[BEGIN TRANSLATION]


"To your Sovereign or Sovereigns, you should pray. Should you have neither, pray of the teachings of/by 'David' that we should come to [kacha] one another. Pray of/be David that the lives lost were not lost uselessly. Pray of David or to the Sovereign you [hold in adulation] that [insert...coordinates], now, [insert...local time unit] our two peoples [insert: respective cultures] can come to understand one another and build [insert: non-violent coexistence], not [insert: thinking overmuch, pondering, considering, critical, negative recollection of past events] that has brought us to this point [insert: cultural moment of exchange]."



"Of you [insert: Remoran], of your motivations, we [insert: claim ignorance]. And while it may be our [kachek] to feel [insert: emotional outbursts] at your [insert: action without acknowledging blood debt], we will choose instead to pray for [kacha] that [Remoran], that I [individual], that we [insert: ??] might be able to [create circumstances of value] from this event [insert: ??] and not end up [causing more pain]."


"And so I will pray, I will pray of/by David that the people of Gestalt/Way of David [insert query..??] absolve [Remoran] attack upon us that we might [discern blood debt]."


"And so I pray."



[END TRANSLATION]





Vaala's mind reeled as the translation diseminated the alien's words. The language was one frequently encountered with some small differences but the problem the translating program seemed to have was in attempting to discern the meaning behind the speech.


The aliens seemed to be unaware of their blood-debt and this was going to cause problems for the only ones, in their experience, who never acknowledged debt were either those who were honestly/truthfully unaware they had incurred it or the insane who acted with no regard to consequence at all.


There was the concern that the alien could also simply be lying. Remorans had experience with such creatures as well.


But Vaala sensed the sincerity of the one speaking and while she could not yet attest to the truthfulness of the words, she did not have a doubt that the speaker was one who believed them.


This was a reassuring start.


But 'kacha' was going to be a problem. The word either did not translate well or these creatures were well on their way to madness. It went hand in hand with 'kachek' at times.


Both kacha and kachek were associated with a parable from Remoran antiquity. One had to do with kachek, or the defining of personal rights. It started with an orderly but oppressive society that soon gave way to individual rights. As more individual rights were assumed, the less orderly their society became until social structure broke down totally for, for there to be any structure, some assumed rights were to be curtailed. And as anarchy set in, the rights presumed by the individuals grew more and more ridiculous (the right to urinate where you want, the right to abuse children, the right of children to be abused, the right of those incarcerated to enjoy the same standard of living as those not incarcerated) until total Kacha was reached. The toleration of anything and everything until the society tolerated their own extinction even as they claimed to have the right to be extinct.


It seems this alien desired kacha but there were some things that Remorans could not tolerate. Nor would they.


So, how to proceed with this?


She turned to the priest of this David and began to speak, her armoured suite continuing to project a translation.


"I am Remoran. The purpose of our prayers is personal and given for such things as necessities, desires, accomplishments, fears, pain and triumphs. We have met some races that 'talk' in this way, directing their prayers to invisible beings claimed to be all powerful. I am unsure whether your 'David' is some such being or not. Remorans, however, direct their prayers to the tangible.

When I pray to the Sovereign for my mate's blood debt to be collected, not only will I work and put forth effort to back up my prayer but I am desirous of my wish to be accomplished through the Sovereign.


I used to pray to Enlightenment but it is no more.


You speak of non-violent co-existence. Peace, you say. I am unworthy to speak of such for I am not of Enlightenment.


But I am all we have. I am all you have.


I am of the Sovereign. I am of war. It is not a glorious purpose but it is a duty I carry out for it is a necessity. You see my armour. You have seen our ships. They are not the graceful vessels of other races who glorify and revel in conflict and killing.


It is a grim business to a Remoran but, I dare say, it is a necessary one.


You have taken the best of us, leaving only that which destroys.


You speak of your kecha to outrage for our destruction of your large warship. But when you leave only that which destroys, what should you expect other than destruction?


You want Kacha? You want us to t-o-l-er-ate?


To ignore the blood debt?


To say the lives of those lost are not worth the collection of this debt?


What do you offer that is of similar value?"



Vaala's eyes settled on the Colonial Priest and softened ever so slightly.



"My life is forfeit if I fail at my purpose, ill-prepared that I am. But I will make an act of faith.


We do not make war on those of peace and I have not detected the presence of any such weapons that might speak to hypocrisy."


She motioned to those soldiers with weapons aimed at her.


"I do not consider the personal weapons of individuals a threat to your claim of peace."


"Tell me, Priest. Do you speak for your entire system?"





**




Gestalt I



Cooster Wick tossed back his drink at the bar. He had been waiting for Colonial Customs to make heads or tails of his trading vessel and was passing time at a nearby bar that served strange drinks from all the way from the other side of the galaxy. It seemed these Colonials had alot of ties out that way which made them something of an enigma for most of those 'other-siders' knew next to nothing about local space and beyond. Everything he had heard was Empire-this, Coalition-that and Confederation everything else...


Cooster did not really care much for the goings on happening way on the other side of the galaxy and really, he wouldn't know anything if not for these Colonials joined at the hip with 'othersiders'.


He glanced at the vid-monitor reporting the breaking news of a foreign starship that just appeared in the system over David Colony.

When he saw the footage, his mouth dropped dribbling liquid down his tunic.


"Remorans. I'll be damned." he whispered to himself nervously.

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, edges of the Gestalt System

With muted sigh, Admiral Lucerne closed the holo-link with the flick of the wrist.

“Cor?”

The blonde spared a glance at Commodore Fyre. Somehow, his old friend had already mirrored his mood. Fyre shook glumly shook his head. Among the murmurs of the CEF’s command crew, the two walked off towards to one of the bridge’s exit. Corise casually saluted the new officer of the watch along with a pair of slate gray Padalin IIs which fell in step behind the two. The quartet exited into a sparsely occupied corridor that led to the Admiral’s quarters.

“I’m going to guess that didn’t go as well as planned,” said Fyre.

The younger Lucerne managed a snort, “Our modern culture is so defective.”

Fyre feigned a smile, “Those new alien ships got you down already?”

“No,” said Lucerne, “they do not worry me as much as the attitude of our allies.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Did you hear Mar-Veil about the loss of his star destroyer?” questioned the admiral, “he downplayed it considerably. Have we really become so removed from reality that the common man is a pawn in the bid for piece? That we sacrifice national rights and defenses to please some new alien species? Peace at any price…it is not something I expected from Shipwright, perhaps. I thought he knew better.”

“You think so?”

The two entered the younger Lucerne’s quarters.

“You do not?” said Corise, raising an eyebrow, “this is the guy that should know about alienation if not aliens. If Gestalt’s command structure is to the point where they don’t see the value of one of their own ship’s crew, what are they going to think of us? We are not bound to them by the bonds of citizenship. Are we just as disposable as some young David floating in the void of space among the charred remains of the warship?”

“Life is never built on solid ground,” muttered Fyre, reclining on one of the man’s argent chairs, “the fact of the matter is, relationships are always shifting with the sands of time. Perhaps it is time we moved past the Colonials and leave them with this mess.”

The Admiral paused, “But it is our mess now too. Regardless if the Colonies have made piece with these beings, the fact remains that we have not. We have not even made contact with them. At the very least, the people will require closure, whether by force of words or arms.”

Fyre cocked his head to the side, “And so we do what?”

“Nothing, yet.”

As he sat in the Spinning Dagger’s cockpit, Solir tried to focus on what was being said and ignore his hunger. It was not an easy task.

This was not a hunger that anyone else among his Legionnaires could understand. He had already sated the demands of his stomach as he and his soldiers had begun the dangerous, circuitous route to the destination that Sergeant Raythe had given them. What was left was a yearning that clung to the deepness of his soul, tugging at every cord in his body with insatiable desire. Only the most rigorous of concentration techniques had given him the control necessary to keep from succumbing to his hunger immediately, finding the closest convenient victim and preying on them like some kind of viper.

It was that control that, in moments like this, was both his salvation and his torture.

He had managed to listen acutely to the exchange between Guardsman Aeacus and Sergeant Raythe. Even before they had rescued the Guardsmen from the wreckage of the Imperial High Command, the knowledge that Lee had provided about Raythe and his men had left Solir pondering what kind of man he was dealing with aboard his ship. He now understood that Raythe, consumed by his desire to fulfill his goal of killing the Regent, a task apparently set for him by this Director Trachta person, had an unbalance hostility that could prove exceptionally dangerous. There was not a doubt in Solir’s mind that he and his people had to escape Coruscant immediately; doing so without dealing with Raythe in the process did not seem possible.

The Dagger’s cramped cockpit had been kept empty of refugees so that they did not disrupt the operation of the ship. Aside from Solir, Raythe, and Aeacus, there were only five other people in the room: Runo, Raythe’s Lieutenant Gedge and one other stormtrooper, Kuwa’aven at the helm, and an additional Guardsman. The odds were in their favor, regardless of the lack of space in the cockpit. The key would be neutralizing the other stormtroopers in the rest of the ship simultaneously with Raythe and Gedge, ensuring that as little harm as possible came to the refugees or the ship. That meant precision, possibly more than they fashion.

They were running out of time, though, and Solir knew they had to act. He caught Aeacus’ eye again and inclined his head slightly as a signal. Aeacus repeated the gesture with his Guardsman, who proceeded to vacate the cockpit, most likely to spur his two comrades into action. With that aspect of their problem out of his hands for the moment, Solir focused on the three stormtroopers at hand. A careful glance ensured that Runo was aware of what was happening.

In the next instant, they attacked.

Aeacus was the first to move, slamming a gauntleted fist into Raythe’s skull. As the sergeant stumbled backward in surprise, Solir moved on Gedge. The younger stormtrooper raised his blaster rifle, but not quickly enough; Solir had his cortosis blade out in an instant and jammed it into the man’s throat. The smooth material, resistant even to the energy of a lightsaber, cut evenly through flesh and bone, severing Gedge’s spine and killing him instantly. His face was locked in a distant expression of surprise as Solir extracted the blade and let his body slide to the floor.

The remaining stormtrooper tried to strike Aeacus, but Runo took him down with a blaster shot. It was then that they realized that Raythe was no longer with them. Hearing shouts from the crew lounge, the three men dashed for the exit.

The refugees were screaming and trying to stay out of the way of the combatants. It looked like the Guardsmen and the Legionnaires had taken care of the other stormtroopers without letting any harm come to the civilians. When Solir spotted Raythe, he knew that they had not yet escaped the woods.

The sergeant was backing toward the rear of the ship. He had one of the refugees by the throat, a middle-aged woman wearing aristocrat’s garb, with his blaster pressed against the side of her head, using her as a shield. Where Raythe thought he could escape to, Solir couldn’t begin to guess; regardless, his hostage was in serious danger, and they had to find a way to disarm him without letting him hurt anyone around him.

Solir, Runo and Aeacus marched toward the sergeant with weapons drawn. Solir saw Brel and several other Legionnaires standing nearby, keeping their distance until they were needed.

“Let the woman go, Raythe,” the Legionnaire commander ordered. His voice came out as a rasp, indicating the fatigue brought on by his lack of nourishment. “Your mission has ended.”

“Regent Zell has died,” Aeacus added in a stern tone. “Your mission is inadvertently successful. Our only option now is to leave Coruscant immediately.”

“No!” Raythe shouted. “We must report to Director Trachta! Those are my orders!”

“If Trachta has half a brain he’s off Coruscant already,” Runo pointed out.

“My orders are to remain on Coruscant!”

Solir knew that there was no way to reason with this man. There was a deranged fire in his eyes and desperation in his movements that made it clear that he could not be swayed. He would have to be taken down before he hurt anyone around him.

Solir caught Aeacus’ eye and gestured for him to act.

With a simple gesture of his hand, the Guardsman used the Force to knock Raythe’s weapon aside. The stormtrooper stumbled in apparent surprise, loosening his grip on his hostage enough for her to escape his clutches. The moment that she was out of danger, Solir and Runo opened fire. Energy bolts tore into Raythe’s body, knocking him backward in a heap.

As the others made sure that no one else had been hurt and that the refugees were calmed down, Solir knelt beside the body. The sergeant was staring at the ceiling with cold, lifeless eyes; blood was dribbling from his mouth and his wounds stank of burned flesh. He was obviously dead.

Runo appeared at his side, waiting for their next orders. Solir rose to his full height, feeling his body sway slightly with fatigue.

He said to Runo, “Have the bodies dumped out the airlock. Tell Kuwa and Cartan that we are getting out of here.”



As the Spinning Dagger and the Nek’s Tooth made to break Coruscant’s orbit, the Legionnaires realized that the planetary shield was slowly being reactivated. Luckily for them, the system had been damaged by the aliens’ assault, meaning that there were enough sizable gaps for the two ships to sail through unmolested.

Solir stared out the forward viewports of the Dagger’s cockpit at the massive battle taking place above Coruscant. The last time he had seen such a vast array of starships in this system had been the Battle of Coruscant during the Clone Wars. Then, he had been fighting against the Republic, which would then become the Empire; now he was technically independent, but ferrying Imperial survivors and fighting against its attackers. The irony was not lost on him.

It was obvious immediately that the evacuation corridor was indeed collapsing, as Aeacus had suggested. Though the Imperials seemed to have two sizable fleets in the battle, they were clearly outnumbered by the alien attackers. Finally seeing the odds that were stacked against the Empire, Solir truly realized that the Imperials’ days were numbered. He was not surprised, to be sure, since he had seen it happen so many times in his three centuries of life, and yet a small part of him found it hard to believe that so immense a power as the Galactic Empire could ever be destroyed.

Seeing the vast array of alien starships before him, Solir was convinced even further of the Empire’s eventual doom. He was not one to cater to portents of doom, but he could not ignore the simple fact that the unique vessels were some of the most menacing he had ever seen, partly due to their distinctly alien qualities. The Yuuzhan Vong that the Legionnaires had first cut their teeth on had been fearsome for the distinctly living quality of their vessels, so like animals thirsting for blood; these newcomers’ ships were sleek and professional killers. Between glimpsing these ships and witnessing the horrific ground troops that had descended on Coruscant, Solir knew that the galaxy was facing an enemy far more terrible than the Yuuzhan Vong; an enemy that he would undoubtedly trade blows with again.

“It looks like there’s little actual fighting going on,” Renneth reported from the copilot’s seat. “The Imperials have engaged a number of the alien ships, but those that aren’t involved aren’t firing. I’m not sure what they’re waiting for.”

“They probably know that they’ve already won, so there’s no point in wasting valuable ships,” Brel commented from the rear of the cockpit.

Aeacus spoke up from beside Solir, saying, “My men detected a transmission relayed from the commander of these attackers. He has declared a temporary ceasefire in the hopes that we will evacuate and leave Coruscant for their occupation. As expected, some of our commanders have refused to back down.”

“I’m not surprised, to be honest,” Kuwa offered, somewhat meekly. This was the first time that she had spoken since Raythe and his men had been subdued; it seemed that the Guardsmen made her nervous. Even now, her eyes were fixed on the sensor readouts on her console. “Some of the weaponry and shielding on these aliens’ ships is beyond anything the Empire has ever cooked up … I think.”

“Runo, gather as much information about these aliens as the sensors can acquire. I have the feeling that we might need it,” Solir ordered. Turning back to Aeacus, he asked, “I assume that you know who is in command of your fleets. We’ll need to dock with one of your ships to unload yourself and the other refugees. Do you have a suggestion for where we should go?”

Aeacus took a moment to think, having to decide for some reason who the better candidate would be. Solir had an idea of the power dynamics in the Imperial leadership; with both Hyfe and Zell gone now, the state of the Imperial Command was probably questionable at best. The Dagger and the Tooth had left Coruscant with roughly the same distance between the two “fleets” that Solir could make out, leaving the call up to their new ally.

“The bulk of the fleet to port is the SS, commanded by Colonel-General Wesley Vos,” Aeacus finally said. “The fleet to starboard is under the command of Moff Thorton, previously of the Borderlands. The two men do not exactly … get along. From what we have been able to determine, Moff Thorton is in possession of the message drone launched by Regent Zell; it is possible that he has been declared supreme commander of our forces. I recommend we request docking clear aboard his flagship, the Stormhawk.”

Solir turned to Kuwa. “Set course for the Stormhawk – try to keep out of range of –”

A warning klaxon sounded from Renneth’s console. The goateed Legionnaire cried out, “Fighters, inbound!”

“How many?” Solir demanded. His fatigue was replaced by momentary adrenaline.

“Six, heading right for us,” Renneth replied. “Their weapons are charged, but it doesn’t look like they’ve targeted us yet. The computer can’t get any specific information on them – the closest thing it can compare them to are clawcraft.”

“I thought you said a ceasefire was in effect?” Runo said to Aeacus.

“There is no guarantee that everyone on both sides will obey a ceasefire,” was the Guardsman’s only response.

“They might just be tracking us,” Brel suggested. “Gathering intel on classes of civilian ships.”

“They also might have noticed that we’re not exactly civilian,” Runo countered.

Solir came to his decision. “Get Eleddol and Soshiomn in the turrets,” he ordered. He looked at the sensors and realized with dismay that the incoming fights were directly in their path to Moff Thorton’s flagship. “Kuwa, bring us to port and head for the other fleet. Keep our missile launchers at the ready in case we need them. Renneth, tell Cartan to stick close to us. Aeacus, I need you to send a transmission to Colonel-General Vos.”

Everyone snapped into motion. Solir moved to the center of the cockpit, where he could oversee everything that was happening and issue orders when necessary. He felt a subtle shift in the deck beneath him as the Dagger altered course to port. Moments later, he heard the sound of the starboard cannon firing, and he knew that there was no longer any chance that the incoming fighters would settle for gathering intel.

Aeacus had patched into an Imperial channel in a matter of seconds, and began speaking into the receiver on the communications console as the Dagger sped away from its attackers:

“This is Guardsman Aeacus, with a transmission for Colonel-General Vos, authorization zero-two-seven-alpha-gamma-four. I am aboard the independent transport Spinning Dagger with a number of refugees. We are under attack by alien starfighters and request assistance and docking clearance. I repeat: we need immediate assistance!”

Star Forge Station

The modified freighter dropped out of hyperspace with a flare of starlight. The nebula made for an interestingly serene background, Cendar thought, to what was a collection of some of the most dangerous men in the galaxy. Flipping on his transponder, Cendar sent out his personal ship signal as well as a private signal to Beff Pike, leader of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. They needed to talk.

Fifteen Months Earlier

“I hear you wanted to see me,” Beff Pike said slowly, hand near his blaster. “Now you found me. Who are you, and what do you want?”

Cendar Robutha stared at the image of the perfect bounty hunter for a few moments, sizing him up. As good as Cendar was, especially with his cybernetic parts, he would be no match for the likes of Beff Pike. “You can relax,” he said slowly. “I’m not here to fight you. Just to sell some information.”

Of course, his words did not put Beff at ease. Not in the least. “Oh?” came the reply. “And what makes you think I would want to buy this information you have?”

Cendar blinked, hesitated a moment, then dropped his bombshell. “Because it involves your position as Mandalore.”

Beff seemed taken aback. His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Cendar remained stoic. “It involves your position as Mandalore. More is going to cost you.”

Beff’s eyes narrowed further. “How did you know about that?” he asked, hand now actually resting on the grip of his weapon.

Cendar kept his hands well away from his. “Don’t worry about how I know. It’s enough that I do. Now, do you want to know what I know or not?”

“How much?”

Cendar started to relax. They were negotiating; this was good. It meant that his life wasn’t in immediate danger now. “To start, I want five thousand credits. It takes a lot of money to maintain this body, and the trip here has cost me.”

Beff, his senses nearly as acute as Cendar’s cybernetic eye and ear, had already noticed the modifications to the large human before him, so the request didn’t come as a surprise. “What else?”

“I want a position within the Guild. I grow tired of working alone – the management of my accounts and jobs is taking up too much of my time.” Reaching into a pocket of his overcoat, he retrieved a datapad and offered to Beff. “Here’s a record of the jobs I’ve completed. I’m more than qualified.”

Beff gave the pad a quick glance, still not relaxing. “Impressive,” he commented, his demeanor still not changing, his hand still not moving. “What else?”

Cendar smiled. “Beyond that, I trust you’ll give me whatever the information is worth. How’s that work?”

Beff considered the offer for a moment, then nodded. “Acceptable. You have a deal.”

Cendar smiled. “Good.” Taking a breath, he continued, “There’s apparently a new Mandalore.” He heard Beff’s sharp intake of air and smiled inwardly. “And it appears that this claim is serious. This new fellow is gathering all sorts of criminals to himself from across the galaxy and calling them Mandalorians. He apparently has a few of the real ones with him, as well. He’s also recruiting from legitimate smugglers – and bounty hunters.”

Beff swore profusely. “What’s his name? I’ll kill the little –”

Cendar cut him off. “I don’t know his name,” he said quickly. “But I will soon. I’ve just been recruited myself.”

Understanding dawned on Beff’s face, and he considered what was being offered. “And you’re willing to spy for me, is that it? Is that the deal you’re offering?”

Cendar nodded. “For a steady income, yes.”

Beff smiled and, finally, relaxed. “Five thousand per month, payable on return. Assuming you have something worthwhile to tell me then.”

“Ten,” Cendar countered, and the negotiations began in earnest. Cendar finally walked away with five thousand credits and the promise of 6500 credits per month and a position in the Bounty Hunters’ Guild if he returned with information on the new Mandalore. Now, for the job…”

Present

The comm crackled to life. “State your name and purpose, or be shot down.”

Cendar shook his head. Hospitality certainly hadn’t improved since he had last been here. “Star Forge Station, this is Cendar Robutha. I’m here to see Beff Pike.”

“Robutha?” A new voice was on the comm. “I’d about given up on you. This is Pike. Bring her on in.”

Wayland

No wonder the Empire abandoned this place, Jaeriel thought as the slow freighter approached Wayland. The derelict hulls of vessels drifted past, clear evidence of some sort of attack. It appeared that the Empire had lost.
“This isn’t erie,” commented Jacqueline sarcastically. “Ghost ships. Looks like something out of a badly-made horror holodrama. All we need now are the actors in monster suits.”

Jaeriel chuckled. She wasn’t much into simulated horror – real life for her was horrific enough, and her own memories were enough to occasionally give her sleepless nights without any help – but she had seen a few of those sorts of dramas, and she had to agree. There was something eerily surreal about the whole situation.

Still, ghost ships or no ghost ships, they had a job to do. Amanda’s brother, as far as they knew, was still down on that planet. They were there to break him out or at least find out what had happened to him. Whatever, or whoever, else was down there, well, they would just have to stay out of the ladies’ way.



“Passive scans show minor electronic activity around the old Imperial base, near Mount Tantiss,” Cynthia said as they drifted in orbit. “No other significant activity anywhere. I’m getting some strange readings, though; it’s like life, but it’s not. I’ve never seen anything else like it, except…”

Jaeriel completed the thought; she had seen the readouts too. “Except in the Black Dragon Empire,” she finished, her mind whirling. “But even those were different than this. This is like…”

“Unlife,” commented Jacqueline.

Jaeriel’s eyebrows arched. “You’ve seen too many of those horror holodramas,” she said, shaking her head. “Whatever it is, let’s try to avoid it. Or them. Or whatever. Even if it is something from the BDE, I don’t want to tangle with it. I’ve already seen enough of them to satisfy me for the rest of my life.”

Agreement all around. Cynthia slowly powered up the freighter’s engines, pulling them out of orbit and sending them towards the Imperial base.

Fifteen thousand kilometers away, another ship drifted in orbit. This one was filled not with soldiers or combatants, but with unknown entities – the ones called the Reavers. Fortunately for Jaeriel’s team, they had sent no Holonet transmissions, so for now the Reavers left them alone, barely taking note of the craft falling towards the planet. The danger was present – it needed only provocation to awaken it.



Screams.

They filled the soundproofed halls of the underground complex. Captain Talves of the Imperial Army stood over his victim, chuckling with delight as the interrogators sent a fresh round of painful shocks coursing up and down Jaxon Bates’ body. The screams were like music to him; after all, they drowned out the voices in his own head.

And they were certainly better than the noises of the creatures on the surface.

They had come suddenly, catching the entire Imperial task force assigned to guard the planet off guard. Within minutes, the Reaver ships had completely annihilated the Imperial fleet, and they began coming down to the planet in droves. At first, Talves and his garrison had tried to fight them, but there were too many. Abandoning his troops, Talves had retreated to the underground dungeon and sealed the doors. The noise of flesh ripping and bodies being eaten, though, accompanied him through the doors.

As it accompanied him now.

Turning the dial, Talves sent a fresh wave of shocks, more powerful this time, through Jaxon’s body. The intensity of the screams increased, further soothing Talves’ mind. Soon, the images and noises stopped, and Talves turned the dial back down to zero.

“Anything you want to tell me now?” he asked the battered prisoner.

Jaxon Bates stared at the backs of his eyelids, hearing the Voice ask him the same question he’d been asking for the past year. Still, he refused to answer. He would not give his target the satisfaction of knowing that he’d won. When he opened his eyes, the Face was still there, staring down at him. So he closed his eyes again.

As he did, he allowed his head to droop to one side and his muscles to relax. Drool escaped one side of his mouth.

Talves stood abruptly, grabbing one of the interrogator droids and smashing it into the wall. “Idiot!” he yelled at it. “You knocked him out!”

His wrath satisfied, Talves grimaced. “Take him back to his cell. Let me know when he comes around.” Turning, Talves left the torture chamber and headed towards his quarters.

Two droids came forward and unstrapped Jaxon, lifting him. Another, a 21-B medical droid, scooted forward and began examining the man’s injuries. A startled exclamation began, “This man’s not –” But it was suddenly cut off as a strong hand reached out, grabbed the 2-1B by what passed for a neck, and slammed it into the first droid, shorting them both out.

The shift in weight caused the second droid to lose its grip, and Jaxon fell heavily to the floor. Despite the pain, though, he managed to swing his foot around and trip the second security droid before it could recover. Reaching under the armor plating, Jaxon flipped the switch and shut the droid down. Grabbing the droids’ blasters, Jaxon trained them on the nearest doors, waiting for someone to come investigate. When no one did, he stuck one blaster in his waistband and started walking.

Now, to finish his job…

Hundred of miles away from Wes and his fleet, Kach Thorton watched the event happen live on the status monitors of the Stormhawk. Live, and in the horrifyingly true technicolor of real life, the bulk of what had been a bit over one hundred Imperial Fleet and S.S. Ships emerged from hyperspace together behind the enemy fleet, where only a few enemy vessels were stationed in defense of the fleet's rear. A few, however, emerged too early, striking a number of vessels emerging from wormholes. Others, including some frigates and small cruisers plus one fairly large Borderland battlecruiser emerged too late and went careening off into several of the large enemy warships just beyond Vos' fleet, disintegrating them with their massive kinetic energy. With an urgency brought upon them by their desperation, the remainder of the fleet – around 90 ships including the Borderland compliment he had supplied Wes – opened fire with all guns on the surrounding enemy.

Behind his vessel, for hours now behind the Imperial fleet more and more evacuation vessels had cleared the planet and been free to fly through the evacuation corridor. This flow slowed, however, as the evacuation neared it’s end. Nearly every ship on the planet from fighters to massive luxury liners had been filled to capacity and had left the planet, with only stragglers remaining behind. The tremendous undertaking of evacuating Imperial center, which so large as to be almost impossible, was nearly complete to the best of the Empire’s ability. For four days the citizenry of Coruscant had remained besieged and now, given a brief respite in the form of an evacuation corridor by the enemy they had taken advantage of it and left en masse in just twelve hours.


He was interrupted from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder. “Grand Moff Thorton,” an unfamiliar officer said – with more than 300 crew on the bridge of this ship alone he hadn't learned everyone's name yet – there's something you need to see in the sensor pit, and I stress that it's urgent.”


The calmness of the bridge Lieutenant's voice surprised him, considering they were in a combat zone. But beneath the serenity of his tone there was another, subtler sense of importance and urgency.


“Of course,” he said, turning to follow him. On the brisk walk to the sensor pit he found the man's name, which was now stiched on the collars of issued navy uniforms for Captain's benefit.


Or at least it had been, before the Reaver's had happened, and the attacks at Yaga Minor. Now, such trivial things were considered a waste of time and valuable resources.


“Look at the CGT readout,” the Lieutenant told him, Lieutenant Mischel. He vaguely recalled looking at the man's record once. He was from the planet Krant (or was it Handooine?) and showed himself promising at a minor fleet academy in the Mid-Rim before being returned to his home sector of the Borderland. Hopefully now he would prove his mettle.


“I see it, Lieutenant” he said without giving it his full attention, before something caught his eye – the enemy fleet was seated within an ocean of gravitational pulses in what would be normally calm space. Like a sea, the very fabric of space time was covered in flowing waves and ripples emanating in weak but visible pulses from somewhere in the enemy formation. No origin was discernable at this range, with the waves and pulses distorted by the gravity of the planet below and the massive fields of wormholes surrounding the planet. A static-distorted voice emanated over the comm: (Crackle) “Going to…. Missiles,” and then all was again silent. At this long range very little could be passed between ships with line of sight lasers – though reliable at short ranges between capital ships, at long ranges and between fighters communication was patchy, especially for the former scenario. Apparently in obedience to whatever half-heard order had just been broadcast, most of the ships at the far end of the battle began firing missiles at whatever nearby targets they could hit. Very little acted to stop the missile flights, suggesting that the alien attackers had very little if any anti-missile weaponry like the Imperial Phalanx system.


He turned to one of the bridge lieutenants assigned to follow him everywhere and carry out his orders. “Lieutenant, I want you to signal the Dictators and activate one of them. The enemy isn't letting us talk. I don't think that it's fair we let him talk too. He was tempted to ask if they could find a way to cut through the fighter band jamming, but jamming was jamming and if it was easy to get through what would be the point? From the reports he'd heard the enemy jamming was one step short of impenetrable, just like that of their own Dictator.


Briskly moving toward the prime tactical display in the middle of the bridge he was just in time to see the four Reigns dispatched to intercept an approaching groups of enemy ships disabled by what seemed to be miniature superlasers, each ship taking out one vessel in a single shot before turning away. They weren't left undamaged, though, as huge flights of torpedoes and missiles launched by the Reigns impacted with them and gave them a parting gift they wouldn't forget as they limped back to the body of their fleet.


* * *


On the bridge of the Tarkin's Fury[/I]


Emergency lights, disconnected from the ship's primary circuits, burned across the ship and casted an eerily faint glow across the Reign-class Star Destroyer's bridge. Shadows jutted across the room, projected by the edges of consoles and control panels and explosions and turbolasers flashing outside the room, making the shadows flow eerily like the gravity field she had seen on the ship's CGT display. Half the ship's crew lay on the floor next to their stations or slumped over their positions as medics attempted to tend to as many as possible. Few were on their feet and moving under their own strength.


Every muscle within Captain McCarrde's body felt as if he had spent the past eight hours in a weight room and every movement was defined by an extreme soreness, a burn that almost made her wince with even the slightest gesture. Breathing hard in the thinning cabin atmosphere, she could see her breath condense before her eyes with every breath in the slowly cooling room. Around her, anyone still moving attempted to help the wounded, some of whom had been cut badly or mangled and were spilling blood across the deck.


With aching arms slowed by the cold, she pulled her comlink to her mouth and dialed in the number for the head engineer. “Jenkins,” she asked after he had picked up. “What the hell is going on?” She coughed, and her throat burned. Something was in the air now and she reached down to her belt for her gas mask only to have her hand brush along her leather belt, empty. Looking down, her blond locks fell over her shoulder as they fell out of the clips she had held it in. The case was on the floor and she picked it up and then with some difficulty from her slowly numbing fingers pulled out the mask, slid it over her face and cleared it, slightly muffling the sounds of the bridge.


“The lower decks are a mess,” she heard her Chief Engineer reply over the comm link – everything electrical on the bridge had been burned out but comm links, independent of the ship's power system, continued to function. “The last big hit, whatever that was, destroyed the entire powersystem. The shields tried to absorb it but backed up into the rest of the power system, dumping the entire load onto the power grid and burning out the whole thing. We're trying to get the reserve grid online but it was only meant to support one or two subsystems that had been knocked out at once and so we can't start it all together. Right now we're trying to get power, communications and life support going.


All of a sudden there was an eerie whistle, static and white noise all mixed together that caught her attention – communications were back online but overwhelmed by enemy jamming. Behind it was a faint garbling that was overwhelmed by the fading enemy noise, slowly weaking for some purpose. After a few moments it was entirely gone, leaving what was now clearly the fighter pilot band open and adding to the surrealness of the situation. Noting the return of communications, pilots used the chance to say whatever needed said quickly.


“Droids? That’s crazy!”


“I've got two on me, I need them taken out!”


“Mayday, ejecting! Sending coordinates now!”


“Black squadron, hit the big guy with missiles!”


“Boys, the fighters weapons are useless when they're in their gravity zone, take advantage of it.”


And then there were screams. One was a horrifying, bone shaking scream as one pilot's cockpit was opened to space and he literally froze to death over the course of a few moments. Others rang continuously, almost drowning out their comrades chatter.


From the sound of it, the Imperial pilots were handling themselves against the enemy fighters very well. TIE Defenders were still almost unmatched performance-wise in fighter-to-fighter combat after nearly forty years since originally introduced, and the SS craft and pilots were also some of the best. If the enemies were droids – as a former TIE Defender pilot herself she knew that droid pilots were easy to pick out because they flew in a highly coordinated, completely consistent manner and showed no initiative in their actions – then the Imperial pilots could likely take on a two or three times their own number with no problem under normal circumstances. Without communications, they couldn't do nearly as well but if the droids were jammed – and Grand Moff Thorton's fleet had just sent out a two minute warning on a complete communications jamming net – then they would be on equal terms again and the Imperials would be able to hold their own.


All of a sudden there was a loud, strangely accented voice on the comm and the reason for the jamming lift suddenly became clear.


“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.”


Right she sarcastically thought to herself as some of the mental fog hazing over her mind lifted. That's why thousands of Imperials and your warriors alike are lying dead here and on Coruscant.


“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.”


At this moment some of the room's sensor consoles turned back on as the reserve sensors came online – visible on the central tactical display was a wing of transports of some kind slowly approaching the four disabled Reigns. Borderland TIE Defenders tangled with them and their escorts, doing their best to stop them but not quite succeeding. Droids, even if they had the best of equipment, would never be the equal of organic pilots with instincts and the sometimes less than rational thinking that made them unpredictable in combat. Even remote piloting – as with TIE Devils and Swift-class fighters – took something unknown away from the pilot that made them inferior to those who were actually present. With strong numbers, however, they could beat an organic foe.


“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.


Outnumbered? Two to one, maybe. Maybe two and a half worst case. But with the powerful Coruscant surface defenses continuously pounding away at the attacking fleet – it had been found over the course of the siege that Plasma based weaponry, due to it's extremely low density, was almost useless for atmospheric bombardment and it was necessary for fighters and bombers to do this sort of dirty work for their enemy – they still had some advantages. So far, ground based defense fighters had kept the surface defenses safe from aerial threats, though several positions had been knocked out by ground attacks.


(RL note: This assertion of mine about plasma has a scientific basis. Check out “The Science of Star Wars” and read the chapter on weapons to learn about this.)


“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.”


How could anyone make a decision like this?


And who the fuck again was Artanis?


* * *


“Is this guy joking?” Kach asked those standing around him – half a dozen junior officers who's job it was to execute his orders and the ship's Captain - “Did he seriously ask us to turn this place over to him?” He shook his head. The retention of Courscant was no longer necessary – the functions that the planet had once served were now done on half a dozen other worlds in close coordination and Imperial Center was now on Vladet according to Moff Park Kraken – Brandt had taken the time to inform them what had happened over the course of the siege – but the loss of Coruscant was simply out of the question. If it was destroyed by the virus then they could pack up and leave saying there was nothing they could have done, but giving it up without a fight – like Zell had done – was out of the question.


Or was it?


He looked around at those standing around him – half a dozen junior officers who's job it was to execute his orders and the ship's Captain - “I don't want to be known as the man who lost Coruscant,” he said in a quiet, calm tone. "I don't want to be the man who just threw it away."


"At the same time, I don't want to be seen as the man who pursued a lost cause."


The entire bridge was silent. Kach stepped over to the viewport of his flagship, looking down on the city-planet below. Fires burned across Coruscant's badly scarred face, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the atmosphere.


"The evacuation is complete," he said, after a long and deathly silent pause. "We can serve no further useful purpose here today."


“Tell Brandt we're moving out through the evacuation corridor and he's free to stay or leave as necessary. Instruct General Vos to microjump around the planet or maybe even through the enemy fleet to the corridor as well. Make it clear this isn't a suggestion, we're finished here. Navigation, set course for the 4th Reserve Fleet's position, where we'll rendezvous with Gilford and plot our next move."


And slowly, almost as if the ships were solemn as well as the crews, Kach's fleet turned and pulled back from the planet, jumping through the corridor with the last of the evacuation vessels



** *


During the opening stages of the Battle of Coruscant, shortly after the capture of Zell’s Message…


Within the headquarters of the Smuggler’s Alliance, half a dozen slicers gathered around a central table in one of their number’s quarters. On a screen in front of them they watched lines of codes scroll past as the computer attempted to identify it.


“Imperial Diplomatic code,” one of them insisted to the others, his voice ignored as the computer continued it’s search through all the cyphers and encryptions available to it in it’s database.


“I’m telling you, it’s Imperial Diplomatic Code.”


A few moments later the computer stopped, having found a positive match, and the precise type of encryption was revealed: 2048-bit Encrypted Imperial Diplomatic Code. It would only take a few further moments to completely decrypt the well known code before they could watch it’s contents. After the short wait, a figured appeared on the small holopad next to the monitor and a message began to play.


“My God,” one of them said – a tall red head – using the long-obsolete expression that was still widely retained in the galaxies Basic vocabulary. “That’s Moff fuckin’ Zell himself.” For several minutes he spoke, stating his case on what had happened to the Empire, his role in it’s happening, and finally his successor as Regent: Grand Moff Park Kraken. With it’s completion, the simple one-line insructions they had been given became clear. The only line below the letterhead on the paper in the center of the table simply read “Change it to Grand Moff Kach Thorton.”



As underworld slicers they were some of the best at what they did, and so for twelve hours they worked, doing everything from changing the movement of the Regent’s mouth when he said “Park Kraken” to the proper movements for “Kach Thorton,” to creating a vocal synthesizer for the Regent to create the words in the proper tone and at the correct speed. Finally, they borrowed a basic upload program designed long ago for this purpose to allow it to be uploaded to the original file on the message-recorder without changing it’s update time, making it appear it had been originally been recorded on Coruscant while bypassing the device’s self-destruct anti-tamper features. Finally, the whole package was returned to Kach Thorton’s flagship via holonet and they moved on with their lives, while the Imperials transferred the message to the original vessel around the time the COMPNOR taskforce that had been stationed on Coruscant was evacuating to Vladet.


** *

Shortly After the Battle of Coruscant




Communique from Grand Moff Kach Thorton on the Reorganization of the Central Empire


Effective immediately, by the authority vested and recognized in him by the powers of the his majesty Hyfe and his Regency Zell, the following planets and/or administrative regions are to be reorganized under a common CENTRAL EMPIRE PROTECTORATE: Empire Proper, Mechis Cluster, remaining loyal Imperial planets of the Corellian Diktat, and all Core or Deep Core planets not mentioned not part of the Mid-Rim Protectorate. The seat of government for said new Administrative region shall be the current capital of the Mechis Cluster under the leadership Grand Moff Kach Thorton. All fleet and army units stationed in the region are henceforth placed under the command of a Fleet Admiral to-be-appointed by Grand Moff Thorton along with all Borderland Fleets, which will be placed under a separate to-be-appointed command but operate from within the region and shall remain at the Grand Moff’s immediate disposal. Gloria Imperium!

The Past


"Come on, you fat fuck! Move it!"


Ensign Ortho Gutt nearly wet his pants as a panel exploded nearby throwing a crewman back against a steel wall.


"MOVE!" the Sensor Lieutenant, Junior Grade shoved Ortho into the escape pod as the critical computer terminals began to sizzle and sparkle into an overload.


Emperor Fearsons had betrayed the Strategic Operations Group and supported the New Republic by attacking Imperial interests.


There were simply too many ships to handle and the Imperial formation broke against the onslaught of Gash Jiren.


Perhaps they might have held as reinforcements from Simon Kaine had entered the combat employing a rather unorthodox strategy but, while such moves helped the outnumbered Imperial forces, there was no way it would hold against the combined fleets of Emperor Fearsons of the Jutraalian Empire, Joren Logan of The New Alliance and Gash Jiren of the New Republic.


The advance elements of Ferason's armada pounded the vessel Ensign Gutt was serving on forcing the surviving crewmen into escape pods if they wanted to live.


And Ortho Gutt was one such person.


A Stormtrooper nearly kicked the Ensign out of the way as the packed pod was secured and, with a tap of the emergency release controls, shot out and away from the doomed Imperator.


This was not a tale of the glory of the Empire that the recruiter had informed him of. But it did not matter.


He had joined because it was the only way he felt he could measure up to his father's expectations.


His father was a Major in the Imperial Army and was also a person that his son, Ortho, could never please.


Thankfully, he had died right after Ortho made Ensign and so he would not have to endure the derision of having a ship blown out from under him.


It was not even his ship!


What could he have done?


But his father would not have seen it that way.


"Don't give me excuses you worthless excuse for a soldier. A man makes his own way!"


"There goes Kaine," someone murmured drawing Ortho out of his reverie.


He shifted to get a better view out a small portal only to see the Galactus repositioning itself in front of Gash Jiren's fleet....in between it and the escape pods that were now littering the former Imperial position.


"Brave but stupid," someone muttered.


"Then why is he still in his ship while we are in pods?" Ortho barked out, hoping no one heard the break in his voice.


"He won’t be for long," the nameless response came back.


And perhaps the voice was right for the New Republic Admiral/General/whatever Jiren unleashed the full fury of his fleet and Kaine's flagship simply sat there and took it.


Ortho was not sure he could have done what the Imperial leader had done.



*


Years Later, O.G.


"Grand Moff?" came Captain Gutt's almost timid voice. He had been Governor of Garqi and had amassed a great personal wealth. In fact, he felt he was the Emperor himself with people catering to his every whim. He even bragged about it to his fellow Captain, Yatta, much to the other's envy.


But now he had been recalled to the bright Imperial Center and to the reality that he was not king of a world but a cog in a heartless Imperial machine.


The living legends among him at this meeting made him feel small and insignificant, which, in fact, he was.


And so, his false wall of courage and bravery had shattered before these demigods of the Empire leaving him like a gawking teenager at a brass parade.


What do you say to these people?


"What is it, Gutt?" came Azrael Zell's gruff voice. He had been looking out for someone to refill his glass for their after meal drinks.


"Are you ever scared?"


Zell frowned at the question wondering who let the cadet into the restaurant, "You asking me if I ever get scared? Like in battle?"


"I am a Captain and I think I am a damned good hunter," It was as much self-glorification as Gutt could muster. Both knew that one verbal shot from Zell would probably obliterate any resemblance of ego. "But I get scared even during the hunt. I get scared in combat.."


"You ever run from a fight? You ever get yellow?" Zell eyed the rotund Imperial before him with a critical eye.


"No Sir! No.. No!" Even as Ortho denied it, he wondered if it was not a little true. Did he? "But even as I stay and fight, I cannot help but think that I want to win... but...but, I also want to live."



Zell nearly dismissed the other's fear, "Well you can't have it all, Gutt. Pick one!"



The rather round Captain wanted to throw up the expensive dinner he had just shared with the powerful Imperials at the demand. How do you pick between those choices?



Somehow, from somewhere, something clicked and Ortho came up with a rally, "So, you are never scared?"



Zell barked out a laugh. "Son, everyone gets scared. You have some dumbasses who think their badasses by claiming they don't get scared. Fucking liars, all of them!"


"How do you know?" Ortho asked despite his rally.


"Because," Zell barked out, motioning over a waiter to refill his drink, "these fuckers then put themselves in life threatening situations because, they claim, THAT is living."


He looked expectantly at a blank-faced Ortho Gutt and scowled.


"Well, no shit!" he answered his own rhetorical quetsion, "You know why you get that fucking adrenaline rush for doing stupid shit? Because you know unconsciously that you could die and you get fucking scared. It is the fear that runs through your veins like ice and makes you feel like you are living. That fear of dying."


Ortho could actually understand that. He nodded but then, after a while frowned, "But what if those situations do not move you? What if you don't feel that rush?"


"Then why the fuck are you doing something stupid?" Zell demanded. "If you get no rush, I mean. Otherwise, you're just a dumbass doing dumbass shit!"


"So.." Ortho plied.


"Son, everyone gets scared," Zell paused tossing back his drink and motioning for another, "Anyone who tells you otherwise is an asshole."


"So, were you scared during..." Ortho started, having several notable conflicts for which the Grand Moff was famous in mind.


The old man waved him off, "Fuck no! I'm not a pussy!"


Ortho could only stare as the old man walked away.


**


The Present

ISD Predator


Captain Gutt had calmed down, his initial fear receeding. He could not help himself having been in prison for the greater part of a year and then thrown into a combat situation with unfamiliar crewman. How could one not panic when imminent death seemed ..well.. imminent?


He found that while he knew his old ship like the back of his hand, the crew had changed and his bridge crew were not only unfamiliar to him, they were not used to doing things Ortho's way.


Not like his old crew. He had played the game of wearing out their resistence to his type of command denying promotions to some, forcing others as Captain to sleep with him and then threatening to tell their partners, being given unreasonable expectations and then having harsh progress reports written into permanent records to prevent any transfers...Oh yes, he was willing to push his crew harder if any felt like pushing their Captain and, in the end, because he was a Captain, he had won.


Now, assignments to the ISD Predator were simply assignments to get over as quickly as possible for crewmembers and Emperor help the person who gets noticed by Captain Gutt.


He took stock of those manning positions in and around the secondary control area of the ship. It was not a second bridge but it would have to suffice until the ship could be repaired which, truth be told, did not look like something that would happen any time soon as long as they remained in the Coruscant system.


The orbital stations and yards were gone and what secondary locations were up and running within the system were overworked and lacking resupplies. The Predator could probably make for an outer world maintenance yard for transports but even if they found a berth by kicking out another, lesser ship, the yard probably would not have the materials they needed to repair much (if anything) of the warship. Plus with the enemy everywhere, his ship would get blown to bits simply sitting in the berth. And who wants to die in the waiting room of a repair facility?


What to do?


The Corridor had fallen apart as Kach Thorton recalled the ships assigned from his fleet to overlook the civilian's escape. It seemed he had decided that enough time had passed and that whoever was going to get off Coruscant had gotten off.


It was a lie but a lie that was necessary and Captain Gutt was glad someone had given the order. They were simply taking hits in a fixed position to help civies escape. Not an assignment Gutt wanted to have and he certainly did not want to trade his life for some ungrateful civies.


Especially not for nothing!


That was the mistake of his former XO. He was willing to follow orders to his death and give his life for civies. But there would always be Civies. If not on Coruscant, there were other worlds. What was harder to replace was the trained Imperial Armed Forces and so he saw that Moff Thorton had courageously cancelled Zell's order of the Corridor. He wondered how the Regent would see that but at the moment, Gutt did not care.


And then the alien transmission.


He felt elated. They could get away, leave the ungrateful civilians to their fate and perhaps, next time they would not be so eager to send an Imperial Captain to prison!


He would be free too...

Wait!

No!


Moff Thorton had ordered/was ordering all the military units to him to continue the fight.


Was there something left to save?


He looked at the technical scanner of what was serving as the Sensor Pit (without the pit).


"Outnumbered? Two to one, maybe. Maybe two and a half worst case," the officer overseeing the function of the area whispered. He pointed to the static that served as their holo-sensor feed. The gravitic anamolies played havoc with their sensors so who knew what was going on. But it was common knowledge with the weeks-long defenders that the system was bottled up pretty tight and so, despite the vast alien armada before the incoming Imperial ships from Admiral Brandt and Moff Thorton, there had to be more alien ships throughout the system. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure that out.


Ortho gave a kick to the holo-sensor and it chirped as the alien numbers doubled, tripled, and quadrupled. They went as high as twelve times the number of Imperials before the system went dark only to come back to life showing only one enemy ship.


Obviously, sensor readings weren't to be trusted.


No shit, you fat fuck!


Ortho looked around as if others could hear the derision of himself from his own mind.


"Coruscant may still be viable," the Sensor Officer stammered and Gutt looked at the man in suspicion. Suspicion that the man was a fool.



It was a look many had directed towards him over the years.


Where had this feeling of derision for the underofficer come from?


"Plasma based weaponry, due to it's extremely low density, was almost useless for atmospheric bombardment. Obviously, the enemy would have to use their fighters and bombers to do the dirty work – So...we would still have some advantages. The ground based defense fighters would surely have kept the surface defenses safe from aerial threats, though several positions may have been knocked out by ground attacks," the man was just babbling now and Ortho just stared at him.


He did not know what to say and so he simply stared at the Officer. The stammering Sensor Officer started to shake as if the weight of his Captain's stare was too burdensome.


Ortho was scared. This he knew and this he was always wrestling and contending with.


But he never rewrote reality because of it.


He was fat. He was held in derision because of it. He was scared and was prone to panic when surprised and he had fought off a near mutiny because of it.


But he never told himself, 'I am thin' or 'There is no enemy to surprise me'.


He could not wish the Predator suddenly repaired and then proceed as if it was!


"Turn the telescope towards the planet.." he barked out, his upper lips showing signs of sweat.


The burning surface of Coruscant began to show on the monitor. What helped the burning surface stand out was the lack of power reflecting an inoperable energy grid for much of the surface sectors.


His gaze burned into the Sensor Officer and tears began to stream from the man's eyes.


"The defense fighters were swept from the air during the first week, Ensign. The power grid has been going out since the evacuation order was given since the repair crews are practically non-existent. If some still remain on the planet, they are probably being ordered here and there by various ranking military since the IHC Tower went down. You know…that tower that was taken down by your low density plasma?"


He saw that the Ensign had wet himself under the withering scrutiny. Again, it was not something that he had not experienced.


Calmly, Ortho continued, "What the enemy uses is cataloged by our computers as plasma because that is the reference it is programmed to go to when it does not know. In reality, it is an exotic weapon from exotic aliens working their own brand of dirty work on us."


He knew he should be mad at the Ensign but he also knew, when this was all over, if there was a 'when', the Ensign would owe Ortho something for not shooting him on the spot.


"Go clean yourself up," Ortho ordered grandly.


The Ensign stammered, "The fresher is inoperable."


"Then try not to stink up my bridge!" the Captain barked out in irritation ignoring the fact that the he was not on the bridge. The other crewmembers wisely decided not to bring that point up.


You try to be nice and they screw it all up!



“What are you doing, Moff Thorton?” Gutt whispered to himself.



An old man’s voice purred in Ortho’s mind, “It is the fear that runs through your veins like ice and makes you feel like you are living. That fear of dying.”



Something clicked in Ortho’s mind and he snapped his fingers. “Thorton wants to die!”


His bridge (such as it was) crew exchanged blank looks at each other while Ortho began to pace. Turning to the Sensor Officer, he declared, “We all tell ourselves lies to make us feel better before we die.”


“The aliens are going to shoot the Phage at Imperial Center aren’t they?” the Helm Officer replied.


“I would,” Captain Gutt shot back. “Cut our dicks off as we feed ourselves into the meatgrinder.”



His bridge crew still had blank looks.



“That is what the Regent would have said,” Ortho explained, not a little embarrassed. The embarrassment was short-lived as he realized that none of the people before him were on speaking terms with the Regent the same way as he was.


In fact, the Regent personally went to the prison to recall him to duty.


The Sensor Officer stared at his Captain and whimpered, “Aren’t you scared, Sir?”


Ortho gave him a look that typically was reserved by others for him and barked, “Fuck no! I'm not a pussy!”



“If we are going to die, let’s die with style!” he nearly shouted, drowning out the underlining dread growing within his pounding heart with adrenaline.


“Shoot straight for that alien armada and blow away anything that gets in our way!”


And so, without a working bridge, patchwork unsuccessfully hiding its damage, a tired and scared crew, the ISD Predator limped its nose around to face the alien armada that seemed to stretch outward as far as the eye could see. The armada that Moff Thorton and General Vos faced with their respective forces.



From their vantage in bringing up the rear of Kach Thorton’s fleet, it almost looked like the proverbial skinny little guy going up against an armoured giant armed with a sledge hammer.


“Look at that patchwork on the …” the Sensor Officer was reading the recognition data slowly coming in, “..Administrator!”



Captain Gutt, in an effort to ignore the sweaty drops forming on his forehead, frowned at the hazy monitor. “What is that? Is that plating? Were they in a ..? Where did they come fr--..”



Whatever mechanism in Ortho’s mind that seemed to snap, click and clickety clack inside seemed to be doing a number as the mathematics of stellar cartography urinated all over his bravado and an unreasonable fear shot way up.


“Moff Thorton’s forces were Borderlands..”


“There is no Borderland any..” someone started and they fell silent.


“Do you think?”


“Getting some strange signal through the recognition system…” The Sensor Officer murmured.


“CUT THE LINK!!” Ortho shouted and the Officer, to his credit, did not hesitate. Not that the link was very good to begin with all the damage to the Predator’s systems.


The purple discolorations on the Administrator were not replacement plating for battle. It was, in fact, a tell-tale sign of an infestation.


“Reavers!” Ortho whispered and the bridge crew went white.


“What the hell is that?” someone shouted as flashes nearly overwhelmed the visual sensors causing the monitors to white out.


Ortho gasped trying to take it all in.

“This is Guardsman Aeacus, with a transmission for Colonel-General Vos, authorization zero-two-seven-alpha-gamma-four. I am aboard the independent transport Spinning Dagger with a number of refugees. We are under attack by alien starfighters and request assistance and docking clearance. I repeat: we need immediate assistance!”

The message came through clearly, and Wes chuckled. “It would appear that communications are working again,” he said dryly.

Directly on the heels of that communication came another, this one from Grand Admiral Thorton’s flagship. Wes considered the two for a moment, staring out at the ever-fluctuating battlefield in front of him. “Sir?” came a voice from behind him. “What do we do?”

Wes blinked, and he turned to Admiral Typton. “Admiral, you’ve heard the saying about killing two birds with one stone? Well, we’re going to kill three. Order the fleet to form up on us. We’re going to drive straight through the center of the alien armada, firing all sides and picking up this Aeacus as we go. Then we hit the planet as we past, make sure there’s nothing left for the enemy to get; our trajectory should take us right over the communications and government sectors. Then we jump.”

Wes turned to the rest of his bridge crew. “The enemy has ceased fire; they think we’re going to run, just like Thorton’s forces did. But I’ve seen too many good Imperials slaughtered this day to just give the battle to the enemy. So now…

“So now – let’s waste ‘em.”

Cheers went up all along the bridge. Wes himself stepped to the piloting station and laid in the fleet’s course; right through the center of one of the weaker portions of the enemy fleet. Then he shoved the throttle to full. Stepping to the comm station, he gave orders for Commander Sarus to take his fighters and clear a road for the Imperial in distress. Then he stepped back and watched as the Tyrant made its lumbering turn, then drove straight at the enemy fleet. “May the gods have mercy on your souls,” he whispered, his face turning hard as stone, “for I will now have none.”



Commander Sarus received his orders and immediately heeled his fighter over ninety degrees, heading for the small blip that signaled the craft in distress. “All fighters, form up on me. Standard formation. Hurrikanes, center formation; Storms, back to the ship. This is fighter work.”

The remaining fighters obeyed his instructions, the Schutzstaffels forming in front of the Hurrikanes, and the Storms breaking off for the capital ships. Even as they did, Sarus checked the tactical display. It looked like two wings of those pesky enemy crap-fighters were harrying a Suwantek transport. “Now that’s just not fair,” he muttered to himself.

Still, the transport seemed to be holding its own; but that couldn’t last too long. “Alright, let’s even those odds.”

Pushing his fighter’s throttle to full, he dove down on the unsuspecting fighters, all six cannons blazing. He blasted right through the center of their formation, eleven other fighters on his heels and fifty-five more on theirs. The alien formations scattered; several actually collided. Sarus turned just in time to see the Hurrikanes begin to pick off what was left of the enemy.

These fellas aren’t very smart, Sarus thought to himself. Into the comm, he said, “Unidentified Suwantek freighter, this is Wing Commander Sarus of the Imperial SS. Form up on us, and we’ll get you to safety. We’re heading for the General’s flagship, and it may get a little rough, so stick with us.”



The SS fleet broke through the gravity shielding exactly where it wanted to. Its lasers were still somewhat ineffective, though now that they were inside the shielding and at point-blank range, they did at least impact on the enemy vessels. But the missiles were deadly. At point-blank range, they could concentrate their volleys, and they smashed up ship after ship.

The enemy, confused and disoriented, tried firing back, and they did significant damage. But every shot that missed hit a Cree’Ar vessel. It was a tactic dating back to the days of warfare on the oceans, and it worked charmingly. The SS got hurt, but the aliens got hurt worse.

By the time the SS fleet emerged from the other side, they were all badly damaged. Several of the ships had to be left inside the alien fleet, their self-destruct mechanisms activated. Others were so badly damaged that their captains had taken the initiative and pointed them at the largest alien vessels they could see and rammed them, taking several of the enemy ships out in the explosion.

Wes smiled grimly. It was a great loss; a very great loss. But they had hurt the enemy, and that was what mattered. And, from all appearances, they had hurt him a lot worse than he had hurt them.

“Alright,” he said, speaking to the gun crews through the intercom. “Target Coruscant. Communications and government targets first. Full planetary bombardment. And pray that Thorton was right when he said the evacuation was complete.

The red and green energy bolts lanced out, breaking through the non-existent shield and through the atmosphere, slamming home into their targets with incredible destructive force. Each ship that passed fired, destroying so much of what was once the seat of Imperial governance. The center of the galaxy. Now not much more than a smoking pile of rubble.

But such was the way of all things.

When they had passed, the enemy fleet had organized, or at least regained some semblance of organization. But by now the SS fleet had moved too far out of range; they were close to the corridor and very close to escape. “Lieutenant, open me a channel to the enemy commander.”

A hideous face appeared on the screen before him. “Lord Artanis, I presume?” Wes said. Without waiting for a response, he continued, “I am Colonel General Wesley Vos, of the Imperial SS. Look carefully on my face, Artanis, and remember it well, because it is the face of the one who will hunt you down until one of us is dead. You will not go unpunished for the atrocity you have committed against the Empire this day.”

And with that, Wes closed the link and nodded to a bridge officer, who flipped the switches and sent the Tyrant rocketing into hyperspace, the rest of the SS fleet following close behind. Coruscant was abandoned; the seat of the Empire was lost.


Hyperspace
Quarters of Colonel-General Vos
ISS Tyrant


“Commander Sarus. Good.” Wes stood and returned the man’s salute. “Have a seat. I wanted to commend you on your performance today. Excellent job interpreting those orders, and following them. And you showed incredible initiative; I hear it was you who came up with the strategy to defeat the enemy fighters, and to rescue the Suwantek.

“Thank you, Sir,” came the automatic response.

“Which reminds me,” Wes continued, “The occupants of that freighter – are they alright? I should wish to see them next.”

“They seem to be, Sir.”

“Well, I shall send for them next. However, I did not call you in here just to tell you that. Here.” Wes stood and handed Sarus a sheet of flimsy. “That is your commission, placing you in command of all snub-nose craft in the fleet.”

To his credit Sarus kept his smile under control, allowing only the hint of it to show at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Sir.”

Wes continued, “You are promoted to acting Flight Commodore, to be approved whenever we figure out exactly who is in charge of the Empire now. Your first task is to take inventory; I want to know how many fighters we have, where they are, et cetera. I especially want to know the state of the fighters from this battle, and how long it will take to repair the damaged ones.”

Sarus nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

Wes returned the nod. “Dismissed, Commodore.”

An exchange of salutes, and Sarus left the office. Moments later, two others entered. One stood at taut attention, saluting, while the other was a bit more relaxed. “Guardsman Aeacus, Mr. Marakis, I believe. Please, sit. Tell me what you can of what happened on the surface.”

Hyperspace
Main Hangar Bay
ISS Tyrant


In the time from the rescue to the boarding of the Colonel-General's flagship, the visitors had been busy. Despite the efforts of the crew, damage had been sustained to the Spinning Dagger. While not critical, insofar as the ship was still quite space-worthy, the fact remained that repairs were required.


For Solir and his crew's aid, Aeacus ordered the three Guardsmen on board to assist in the repair process and to offer aid where able. The men were trained in basic maintenance of a range of craft and were more than comfortable utilizing the Imperial tools for the task.


"My men can handle the repairs, Guardsma--"


"Nonsense," Aeacus said, waving a dismissive hand at Solir, quietening the other man's words. "You have shown yourself willing to aid us, and in return my Guard will ensure the repairs to the Dagger are completed as quickly and efficiently as possible. They may be warriors, but they still know how to patch up a craft, Solir."


In the end, the mercenary had to accept the offer, as there was no real choice to make. Regardless of his words or protest, the Guardsmen fell into line and began assessing systems and hull-plating for damage to be rectified.


To Aeacus, it was a means of repayment, if nothing else.


"Guardsman, Colonel-General Vos has prepared for an audience," A young officer said crisply, bowing his head as he came to a stop beside the pair. "He has requested that you bring your companion and meet him at your earliest convenience in his personal quarters."


"Very well," Aeacus nodded, looking to Solir and giving the Anzat a small smile. "Inform your commander than we will be along momentarily. I trust his quarters remain where others of his position retire?"


"Yes, sir," The officer replied, clearly to both questions. He gave a quick salute, a click of his boot heels and turned sharply, walking back the direction he had come.


"If you will follow me, Solir, I know the way to the audience. In the past I have visited such flagships, and I had heard it was common practice for the Colonel-General to hold meetings in his quarters... most likely due to reasons of privacy and assured confidence."


Without another word, the Guardsman pulled his cloak around him and flicked it over his left shoulder, freeing his legs to walk without hindrance. He would be sure to observe the overall state of the troops and crew, taking notes that he would present to whomever claimed the position of Regent - it would fall onto Aeacus' shoulders to transfer his protection from Zell to the next leader of the New Order...


Hyperspace
Quarters of Colonel-General Vos
ISS Tyrant


Stepping into the quarters of Wesley Vos brought back memories of previous visits to such craft on behalf of Aeacus' past masters. Not much had changed from what Aeacus recalled of such personal rooms on other such ships, perhaps the decor was altered slightly for personal taste, but overall the Colonel-General had kept to Imperial doctrine.

Removing his helmet, Aeacus offered the seated man a salute, out of respect more than any specific requirement to follow a chain of command.


“Guardsman Aeacus, Mr. Marakis, I believe. Please, sit. Tell me what you can of what happened on the surface.”


"Thank you, Colonel-General," The elderly Guardsman said, moving to the provided seating before Wesley's desk. Aeacus suspected that his assumptions about Vos' meeting routines were correct. "I am able to tell you of the events leading up to the attack on Imperial High Command Tower, and then of what occurred following the buildings destruction. I dare say that your vantage point would allow you to understand the majority reasons for said events. I would request that you could also inform me of the status of the fleet and command; I have my sources, but would enjoy confirmation in some manner."


Following Wesley's nod, Aeacus began recounting events as he could recall. In truth, a lot of the time following the bombardment had become somewhat of a blur to the Guardsman, as he had been trying to keep his charges from as much harm as he could. After several minutes, the Guardsman neared the end of his tale, making every detail as accurate as humanly possible.


"...following our retreat from Imperial High Command Tower, I led Regent Zell and his companion, Ciscero, from the building to a secret passage I was aware of. Unfortunately, before we could all enter the underground passageway, the Command Tower collapsed and landed on top of the group. Of those gathered, only myself and three guardsmen survived the impact... explosive blasts, fire and debris filled the tunnel closest to the entrance, where the Regent and Ciscero were located, awaiting our confirmation of safety to proceed.


"Had I known the building was going to topple directly onto us, I would have moved the group further into the tunnel. Yet, even at the distance we were scouting, my Guard barely managed to survive - regardless of our armor, which surely played a factor in our luck. The Regent and Ciscero were in cloth uniforms, and were caught directly in the chaos. Both perished, as we could not even find a way through the debris to reach their position."


Aeacus' eyes had hardened, his brow furrowed as he recounted the events leading up to the Regent's death. The Guardsman knew they had failed Zell, but even he wasn't capable of stopping one of the tallest towers on the planet from falling where it may...


"Left with no other choice, my Guard and I continued on and eventually found our way into Mr. Marakis' company. There we were united with a small squad of troopers of Military Command, led by Sergeant Raythe, who is now deceased. They were under orders from Director Trachta to locate the Regent - or receive permission to leave planet from Moff Thorton - prior to evacuating."


Glancing to Solir, Aeacus tried to gauge the other being's reaction to the events being revealed.


"According to Raythe, ISB had assumed command of all local ground units. He mentioned that Regent Zell had sent a ship to Thorton and that we should look to him for information regarding who is in command. The Sergeant then proceeded to claim Mr. Marakis' craft for Imperial service, before demanding that the group remain on the planet despite the attacks from orbit. He was both uncontrolled and seemed crazed to complete his mission. I took steps to ensure he would see reason, to which he then threatened the life of one of the refugees aboard the craft... left with no other option, I was forced to kill the Sergeant, in order to protect an innocent from death.


"He would have kept the large number of beings on-planet, solely to fulfill a mission he had been told could not be completed, with the death of the Regent. Hence, his manner and actions were unprofessional and the endangerment of civilians unacceptable. While I do not know his mission, I would dare say it worth speaking with Director Trachta over the specifics... it seemed the Sergeant had a single-minded purpose for finding the Regent, and was willing to sacrifice anyone in his way, despite Regent Zell having a personal guard composed of my own men.


"We are more than suitable for protective duty... so long as we are able to actively guard against reasonable dangers. Collapsing towers are out of our hands, as you can understand."


Easing back in the chair, Aeacus paused a moment to decide how best to continue. He felt it prudent to emphasize the importance of Vos contacting the Director to find out the true nature of the mad man's mission.


And Sergeant Raythe had been just that: a mad man.


"Following the confrontation with the Sergeant, Mr. Marakis then proceeded to take matters into his own hands, and we made for the evacuation window... I believe Solir can continue events, as I was merely an onlooker by this time."


The Guardsman turned to the mercenary, adjusting the helmet he held on his knee for comfort...

Kach Thorton

Upon arrival into the system the two battlegroups had spread out among the Imperial squadrons who were working hard to maintain order above the planet. They were barely as numerous as the force arriving to assist them, a sad testament to the strength of Coruscant’s remaining defenses because to muster these forces Coruscant Command had been forced to leave multiple sectors above the planet completely undefended. The ships, especially the dozen large Star Destroyers, were readily welcomed by Coruscant command, who had despaired of ever receiving assistance.

Though more vulnerable from their scattered positions it also gave the flotilla a broader view of the escaping vessels, allowing not one ship to escape without being scanned.

Despite all the fleets had been through in the past months moral was still high and the crews were committed to doing their duty to the Empire, especially now. “Do you reckon, Admiral, that we’re out here on a wild Vornskyr chase?” cooly asked one of the ship’s bridge crew, a weapons system technician. At the moment his skills weren’t in demand, with no enemies in sight or overzealous vessels attempting to blast their way through the corridor. The Admiral, Admiral Paisly, had always found himself charmed by the former country-boy’s informal ways, even when speaking to a superior, smiled, chuckled and spoke softly back to him.

“I don’t think so, Vernon. You’re just not privy to the big picture. Follow me.” He turned toward the Sensor Officer on deck and walked over to the central Sensor Analysis pit, where a tactical situation display board showed all of the surrounding space. “Do you see that red area?”

“Yeah sir, I do,” Vernon said in his country boy accent.

“That’s an anomaly picked up by our Strategic Sensor Suite. We’re not sure exactly what’s there, though we’ve made a few guesses. It’s chugging along just outside the invasion corridor and it’s cloaked, so it’s almost certainly one of ours. And from the size it looks like a Shroud. The anomaly in question is 300m in diameter, which at this range gives an approximate ship size of only 125 to 150 meters.”

“And you want us to intercept that thing?” the subordinate asked, unsure about what action the Admiral was taking.

“Not quite,” Paisly replied. “The Administrator, an ISD V from the other battlegroup, is en route now to intercept them along with the Interdictor Constrainer. Each ship is escorted by six TIE Phantom IIs to provide support. We’ll spring our trap and find out exactly what they’re carrying – and exactly what it is – in a few minutes.

“And,” he added, his voice going steely, “what exactly it is Zell doesn’t want us to see.”

Kach Thorton

The crew of Shroud K-384 probably didn’t suspect someone was on to them when the gravity well appeared outside, but without a doubt when they felt the tractor beam latch onto their location and begin pulling them into the cavernous hangar bay of the Administrator they knew they had been caught by someone because they dropped their cloak and gunned their engines in a brief attempt to escape from their unknown pursuer before identifying it as an Imperial-III Star Destroyer from the Borderland Protectorate. The Star Destroyer’s directional jamming unit, used to prevent targeted craft from sending distress transmission, lit up the Shroud and cut off it’s transmission capabilities. Someone sent the Shroud a communiqué on a frequency that was temporarily unjammed for the sake of the message. At the first sign of a transmission to someone other than the Star Destroyer it would be filled once again with static and white noise: “This is a customs inspection. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

The Shroud was silent for a minute as it was drawn into the Star Destroyer’s docking bay. Finally the voice of a grizzle veteran spoke. “This is Captain Ahab of the K-384, let me speak to your Captain.” Without a moment’s wait the Captain of the Administrator, who had been standing by ready for this, was on the comm. “Captain Piet here. Go ahead.”

“Captain, this is Captain Ahab of Shroud K-384 on a maximum clearance courier mission for His Regency Zell Himself. What is the meaning of this and how did you get our location?”


Captain Piet didn’t bother to mention the Star Destroyer’s Strategic Sensor Suite. With the outbreak of hostilities there hadn’t been time to outfit any ships outside the Borderland protectorate with the greatly augmented sensor package, and even those ships just barely. “We have reason to suspect men wanted by the Empire for high treason are on board and were provided your location and vectors by Coruscant High Command for inspection. It is of the highest priority these dissidents be captured. The Regent himself ordered it. After a brief inspection and the arrest of any offending crew you will be free to continue on your way unmolested, Captain.”

“Captain, I emphasize the priority of this mission and respectfully request we be allowed to continue. Need I remind you of the rigorous moral qualifications necessary for Shroud crews? Our message is time essential. We cannot be delayed.”

“Your objections are noted, Captain. Prepare to be boarded. If you attempt to interfere with your inspection and arrests understand you will be arrested too. Is that clear?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Captain Ahab and the other crew of the shroud were in no position to object to any requests the Captain of the larger ship made.”

“Rodger, Administrator, we are shutting down are engines, shields and weapons and preparing to be boarded.”

The Administrator’s crew, in a true show of loyalty to their cause, immediately rounded up the Shroud’s crew and sent them to the Brig and sent the lone diplomatic message holocube on board to the Administrator's captain.

** *
The Past, just before the withdraw of the Imperial Defenders and the completion of the evacuation…


For at least a good sixteen hours now, Captain Piet of the Administrator reflected, the Imperial fleet has just sat here, looking across the huge chasm of space at the enemy, alien fleet. When would it end? And to make matters worse, there was no more good company. Admiral Gilford, who had made this Star Destroyer his Flagship before going on a jaunt to Kuat just days ago along with the still-critical condition Doctor Goddard, was no long around to keep him company, and there was nobody else on board he cared to talk to. He was too nervous to read, which left him with two options – wondering the ship and making sure things were in good order or sitting here, at his desk in his quarters, looking at this cube they had taken off the Shroud early this morning. It was a standard Imperial diplomatic holocube, regular in every way…

Except now, without warning, it flashed. A green light began flickering on and off repeatedly, then a blue one. Finally, together they glowed for around five seconds before shutting off.

Thorton.

He picked up his comlink off the massive yet clear mahogany desk he was seated behind. Though there was jamming outside, as a Captain he route it through the ship’s line-of-sight laser comm system to reach the Grand Moff. He dialed in the appropriate number and then his great, black chambers were strangely silent – lacking even the normal vibrations carried from the idling engines through the frame – until there was ringing. He was afraid the Grand Moff - an extremely busy man now that circumstances were the way they were - wouldn’t be able to pick up but just when he’d given up all hope for an answer and was about to close the line a familiar voice answered.

“This is Kach. Go ahead.”

“Sir, the cube just updated.”

There was a hiss and some static. There two ships were several hundred kilometers apart, and even using several vessels in between them as midpoints this method of communication wasn’t perfect. “…check records.”

“Repeat,” he asked his superior. “You faded.”

“Check the digital seal,” the Grand Moff told him. “It should say it was last viewed on Coruscant.”

Picking up the three-inch square cube, he spun it around in his hand and noticed there were only two buttons on it – one blue and one green. Guessing, he clicked the blue button, which queried him for a diplomatic password. Swearing a mild oath he clicked the other and a viewing log came up. There were no entries on it other than “Sealed (date and time) by Regent Azrael Zell” and one later view that corresponded to shortly after the time of capture, which was a reasonable thing to expect after a search of the ship. No modifications of the contents, however, were recorded.

“There’s no record of our access, Moff Thorton.”

There was a moment of silence. “Replace the cube on board the Shroud. Then return the crew to their ship, stating that they’ve all passed full background checks and they’re free to resume course to Vladet.

“Then get your crews to battle stations. The message is about to go out so I’ll just tell you now – General Vos is about to come in behind them and we’re going to attack.

** *

Ortho Gutt

“Look at that patchwork on the …” the Sensor Officer was reading the recognition data slowly coming in, “..Administrator!”



Captain Gutt, in an effort to ignore the sweaty drops forming on his forehead, frowned at the hazy monitor. “What is that? Is that plating? Were they in a ..? Where did they come fr--..”



Whatever mechanism in Ortho’s mind that seemed to snap, click and clickety clack inside seemed to be doing a number as the mathematics of stellar cartography urinated all over his bravado and an unreasonable fear shot way up.


“Moff Thorton’s forces were Borderlands..”


“There is no Borderland any..” someone started and they fell silent.


“Do you think?”


“Getting some strange signal through the recognition system…” The Sensor Officer murmured.


“CUT THE LINK!!” Ortho shouted and the Officer, to his credit, did not hesitate. Not that the link was very good to begin with all the damage to the Predator’s systems.


The purple discolorations on the Administrator were not replacement plating for battle. It was, in fact, a tell-tale sign of an infestation.


“Reavers!” Ortho whispered and the bridge crew went white.


“What the hell is that?” someone shouted as flashes nearly overwhelmed the visual sensors causing the monitors to white out.


Ortho gasped trying to take it all in.

Kach Thorton

On the Outskirts of Reaver Space – Operation Overlord

The bridge of Admiral Gilford’s capital ship, the Administrator was silent as the first images and sensor data from the Ferret recon vessel QXR9-ZD came in. Dispatched minutes prior to observe what was about to take place, it had found their query exactly where they had been expected, but the images were none the less breathtaking. Visible was half a squadron’s worth of light cruisers and frigates, some more familiar models than others.

“Farfaleen and Tion mostly, he muttered to himself, “except for the captured Carrack.” The group was clustered together in a wedge formation in orbit around a large asteroid in deep space for no apparent reason – there was nothing special about the asteroid in terms of mineral content or any other measurable variable. This was not unusual, however. Imperial tacticians had noticed no particular logic to Reaver movements and actions. Reaver vessels would cluster together for no apparent reason in groups a dozen or a hundred vessels strong for weeks on end before scattering or moving as a group to another equally unspectacular location for another round of waiting. In battle they followed no strategy and used no formations or tactics.

Temporarily distracted, even the operation’s technical team was looking up at the target of their venture and not outside at the robotically-operated Action IV transport outside the Star Destroyer – the key to this operation. When it was ready the Chief Technology Officer for the project pressed a button and it disappeared in a flash of light, reappearing seconds later on the bridge’s primary holomonitor, still projecting the Reaver formation in the center of the bridge. It’s engines glowing, it charged forward toward the alien ships. Slowly the Reaver vessels rotated toward the Action IV and opened fire, far slower than even the most inefficiently run Imperial vessel would have. Despite the lack of even the most rudimentary evasive maneuvers no fire so much as skimmed the transport.

Tobias tapped the CTO’s shoulder and the officer turned around, acknowledging him. “How is it managing to avoid fire, Chief?” he asked.
“It’s our new model of the Illusion Sensor Deciever, Admiral. What it does is . . . well, I don’t want to get too technical, but imagine capturing enemy sensor beams and sending back streams of false targeting data to provide false readouts on their sensors. This makes it nearly impossible to hit, because they see several dozen Action IVs in formation rather than just one. In addition, the vessel seems to twist and change positions at the same time. Though it’s practicality is limited in large formations it makes single vessels nearly impossible to hit.”

Gilford smiled. As long as men like this and other equally brilliant engineers continued to serve the Empire the New Order would stand strong, regardless of alien threats.

Buried within the ship’s hold was a massive EMP device, large enough to disable a Star Destroyer. As the ship dove into the formation of Reaver vessels, now sustaining some inevitable hits, the hyperdrive flux capacitors dumped all power into the EMP at the same time all shield energy was diverted to it, creating a massive electo-magnetic burst and instantly causing all active electrical systems on the vessels to go dead. On the holoprojector all seven ships stopped moving and firing and all shields registered as dead on energy readouts of the battle.

Within the Action IV, the ship’s corridors went dark as the electrical and lighting systems died.

“Bring the squadron in” Gilford ordered. “Move all boarding troops to posts.”
Unsure exactly what to expect, the four Star Destroyers jumped toward the silent vessels. Many mysteries were about to be revealed and many unanswered questions, answered.

In the brig of the Administrator

“I apologize for the delay, Captain Ahab,” Piet said to the commander of the detained shroud and reaching to shake his hand. “As I’m sure you understand, the presence of a Shroud leaving Imperial Center this late sets off some alarm bells. A rogue Admiral or official may be trying to make an escape when their presence is still demanded on the planet below or even defect and we have to be on the lookout for any treasonous activity. Your crew however has passed full background checks and you’re free to continue on to Vladet.”

“Vladet?” the Captain asked, eyeing him suspiciously and gently taking his hand.

“Vladet.” Piet replied. According to your navigation records, you were in route to Vladet when we detected…”

He stopped as a familiar vibration ran through the deck of the ship, as if it had launched a salvo of fire. But that was preposterous. The Administrator was along side the evacuation corridor, far from the enemy formation and even the main Imperial body.

“What the hell just happened!” he shouted to no one in particular, cut off mid way by ringing klaxons and red flashing lights. A call came over the intercom, announcing “General Quarters. All hands to battle stations.” Behind it, the sound of the klaxons changed in pitch and rhythm from the “General Quarters” alarm to “Boarders present.” At the same time his comm link rang.

Pulling it up to his face, the Captain wasted no time. “Piet here. Go ahead.”

“Captain” started a familiar voice – his administrative aid on the bridge. “The specimens have broken loose and cleared the medical quarantine area. They’ve reached the forward fire control room!” The feeling of Turbolasers firing suddenly became clear.

“Dispatch Marines to clear the area. Activate the Naval Anti-Intrusion System on the infected corridors of the vessel and inform nearby vessels what’s going on.”

“Nearest vessel is the Predator under command of a Captain Gutt. Establishing a connection now…”

Piet cut him off sharply. “I need to get the crew of the Shroud to their vessel and on their way – they’re on a diplomatic mission. As soon as they’ve reached the hangar I will get back to you – use your best judgment in the meantime.” He clicked it off and turned to the Captain of the Shroud. “Some of your men had sidearms – which are locked up somewhere in the holding area. The rest of your men will have to stay together as we move to the hangar and trust my Storm troopers and soldiers to guard them. I don’t know how far the outbreak has reached, but I doubt it’s contained yet.”

Ahab looked at him, condescending and amused. “And what exactly is happening, Captain?” he asked slowly, enunciating carefully.

Piet replied hurriedly, summing the story of them capturing the Reaver specimens up as fast as he could. “We had four of them on board in a medical quarantine zone – kept under strict observation and no one was allowed in or out without a thorough decontamination. Somehow they resisted further sedation and attacked the personnel attending to them, infecting them and causing the infection to break loose. The medical area they were in was the forward hospital, near the forward fire-control unit. Somehow they’ve taken control of the main guns and opened fire on any nearby ships.” The shock of another salvo vibrated through the ship, emphasizing his point.

He looked at the squad of troops manning the brig. “You’re coming with us.” And then outside there was an explosion.

** *

Halfway between the detention area and the hangar they came across their first one at the intersection of two corridors. Bent over a black-uniformed body, the Reaver looked at them with crazed eyes and red human flesh dangling from it’s lips. Growling, it glared at them before jumping up and charging, screaming like a Vornskyr and running almost as fast. Too slow to shoot it, Piet ducked to the floor and braced for impact as a storm of blaster bolts from the perpendicular corridor dropped the beast, followed by a storm of footsteps as a squad of storm troopers appeared.

“Captain, are you alright?” the groups commander asked, looking him up and down. Satisfied he hadn’t been bitten – the virus strain that was on board had an incubation period of just thirty seconds – he reached a hand down and pulled his commander up. “Lieutenant Midas. We’re leading a platoon toward the infection area.” The remainder of the mentioned group, following the point squad, appeared down the hallway and walked slowly toward them.

“We were on our way to the hangar,” Piet replied, looking for a turbolift as the ship shook from another large explosion. “This is the Shrouds crew and they need an escort. I need to get to the bridge immediately! Can you take them?”

The Storm Trooper Lieutenant nodded. “Yes sir! I can see to it.”

“Good,” he said, stepping toward a turbo lift and placing his rank cylinder in a slot that would override all other ride requests and give him immediate priority. “I’ll be on the bridge. See to it.” A moment later his ride arrived and he was gone.

** *

“Captain on deck” came the cry as he stepped onto the ship’s command deck. The bridge crew, too busy to stand at attention, continued with their work.
“Officer on deck,” Piet shouted as he looked out the forward viewports “I need an update.” From the nose of the ship a huge salvo of green energy launched, impacting on the nearest Star Destroyer, presumably the ship they had tried to contact. In response another salvo slammed into them, punching through their weak foreward shielding.

“What the Deus are they doing!” he shouted at an officer making his way toward him, the ship’s second in command Commander Kratas.

“We can’t get a communications link with them. They cut it as soon as we made contact and returned fire as soon as the infected station opened fire on them. We’re trying to cut power to the forward turbolasers, but they overran the forward distribution station and we can’t cut it from here without cutting life support and all other forward subsystems.

“Transmissions?” Piet asked.

“The enemy dropped the jamming and full communications are back online.

He turned his attention from the Commander to the forward viewport of the bridge, looking out at the mile-long battleship under his command. Running across the forward hull was a massive pink/purple scar of discolored hull plating. Through principles not yet known, a harmless substance secreted by Reavers interacted with metal in a manner similar to a molecule, causing a uniform color change from the inside of the hull to the surface outside wherever this gas touched. Though the exact mechanism was unclear despite their best efforts to look into it, it’s results were well known to the Borderland because infected Reaver ships turned this shade of pink/purple after being taken over and were easily identified visually. Now nearly half the Administrator had changed color, telling them exactly how far the infection has spread. Escape pods, manned by either confused Reavers or desperate crews surrounded by the infected shot out, automatically guided toward the nearest Star Destroyers by their navicomputers. In addition to the discoloration, huge chunks of the vessels front had been blown off by salvos from the Preditor.

The sight of his massive ship, once strong and proud, now on the brink of destruction was humbling. “Commander, order a general evacuation. Marines are to sweep the forward of the vessel to rescue survivors before evacuating and Navy personnel are free to board escape pods starting now.” He turned away from the Commander to the crew in a nearby communications pit he ordered, “Broadcast a general distress transmission and an evacuation notice, then get off of here. Commander, I want you to follow me.” Heading back to the rear of the bridge from which he came, Piet and Kratas stepped into a turbolift and plunged toward the hangar and the Shroud, K-384.

Packed from bulkhead to bulkhead with evacuating crew the Shroud left as soon as they were on board, headed toward it’s final destination: Imperial Center. Vladet. The Administrator, mortally wounded, dove toward Imperial Center. Slowed by the planet’s atmosphere, thick with smog and smoke, the Administrator tumbled into the planet's surface intact and released it’s Reaver scourge upon the Cree’ar and the once proud, now scarred, jewel of the Empire.

** *

Just before Kach Thorton’s jump to hyperspace…

“With the confidence that he is the best man for the job,” came the haunting voice of Azrael Zell. The blue figure in front of Kach mouthed each word carefully, as if he was sad he had to give up his authority. “I transfer the Regency over the Empire to Grand Moff Kach Thorton. As a strong, well known leader who transferred the protectorate under his control from a backwater region, almost an afterthought in the minds of Imperial Bureaucrats, to an Industrial Powerhouse and a brilliant if individualistic commander, I feel at this time he is the logical choice to take the reins of the Empire as I go into retirement effective immediately.

Retirement. Something about that word stuck out to Kach. Zell was of course now presumed dead, Missing in action during the battle of Coruscant. Trachta’s commandos had been unable to recover the Regent for a long list of reasons, the greatest among them the presence of a Force User, but even the strongest force user would have been unable to survive the collapse of the Command Tower Zell was in, let alone save the Regent in the process, so he figured it was safe to assume Zell was out of it.

Now he was in route to Vladet himself. There was a man he had to meet.

A man named Park Kraken.