"Citizens of the Empire, I come to you today in a time of need and mourning," began Park, taking a moment to glance away from the holophone, glancing out at the crowd of about a thousand military and political personnel scattered before him, and the hundreds of holorecorders that will be transmitting to the various planets and stations throughout the Galactic Empire.
"Events that have transpired over the past year has seen a steady decline in our planets, our fleets, our commanders, our leaders, and our people as a whole. Even now, as more refugee ships arrive hourly and even minutely from Coruscant, we recieve word that another planet is under assault, either from the aliens of Yaga, the Reavers, or the Crusade from parts unknown," continued Park in a grime voice, his voice matched by many frowns and grimaces in the crowd before him.
"However, this should be taken as a sign that the glory of our Empire and it's time amongst the galaxy has come to an end. Rather, I bring news today that what is transpiring right now, and what has been transpiring over the past year, is but a test, or a transition as some of you would call it," said Park, gesturing with his hands and lightening his voice.
"A test of our will, our strengths, and our glory. For in years and decades past, we have been fighting and spilling our blood, sweat, and tears to build today what the entire Galaxy has come to call The New Order, a goverment and empire that spans more systems than any other goverment, in either the current or past form, could lay claim too. But it is not enough merely to conquer star systems, build ships, train troops, and feed and house the general populace, oh no," said Park, eyes widening as he held up a pointed finger.
"The goal of an Empire is not merely to expand, but also to hold and conslidate it's territories and people, transforming it from a mere collection of once independent systems into a true single goverment and entity. Those who have come before, and have faded away into the nothingness of the past did not understand this, which is why they have failed," he spoke harshley into the mike, making a slashing gesture with his hand.
"But we, we are not going to fail. We are not going to be fragmented, driven apart, splintered, and left to wither away into what we used to be. That is not our fate, nor will we allow it to happen," Park almost yelled while slamming his fist into the podium before him.
"I come to you today to make an announcement of grand importance. Due to the events that continue around Coruscant, effective immediatly, with most of the leaders, senators, and aides present, I am declaring Vladet the new Imperial Centre of the Empire, and myself, former Grand Moff Park Kraken, the new Emperor of the Empire," said Park, looking around at the shocked and gasping audience before him.
"I know this is not a succession normally had during times of peace, but this is a war, a Galactic War for survival in which we find ourselves embroiled in. Although these are dark times that we currently live in, you may take comfort that a steadily growing light is rising to combat and drive away that darkness. I ask that you, the citizens and leaders of the Empire, put your faith into me, for on my word, this Empire shall prevail as being victorious. We have no word for defeat, no defintion for it, and do not ask me for one, for I will be dead long before you ever will again need to ask for one. Gloria Imperium!" yelled Park, raising both of his hands into the air.
Silence ensued, before everyone came to their feet in roaring applause, naval and army commanders throwing their hats into the air. Drowning out their noise came the excited shouting of the audiences from the refugee camps and Grand Isle who had been watching on several holoscreens. Smiling and waving, Park proceeded to descend from the stage and walk into the back, wearing his white Grand Moff uniform still.
* * *
High Command, Grand Isle, Vladet
Clapping proceeded his entrance into High Command, now dressed in the Naval Blue, Crimson, and Black colored robes of the Emperor, newly designed and implement by what passed as the Imperial Senate.
"Thank you all, but we have a lot of work to do. I need to fill out positions for Regent, Supreme Military Commander, several other political appointments, and other military positions. Plus I need to organize the first Imperial Cabinent Counsel. I've appointed several people already, have their invintations been prepared?" asked Emperor Park.
"The promotion for Telan Desaria to Supreme Military Commander and as a member of the ICC is ready. Promotion of Kach Thorton to Supreme Moff and a member of the ICC is ready," spoke up one his newly appointed aides.
"Good, I'll be holding onto them until after Coruscant is finished, after all, we won't know who all is still alive until it's over, but let's start working on the rest of the promotions, and get back to our duties. I want status updates on Coruscant and the rest of the Empire, chop chop," said Park, clapping his hands as he went to sit down.
With a flash of light, the last of the refugee ships within the corridor vanished into hyperspace. There were still other civilian ships out there, those that chose to ignore the evacuation course and fly their own path.
But their problems were none of his. The Dominion had been following and acting as rearguard for the refugee convoy, having broken ranks with Thorton's ships earlier in the engagement.
After all, Brand's first duty was to serve and protect the lives of the Empire's innocent, not to serve as a stepping stone for some ambitious moff. He looked over the scanners, and decided it wouldn't be prudent just to abandon the other foolish civilians to their fate.
Although his flagship and the command vessel for the Protectorate Fleet was too precious to potentially waste for no gain, the complement of other vessels she carried mostly had hyperdrives, and some would be used to mop up in operations here.
Brand punched down on the comm button, signaling the hangar bay.
"Avenger Wing, this is Admiral Brand, do you copy?" he asked.
"Avenger Wing, this is Commander Alphon, over," came the crisp reply.
"You are clear to launch. Act as a screen for the Moff's forces that we left behind until our shuttles returned from their assigned task, then you and your remaining men should screen them out and see them to Vladet," ordered Brand with a nod.
The transmission ended, and even as the Dominion prepared to jump into hyperspace, a flurry of vessels left her hangar bays. Six squadrons of TIE Defenders, of the latest model, departed and headed back along their mothership's flightpath, while two dozen shuttles also departed and started heading torwards the nearest lost and confused civilian vessels outside of the evacuation corridor.
Finally, unseen to everyone else, two dozen TIE Phantoms of a new and not yet unvieled model also departed, taking up station spread over the end of the corridor. For the most part, apart from their cloaks, they just activated their scanning and recording equipment.
Soon after the last vessel left her hangars, the Dominion made her jump into lightspeed and was gone.
* * *
Dominion, en route to Vladet
As the tonic swirled around in his glass, Brand wondered for the hundredth time that night if the decision he had made was the best one he could have made. While he still followed his orders to the letter, he knew that very few, if any pilots from Avenger wing or the shuttles would return, alive or at all.
Then he wondered about being sent in the first place, with only the Dominion and a hanful of Regent class star destroyers. Said destroyers had also departed, long before the Dominion did, flanking the refugee ships to act as middleguard in the journey between Coruscant and Vladet. The last ship had probably reached the capital world by now.
Sighing, he finished his drink before setting the glass aside and turning off the light. Two lovely hours of sleep before being roused and getting ready for the return was ahead. Grimacing, he turned off the lights before going to sleep.
Palms pressed against the cold stone altar, Lord Silk swam in the reflecting-glass, the transitory mists, the force.
Watched over by the stone faced statues of long dead Sith, practitioners of the darkest arts, the Lord Silk found solace in their unseeing gaze. Alone, save for the omnipresent power which was the dark side, his consciousness expanded to fill the length and breadth of the grand hall. Upon the altar rested a cylinder of matte-black steel woven of and wrapped in carbon fiber. At its base, clasped between mechanical claws, a gemstone carved of onyx seemed to contain a swirling, writing haze while atop the cylinder and slightly below its outer-most edge a crimson-tinted, concave disc.
Silk, his eyes shut, ran his fingers over its length never touching its surface yet detecting each minute contour and detail. Deeper, his focus intensified, he pushed his awareness beneath its outer shell and found beneath it the complex workings, the myriad of electronics which gave it power and there, nestled at its core, a perfectly cut, perfectly perfect crystal of the deepest, consuming red. A high-power, high-intensity bulb encased in tightly wound, incredibly durable glass pressed against the crystal and below that a battery/power-core combination. Keeping its contents secure and in place, a fibrous substance filled the voids and crevasses which might otherwise allow the guts of the tube be shaken and jarred with use.
Slowly, as if the act my unbalance the very fabric of time and space, Silk parted his lids and looked upon the cylinder with his own, pure black, eyes.
A smile, slight and subtle, creased his face and he allowed himself a moment of self satisfaction.
It was everything he had planned it to be; simple, uncluttered and in harmony with how Silk perceived the force and his place in it. Bits of unused equipment and tools of various description were scattered around the edges of the altar, surrounding the cylinder with a ring of chaos while it, at the center of such unaccounted debris, remained the undisturbed epicenter.
Spreading his fingers, his right hand hovering over its length, he exhaled a long held breath and, closing his fingers around the shaft, hefted its not inconsiderable weight. Hand upturned, again opening his fingers, the cylinder balanced neatly upon the heel of his palm. He felt its girth, considered its weight, and found its balance point exactly where he had planned. Then, with an almost imperceptible motion he flicked his wrist setting the cylinder to spinning evenly. One, two, three rotations passed before he clasped his fingers shut ceasing the spinning abruptly. With his right hand, and still holding it in his left, Silk found he was able to fit a palm and a half along its length comfortably.
“At last...”
Silk breathed, his words a mere whisper.
“The final test...”
His thumb, moving of its own accord, traced the last two fingers of his right hand resting, at length, upon an area of the cylinder innocuously subtle and finding there an indent obvious only to its creator. Moments passed and the the black, emptiness of the hall, stretched off in to infinity.
“No time like the present...”
And with a click, the culmination of his achievement became obvious.
In a flash of radiant crimson the oppressive darkness which, aside for a small work light, permeated the grand hall receded in the glowing, thrumming, humming brilliance of a red-shafted lightsaber blade.
His trepidation faded away at the speed of light, his doubt and concern that all of his efforts might have been for naught dispersed like the cowering shadows. His pride and self satisfaction, like the crimson glow which played across the stony features of the numerous Sith statues, spread out around him. He looked upon it, the shimmering shaft of cohesive energy and its intricately crafted heft, as a singular whole and found it good.
Moving with abrupt swiftness he speedily moved the lightsaber through the air and the tangy sting of ozone filled his nostrils. One motion followed another and then two and three more, he danced through the sword Kata as though combat was the farthest thing from his mind. This, he reflected, was art. Through the various forms he passed, through the countless poses and parries he twisted and spun. The youth flowing through his veins, the youth which filled his bones, gave him the freedom to move in ways which had been painful, restrictive in years passed. His eyes fell shut and a trance-like state overwhelmed him. He remembered himself as a young man, training with firearms, explosives and artillery. He remembered himself as a solider of the Empire and remembered himself in those days dreaming that there had to be more to combat, more to warfare then the crude weapons he and his peers practiced with. Years passed, he reflections shifted, and he remembered himself as a member of the Imperial Royal Guard and a loyal servant of the Emperor Palpatine. He could feel the cold steel length of his force-pike in his hands; the weapon which all guardsmen were instructed in. And then he was something more, Palpatine was dead and the Empire in shambles, yet salvation came to him in the form of Lord Maim. Reborn as the Sovereign Protector of Maims empire, the Crimson Empire, his training continued and while Palpatine had introduced him to the ways of the Force it was Maim who truly brought Silk in to the darkness of the dark side. His life changed once more; the Crimson Empire dwindled after the supposed death of Lord Maim resulting in his exile, alongside his brothers of the guard, on the barren world of Yinchorr. Life continued on that desolate rock and it was here that his understanding began to blossom under its own momentum. Liberation, a glowing moment in his memory, bloomed. A brief stint with the Sith Order passed as a blink and then we was with Dacian Palestar, teaching the youngster how to spread his will across the stars. And then he was here, on Xa Fel, and the Empire was knocking at his door.
His eyes opened again. Silk was sweating.
He was unsure how much time had elapsed, he did not care.
With a click he closed the lightsaber down and, looking upon it once last time, slipped it beneath his robes.
Days, at least, had gone by while he toiled to create his lightsaber. The ironic part; he had only embarked upon its creation to delay dealing with the Viscount. Something, some tugging of the Force, had inclined him towards delay. For his part Viscount del Forza had seemed equally inclined to allow such a delay which seemed odd to Silk until it occurred to him that perhaps the Inquisitor was planning some plot of his own.
And so, while he worked, the news continued to filter in. Bits and pieces of information, heralded by his attendants, reached his ears and the news was grim... at least for the Empire and the rest of the galaxy. While he had worked, delaying still, his impressions of the Force grew stronger. He felt, no... he knew that every moment he prolonged the inevitable the stronger his position would become. However, in his arrogance, Silk had failed to consider that the same might also be true of the Viscount and while, thinking upon it now, he could see no obvious advantage for the Inquisitor as far as Xa Fel was concerned he began to realize that his adversary, del Forza, likely had ambitions well beyond Xa Fel and was only using Silk and his Crusade splinter-group as a distraction while his plans played out.
These thoughts and so many more moved, like the swirling mists, through his awareness as he ascended the spiral stairs towards the upper levels of the temple. Caught mid-stride, a voice called out for him from above. Silhouetted in the stairwell door, the figure of a Xa Fel menial stopped Silk in his tracks.
“My Lord,” spoke the physically ravaged Xa Fel, a near-human species the victims of rampant pollution and toxic atmosphere, bowed his head. “The Grand Inquisitor has just returned from his vessel and he...”
The Xa Fel swallowed hard.
“... demands an audience.”
To both their surprise Silk did not react in anger or aggravation. Instead, resuming his patient climb up the winding stairs, he only nodded.
“Bring me a freshening bowl and towel. I will remove some of the days grime before I meet with the Inquisitor. You may instruct your fellows to welcome our guest, see that he has all he wants. I will be along shortly.”
The Xa Fel bowed again and vanished.
Silk, contemplative, prepared for their meeting.
Across a long, stone-cut table the two men studied each other in serene, subdued silence.
The Inquisitor, upon his initial arrival, had gained only a moments face-to-face meeting with Silk and in that moment had, by mistake or on purpose, called him by the name of his former master, Lord Maim. And Silk, for his part, had not corrected the other. Instead, quick to dismiss the Imperial envoy, Silk had offered up a paltry excuse that, given his unannounced arrival, the Viscount could not expect a properly prepared discussion of the pertinent matters and had further lied that, Sith mystic he was, Silk (in the guise of Maim) was deeply invested in an ongoing process which, if interrupted now, could have disastrous results. Then, much to his surprise, the Viscount had conceded and that attitude should have raised alarms, should have warned Silk that everything was not as it appeared. It did not. Silk had been thankful for the respite, had bid the Viscount good day and watched as the Imperial returned to his own ship to allow Silk (aka Maim) a few days to better prepare himself.
Xoverus and the others had, once the Viscount was safely out of earshot, begun to petition Silk. They, administrators and power grabbers themselves, wanted to know what their Lord planned. The impertinence of it infuriated Silk and he found himself lamenting the duties of governance. The catalyst, Xoverus and the others pushing him to explain himself, for his withdrawal to the depths of the temple was met.
And so, looking across the long table at Viscount del Forza, Silk found himself wondering how to proceed and yet not truly caring what the outcome might be.
“When first we met,” began the Viscount icily. “You were informed that I had come to talk, and for you to listen.”
Silk, glibly, cut in, “And I should answer, if necessary.”
“Yes,” answered del Forza curtly. “And on that note; you sit within the territory of the Empire upon a holding which rightly does not belong to you.”
Silk only nodded. His eyes, those pools of blackness, watched the Viscount with disinterest.
“You have further displaced the Sith Order, which being loyal to the Empire provided us, which is to say the people of the Empire, with valuable resources. What you have done here could easily be construed as an act of outright war perpetrated by yourself against the Empire.”
He let the threat linger.
“However, I see in this development an opportunity...”
He paused deliberately.
“The planet you have claimed has long exhausted itself as an asset to the Empire, in truth the last and only thing of value on this toxic rock was the Sith Order. As should be aware, the Sith Order has long held a place in the Empire, a place which many of the modern school of thought consider to be outdated and to be of compromise to the reputation of the Empire proper. The Regent Hyfe, as an example, has connections to that body and as such represents a desire to continue along the same lines.”
The Viscount was clearly not a fool. For all his carefully chosen words and eloquent manner it was obvious that beneath his collected exterior the man was capable of great and terrible things. This would have been a problem for most men. Silk, however; had spent his life with such men. Lord Maim was such a man. Emperor Palpatine was such a man. Even Dacian Palestar was such a man. Long ago Silk had learned that such men would always exist and that everything he took for granted, everything he dared to care about could be taken away in a flash and so had, long ago, learned that living in fear of such events was pointless, a waste of time and energy.
This is why, faced with the might of the Empire and its Viscount of the Inquisition, Silk seemed totally passive and removed. The same could not be said of Xoverus, nor could it be said of the Crone or Nocturnal. They represented a weakness, the chink in Silks armor. But to his mind Silk did not think del Forza the kind of man to both with such subterfuge, rather the sort of man to strap another to a table and torture him endlessly until finally getting what he wants.
“I propose, quite simply, that you agree Lord Maim to take the place of the Sith Order. I propose that you fill their position, the one which by force you have taken. I propose you do exactly as you are instructed to avoid having this planet, one which I remind you has no quantitative value to the Empire, razed to the point of removal from the star-charts.”
A long moment of tense silence passed between them.
The Viscount had to know that it was well within Silks power to obliterate the Imperial envoy, to bring the Crimson Emperor to bare and knock his paltry ship from the sky. He had to know this, which meant that he also knew something else; that doing so would surely spell the end for Silk and his splinter faction.
So far, he had not hurt the Empire. The Sith were an asset, but one which could be replaced. So far he had not done anything to warrant the wrath of the Empire. Attacking the Viscount would change all that and then Silk would be fighting a war he could not win.
The Viscount was offering him a way out, one which would allow both parties to chalk up a win, a victory. It was then Silk realized why del Forza had allowed the delay – he had no desire to fight for survival here, nor did he have any wish to return to his masters with anything less then the victory they all expected. He had allowed Silk the delay so ensure that Silk, whom he still regarded as Maim, would make the right choice...
... for both of them.
A moment passed. In that moment Silk considered; he could reveal the depth of his knowledge of the Empires current tribulations which, thinking, brought him to the conclusion that the Viscount knew this, knew exactly what Silk could say and that gave him further pause. Perhaps the Viscount had plans of his own for survival in whatever form the Empire might continue. Whatever the case, breaking such news probably would not gain Silk any higher ground. He then considered revealing the Inquisitors mistake, naming himself not as Maim but as himself. But that idea was quickly dismissed as he realized that such confusion could play to his advantage in the days, weeks or months to come.
He considered and he contemplated and then he said, “You have an agreement.”
“I will provide your Empire with what the Sith used to provide and expect in return the same as you offered them.”
The Viscount nodded, “Agreed. You will exist within the Empire though not as a part of it providing utter deniability should events transpire.”
“Fair,” Silk said. “What I provide to you will be repaid in kind. For our exports, you will provide imports.”
“Also agreed,” the Inquisitor nodded. “I believe we have an agreement.”
“I believe we do,” Silk agreed.
For the next hour the two men, having dismissed their aides, discussed the finer details of their arrangement but it was obvious to both that neither mans heart was in it. Silk, a man of the mystic force, was growing increasingly weary of the duties pressed upon him as ruler of Xa Fel and master of the crimson tide. The Viscount, an inquisitor, was not a bureaucrat and it was obvious that his attention was elsewhere in the galaxy. Regardless of their individual conflicts, the two achieved an agreement which was satisfactory for both parties and in most cases Silk deferred to the Viscount.
Another hour later and the Viscount was gone. His ship, pulled out of orbit, had blasted off to hyperspace.
Xoverus, joining Silk, sat down across from his liege.
“So now we are pawns of the Empire?” He asked.
“I doubt we will ever hear from the Empire again.” Silk countered. “If contact is kept at all, I believe it will be through their Viscount. The sensation was that he wanted an ace in the hole, a card in his pocket.”
“If you were thinking to spread the will of the Unspoken to the Empire,” Silk sneered at Xoverus, “you can forget about that.”
Xoverus shrugged. “The will of the Unspoken does as it wishes.”
Silk, standing, scoffed, “Of course it does.”
And then, exiting the chamber, he added sarcastically, “Priests...”
So, the people of Xa Fel under the rule of the crimson tide, were left largely to their own devices which suited Lord Silk just fine. The Empire was a distant neighbor fighting its own war against an enemy which threatened to utterly change the Empire forever. Whatever the outcome of that war, Silk chose not to worry as to how it might affect him. The Sith were gone and had shown no intention of retaking the Temple. On the other side of the galaxy the Crusade pushed on, fighting the Empire on yet another front while its master, young Dacian Palestar continued his quest and how this new arrangement might affect their relationship was of little concern to Silk.
Whatever the future might hold, Silk was not going to fear it.
Imperial V Star Destroyer Merciless, edge of Corellian system
Hauser paced back and forth between the forward viewport and the rear of the bridge while his crew worked tirelessly at their stations. What was supposed to be a simple assignment to head to the Corellian system, having the Merciless put into spacedock for a brief maintenance and upgrade, and haul her out along with a new escort taskforce has turned into something of a problem.
When the star destroyer had been brought out of hyperspace at the edge of the system, Hauser first thought that perhaps one of their Immobilizer cruisers or larger command ships had activated their gravity well projectors, trying to trap pirates or smugglers. But after short range scanners had failed to detect anything, long and increasingly longer ranged scanners had been activated until the source had finally been pinpointed somewhere between the planets of Talus and Tralus. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was causing the gravity well net, and Hauser had immediately ordered his crew to try and establish holocomm access to Corellia to have the gravity net lifted or to get a status update on what was happening.
When that had also failed, thanks to jamming which was then detected, Hauser had the star destroyer turned around and head away on sublights until the jamming lifted or they could break through. The latter had happened first, but now cruising at flank speed, the latter had also occured, meaning it was also probably originating from Centerpoint station.
So then we come to the final quandry at hand. Sensors had detected a small object heading in their general direction from Corellia at high speed. A shuttle with a tractor beam equipped had been sent out to fetch it, and after some scans to reveal that it was harmless, retrieved the message from within. Basically, it contained a letter about the current state of the Rebellion in progress in the Corellian system. So now it has been confirmed that rebels or insurgents, perhaps or probably with help from one of the Empire's arch-enemies, have siezed control of Centerpoint station and used it to blanket the system with an interdiction net.
The fleet of the Corellian Diktat had been noted in the message to be absent, and so far the only thing not being overrun by Rebels just as of yet was Corellia itself along with the shipyards nearby, protected as they were by battlestations and a few battleships armed to the teeth with turbolasers and proton torpedo launchers, although that was speculated by the message to probably not last long depending on how quickly they were able to consolidate their strength.
Traffic marked CRITIC had already been sent out from the Merciless to Imperial High Command, but given the state of affairs on Coruscant right now, that might have been a waste of time.
Stopping his pacing for a minute, Hauser turned to the Hangar Bay officer.
"Dispatch twenty of our Viper Probots, ten land models, ten space models. Two of each kind to the respective planets. Have them sent out immediately," ordered Hauser, turning around to face the communications officer.
"Send out a summons to all patrol and otherwise military vessels in the region. Have them rendezvous with us at our current position. Barring orders otherwise within the next twenty four hours, we'll gather all we can in the way of strength and proceed to aid the Corellians in beating back this insurgency," said Hauser.
With nothing else to do in the meantime, he resumed his tireless pacing...
ISD Tyrant The escape from Coruscant had been completed flawlessly, once the Imperials became involved. Despite the formidable skills of his Legionnaires, for which Solir always had reason to be proud, the alien starfighters had been proving a challenge to evade. If the Imperials had not come to their rescue, he doubted that the Dagger or the Nek’s Tooth would have made it out of the Coruscant system intact. Luckily, they had been able to follow the directions of the SS and land safely in the hold of the Tyrant before the remnants of Colonel-General Vos’s fleet jumped into hyperspace.
Now Solir stood in the quarters of the man responsible for his survival, a man who happened to be a high-ranking and well-respected member of the Imperial military.
The Legionnaires’ commander did not have any particular ill will toward the New Order, a point that he had made several times to his most trusted soldiers. He simply did not agree with some of their policies, and saw them as one of many governments that had become bloated on its own power and would eventually fail. Solir took no pleasure in seeing how his prediction had come through, but was sorrowful. Having seen the courage of the pilots that had come to his people’s rescue, the bravery of Aeacus and his Guardsmen, and the willing assistance they had granted to repair the Spinning Dagger, he could only feel sympathy toward these men and women who had had their galaxy utterly changed over the past year.
It was such that when he was brought before Colonel-General Vos, he had already decided to omit nothing about what happened on Coruscant. Aeacus did not leave out any of the details that he was aware of, for which Solir was grateful. He recalled that Runo had warned him earlier to just “tell the Imps whatever they want to hear so we can leave”. Sitting across from Vos – who rumor suggested was an honorable and efficient soldier – Solir knew that he could not do that.
He was also thankful that he had had a chance to feed prior to this meeting. His strength had been waning even before they had left Coruscant, and he was not sure if he would have been able to continue on for much longer. Luckily, there were plenty of wounded being brought through the Tyrant’s docking area; all it had taken was one terminal patient left in solitude for Solir to renew his strength. Without that, he would not have been able to deliver a concise report to the Colonel-General.
He began by explaining the nature of the Legionnaires’ original mission, and that they remained in the employ of Councilor Sammel Kersh of Taris. The four weeks that they had spent on Coruscant, fighting their way back to their ships, was described briefly, though Solir made a point of providing Vos with some detail on the nature of the alien’s ground forces and some of their tactics. When Solir reached the subject of Sergeant Raythe and his men, he described the agreement made with the stormtroopers, the discovery that Raythe was lying to them and the narrow escape with the refugees.
“After Sergeant Raythe was killed, we immediately broke for orbit,” Solir explained. “When we saw for ourselves what was happening over Coruscant, I suggested to Aeacus that we dock with an Imperial vessel in order to transfer the Guardsmen and refugees into your government’s custody. When a squadron of alien starfighters began converging on our position, we were forced to engage them while attempting to flee toward your flagship. The rest of the story you are aware of, Colonel-General, since it was your orders that resulted in our rescue. For that, you have our thanks.
“Just to be clear, we require no recompense for the safe delivery of your refugees. It was our duty to ensure that those people made it away from Coruscant safely. The repairs that your people have made to our ships are more than we would have asked for, and we thank you for that, as well.” Solir knew that Runo and some of the other Legionnaires would have preferred that he demand payment, considering their company’s recent money woes. “Also, I would be happy to provide you with the data that my people collected concerning the alien ground troops and their starfighters.”
At this point Solir hesitated, something that he was not prone to do. He knew that there was not much more that needed to be said, now that Vos had been provided with the official story of what happened on Coruscant. However, Solir knew that there was opportunity here for something that the Legionnaires had been in want of for some time. The galaxy had changed not simply for the Empire, of course, but for everyone. People needed to change as well in order to keep up.
He had overheard while he was in the docking bay that the Empire was already restructuring its government, and that a new Emperor had already been chosen – someone named Kraken. However, the military had been decimated, and with this new alien threat the Empire was going to need soldiers to rebuild its former glory. Solir knew that Runo was going to be livid, but the Legionnaires’ coffers were not what they had once been. An overture had to be made.
“Colonel-General,” he began, “at the moment, my mercenaries remain in the employ of Councilor Kersh, who will need to be returned to Obroa-skai at the earliest possibility. Once that task has been completed, however … As you are undoubtedly aware, the New Order’s foundations have been shaken these past weeks. You will need additional strength in order to reclaim what you have lost. If the New Order is willing to hire us, I would like to formally offer the services of my Legionnaires to your government.”
Marketta-class Shuttle ONS Delegate, en route to the Indefatigable
Although both capital vessels now floated through the same system, the position of the Axiom in relation to the Coalition secondary fleet, specifically the Indefatigable, was still fairly far out. The Ossan flagship had been patrolling the edge of their space on the Reaver border, while the Coalition fleet had (understandably so), entered the system at arm's length from the direction of the Reavers.
The Axiom was now moving to intercept, but sublight was slow going for a vessel of the Star Destroyer's size, and Zark had instead opted to take the much quicker shuttle ride in between the two, feeling a sense of obligation to be amongst the first that met with the Coalition representatives, for Parliament was also sending ambassadors from planetside. He had left Yemin in command of the Axiom, and was now sitting in the sparsely-occupied personnel shuttle, left to his own thoughts.
During the initial contact, there had been a temporary (but understandable) break in comm and holo silence. Zark had wasted no time in ordering that the Coalition fleet cease all holo transmissions, to some considerable protest from the senior officers aboard the Indefatigable, but the Jedi Master had assured them it was for their own safety and promised to explain once he arrived personally.
He had noticed at that point that the pallor of Commander Cevil's face had shifted to a color he knew from past experience to be most closely associated with Mon Calamari anxiety. In fact, the entire bridge crew of the Coalition flagship had gone out of their way to either avoid his gaze or sweat under it. It was not until he had reached out from afar and caught a sense of their emotions that he realized why.
They recognized him. Not just that he was a Jedi, but they recognized the face of Zark Ekan specifically.
It had been some time since Zark could have considered himself at celebrity status. Sure, many at the Temple and in the city of Theed had known him by name during his time on Naboo. And it was true that he had grown considerably in notoriety when he had left with Gash Jiren for Ossus all those years ago. For the briefest of times he had even been considered a war hero by the now defunct New Republic.
But that had all been a long, long time ago. Ancient history, by most's standards. In times of constant war and suffering, the attention span of the galaxy ran painfully short.
Still, Cevil at least had recognized him, and some of the bridge crew no doubt had either known his face, recognized his name, or had gotten at least some sense of infamy out of the brief communications between the two vessels.
Zark shook his head, choosing not to focus on that for now. He would have plenty of time to get a feel for their perception towards him when he stepped aboard their bridge. For now, he leaned forward and pressed one of the keys in front of him, replaying for the fifth time now the burst datafeed that had been sent to him from the Enclave, by Master Tre'Na specifically.
As Teros's face lit up the screen, beginning once more to explain the sudden overwhelming burst in popularity they had received, owed to the actions of none other than Chadd Fearsons, Zark wished now more than ever that he could speak with the other Jedi personally. But almost as quickly as it had been broken, the strict comm silence regulations had been reinstated. It had only been due to Tre'Na's quick thinking in preparing the data burst and sending it out during the arrival of the Coalition fleet that the Admiral had gotten any word of these developments at all.
Zark had instead been forced to settle for sending another shuttle back to the planet with a message for Teros. The messenger had been instructed to inform him that, as of his arrival, full power over the Jedi Enclave rested in the Caamasi's hands until Zark Ekan returned, as well as wishes of good luck.
After the first play-through of his contemporary's message, Zark had supposed that the firestorm of chatter throughout the League of Nations concerning the Enclave had been responsible for the Coalition's recognition of him, but had quickly dispelled that notion. The secondary fleet had spent the past few weeks at least flying through the often hard hit fringes of Reaver space. Current events were not likely a highly sought after commodity.
And besides, Zark had been mentioned only briefly by last name. No recent picture of him had surfaced to give credence to that line of thought.
“ETA to Indefatigable, two minutes,” the call came from the shuttle’s cockpit.
“Understood,” Zark responded.
He dispelled all of the unnecessary thoughts raging through his mind, closed his eyes, and began to meditate. This would be…interesting…
On board the Indefatigable
“Requesting permission to come aboard, Commander,” Zark called out, standing in the entranceway to the Coalition flagship’s bridge.
“Permission granted,” Cevil acknowledged.
He had opted to forego a formal uniform and instead wore a simple white robe with no more than an Ossan Navy insignia to represent his allegiance and a fading symbol of the New Republic patched onto one sleeve. It had been the one originally worn on his old uniform and, out of a sense of nostalgia; the Jedi had kept it all this time. He had never expected to use it in such a formal situation.
But as the Jedi Master stepped aboard the bridge of the mighty Coalition vessel, it was not he who felt underdressed for the situation. Instead, several members of the Indefatigable bridge team wore sheepish expressions, but these looks were quickly dispersed as the Ekan’s aura seemed to suddenly flood the room.
It was an utterly calming sensation, normally kept subtle but in this instance almost overwhelming. The Coalition forces had no doubt been on edge for the duration of their expedition. As Zark Ekan reached out through the Force, he carefully and uninvasively stripped the crew’s anxieties, taking them upon himself, and purging them from his mind. It was a normally a very draining exertion, but for someone who had been in a constant state of battle meditation for the past few days, his mind had become conditioned against such mental strains.
Zark approached the Mon Calamari and offered a salute which was returned in kind. Then he shook the Commander’s hand.
“Commander Cevil, it is the greatest privilege for me to be the first to welcome you personally to Ossan space,” the Jedi Master grinned as their hands parted, “It has been some time since we have seen the Coalition this near to the Perlemian Trade Route, and you could not have come at a more opportune time.
I trust the Imperials gave you no trouble? Force knows the Reavers must have!”
Suns die. Galaxies flicker and then fade from existence. Planets shatter. Things just plain disappear. But space is forever. Space, and time, exist despite it all. No effort to destroy a planet has yet removed a single ounce of space. Space is forever. Infinite and limitless.
But sometimes space can feel very confining.
So was it that space became too confined for the Children Of The Taj. His Lord Immortal, Taj Damuen, across the divine webs used to measure the balance of his will, deigned it so that there be no trace left of the organization once known as the Black Dragon Empire within the reaches of the arms of the Coruscan Galaxy.
And as a God’s Will so if is, it was written, and it was so.
Kal Shora watched the star collapse… not the first time he had seen a star collapse, but this was not just a normal stellar implosion. This was a measured, artificially engineered collapse. While Kal Shora knew of the methodology involved, and knew that none of it was mystical, the undertaking of such an action, the very inspiration for it, had the Cree’Ar almost question whether Taj Damuen was, truly, a god.
But such a creature… such a collection of things… could never be a god.
Never to him.
Even so, he did have a flare for the dramatic.
Almost in tune with his thoughts came the breaking of the ergosphere; reading the center of the mass was impossible because of the warping effect the event horizon had on their data collection methodology, but by observing the spin around the effect, the Cree’Ar concluded that the Taj’s calculations had been correct.
“Send the Tetrahedron,” Kal Shora commanded. Before he allowed his allies, the Damuens, to dance into a black hole, he was going to make sure that the black hole wasn’t simply going to destroy all matter everywhere.
At least, not yet.
The Arbiter fired the hyperping generator at the center of the event horizon, or, as close to the center as the bends of the gravity manipulation of the black hole would allow. Because of its effect on light, Kal Shora was not aware of whether the conduit would form successfully… there was only one way to know.
His theoretical advisor, Vejuun, had studied the data given by the Damuens. They had claimed that the C-Velocity conduit, when unbound by the laws of space and time, could exist with unlimited mass and energy across unlimited space and unlimited time. Such was the center of a black hole; unbound by considerations of mass and time, a black hole contained everything, always. Inside a black hole was what used to be outside, or what would be outside but for the black hole. Black holes never stopped their absorption of those around and eventually black holes would consume everything, including other black holes, until only black holes existed. And everything would be inside.
Kal Shora thought it was nonsense, but the Damuens did not. They had developed a way to reshape the universe itself; to bend one galaxy to another. Kal Shora had rejected the plan of moving galaxies, but planets?
Planets he could accept.
The tetrahedron began moving and Kal Shora watched it, almost with disinterest.
If it were true what the Damuens had said than all things were meaningless, for in the eventuality of things the designs of gods would fade to the reality of massive gravity wells, and the existence of all things organic would fade from relevance as they were crushed into base particle elements. But was it possible that inside the black hole, all things would recombine in the same way they existed outside? Perhaps, in a better way?
Kal Shora was not one for theoretical physics nor one for theological physics.
He understood the Damuen dilemma.
Evolution to higher forms was consistently interrupted by the meddling of lesser beings. In order to facilitate the creation of higher understanding, the removal of lesser beings was required. And though the Damuen technological superiority was limitless, their material cost had hindered efforts to simply eradicate those who would hamper their efforts.
So, the Damuens had come to the Cree’Ar proposing a relocation.
Kal Shora had considered the idea, but Artanis had decided before Kal Shora had finished thinking that such was to be their course of action.
And so, Kal Shora was here.
This was to be his final mission in the Coruscan Galaxy.
The Tetrahedron disappeared. There were two theories of what would happen next; either an explosion would be visible, or the energy of the explosion would be obscured by the massive gravity of the black hole.
Nevertheless, failure was expected.
So when the Tetrahedron did not stop generating data, many were surprised.
Of course, the conduit it was in led nowhere… such was the nature of a conduit. It only existed as it exited; otherwise, it went nowhere.
But if the Damuens were right… it could go anywhere.
Anytime.
Instantly.
“Transmit the data collected to the Damuens,” Kal Shora said, “and move our cruisers into position.”
“Data transferred,” the Nexus announced out loud. Kal Shora saw the stars bend as his ship began to turn.
He watched the Damuen ships lined up in front of them. One by one, each ship began to slowly come apart; a piece broke off here, maybe a gun turret or a sensor array there. Soon, the hulls, panel by panel, began to pull themselves apart, and then, the people. For a moment, Kal Shora was concerned, but then they too began to come apart, splitting apart in the vacuum of space like so much collected sand.
Dust to dust, it was said.
The Damuens were proof of that.
He had created his people from the dust and debris of civilizations past and now, he had them torn apart again. They did it, because it was what he asked. Because he had promised to make all that was taken apart whole again. That cloud of dust… of assemblers and energy, were the collected hopes and dreams of the Damuen people. Their people. Their ships. Their planets.
The Damuens had everything in that cloud. The arcs of light he saw break across the silvery surface were the words of Taj Damuen himself, directing his children.
Kal Shora narrowed his eyes as he watched the cloud begin to shift and move. It was almost like a dance between a billion microscopic players, weaving in and out. Reflected light from the Cree’Ar cruisers turning the dull grey to a shiny, pearlescent silver. The cloud faded to a thin, black column, forming lines and wisps, tendrils of assemblers, headed for parts unknown.
The cloud began to fall into the wormhole… only god now knew where they would go.
“Damuen Omega Cloud entering event horizon,” the Nexus informed him. Kal Shora waved a hand away to dismiss the report and then realized the Nexus would not understand his meaning anyway. He did not need to be told what his eyes could see and his mind perceive.
The end of the cloud disappeared into the dark. The final assemblers seemed to stretch for a moment as they swirled across the exterior of the wormhole; an optical illusion created by the folding and the bending of the light. On the other side… if there was another side… the swirl would occur the opposite way, when in reality, no shifting occurred at all.
Kal Shora felt the breath across his neck as he exhaled a deep sigh. “Move our vessels to the event horizon… and may Borleas guide us, until the death.”
The Nexus updated him as his vessels shifted into position. He watched intently as the blackness of nothing got closer and closer. He was going home, or he was going to die.
Only God knew where Kal Shora would be when he passed into the black.
It was a question of the simplest regard, but Shran Badaar found himself studying hard to draft the correct answer. “Imperial Forces have diverted from their position to enforce the corridor they had wedged for their evacuation. It is beginning to collapse.”
Artanis nodded. He was observing the ships in real time on the visage at the same time Badaar analyzed the tactical overlay. “Have our forces slide back to relieve the pressure. Begin to cycle out more of our damaged vessels and bring undamaged vessels to the fore.”
“As is your will,” Badaar said. Common Cree’Ar standing orders were to forbid retreat; retreat was seen as an abandonment of the gods, and such dishonor could not be allowed to stand, even if it was an abandonment of heresy. But this galaxy was different and the rules here were not the same. He had learned that from Kal Shora. At first, he had thought Kal Shora to be a renegade in his disregard of policies of the Dominion, but Kal Shora was simply a pragmatist, making the most of the resources that he had. While the Cree’Ar technological advantage was considerable, their supply line essentially did not exist, which limited their ability to commit material assets to war. So many of their vessels already had been pulled from this world and birthed at Ga'jak'ta'Gee'd'ja for repair. They came and went, were fixed and redeployed, through the maze of conduits created amidst, and ahead of, the fleet here.
Artanis watched carefully as a group of the Imperial ships suddenly began breaking away. “What are they doing, Badaar?”
Badaar saw them on the visage and turned to the tactical overlay. “They are broadcasting a message,” Badaar said, routing it to the Nexus translation matrix. His eyes narrowed. “They have set a course... through our fleet.”
“Collisions?” Artanis asked, and Badaar hissed an affirmative. “Order the shield ships to shut down their generators.”
“But without shields...”
“At that range shields will be irrelevant anyway,” Artanis pointed out, quite correctly. “Have the Borleas cruisers move our vessels as needed to avoid collision. And before you warn me, I am aware of the potential damage inflicted by the gravimetric fields. Do so anyway.”
Badaar gestured an affirmation with his palm. With the Imperial ships bearing down, he sent a command to the commanders of the Borleas cruisers to let their vessels, under Nexus control, push and pull the Cree'Ar fleet as needed. The effect would cause minor hull damage to the Cree'Ar vessels but in the face of being rammed by the Imperial fleet, it was the lesser of two evils.
“Brace for impending impacts,” Artanis commanded as the Imperial fleet closed to weapons range. The ship began to rock and shudder as their hull bore the brunt of the Imperial attack. Around, ahead, in the more forefront of the fleet, the damage was considerable. Vessels began to fissure and flare along the damaged sections. Some lost cohesion altogether and became little more than drifting clouds of debris. Artanis could feel a boiling in his blood as he watched the destruction. “Unacceptable,” he seethed, low enough that none could hear.
“The Imperial fleet has broken through,” Badaar denoted. “They have engaged superluminal accelerators. Shall we pursue?”
“No,” Artanis said. “Has the Nexus translated the message sent by the Imperial commander?”
Badaar checked. “Affirmative.”
Artanis lowered himself to take a seat at the center of the bridge. “Then have it reproduced on the visage.”
The image of a human male was shown on the screen. “I am Colonel General Wesley Vos, of the Imperial SS,” the man offered as identification. His lips moved out of time with the words as the Nexus translated his message into the language of the Cree'Ar. “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.”
“That is the end of the transmission,” Badaar said as the image faded.
Artanis nodded. He lowered his head, and in his mind, he weighed his options. He knew Kal Shora would not sanction his course of action, but Zeratul had died. His own adopted brother lay in a heap on the surface of that world. He could not simply let that pass. “Judicator Badaar, have communications opened with Judicator Resfidal. Instruct her to deploy The Phage as scheduled.”
Kal Shora felt, somedays, like the man that had been forced to retire.
Of course, he was hardly retired; he was, in fact, the acting patriarch of the Cree’Ar Dominion. Under him, all served. Well, mostly all.
He watched The Universal Damuen Church burn, having earlier been set ablaze by Cree’Ar plasma disruptors. Cardinal Cross, who met with Kal Shora on a semi regular basis, had almost struck the Cree’Ar when Kal Shora denied official government involvement.
Cross had been correct; Kal Shora did not like the Damuens. He did not trust them, and felt them subversive and dangerous.
But he didn’t blow up their church.
For almost a year the Damuens had begun to settle on Ariguan, and the worlds beyond; Porhandlon, Ca’alaas, Thotpron, and the other worlds of The Ariguan Arm, had seen Damuen churches constructed, along with the massive, sprawling Zen Gardens. Kal Shora had seen to turning over unused land that had previously been used as prisons for captive Yuuzhan Vong; in some cases, the Damuen churches were prisons themselves.
The Damuens did as they would and came and went freely, for the most part.
At least, at first.
There was resistance but Kal Shora had quelled it by stating that not only did Kal Shora support the Damuen presence in this galaxy but that Artanis did as well. With both the son of the former matriarch and the acting leader himself proclaiming something, many immediately accepted it. Many, but not all.
Kal Shora knew who. He knew why. He did not, however, yet know how.
It was the question of how he was pondering when Priest Lord Tan’an’oan arrived.
“Entaro, Kal Shora, Patriarch of all Domine,” he said, bowing deeply. Kal Shora inclined his head as well. “You have asked my presence here?”
Kal Shora gestured with his hand. “You have seen,” he said. It was not a question.
“An unfortunate situation,” Tan’an’oan said. Careful choice of words, to label the situation, and not the incident, as unfortunate. That, in a subtle way, an admission, and a boast. Kal Shora began to turn the wheels in his head.
“Have you ever… questioned God’s Will?” Kal Shora asked, rising.
“Many times,” the priest replied. “God does not always speak in clear terms. I often ask Borleas to clarify where I stand in his plans.”
“And does he answer?”
The priest nodded. “Perhaps not always with words, but always is provided the glory of the path.”
“When I was sent to the Coruscan galaxy, there was little doubt in my mind,” Kal Shora said. He recalled his original expedition, to reunite with the advanced scouts the Cree’Ar had sent. “My objective there was to assess the danger presented by the civilizations here and, if necessary, to call for a larger invasion fleet. When I found that two of the three advance scouts to this galaxy had been killed, the threat was considered to be significant. The call to war went unopposed and I was the architect of that war.”
The priest nodded; he knew the story.
“Artanis, when telling me of the death of Inabore and of the need for a new patriarch, told me, High Judicator of the Cree’Ar military, that I was needed here,” Kal Shora said. A trace of distaste. “I wondered to myself, why here? Why was a veteran of centuries of conquest against the Yuuzhan Vong, against the Thylor Opiette, against any of our numerous enemies, needed here? I had fought the Parrow Lin; this was the extent of my experience in war. Why was I being sent home?”
“Perhaps, there was something here he wanted you to see,” the priest suggested. “Something to do with the Damuens, perhaps?”
“I thought so as well,” Kal Shora said. “The answer, though, is related not to the Damuen faith, but to our own. Are you familiar with the story of Petra?”
“She was M'a'rara'b'a; at that time, almost unheard of,” the priest said. “Forces of the Bringers Of Fire marched on her kingdom, but she stood her ground, and the forces under her refused to surrender. War was waged for days, then weeks, then years. When all the blood to be shed had fallen, the castle of Petra still held, and a peace was declared allowing her to become a Judicator, rightly sanctioned by both the Matriarch and Borleas Quayver.”
“And what she said?”
“She said, that the wages of violence and war are not what makes one strong, but rather the tenants of peace and love. For as much as one can gain from the suffering of battle, true eternal strength can only come from the embrace of Borleas Quayver.”
“Then you believe, as she did, that Borleas Quayver protects those of unquestionable faith?” Kal Shora asked, pointedly. “That by his will, and his will alone, do we live, or die, in this world?”
The priest nodded. “He is the overseer of all our lands, and by his will be done all that Cree’Ar do.”
“Good,” Kal Shora said. “Then let it not be said, today, that what I do is unjust; for if it were to be, Borleas would not allow it so.”
With that said, Kal Shora cast off his cloak. In his hand, obscured by the folds of cloth, was a long, curved sword.
“What is the meaning of this?” The Priest asked, and Kal Shora drew the sword.
“Artanis told me once, in pointed words,” Kal Shora said, eyes following the bending of the light from the edge of the blade, “do not draw it unless you intend to use it.”
The Priest held his head high. He refused to draw his own blade. “You are a trained soldier and a veteran of every war we have fought in the last two centuries. I am a man of the cloth. What you are doing will not be a fight, but an execution, and I refuse to allow you to slant it in any other way.”
Kal Shora inclined his head and opened his other palm in an affirmation. “Such is your statement. Is that really the last one you wish to make?”
Priest Lord Tan’an’oan bowed his head. “The words of Borleas Quayver shall convey in the future the error in your actions here today.”
Kal Shora would have smiled, if his mouth opened. “Who controls the present controls the future,” he mused to himself, raising his sword high. The Priest’s composure broke and he turned his eyes towards the blade. “Ah, good. Now that I have your attention…”
With a swift stroke, Kal Shora severed the head of the priest and let it fall to the floor.
There was a soft clapping from the door. “Cardinal Cross,” Kal Shora said. He shifted his body and head in order to bow before the Damuen. “I apologize for the condition of my domine. How may I be of service?”
“You do not serve me, Matriarch,” Cross said, and then walked over to the body. “Though… this is a service I hesitated to ask.”
“I didn’t do this for you,” Kal Shora said. “You are, however, welcome.”
“He is the man who blew up our church?” Cross asked.
“No,” Kal Shora answered honestly.
“But he is connected with those who did?”
Kal Shora considered. “Possibly.”
“You will find the others?”
“No,” Kal Shora replied. “I have no intention of doing that.”
“But justice…” Cardinal Cross began, but Kal Shora held up a hand to silence him.
“The destruction of your church was not of particular relevance,” Kal Shora said as he watched it continue to smolder in front of him. “What is more important is that they felt free to destroy your church. When people are given the power to commit acts of terrorism without the fear of reprisal, than the system of checks and balances in our society has failed to protect the greater good. One act, two acts, five acts, are none as bad as the perception of the ability to act. That is what our target must be.”
Cross considered. “Then the body on the floor?”
Kal Shora raised his sword and then quickly swung it downward. “Ink,” he said, gesturing with the tip of his blade to the vertical line created on the wall.
Cross nodded his head. “One body, two bodies, five bodies. You need only deliver that you hesitate not to execute those who would step out against you.”
Kal Shora turned his hand; part affirmative, part negative. “You’re learning, but the bodies themselves are meaningless. The message is more important.”
Cross nodded again. “What message will you send?”
Kal Shora pointed to the visage. “Stand with me… and we will deliver it together.”
It flew under the banner of the Cooperative First Fleet. But the assemblage of warships which had held that title for more than a year now was nowhere to be seen. This was something else entirely. This was something awesome.
Organized into battle groups according to origin, the Guardian Fleet of the United Cooperative of Peoples was not an insignificant sight. Leading the way was the Drackmarian Cruiser Iron Fist, a substantial fraction of the Drackmarian Outer Fleet serving escort. To port and stern hung the organic shapes of the Mon Calamari group, composed of vessels gleaned from the Eastern Fleet, the Minntooine Defense Force, and the Cooperative's own forces. Mirroring their position, to Iron Fist's starboard, the TransGalMeg Industries Voyager task force maintained formation, its formidable Bulwark Battlecruisers a just counterpart to the Mon Calamari Star Cruisers it served alongside.
Further back lurked the pair of Coalition Second Wave groups, well behind the main group by traditional standards, but only a moment away thanks to their tremendous speed potential.
And in the center of them all, holding spherical formation around the Lucrehulk-class Droid Control Ship Guardian―itself host to the Core Ship Smarts―the standard forces of the Cooperative Navy stood guard. Composed of starships from more than a dozen sources and crewed by sapients from ten times as many species, the beating heart of the Guardian Fleet was deceptively mundane in appearance, with Ventaor-class Star Destroyers, Munificent-class Star Frigates, and CR90 Corvettes just a fraction of the seemingly hodgepodge and outdated starships that flew alongside the newer Bird of Preys, Defender-class Gunships, and the lone Dominator-class Heavy Battle Cruiser.
But this was a true military force. Trained under the Drackmarians, indoctrinated with the full scope of Second Wave tactics, and enriched by the experience and knowledge of Onyxian naval officers, they were ready to face any foe. Coordinated by the power of a fully functional Guardian, this new Cooperative First Fleet represented far more than the sum of its parts.
Smarts wondered briefly if his Imperial counterpart recognized the capacity of the force laid out before him. Hopefully, I won't have to show him what we're capable of.
But there was much that would have to be shown. From the powerful communications array of Guardian, an ethereal form traversed the vast distance between the Imperial and Coalition fleets, a blue-black figure with burning white eyes, a hologram as substantial in appearance as flesh-and-blood, a creature who spoke with no mouth, who heard with no ears.
It said, in a deep but neutral tone, free of menace: “I am Overseer and Coordinator of the United Cooperative of Peoples, Supreme Commander of its armed forces, a being relentlessly devoted to the total and expedient eradication of the Reaver Threat.
“To the commander of the Imperial Borderland Fleets, I come bearing a grave warning. Your continued military actions within Reaver Space serve only to endanger countless innocent lives. The course of action you have set out upon injects volatility and uncertainty into an already unstable system which you do not possess the means to contain . . . not alone.
“We now have evidence that the recent Reaver attacks on the Druckenwell and Rachuk Systems of the Imperial Mid-Rim Protectorate were part of a Reaver trap to lure Imperial military forces into Borderland space. If you have not yet been informed, then I am sorry to report that the Grand Fleet of the Mid Rim Protectorate has been decimated by Reaver deception; Commander, there is no single force in the galaxy capable of destroying the Reavers. But they must be stopped.
“The Galactic Coalition, Contegorian Confederation, and Imperial SS have formed a Compact against the Reavers, to rally the forces necessary to oppose our common enemy. Soon, I believe, the League of Nations will join that Compact. I implore you to stand with us, to halt your attacks and give us the time we need to coordinate a fatal strike. For the sake of the uncounted trillions within Reaver Space and all the peoples of the galaxy should we fail; let us stand together.
“To fight this enemy alone is to beg destruction.”
“They were,” Captain Vossler answered coldly. “Where were they from?”
The sensor officer's eyes swelled as he read the data on his screen. “Sir, they're still broadcasting their Imperial transponders. This reads 'Grand Fleet of the Mid Rim Protectorate'.”
Captain Vossler surveyed the computer enhanced images for a long moment, his mind unable to sift through what his eyes saw. “I can't tell . . . I can't tell what's debris and what's Reaver.”
“We've confirmed thirty seven vessels moving under power, sir. Best estimates suggest this used to be something on the order of one hundred warships.” The Cooperative and Confederation had been working together for months, tagging Reaver ships with tracking devices. Several of those devices had fallen silent within a localized area of space, many more becoming stationary along a line some two hundred light years in length, a sure sign that something was killing Reavers, and in large numbers. But here, at the end of that line, in the area closest to Cooperative space, it wasn't the burnt-out hulls of Reaver vessels that dominated the starscape, but the ruins of Imperial warships.
“That's why they attacked Vladet and Rachuk,” Vossler said finally, pulling himself away from the wreckage. “The damned zombies set a trap.”
“Sir,” The sensor officer continued, “debris dispersion suggests heavy hyperdrive activity.”
The explanation was obvious: the Reavers had harvested an Imperial warfleet. “Turn us about. We have to report this to High Command.”
* * *
Paradiso, Ugor homeworld
VurrJeck, leader of the Holy Ugor Taxation Collection Agency and master of the Paradise System blobbed rather contently in his cup-like reclining apparatus, eyestalks hanging limply in a relaxed position.
Most outsiders wouldn't understand. But the Ugor understood, and it seemed (at least for the moment) that the Cooperative understood. Commerce within the Paradise System had ground to a halt with the arrival of the Reavers and the destruction of the Cooperative military base at the system's periphery . . . VurrJeck blobbed rather vigorously at the thought of the outpost, of all the money the HUTCA had made constructing it, and its utter uselessness against the Reavers. A military outpost that was useless in a fight!
But anyway, the outpost was gone, the Paradise System was cut off from the rest of the galaxy, the HUTCA Central Office was unable to collect its tribute from the Ugor Retrieval Fleets plying the spaceways, yet VurrJeck blobbed jovially, eyestalks limp, mind filled with glee.
It just so happens that industrial wastelands aren't particularly desirable locales for Reaver raiding parties; coupled with the fact that Ugor cellular structure is so unique that the Reaver virus is incapable of interfacing properly with them―resulting in a gruesome and excruciating death, but no “conversion”―Paradiso had been left mostly alone after the initial culling had proven distasteful for the Reavers.
But the remains of the Cooperative outpost on the system's periphery were frequented by substantial Reaver groups for reasons the Ugor didn't care to investigate, and the sheer magnitude of the centuries-old debris field littering the Paradise System blocked much of the sky from sensors, meaning to journey beyond the relative safety of Paradiso's poisoned atmosphere was to invite almost certain doom.
Still, VurrJeck blobbed happily, resting his semipermeable form in an oversized goblet, in no way concerned about the taxes uncollected, commerce uninitiated, trades unmade. Because the HUTCA was alive and well; working from a provisional headquarters on Skor II (of all places), the Ugor Reclamation Fleets were flying strong, and when this damned Reaver invasion was finally over . . . oh, the profits that would flow from overdue taxes!
And VurrJeck was no longer concerned that the Reavers may not be repulsed. He knew the truth of the matter now, had seen the Coalition's grand plan, had become an essential part of it. Because at its heart, Paradiso is a factory world, not a bureaucratic ecumenopolis. And what possibly could the foundries and factories of Paradiso be making with no source of raw materials? Well, nothing of course.
And that is why the Great Garbage Rings were being dismantled, enterprising Ugor trapped on their homeworld risking life and limb (as it were) to venture into the outer system and gather the orbital rubbish that would be processed and recast as . . . something entirely different.
And so this is the life of the Ugor people: the vast majority, free to roam the great expanse of the galaxy, carry on with business as usual from their new headquarters on Skor II, home of their one-time mortal enemies; and those left behind, trapped on the homeworld, raise up the soulless army of Judgment that will purge the galaxy of the Reaver threat once and for all!
Yes, in his disillusioned state, blobbing in his office overlooking the factory floor of the largest battle droid assembly plant in this region of space, VurrJeck was supremely content to sit by and await the coming profits.
* * *
Maridun
“All systems are green, sir.”
“Very well,” General Allstan answered, eyes fixed firmly on the data display taking up the room's main viewport. “Get me space command,” He ordered to no one in particular.
“You're on comm now, sir,” The communications officer reported.
“Admiral, we're ready dirtside; at your command.”
“[/i]Begin the test,[/i]” The Mon Calamari ordered.
“All stations, all crews: initiate Hardening protocols. Countdown at thirty seconds . . . mark.”
All across the world of Maridun, Cooperative army teams flipped switches, pressed buttons, inserted keycards, and scanned in vital data. General Allstan watched the data board turn sequentially from yellow to green, the last twenty seconds spent in unnecessary wait, finally the countdown reaching zero.
Secondary lights flashed green, then the readout dropped away and an orbital image of Maridun resolved itself into perfect clarity, where it showed the attempted orbital bombardment of Maridun by the Cooperative's Penance Fleet. “Status,” Allstan demanded coldly, and was immediately answered.
“All stations operating at peak efficiency, Sir. Planetary shield is holding strong.” At length, the weapons of the Navy fleet fell silent, and the image of Vice Admiral Gorn appeared in the Army command room.
The Mon Calamari blinked his massive eyes, that impassive fish face betraying not a single emotion. “Vice Admiral Gorn reporting: it is the determination of the Maridun Defense Fleet that the planetary defense shield is fully functional and properly manned.”
“General Allstan reporting: it is the determination of the Maridun First Army that the planetary defense grid is fully functional and adequately crewed,” The general responded.
“As such, I do hereby relinquish command of the Combined Maridun Defense Forces to the authority of the Cooperative Army. Maridun is yours, General.”
“Safe journey, and may the Force be with you,” General Allstan replied. And then the Mon Calamari was gone; soon his fleet would follow suit.
With a proper ground-base defense shield now in place, the orbital Testudo system was being packed up for transport elsewhere. Vice Admiral Gorn's Penance Fleet would be taking it to its new location.
For the time being, General Allstan was to stand at the ready, make sure the shield could be raised at a moment's notice, and let the Cooperative Worker's Party do its job . . .
Some fifty million Ryn had died in the initial retreat from Maridun. Another hundred million had been stranded on the surface. Combined with the two billion Eastern Refugees that had been brought to the world as part of a work program set up by the Cooperative Workers Party, and the uncounted billions of native Amanin, Maridun had been a world ripe for the Reavers. The size and ferocity of their initial push in-system had been entirely too much for the Ryn construction fleet's paltry military escort to handle. Maridun, its swelled population, and all the plans of reconstruction and reintegration that the Worker's Party held had been abandoned, for a time.
But Gorn had returned, had repulsed the Reavers, and had fortified the world to ensure they would never return to its untamed surface. Now the Cooperative Workers' Party would tame this world, but no longer in the name of progress for its native peoples, no longer in the name of restoration for its displaced citizens.
Because now the United Cooperative of Peoples is at war.
Maridun is a world dotted with outlaw mining cities, little fortified outposts that once exploited the planet's natural resources for the profit of men who would just as soon kill its natives as speak with them. Before the outbreak of the Reavers, the Cooperative had begun the process of converting many of these mining settlements into legitimate businesses, using the expected profits to help settle refugees and expand efforts to assist the natives in their quest to modernize.
Post-Reaver invasion, what remained of these outposts were the only places stranded refugees and Ryn workers had managed to survive, with the exception of a lucky few who had been taken in and watched over by some of the more clever natives. There was no time for Ryn construction programs, for city building and infrastructure redesign. The mines had been reopened, the bounty of Maridun exploited in the name of survival.
But transporting the raw materials offworld would be all but impossible. Even with the protection of a Testudo―and now a proper ground-based shield―the Reavers were still out there, in the system, on the edge of the planet's gravity well . . . prowling, waiting, hungry.
So if the materials couldn't go to the factories, then the factories would have to go to the materials. Dozens of Feethan Ottraw Scalable Assemblies mobile factories had been deployed on Maridun under contract with the Utapau government, turning raw ores into processed metals, and finally finished products. While the denizens of Paradiso turned rubbish into swords, Maridun turned stones into the same.
Soon an army of soldiers, starfighters, tanks, transports, light frigates, and a dozen other automated tools of death would pour from these worlds into the space beyond, to join a growing Compact of Governments in their war against the Reavers.
Reaver Space would be no more; man and machine would stand as one and drive them from existence.
