admiral Jiren was half the time! And here you come, with little more than a name and a heavily redacted and half-lost file! A name that isn't even yours! Arix!"
"And now we come to the part you don't know," Zark continued, not perturbed in the slightest by the renewed vigor of the Captain's wrath, "The reason why that file was redacted so heavily. The reason why your superiors have not been more forthcoming to you about me or why I am here. The truth, Yemin..."
With a gesture of his hand, there was the sound of the door locking behind them. Before Anton could pause to speculate, the Admiral leaned forward and stared at him intently.
"What you are about to see must never leave this room," Ekan said, his voice now deathly serious, "Secrecy is the price of knowledge. Secrecy is the price of the truth. Do you swear?"
"We shall see."
"Not good enough, Anton," Zark's eyes narrowed, "This is not a game. Swear it."
"...I swear," the Captain said at last, his curiosity overwhelming to leave empty handed now.
"I hold you to it," Zark nodded and stood. Yemin slid back in his chair almost on reflex. There was no sparkle left in the Admiral's eyes as he lifted his right hand, staring down at it as if it were a curiosity, "I lost this hand on Naboo. Lupercus Darksword cut it off. A quick, clean amputation. If you knew Lupercus, you'd know he must have missed his mark. And if you knew the Lightside, you'd know that where some might see despair..."
To Yemin's utter surprise and faint horror, the Admiral's right hand seemingly began to fold in on itself, and it wasn't until halfway through the process that Anton realized it was indeed robotic, and meant to do so. As soon as the hand fully collapsed, out shot a brilliant lance of golden yellow light sprung forth with a characteristic snap-hiss!
The entire transformation had taken place in seconds, and suddenly Admiral Zark Ekan stood before him with a lightsaber emanating from his wrist.
"...others find hope."
"Frack me..." Anton whispered to himself, "There were rumors, but..."
And indeed there had been. The type of mythos that inevitability develops around the persona of military officers. Crewmen get to talking and in no time at all a thousand stories heard from "friends of friends" crop up throughout a capital ship. No one would dare openly say it, but everyone thought it. Especially the old vets who had served with them and under them during the days of the New Republic. He just had that feeling about him...
The aura of a Jedi.
"But a Captain must always be above such groundless speculation," the Jedi nodded, and moments later the lightsaber had deactivated and Zark's hand was back, looking as human as ever, "You are not to blame. If I didn't want you to know, you never would."
"But why?" Anton asked, "Why keep it a secret? And why are you here? Are there more of you?"
"One at a time, Anton, please!" Zark laughed, sitting down, "It must remain a secret because there are more of us. We are not yet ready to reveal ourselves. There are...too few. Far too few. And I am here because I possess a certain ability that might prove to be vital in future encounters with the Reavers."
"And that would be?"
"An ancient Jedi technique known as battle meditation," the Jedi explained, "In short, it is the capability to coordinate the Ossan fleet on a mental level, boosting their performance to its most efficient. I studied the art during my time within the Rogue Jedi Order."
"You can...you can control the fleet?" Anton asked, his voice nervous, "Control our minds?"
"No, nothing like that. That way is the Sith way," Zark shook his head, his expression grim, "I would never invade another's mind without both their consent and a good reason. Neither would any other true Jedi. I am merely...brushing against the crew's consciousness, soothing them and enhancing their willpower with my own."
"You mean...you're doing it right now?" Yemin's mouth went agape.
"To a certain extent," Zark nodded, taking another cigarra from the box and lighting it, "It is...taxing. The cigarras help me concentrate. Its a very passive effect at the moment. If we encounter Reavers, I shall enter a state of heightened meditation and the effect will become more active. I'll depend on you, Captain, to give most of the orders."
"I...I see," Anton managed at last, "Forgive me. This is...this is a lot to take in."
"I apologize for springing it on you," Zark said sincerely, "But when it comes to telling people...what I am...there's really no other way to go about it."
And then, before either of them could say anymore, klaxons began to blare throughout the vessel. Anton's eyes shot up in surprise. The Admiral was already accessing the bridge readouts through his personal station.
"Unauthorized comm activity, what the frack?" Ekan muttered to himself before keying the bridge comm, "Bridge, this is the Admiral. What the frack is going on up there?! Who used comms?"
"Not us, sir!" came the reply from the bridge.
"Reavers?" Anton wondered aloud.
"Reavers don't use comms, they only find you through them," Zark reminded the other man before keying the comm again, "I'm on my way, battle stations!"
And then the Admiral was out of his seat, motioning for the Captain to follow as they nearly flew out of the room and sprinted down the corridor. A few tense minutes and a turbolift ride later and they were on the bridge.
"Status?!" Zark and Anton bellowed simultaneously.
"Incoming vessels, sir!" came the call from the crew pit, "Bearing vector...wait, getting an I.D. They're...they're Coalition, sir!"
"Coalition? All the way out here?" Anton whispered to the Admiral.
"Hail them, let's see why they're stopping by," Zark ordered.
The hail went out, and it was returned. The Coalition scout vessels relayed their prepared message, and as the message played Zark Ekan began to smile.
"Tell them their fleet has clearance to enter Ossan space," he said, embers burning bright within his eyes, "And prepare a shuttle. I would like to meet the Prime Minister personally when he arrives."
Garber! That was what Maxon's right hand man's name here on this putrid world was!
The old Sith Master's fingers snapped as his mind recalled irrelevant facts of the past. Now, if he could just remember where that fool, Dar, lived.
The world was not a user-friendly world in the way of AI or computers and the Republic technicians and engineers had trouble trying to break down the mindset instilled during the Nyxans First Contact with 'aliens', Dacian Palestar.
The Nyxans were just coming out of their sectarian divisions having installed a peace-time government to heal the damages of their earlier political wars when Dacian and his Crusaders initiated their brutal first contact.
The pity from the Republic over that, unfortunately, distanced the population of the world even further. For what proud people want to be pitied?
Nyxans were survivors and they rode on the back of the Palestar beast hoping for their own shot at glory (besides, what choice did they have?) and Dacian mercilessly used them. Entire areas of science were dropped on the Nyxan lap and they either had to adapt or be executed.
Such motivation saw almost an immediate overnight change to their development and while they were building starships, their psyche was almost irreparably damaged. Nearly half the population was killed or impressed into the Crusades while the other half toiled to meet Palestar's production expectations. Dacian, knowing that his use of these people would invariably produce such a frustration that it had the potential to boil over and delay his plans, empowered the Nyxans with a directive with which they could find their release. The act of rooting out traitors to the Crusade and, by extension, Nyx.
The leader of the Crusade took the Nyxan's nationalistic pride and turned it against themselves. Those under Dacian's whip gleefully turned their anger and frustration out on those Nyxans who tried to rise up in revolution or plot secretly to overthrow the yoke of Dacian and, naturally, those desperate for freedom Dacian denied would fight back thus creating a system of bloodshed that destroyed the very foundations that had united the Nyx society.
When the Nyx rebels finally succeeded in seizing power, overthrowing Maxon's foolish politician, Garber, it was a glorious time.
The old Sith Master smiled at the memory.
Maxon's fleet was cut off from the precious supplies of his homeworld and suffered such a defeat that Dacian had to stop ignoring the Crusade and directly intervene lest it die out.
Those with strong connections to the Force knew that Dacian was after something. That his interest was not really on the battles and conquests his Generals were directly but on something else. In that respect he was like a child that wanted to play with his toys while whole planet populations were displaced and burned out of existence by soldiers claiming loyalty to him.
Dacian's revenge on Nyx was nearly drove them to extinction.
Sith Master Descartes could see that even now, many decades later, the evidence of Dacian Palestar's anger could still be seen.
It seemed Dacian's presence was destined to haunt Perrin through his progeny, if Dar (fool that he was) was actually the fruit of Dacian's loins.
The sooner the Sith Master ended the charade, the better.
*
Nyx - The Past
First Minister Garber looked at Perrin with sudden interest. "We can fight the Void Knights?"
"No," Perrin said flatly and the Minister looked at him with suspicion.
"But you claim, Sirus, that Nyxans have this magic too!"
"This magic," Perrin started patiently, "is a gift--"
"Of course, it's a gift!" Garber interrupted. "It's a gift from the ancesters to rid us of this.."
"No." Perrin interrupted, holding back a sigh. This was the trouble with fanatics. They were fools.
"You talk in double-speak!" a guard of the Ministers shouted. It was a breach of custom to interrupt the Minister's conversation but the Minister did not seem to mind the interruption. It further showed how much contempt the Minister had for Nyx's newest decorated hero of the regime.
Perrin's anger blazed and he gripped the Minister and his guards by the throat through the force.
"Listen to me, carefully," he said slowly...menacingly.
The Minister and his guards could only gasp and whimper a response.
"Everyone has the magic. But only a few have the gift of using it. Just like anyone can pull a trigger and fire a weapon but only a few have the gift of being good at it. Like anything, to be able to use the gift well, you need to be trained. Same with the magic. Vetti, here can move objects through the air but that is different that actually meeting several Void Knights in combat."
"And you?" Minister Garber asked shrewdly through a clenched throat.
Perrin gave the fanatic a fanatic's answer, "I am but a faithful servant of Nyx and the purging of those disloyal to Nyx gives me the strength I need. Imagine what you can do with many like me.."
The Minister's eyes widened at the thought and Perrin released his hold on them.
"But we do not know where they are?" Garber complained.
"You haven't been looking!" snapped Perrin. "I have."
"Where?" the Minister asked in confusion.
"By having us hunt ourselves, the Crusaders reduced their number. But I have found some. In the prisons."
"Our enemies?!" the Minister cried out in shock.
But it was Perrin's fanatical smile that warmed the anxiety of the planetary leader. He gave the fanatic a Sith's response,"My Lord, they will either join you or die."
While Minister Garber was not strategically minded, he did have one quality that all Right-Hand-Men should have and, in this case, it was loyalty to Maxon. While Nyx was providing ships to feed Maxon's arsenal, surely Nyx could also feed their Glorious Supreme Commander with such Knights of his own? Surely, the Supreme Commander would welcome such power!
