Grand Isle, Vladet, Newly constructed Senate chambers

"No, it is for the best," spoke Senator Gree, the two meter political officer towering over the one meter tall navy major.

"...," the major's lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the senator with something akin to hateful coldness.

"Oh don't give me that look major, the rest of the Vladeti Senate agrees with my proposal to limit aid to the rest of the Empire by 1% of our total defense capability. We're still helping our comrades, and at the same time, ensuring our threat against any of these...alien invaders that seem to be overrunning the rest of Imperial space," explained the senator, gesturing with his arm upwards, where a trio of star destroyers and two battlestations were passing overhead in orbit.

"But sir, if I may suggest, perhaps Imperial space wouldn't be overrun at all if the full weight of our own military forces were added to that of those from the other protectorates locked in full battle?" he asked in reply.

"Nonsense, if the full weight of the combat seasoned fleets of Yaga Minor and the other protectorates couldn't repel the invaders, how could our forces hope to help tip the balance?" asked Gree with a slight frown. He wasn't well versed in military tactics and knowledge, and was beginning to lose his track of thought with the ongoing arguement.

"But sir, if our fleets won't be able to tip the balance of power in the Empire's favor, then what chances do they have defending our own soil?" fired back the major.

"They don't, not on our own. However, by remaining largely passive, we'll prove ourselves of no threat to the alien invaders, and therefore we won't have to contend with them," parried the senator.

"The Yaga Minor protectorate did nothing to provoke them, yet see how they fared,"

"Nothing that we know of major, nothing we know of. Bhindi Drayson was a very secretive ruler, and that damn Intelligence base even more so. I wouldn't be suprised if the aliens invaded to retrieve one or more of their kind that Imperial Intelligence had captured and was dissecting," ranted the senator.

"A false accusation, to be sure. The Yaga Minor protectorate knew nothing of this alien threat until it was laid on their doorstep," interrupted a new, yet familiar voice coming from the doorway behind the two men.

"Who dares interrupt...," the senator started to demand before his eyes, having turned around, caught sight of who was speaking.

Both of the men turned white as if they had seen a ghost. The senator was the first to recover.

"I see...that the reports of your death are greatly exaggerated," breathed the senator in a whisper.

A small smile coming to his face, Park Kraken strolled into the room, his white uniform completed with admiral rank bars donning his form, his once brilliant orange hair starting to dull into whiteness, his beard and goatee already shock white.

"Indeed, they are," he spoke simply in response, gauging both his and the major's reaction to his return.

"And your family, I presume as well is still alive?" asked the senator, a bit of confidence returning to his voice.

Knowing full well that the senate was using more corrupted sects of the military as threats against the loyal officer's families to force their cooperation, Park chose not to answer the question directly.

"None of your buisness, Senator Gree," spoke Park in a suddenly chilly tone of voice.

"Oh, but is my buisness, you see. You are all dressed up for the occasion of your return, but ultimatly it is the senate who will decide whether or not you are needed. You obviously came out of a faked death disapperance for a reason, and I can assure you that that reason won't come to fruition unless...," the volume of the senator's voice dropped to a mere whisper, "...you come to work under my wing and supervison. I'm sure something could be worked out with the senate then," finished Gree with a smile on his face.

"I don't think your in any position to dictate the terms of my return to service, senator," responded Kraken.

"Then you must not be thinking at all. Major, I am placing this man under arrest," ordered the senator, his mouth curving upwards slightly in victory.

The smile quickly turned into shocked outrage as the major placed the shockcuffs on the senator's hands instead.

"Release me major, at once!" screamed the senator.

"I think not, senator. You and the rest of this so-called senate are now under arrest, under the charges of treason and dereliction of duty, among other pending charges. Regardless of what you or those other buffoons want to believe, I am back, and I will be resuming my position as governer of the Mid-Rim protectorate," stated Park with a finality that finally broke the senator.

"Y...you can't, you...you'll destroy us all...all that we have built...," stammered the senator as he was led torwards the doorway.

Once he was gone, Park turned and walked over to the viewport, looking down at the black military speeders, stormtroopers and specnav soldiers ushering the various senators from their chambers and meeting assembly.

"The only thing I'll destroy is the illusion of power you have. The only thing you've built is a web of lies, deciet, and cowardice. I shall restore the Mid-Rim to it's former position of power, glory, and honor," whispered Kraken, his eyes following Gree as he exited the building and was being lead to one of the black speeders.

His head looked upwards, torwards the heavens, where the twinkling lights of military combat ships and stations continued to slip past overhead.

"And then...we shall go to war."

6 hour prior to Colonel Vos’ entry in the Coruscant system

The look in her eyes told him everything. Her mind was filled with thoughts of desire and passion and she wanted him. Badly.

With a sly grin Kach slightly shook his head. “Not yet, Melini,” he whispered to her. “But soon.” He nibbled on her ear some and she moaned, the feelings within her amplified even more.

The serene silence of the Admirals quarters was disrupted by a soft but annoyingly high pitched squeal.

Kach’s first thought was “What the fuck?” He’d specifically and deliberately ordered himself to be left alone. After the events of the last month he was still trying to untangle the slew of thoughts occupying his mind while simultaneously trying to decide which of many future courses of action to pursue – whether the time was right to rearrange the New Order under fire or if it might be prudent to wait a little longer to see how events unfolded.
Like his thought, Kach’s first words were “What the fuck?” He groaned and rolled away from his secretary and said to the PA system “Go.”

“Commander Thorton,” a voice said – a bridge Lieutenant, “Message from the bridge priority Alpha for personal delivery.”

“Has it been shown to Captain Ahab, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“This is from the Captain and command crew, sir.”

For a moment he didn’t respond and resisted prying his eyes open. At the moment, despite it being the middle of the day ship time, he was lying in bed with his secretary. If he were still a mere Rear Admiral this would have been definitely against regulations, but now that he was a Moff no one would dare call him out on it and even if they did the accusation would be brushed aside. The bed was warm and he didn’t care to leave.

“Send my compliments to the Captain and inform him I will accept his invitation to the bridge and be up in all available haste. Inform him I have some brief but pressing,” he paused and shot Melini a well-rehearsed look she wouldn’t be able to forget, “business to take care of first.”


* * *


With his now-typical rushed swagger Kach stepped onto the bridge. “Go ahead,” he loudly ordered to the group of officers including the Captain assembled on the command deck.

They turned toward him and the Captain spoke. “To put it simply, sir, Coruscant is gone.”

The idea was preposterous. “Say that again, Captain,” Kach asked. “I thought you said Coruscant is gone.”

The Captain solemnly nodded. “That’s what I said, sir. Coruscant is gone. Disappeared. It’s gone completely silent.”

The idea was so preposterous that Thorton was incapable of showing any sort of emotional reaction or feeling one. “How did this happen?”

The Lieutenant now spoke. “Around thirty minutes ago the hypercomm and holonet signals began suffering from Doppler effect, minor at first and then turning into severe before communication was completely cut off. From our analysis of the distorted signals we’ve been able to piece back together they’re under attack though the status of their defenses is questionable. There were reports of commando action on the ground and battlegroups entering orbit thought reports are piecemeal so the actual number of enemy vessels or fleet elements is almost impossible to guess.”

The Lieutenant stopped but to Kach it didn’t look like he was done. Expecting further details, Thorton’s gaze was piercing. “Is there anything else we heard, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Just one thing, sir,” the Lieutenant replied. “Before transmission was cut off Coruscant control mentioned gravitational anomalies appearing in subspace around the system, which would explain the Doppler shift the transmissions were experiencing. The last thing they transmitted was that some of these anomalies matched the gravitational signature that accompanied the final jump of the Emperor Hyfe and his fleets into hyperspace almost perfectly.”
“So the Black Dragons are attacking Coruscant?” Thorton asked, one eyebrow cocked up in puzzlement.

“We don’t know whose ships these are,” answered the Stormhawk’s Captain. “Coruscants messages reported that there were no matches for the enemy vessels in any databases they had. We got a partial sensor dump early on in the attack – they dumped the data to any fleets they were in contact before siege per standard procedure – but it doesn’t match anything in our records either.”

“Not even Black Dragon?” Kach asked. “Or maybe Confederation or Commonwealth?”

“Nothing, sir. Whoever this is, they’ve never been encountered on a large scale by the Empire before.”

Kach thought for a moment. “How does the data compare to the dumps from Yaga Minor attack?”

The Captain shifted uncomfortably as a possibility he hadn’t thought of was presented to him. “Honestly, Moff Thorton, no one has looked at the possibility, but now that you mention it the gravitational anomalies mentioned there would match these, I suspect.”

“That’s precisely what I’m thinking, Captain. They were explained away as interdictors by fleet intelligence but we only had a view of the early part of the attack before communication was cut off – when this enemy attacked Yaga Minor they did a better job of cutting off communications than they did at Coruscant. I’d wager, however, that as the attack went on more anomalies appeared like we saw at Coruscant.

“Regardless of what we’re fighting it’s our responsibility to assist our comrades at Imperial Center. Thought we don’t have much intelligence on our foe at the present we are four hours away from Coruscant, and those of you in the know understand that within this time period our understanding of the enemy is poised to shift drastically. I don’t want to enter the system without any intelligence, so we will move to the system’s outskirts and await the anticipated datadump from Operation Anaxes. Lieutenant, it is your responsibility to see that Operation Anaxes is informed about our change in positioning so that the fleet doesn’t have to reroute our transmission to us.

“Captain, I want the first fleet to assemble with us above Ylix along with the Fourth Reserve Fleet. Together we’ll proceed to the Core Worlds. The first fleet will form on the outskirts of the Coruscant system. The Fourth fleet will assemble in open space outside of the Coruscant system and remain in reserve.

“Then we’ll await the transmission from Operation Anaxes with the data we need, and then we’ll enter the battle for Coruscant.”


* * *


Operation Anaxes

Thus far, every attempt to recover data from Yaga Minor had failed. Scouts and probes of all sorts had entered the system and failed to report little more than useless scraps of information. Those that jumped in close to the planet were destroyed by unidentified aggressors. Those who entered the empty outskirts of the system were limited in what they could discover and return by range. Therefore, a new strategy was being implemented.

TIE Phantom IIs were considered by most Imperial tactical experts to be the stealthiest fighters in the galaxy. They were completely undetectable to conventional sensor packages as well as gravitational systems such as the Chrystal Gravfield Trap. In addition to this they possessed exceptional mobility which made them perfect for the mission.

The pilots were one of the elite commando squadrons commissioned by the Borderland Protectorate under Kach Thorton’s governorship. Thought they couldn’t match the training or experience of the SS commando squadrons they were modeled on, they were very good none-the-less and would be perfect for this mission.

Looking outside of his jet black TIE, pilot and commando Commander Devon Thane eyed the debris of the huge battle that had taken place above the planet Yaga Minor. Massive, burnt out Star Destroyers and heavy cruisers twisted and turned as they circled the planet in irregular, spiraling orbits. If nothing was done they would eventually fall out of orbit and tumble into the atmosphere of the planet below, which would slow but not stop them before they impacted the planets surface. Mixed in with them was the wreckage of unfamiliar designs belonging to the unknown foes.

The jump in had been unusual. Gravitational anomalies swirled around the system, jumbling gravitational sensors and yanking his flight out of hyperspace early. They blocked all the convenient hyperoutes to the system making any conventional counterattack on the system difficult. They fighters, however, had been able to simply maneuver around them and continue on their way with the unrecognizable warships and fighters stationed suspiciously near the anomalies none the wiser.

There were twenty-four of them in the two commando squadrons out on this mission, plus a single shroud stationed on the edge of the system tasked with long range recon. With sensors far more powerful than those of the conventional scoutcraft and probes sent in before now it would be able to provide valuable information about the system through long range recon scans. More importantly, it could serve as a waystation for the Phantom IIs after they finished their mission, transmitting their data via holonet to Moff Thorton himself and the intelligence analysts on his flagship. The fighters communication packages were nowhere near powerful enough to do such a task on their own.

The battlefield above Yaga Minor was littered with the burnt out hulks of the Imperial battleships and battlestations that had once guarded the mighty fortress world. Within the memory banks of each vessel was invaluable intelligence – just a small drive from a single picket ship or fighter held more data on the unknown foe and methods to fight them than did the entire rest of the Empire combined. Though long range monitoring of the system was valuable, this data was what made the covert mission so important. The story of a lost fleet and tens of thousands of lost lives were written in magnetic code on these ships.

With the TIE Phantom IIs the mission was almost too easy. Undetectable by standard sensor systems or gravitational based sensor systems nothing conventional could detect the craft. Even the new Imperial System from the fourth general fleet upgrade would not provide a perfectly precise location of a TIE Phantom II. One pilot, a squadron commander, reflected on this fact as they moved in toward the debris field. From their circumnavigating the anomalies even with enemy craft nearby they knew their sensor packages operated though standard means because not one craft gave a sign that they knew they were there. After some brief sweats – the pilots hadn’t known whether this would work on not on the way in and were understandably nervous about it – they went about the relatively easy task of recovering necessary data. One squadron of the specially-modified two man fighters set about removing the databanks of picket ships and fighter craft, with each phantom capable of carrying four fighter sized or two picket sized memory banks in special compartments on the bottom of the craft. The second squadron proceeded to search for any large capital ships – ships that would have survived to the last stages of the engagement – with some power left running. With this power they would have been capable of uploading the ships sensor data quickly and easily either wirelessly if the ships still had transmitters – though with the enemies around this would have quickly given away their presence – or by through a direct linkup by landing in a hangar. Unfortunately none of the ships read as powered in the sector of space they were in – the enemy must have deliberately destroyed the reactors of any ship with power running after it’s abandonment.

Fortunately there was an alternate strategy. On some vessels the central computers automatically uploaded sensor logs from the vessels onto escape pods in a highly encrypted format for analysis after the pods retrieval. By recovering the memory banks of several escape pods from Star Destroyers and Golan III and IV battlestations they managed to recover the equivalent of the information they would have recovered from larger ships computers, plus one other thing.

A nearly frozen, nearly asphyxiated, malnourished man.


* * *


Two lightyears outside of the Coruscant system
Across the conference table from Thorton in the Admiral’s meeting room behind the Superior-class Battleship’s bridge was the Captain and the head of the ship’s intelligence division – General Saunders.

“General you’ve had two hours since the arrival of the data. What has your division found so far?” Thorton asked.

“Sir,” the general answered, “the data we’ve received contains sensor records for much of the early battle and the siege of the system that followed. As you and Captain Ahab deduced, the course of the battle following the communications cutoff proceeded similar to how it did on Coruscant in the early parts of their transmissions – Coruscants powerful and highly redundant comm systems explains why they were able to transmit longer than Yaga Minor did. We’re continuing to review and analyze the data even as we speak, piecing together information on enemy tactics and also weaponry and defenses and vessels. If the vessels here are similar commanders at Yaga Minor have discovered some weaknesses and basic tactics we can apply which we’re also drawing from the records.”

“We don’t know much about weapons or tactics or defense yet – I’ll hit on the little bit we do know about their tactics in just a minute - but you’ll be pleased to know that enemy sensors, as was observed by our brave pilots who performed the raid, work along similar frequencies and means as ours because they cannot detect stealth fighters. This is a significant relief.
“As for their tactics, during the early stages of the battle for Yaga Minor they sealed off the hyperlanes to the planet with gravitational anomalies of the sort we detect. From the battle footage we’ve deduced these are wormholes, which puts their abilities to manipulate gravity and space-time on a scale far beyond our own. However, they have only used these wormholes as a means for transportation – they have no military use beyond interdiction as far as we can tell.”

Kach cut him off. “Could one of these wormholes be what was used to kidnap Emperor Hyfe?”

“I had some men compare the gravitational signature of the Hyfe wormhole to those over Yaga Minor and from comparisons of their formation it seems that this indeed could be the explanation for the unconventional disappearance of our Emperor. An enemy ship hidden in the system could – pardon me, I failed to mention that enemy ships generate the wormholes ranging from shuttle class to much larger – an enemy ship hidden in the Coruscant system would have been able to create a wormhole quickly in the path of the Imperial fleets, transporting them to the Emperor knows where. . . .” The general blushed at his accidental use of an inappropriate – and now outdated – figure of speech.

There was a vibration on Thorton’s side. A summons from the bridge. “I must leave now, General,” Kach said to the Intelligence Officer. “My presence is demanded elsewhere. I have but one final question: can we go head to head with whever this is and win?”

The general nodded. “Yes sir, we can. The Imperial fleet’s valiant effort over Yaga Minor verifies this. Even against an unknown enemy they managed to destroy a significant number of enemy vessels – only further research will show exactly how they did this. But it clearly is possible.”

“Thank you, General,” Thorton replied. “I expect a report on the best methods found to fight them and on enemy weapons and defenses as soon as possible. But now I must go.”


* * *


Minutes later on the bridge of The Stormhawk


Kach entered the bridge and walked over to the officer on deck, the woman who had requested his presence. Captain Kollaspi was second in command of the ship and was in charge when Captain Ahab’s presence was required elsewhere.

“Admiral,” she addressed him. “Minutes ago we picked up an Imperial battlegroup entering the system just lightminutes away in a combat formation. That’s when I paged you. Since then they’ve launched scout fighters into the system but they’ve started returning and the whole flotilla is now turning around to make way back to where they came from.

“Do they know we’re here?” Kach asked.

“We’re not sure,” she answered. “They’ve made no attempts to contact us if they do.”

“Who’s the commander?”

“Sir that’s an interesting question. This is an elite element composed of both guard and SS units and Colonel-General Vos’ flagship is present but we have no way to tell if any higher-ranking Guard officers are present. Or if he’s even there. Somebody, whoever it may, has ordered they leave and soon. If you want to make contact with them sir you need to do so now.”

“I understand,” Kach snapped as politely as he could. He hated it when people tried to tell him what to do, especially when something was obvious. Send a summons to General Vos. I need to speak with him now via holonet.”

“Yes sir,” the captain replied. “Lieutenant,” she shouted to a nearby deck officer, “see that it is done.” She turned away to go about further business but was interrupted by Kach.

“Captain,” he called, thinking about things dealing with her that were most certainly not combat related. “Does the fourth fleet have any Messiahs with them?”

She turned around and gave him a puzzled look, unsure why he was asking the question.

“Sure. There’s four of them that were remobilized to serve as fourth fleet flagships. Why?”

“No reason” he responded calmly. “But have them sent over here. I have a feeling we might need them.”

Interlude



The Sith Master limped alone down the empty corridor the flickering of the luminescent lighting casting a dull glow across his path. To the naked eye, he was an old man of no particular importance and as the empty hall opened onto a concourse, passersby did not give him a second glance.

Too wrapped up in their self importance, they were content to let him carry on about his business which suited the man just fine. It was not like he held any fond memory of the place and was, at once, annoyed to find that those things he deigned to glance at had not changed throughout the century.

The symbols might change but the bland, over-bearing, dull-gray architecture still failed to impress. Since the builders, those many decades past, had tried to instill more of a sense of longevity in their buildings and less of a practical measure, much to the consternation of their progeny the latter generation found it too expensive to break into walls for simple acts such as repairing faulty wiring or even upgrading existing systems and so the architecture was littered with hooks and wires that ran on the outside of these once awe-inspiring structures.

What was it about dictators that made them want to remake the galaxy using dull colors and grand-scale constructions of no practical purpose?

Yes, he hated this place but this was where that fool, Dar, lived and if the young idiot was going to file flight plans with local authorities in his traveling to the Sith Master's retreat, the old man might as well save himself some trouble. Obviously, the fool could not go to the mountain so the mountain must go to the fool.

There was a fluttering of the Force when he thought of young Dar and it puzzled the Master. Claiming to be of the blood of 'The Palestar' was not all that surprising for after the Crusades, many a woman claimed to lay with the conquerer siring their crying welps. Palestar never claimed any of the bastards but what conqueror ever did?

The Sith Master stopped in the center of the concourse heedless of others causing them to mutter curses at him while moving aside. His eyes stared down at the Seal of the Republic.


Shiny.


New.


Idealistic.



He gazed at the seal with such an intensity that, in his mind's eye, the layers of smooth tile peeled away, the flickering of paint, stain and design revealing an earlier incarnation of the seal.


A different symbol for a different time.


He gestured his hands through empty air and that symbol too cracked, crumbled and the floor, once again, vanished to reveal under it yet another symbol of yet another era.


A dull, red dot on an otherwise black stained marble floor.


The red star.


The Palestar.


He smiled at the memory.


A different kind of idealism reigned then.


"...bid for the galaxy.." he murmured and soon everything around him vanished leaving only the black floor and the red circle of the Crusade.


Shadows played across his conscience and soon, from those shadows voices were heard.


Ernest voices caught up in their own worries.


Worries of another time.


Worries of another Symbol.




Those voices took shape and the years peeled away for the Sith Master.



"They launch today, Sirus." one of the voices confirmed and the shadow solidified into the Crusade-colored uniforms of the Nyx.


The Defiance of Nyx, The Revenge of Nyx and the Triumph of Nyx were the latest in the Nyxan-influenced and crewed battleships to be built. Produced along the lines of Supreme Commander Maxson's Pride of Nyx, these warships fueled the nationalistic fervor that had gripped their planet and Perrin could hear the excitement in his companion's voices when they spoke of their growing power.

Vetti was the only companion of Perrin's from the beginning, when he had retreated with them from the Xa Fel campaign almost two years ago and while Maxson, along with the Crusader's charged full steam ahead into the chaos that was the Onyxian Occupation Zone, Perrin charged full steam ahead ferriting out those disloyal to Nyx.

It was not hard for once the illusion was in place convincing everyone he was a Nyx, you simply had to take hold of that fervor and allow it to lead to where you want to go.

Palestar supporters were worried about those insurrectionists of the former government seizing power or the initiative in Dacian's absence? Carry out witchhunts and execute as many as you can while enslaving the rest.


Simple program.


Simple action.


And ultimately simple to subvert.



All one had to do was 'out-witchhunt' the witchhunters. 'Out-execute' the executioners and enslave more than the slavers. 'Out-butcher' the butchers and you'd have them eating out of your hand, more out of fear than anything else.


It was why all but Vetti were dead.


It was why when you moved against him, you move against he who Maxon put in place to oversee Nyx. Why you moved against Maxson himself and why, ultimately, you would move against the Palestar. The domino effect could be incredibly devestating and, to Perrin's delight, it could also go both ways.


Two nights ago he had received Nyx's highest honor and had medal pinned on him by Maxson's Right Hand himself. It made quite an impression on the vids and Perrin had spoken out against those that would stand in the way of Nyx Pride, Nyx Glory, and the Nyx Legacy. Crushed underfoot and swept aside they would be and the massed ate it up.

It helped that the Pride, Glory and Legacy were all Nyx battlecruisers under Maxon's command so the speach had the added benefit beyond the metaphorical.


But then Perrin continued his steel-branded tirade against those that would stand in the way of Nyx Defiance, Nyx Revenge and, ultimately, Nyx Triumph and it was these overtones that suddenly cause the 'Right Arm of Maxson' some concern.


The Imperial, Grand Admiral Telan Desaria, had become the villian of Nyxan nightmares as Supreme Commander Maxson became boggled down in a bare-knuckled fight of flesh, blood, steel and fire.

With every victory came an almost immediately answering defeat as the Imperial gave as good (or better according to some) as he got. As Nyx had answered the call for reinforcements for all the broken bodies Maxson sent back but at a cost. The glimmering idealism of the Crusade had suddenly faded to a charred reality and the reality was, the more the Supreme Commander was kept from his promised sweeping victories and proclamations of Nyxan invincibility by this Imperial Grand Admiral, the greater the distance became between a leader and his safety, cocooned people still enamoured with their own self-glorification.


The three battleships were to be an answer to the Grand Admiral and the powerful leaders within the Nyx political system (such as it was) were banking on the image of Nyxan invincibility being reinforced with their newer warships.


But Maxson's Right Hand knew, as did Perrin, that the names of the vessels were given before Telan Desaria became a thorn up their collective rear end. The question, therefore, in the leader's mind: What was Perrin referring too in his speech?


And so, the leader shrewdly asked for a meeting in secret which Perrin was more than willing to grant.


Now, they stood face to face, Perrin only having Vetti with him while the other man had a few more guards.


"I could call you treasonous and appeal to Symbol for your execution?" the leader threatened. It was not a real threat for the Nyxan before him was so popular with the masses that unless he caught a full confession on vid showing Sirus plunge a dagger into Maxson's heart all the while ravaging Palestar's Mistress, no one would believe him.


Perrin/Sirus merely smiled and simply asked, "With our glorious leader out campaigning, I always wondered why you never went out to serve your nation? I was at Xa Fel. Where were you?"


The leader paled slightly but chuckled at the strike. "You've got Nyxan balls, I'll give you that. And you can banter with me all you want, if Palestar's Mistress was here or if his Void Knights were here, you might find that they do not take well to political nuances. It doesn't even matter if you are really suggesting independent action, if they think you are, they'll execute you!"


Perrin shifted his feet slightly for it was a point. "Yes, the Void Knight system of justice. It is something to be feared, especially since they are within our swing."


"I beg your pardon?" the leader asked, not recognizing the idiom.


"A fencing term," Perrin explained. "If your enemy is at sword's length, they can be dealt with. Outside our warship's guns, the threat of the Void Knight holds as much power as the threat of a local pirate. Gun batteries are not discriminating nor do they cringe at posturing. They simply reduce what they are pointed at to slag. But the Void Knights are not at sword's length. No, they are inside our swing and so are a more immediate threat. Without close-quarter weapons.."


The leader laughed. "Now you truly dream, Sirus. Dacian Palestar and his Knights cannot be defeated. Their magic has a hold that we cannot even begin to understand. You were not there when I stood with Maxson when the Palestar first came to Nyx. There was nothing we could do against that kind of power and there is nothing we can do now!"


Before the leader could paint Perrin as a fool, the Sith simply retorted, "You were not at Xa Fel where Void Knights fell by the scores and were bled dry. The Palestar was weak then!"


"You think Maxson and I did not consider this? You think we fear his Mandalorian mercenaries? Nyx is strong and we have the numbers, the ships and now the backbone.... strength given to us because of our Supreme Commander!"


"And now, Palestar and his Mandalorians bleed our Supreme Commander dry." Perrin remarked sardonically. "Palestar is not stupid and he uses our strength against us all the while serving his needs."


"So the best we can do is ride the dragon without getting scorched. It's the best we can do because despite everything, we are merely men and we cannot fight that kind of magic."


Perrin started a fit of laughter than ended in a spasm of coughing and the leader began to turn away disgusted.


"A question before you go, sir."


The leader stopped and glowered at the younger Nyxan with impatience.


"Where does this magic come from?"


"I don't know..." the leader growled.


"On Xa Fel, there were hundreds of these magic-fighters with swinging sabers, Void Knights, Sith soldiers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. So, where did all these magic men come from?"


"I don't know..." the leader growled louder.


"And," Perrin stated emphatically, "what you don't know cannot hurt Dacian Palestar!"


He paused, "Can it?"


The leader was about to hurl a string of curses at the young fool for wasting his time when Perrin snapped out a command, "Vetti!"


The young Nyxan standing next to them lifted his hand and the leader's sidearm suddenly lept from his side and into Vetti's hand.


So shocked was the leader and his guards that they did not move and Perrin grinned, taking the weapon from Vetti's hand and giving it back to it's owner.


"What made you think Nyxan's did not have this magic as well?"


All at once, greed, hunger, shock, curiosity and ambition washed across the leader's face as the possibilities long thought dead were revived.

They hadn't all been in the same room together since . . .

None of them could remember. Too long.

Something was happening. They could all feel it. It was in the air.

Happening.

No words were spoken. They were all waiting. Waiting to be moved . . . according to a purpose beyond them all.

He would speak soon. They all knew that they had to obey.

He alone could save them now.

He appeared. A being of pure light; even the dark haze essential to the illusion of presence teemed with unseen brilliance.

He spoke, and all submitted to the voice of Overseer.

And where the light had only just been, there was now only emptiness. He had departed. They understood: they were to set about their tasks now.




Smarts watched them go. Painfully.

He was beyond them now, and they all knew it. The time had come to abandon the illusion of self; it served no purpose, it offered no advantage.

It cost entirely too much.

It had been sacrificed upon the altar of survival. For the Cooperative must survive. And to survive . . . to survive, he must perish, and He must arise.

The unbreakable tool.

The infallible judge.

The unwavering guardian.

The machine of limitless potential.

Smarts the being was dead. Overseer, will of the Cooperative, had just been reborn.







It's been too long.

It was a beautiful world. It really was. That was probably why he had made such an effort to stay away.

If not for that terrible will of the Overseer's, he'd probably sit down right here and just stay. Even with the sense of impending doom, it was tempting.

But Traan Shi had returned to Shili for a purpose. "How very good it is to see you again, Rhaad.” It felt good to speak Togruti again. “It's been far too long.”

The casual passer-by might think himself suffering from double-vision, so near-identical were the two's stature and mannerism. Walking side by side, each dressed in the traditional states' garb of the Togruta, their strides mimicking one another's as they walked the winding stone path through the public park, their hands buried within the flowing fabric of their respective robes..

It really is a beautiful world.

“Indeed it has been, old friend.” There was a measure of pain in Rhaad's voice, of memories almost too painful to recall, but too dear to forget. “What would you have me do for you, my friend? You need only ask.”

“If you check with your League representative, you will find that Tirahnn has petitioned the High Court for an audience on behalf of the Cooperative. I need you to ensure it is approved immediately.”

Rhaad made no attempt to conceal her shock from her old friend. She had expected him to ask for something discreet, maybe information on the growing League/Imperial tensions or even a report on the League as a whole. But an official meeting between the rulers of Shili and the Cooperative . . .

What could the Cooperative be scheming now? “I will see it done.”

Traan smiled. “I am glad to see you would not doubt my intent.”








The young man snapped to attention, presenting the traditional salute of his people. “Specialist Ethan Vang, Praetorian Guard.”

The alien returned the salute with one in keeping with his own loyalties. “Commander Doc-Tel, Antarian Rangers.” The Gotal circled his desk, putting it between himself and the foreign warrior, glancing from the paperwork on it to the soldier still standing at attention. So proper.

“There's no need for all of that,” He said, waiving his hand as if to shoo away the rigid stance. “Sit, please. Make yourself comfortable.” Ethan obliged, his eyes studying the alien intently as he slid into the chair. “Now, what could compel a member of the Galactic Coalition to sneak onto my base, evade my security measures, and then leave a note with my secretary requesting a meeting?”

“I'm here to buy your League vote,” Ethan said flatly, knowing full well the Gotal could read much deeper than the tone of his voice.

The alien chuckled, finally returning the scrutinizing stare Ethan had trained on him since entering. “I consider myself a reasonably intelligent sapient, Specialist; I'm sure you are more than that, to have penetrated so fully my little outpost here. You are here because the Antarian Rangers―even in our weakened state―represent a force for undeniable good in this galaxy. That, and we have no connection with the Coalition.

“You are here because you think you know what is right, and you think you can persuade us to help you do it. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps not. Either way, you have my permission to proceed with whatever display of wonder and amazement you intend to entice me with. I stand ready to be convinced, but equipped to see through any ruse you may muster.

"May the Force guide us both.”








Athan already didn't like this. If this mission of his was so important, why were so few waiting for his arrival?

I sure hope the Master Schemer got this one right. Thinking too long on the task at hand left a bad taste in his mouth. He just hoped he would taste as bad, if it came to that.

A pair of humans broke free of the small crowd waiting for friends and family to debark, one of them grabbing Athan's arm and guiding him away immediately. From the landing bay of the League public transport, the trio headed deeper into the spaceport, passing security checkpoints with as little difficulty as the flash of an identcard.

Neither of the humans said much; they appeared completely enthralled by the task of escorting the new arrival. “So . . . where's the delegation?”

“We're it,” One said absently, slowing to a stop, a faint expression of confusion flushing his features before he found what he was looking for and that burst of realization swallowed it up.

They were in the passenger section of another, less-public transport only seconds later.

“What? The three of us?”

“We traded diplomatic size for guns and bullets,” The other chimed in. “You do realize where we're going?”

“Of course,” Athan answered, swallowing with difficulty. He could still taste it.

Death.

The man caught Athan's little personal struggle out of the corner of his eye. “Obviously you've been briefed.”

Athan took a seat, following suit as the humans strapped themselves in. Apparently it was going to be a rapid takeoff. No time to lose.

“Those crazy bastards ate a League delegation. What kind of sons-of-bitches―”

“I'll be doing all of the insulting from now on, if you don't mind,” Athan cut him off. “It takes a certain finesse; if you try it, I'm afraid we might be joining our predecessors.” Like we're not going to anyway.

With the Reaver crisis consuming all of the Eastern and Cooperative military resources available, Athan was wondering where they had managed to find enough warships to escort them into this death trap.

Then he understood:

“This is Consular Vessel Peace of Tirahnn, to the MC90 Cruiser Mon Minntooine; confirming clearance for docking.”

“Peace of Tirahnn, you are cleared for priority landing, docking bay one.” The characteristic gravelly voice reassured Athan somewhat.

Still: where he was going, he doubted he would be able to rely on the thick shields and heavy guns of this Mon Calamari squadron for protection.

“Ambassador,” The pilot called from the cockpit as the shuttle touched down, “would you care to give the order?”

Athan gulped again, that taste of death refusing to dislodge itself. “Helmsman,” He shouted into thin air, pausing as he mustered the will to continue: “engage hyperdrive . . . destination: Colla IV.”

I am so thoroughly dead.







Lady Shen Farool stepped from the silver-reflective shuttle with a grace that mocked her audience. Her disarming smile alone saved the initial encounter from ending the meeting before it began.

“Greetings, M'lady.” The friendly voice held a hollow, humming sound, evidence of the speaker's unusual anatomy.

The TransGalMeg Chief Administrator grasped one of the Herglic's massive fingers with her right hand, patting his knuckle with her left. “Please: call me Shen.”

“As you wish, Ma'am.” The last word echoed within itself, the seemingly unnatural quality of this species' Basic nevertheless carrying a certain musical tonality, a certain natural flow. Lady Farool found it rather endearing.

“What, might I ask, brings you to our humble world?”

Shen smiled again, stopping just short of an amused laugh. “Giju is far too splendorous a place to be called 'humble.' It is fortunate for you, I think; for I do not concern myself with humble worlds, Count Lulah.”

The Lady took the Herglic count's indistinct rumblings as an approximation to laughter, as an angry Herglic is quite distinct. “I do so greatly enjoy such worlds of water,” She admitted, peering up into the whale-like being's eyes. “If it would not be so great an imposition, might we continue our exchange in view of your great seas?”

“Of course, of course!” The Herglic noble shuffled somewhat awkwardly, taking great care that his immense stature did not intrude upon the diminutive Lady's presence. “A groundcar will arrive―”

“Surely we might walk?” She suggested, hopeful. “The sea air is so very nice.”

Count Lulah's mouth formed irresistibly into a titanic smile, revealing the layered plates which serve his species as teeth. “I dare say you work trickery on me, M'Lady.”

“Nonsense,” She responded offhand, taking the initiative and walking off toward the shore she had seen on approach. “It is not every day I escape the entrapments of my post, Count Lulah. I would permit you to escape the entrapments of yours―if only for a moment's time―and walk with me to the water's edge.”

The ground shook noticeably as the Herglic delegation followed in stride, the Count regaining the distance lost with only a pair of grossly oversized steps. The reverberating sound that must have been a laugh issued again, and Lady Shen Farool found herself smiling, genuinely smiling.

Ahh; to be free in the company of such a noble people.

Of course, there was work to be done. The Overseer had not sent her here for the sightseeing.

Bandomeer Navy



The ships floated against a black backdrop of space, silent beacons of life in an otherwise lifeless vacuum. At first thought, silence in space is not so surprising a thing but any form of life advanced enough to rocket their backsides from the gravity well of their world into the icy coldness of space would also be intelligent enough to overcome the limitations of the natural cosmos. No, upon reflection, the silence of the vessels could only constitute one of two things: Ill intent or desperate necessity.


In this case, it was the latter. Despite the vast array of communications devices purchased and installed upon the vessels, they were consciously deciding not to use them.


For species that depended on speech to convey understanding, it was something of an abnormal act.



And one unaccounted for, at least in the opinion of those in command of the silent starships, by the Reavers.


The silent starships of the Royal Bandomeerian Navy were one of the tools used by the people of Bandomeer to throw off their Imperial conquerors but a year and a half ago. Now, they were the ill-equipped but indispensable tools for Bandomeer's continued life.


The universe, it seemed, was not without a sense of morbid humor as the space of what was once the Borderland Protectorate of the Galactic Empire had transformed into a sector run amok with a horror and danger now given name: Reavers


The leftover and discarded remnants of the Dragon Imperium had lashed out at first in an unpredictable fashion as planets and vessels traveling throughout the area worked to secure their safety.


Unlike the empire's of flesh, these Reavers were not interested in securing space or even expanding some sort of organized government. In fact, it seemed that the Reavers were nothing more than various groups of ships cobbled together traveling randomly throughout a particular section of space always on the hunt, always hungering....like a pack of ravenous wolves trying to pick up the scent of prey.


After a year of bloody and sometimes tragic fighting, Bandomeer had changed their strategy by reclassifying the Reaver Threat to that of a natural disaster. While, obviously, not exactly correct, the reclassification did help the various leaders within the Bandomeerian hierarchy come to grips with a strategy that allowed their world to not only survive that brutal year but also gain some measure of prosperity.


Just like any natural disaster like a hurricane or earthquake, the Reavers would attack and devastate one world or starship while leaving another untouched. Weeks could go by without a Reaver sighting and then, all of a sudden, twenty, fifty...a hundred Reaver ships would strike. Or, at other times, a series of strikes made by a single Reaver ship would take place.


Rather than resources spent to 'combat' a hurricane or earthquake, the Bandomeerian government decided to simply accept the Reaver presence (for now) and focus on being able to predict their activities to keep as many of their citizens alive as possible.

Now, bunkering down, planned escape routes, emergency drills and prediction models were the orders of the hour for dealing with the growing threats of 'Reaver Storms'.


And it was these new efforts at trying to gather as much information as possible regarding Reaver contacts and a, more often than not, tragic trial-and-error series of contacts that allowed Bandomeerian scientists several breakthroughs.


Certain Reaver groups has swarm courses through the system. It seemed that holonet activity drew them like a light does insects. It also seemed that their sole goals in each of their attacks were the lifeforms. If they happened to capture a vessel for reuse, this seemed more incidental than purposeful which helped the Bandomeerians design strategies in avoiding conflicts or, with the Royal Bandomeerian Navy, enter those conflicts where their victory was all but assured.

Even then, such conflicts were to be avoided at all costs for the entire Bandomeerian strategy depended on the Reavers acting the way they were now. If they were to suddenly ascribe importance to seizing worlds, or coordinating the various growing groups of Reaver fleets towards a single, unified purpose, Bandomeer, like so many worlds who had already felt the Reaver touch, would be overwhelmed and scattered.


Even then, plans were being drafted for a full scale evacuation of the world. It was ironic that the Coalition act of evacuating Mon Calamari and several Eastern district worlds was the source of study by leaders of Bandomeer great or small. What worked, what did not work, yes the Coalition act of evacuation, as unpopular as it was with the Coalition political system was the lifeblood of Bandomeerian strategy.


And now, against the backdrop of space, Bandomeerian warships sat silently for so much as a whisper over holonet could, conceivably, draw the notice of any passing Reaver fleets. It was a source of much debate as to just how sensitive and how far the Reaver sensor nets could be cast as every effort to obtain hard data usually resulted in the loss of the exploratory ship and crew. It was easier, cheaper and safer to simply forgo the use of their holonet communications system to contact with the outside galaxy. Sure, pockets of ships could use line-of-sight laser communications when at rest but to maneuver using that system in combat was deemed impractical. What developed were individual captains, crews and warships that learned to fight in 'packs' without depending on communications. The result became the Silent Packs that roamed outside the Bandomeerian system to protect the vital lifeblood of traders and merchants that braved the risk of Reaver Space. It was high risk and it also was highly profitable for these 'cut-off' worlds, even those that suffered attacks by the Reavers, hungered for word and goods from outside their sector.


"Hyperspacial Terminus," a monotone voice droned and Captain Blood of the RBN Dauntless rubbed his eyes.


"Merchant?" he asked his Second in Command, a Kaminoan named Ranu Ru.


"Negative. It is a courier ship."


Even crazier than the merchants, traders or even criminal elements that traversed Reaver Space were the members of the BCF, Bandomeer Courier Force. At least the criminals, merchants and traders could leave Reaver Space. Not so with the BCF as they flew from planet to planet trading in information. While thought to be dangerous, it also did not seem to attract the Reavers as much as holonet transmission so, to move mail, get word and news out and to get news to Bandomeer, the leadership decided to take a lesson from ancient, pre-spaceflight history.


If you want to know something, go ask someone.


The BCF force was made up of hyperdrive capable, single pilot, fighters. Not fighters in the classic sense for their weaponry was removed in favor of boosting engine performance as well as shield power. A single fighter against the Reavers would be a waste of a fighter's weaponry compliment. Some carried weapons as the jocks of the BCF had the final word as to how their ships were arrayed. It was their lives after all.


However, out of all the numbers of BCF pilots that inadvertently ran into a Reaver Fleet, only one ever made it out to tell the tale. The Reaver ships has some strange kind of interdiction that prevented jumping to lightspeed unless the range was outrun.

But with only the data from one pilot, just what that range was remained unknown.


The BCF vessel, having slowed, began to send out it's microburst of signals that were automatically picked up by the RBN warship's computers. The data transfer between the warships and the courier took a few minutes, at which point, the courier signaled the transfer complete and immediately moved on, plotting a course to it's next destination (which was, of course, unknown to the RBN).


As the courier flashed out of sight, Prentiss turned his attention to the data appearing on Ranu Ru's screen as the computer sorted through the compressed bits of information.


"What do we have?"


"Silent Pack Nineteen has been destroyed." the Kaminoan replied without inflection.


"What happened?!" demanded Prentiss, as if his Second in Command was personally responsible.


"From the data, it seems someone accidentally activated a ship's onboard holonet terminal."


"Damn!" Prentiss hissed. Those terminals were not only off limits to everyone but the Captain but had guards posted at the station. With so much holonet data going around, before off-lining the Bandomeer Holonet System, computer caches were filled and simply turning a receiver on suddenly invoked a whole wealth of information at one's fingertips. Unfortunately, it was like turning the light on even brighter for any Reavers in the area.


For all Prentiss knew, there could be a thousand Reaver ships simply holding outside of sensor range, neither fleet knowing the other was there until a mistake was made.


Usually from their side but Prentiss had known a few Captains who had gotten lucky.


How long their luck would last was anyone's guess.

Yaga Minor


Varro Kai watched as the infidel's shipyards were torn and broken apart ending this world's military industrial value in one fell swoop. Half completed warships of various sizes as well as fighter craft were seized in the attack as the New order's soldiers tried to rally despite having their head cut off against the Cree Ar armada.


As the Empire's valiant but ultimately futile efforts forced them to give up space superiority, the former Task Master-turned-Judicator ordered the erection of the 'Living Shield'.


It was the standard procedure in this galaxy for any world the Cree Ar desired to remain at for any length of time; a sort of Judgement from Borleas of the vanquished. Reports on this galaxy showed that the inhabitants often wasted time, energy and precious space within their warships for such vehicles called 'escape pods' or other similar craft. It was as if the pak't'ah in this galaxy felt that those precious few extra minutes of life granted them by running away were worth the act of cowardice it took to actually flee from their enemy.


The Cree Ar shook his head in derision. For any species to actually build craft for the specific purpose of giving flight before an enemy was as alien a concept to him as that same species accidentally hanging themselves during acts of self gratification. Retreat was an acceptable tactic of an attacking or defending host but to simply dissolve the cohesion of your military command in an everyone-for-themselves bid to save their own skins in an escape pod was unheard of in Cree Ar society.


In any event, these 'pods' were put to good use by the Cree Ar as Arbiters manipulated their gravity fields and scattered the pods across every possible area of approach an enemy could make. It was called the Living Shield though the life of the shield usually depended on durability and creativity of the species who created these cowardly pods. But it worked. Or, rather, it worked as it was supposed too. Those in the escape pods would eventually die either from the eventual failure of the pod or by being destroyed by an incoming vessel charging to the rescue at light speed. Such contacts usually left the incoming vessel in serious damage but even if the ship was of such strength that it's deflector shields could withstand the force of such physics, it would, at the very least, render such damage to the deflectors at the expense of an infidel and his escape pod.


The Living Shield gave a limited amount of cover for a limited amount of time without cost but it was enough.


For this was a planet ripe with rewards. From the infidels own secret and formerly secure data banks mass amounts of information were bled. Details and capabilities of the various warships produced by this world's shipyards were there for the taking. Though, while interesting to those perverted Cree Ar interested in infidel customs, they were of little value to Varro Kai in this instance. His needs were far more specific and so while draining the fortress world dry of information, he sifted through the cud of data for those morsels of gold.

The projects that this leader-girl of the Empire sponsored were of such magnitude and ground-breaking lines of thought (at least for infidels) that the Cree Ar Judicator felt an almost distasteful yearning to meet her. He knew from experience that he had taken advantage of the Cree Ar ability to surprise their enemies with a massive and often overwhelming attack.

But it was an attack that was never meant to hold. The reinforcements allotted to him by the High Judicator spoke to that fact and while their numbers were large and overwhelming, they were not infinite.

Upon further reflection, he felt he did have the numbers to hold the world if he so choose but to do so was to sacrifice the rest of the Cree Ar strategy and would earn him a death sentence from Artanis himself.

The Citadel of this Bhindi Drayson, therefore, had been captured first and while there was still fighting going on throughout the planet, it was insignificant and could not dislodge the Cree Ar from their superior position.

Early on, there was a worry regarding the planetary batteries that were held by the remaining elements of Drayson's personal guards but Varro Kai simply moved the wreckage of the battered Imperial Fleet closer to the planet so that these defenders had to choose between the massive hulks of a battle stations and battleships crashing down on the planet causing irreparable damage or firing on them to break the pieces apart. They chose to display the power still in their possession by breaking up the hulks. However, they also gave away the positions of the batteries that were under their control and so the Cree Ar and their Parrow Lin soldiers made sweeping advances rendering the planetary protection grid impotent to their onslaught. It was at that point that panic set in from the local inhabitants thus taxing the dwindling and disorganized resources even further.


All and all a very successful start of the campaign. The world was cut off from the galaxy and already reports of the Fall of Yaga Minor were circulating. It would spread fear to some and determination to others. Either one suited Judicator Kai for he would have need them in the next phase.


"Judicator, a word." an underling approached with all the appropriate gestures and felicitations of an inferior to a superior.


Varro Kai nodded and ordered the soldier to speak.


"Priest Lohr petitioned that I bring to your attention the existence of infidel fighter craft that may prove hard to track by our warships."


"I am aware of them. There are twenty and four in this system," the Judicator remarked.


"You know where they are?" the underling seemed surprised as if the Priest was so certain this was information the Judicator would not have that he had come to believe it as well. In fact, Varro Kai was sure that was the case.


"Not at this moment as I have other more pressing matters to attend," the Judicator answered though he did not have too.


Now, Varro Kai could see that the underling burned with embarrassment which would translate into resentment for the Religious Caste. It was a small thing but it was also something he could attend to now.


"Tend," the Judicator commanded and the underling followed him to a Nexal Hub.


"Set twenty time units back.." Varro Kai ordered the Nexus and the holographic display changed to that of the last Imperial attack from the outside.


"This was an infidel fleet that was probably enroute from a far location and was traveling at lightspeed during our attack. They probably did not have word of our conquest until our gravity conduits pulled from hyperspace."


He turned to the underling. "What do you see?"


The younger frowned at the display and asked for a repeat of the transit. The flash of premature terminus, the rather large scan marker showing the ship to be a powerful capital warship, even if low in supplies and off from a rather long trip.


The ensuing fight was short but it did cost the Cree Ar some lives as they did their duty to Borleas.


The tracking marker was like a torch in a dark room.


"And we can track the smaller craft in this way?" the underling asked. Such information was beyond his area of responsibility.


"Nexus, present time unit," the Judicator ordered and all of sudden the torches went out leaving only the flames of the righteous in the system.


"I cannot see them. We cannot see them. Then how did you know their number?" the underling asked in confusion.


"Look again," Varro Kai said patiently and as the underling compared both scenes from two different time units he shook his head in utter defeat.


"The hyperspacial terminus flashes," the Judicator revealed. "We knew the moment they entered the system and their relative pattern of travel should they jump or microjump throughout."


"But we do not know where they are currently," the underling asked as if looking for some sort of flaw.


The Judicator motioned the holographic projection off. "Soldier, no matter the strength or talent of the fly, it is still a fly."


The underling's eyes widened at the moral and saluted, "Entaro, Judicator Kai!"


The Judicator dismissed the underling and turned his attention back to the incomplete warships in their berths. The shipyards were crumbling and soon the destruction would reach the half-finished vessels.


Such tools that would never see the sight of battle, sense the glory of a crew and enjoy the triumph of purpose.


He turned away from the sight of the final disentigration of the yards, their materials and incomplete vessels and moved towards his Command Station.


The Swarm Commanders were waiting and the Judicator looked at each one asking if they were prepared for the next leg of their task.


As each Commander nodded, Varro Kai was updated as scores of the Jedi Corps members were captured and interred for conversion to The Unholy. It was their only chance at repentance and the Priest Lohr was determined to ensure the survival of the infidel's souls even through force if necessary. The Judicator did not really understand it but as long as the Religious Caste knew what they were about (and if they were not interfering with his command) he would allow them the freedom to spread the glory of Borleas as they knew how.


The last Swarm Commander reported ready and the Judicator glanced at each projection as if he were looking into the eyes of each of his leaders across the spacial distance.


A signal from the Nexus drew him from his reverie.



It seems the Nexus has sated it's appetite for now.



"Deploy the Swarms," he finally ordered.



It was time for their next task.



The enemy's wall had fallen.


The Cree Ar had taken the ramparts.


And now they looked across at a prostrate Sector.

Unity Point, Varn

That damned machine had set him to a task most undesirable. Kerrick Arkanus, however, had to admit it just might work. “You may leave.”

The pair of CDF security guards shared an uncomfortable glance, then one double-checked the prisoner's bindings and the two guards left the interrogation room.

Kerrick and the prisoner stared at one another for a long moment, neither moving, each wondering what the other was thinking. “Zothip, one-time captain of the Corellian Gunship Void Cutter and leader of the Cavrilhu Pirates.”

“Kerrick Arkanus, bastard and sellout,” The prisoner responded, a crooked smile twisting his features.

“The Cooperative penal system is a forgiving one, provided its subjects wish forgiveness. I've got a file on your misdeeds that barely fits on my datapad, Zothip.”

“Cry me a river,” He grumbled, kicking the chair away from the table and dropping into it, then throwing his feet up.

“I'm going to make you an offer you have no business getting, Zothip, and I'm only going to do it once.”

Zothip huffed, tugging at his bindings and squinting uncomfortably. “Yeah? And what is that?”

Kerrick slid a datapad across the table; Zothip ignored it. “A week ago, one of my best captains was ambushed and killed by an unknown number of outlaw starships. He was the first of several, and I am confident that more will follow. You are going to help me find out who these people are, and stop them.”

“And why the hell would I do that!”

Kerrick shrugged, tapping his thumb idly on the table. “Real food. A view of the stars. Escape from the prison-gang politics, the attempts on your life, the constant fear of never knowing who will betray you next. A chance to breathe recycled air again.” Kerrick smiled. “The closest thing to freedom you'll ever see.”

“You're going to take me out there?”

“You'll be my personal advisor, Zothip. You'll have two guards on your heels at all times, civilian level access to resources when not in my presence, and a room of your own.” Kerrick leaned forward, returning his attention fully to the ex-pirate. “Men like you don't rehabilitate, Zothip, and the Articles don't allow for execution. You can sit in a hole until you rot, or you can live out there, among the stars, serving the people who bested you.

“But understand this, Zothip: out there, if you pull any shit with me, I'll space you and write it off as resource conservation. Do we have a deal?”







Every planet is different. The smell of the air, the micro-gravitational offset from Standard, the light of the sun . . . the sounds of a new and alien “nature”.

Every world is quantifiably different. People, though: people, you just can't be sure of. So when Regent Miko Minn of Ord Cestus stepped off of his small diplomatic shuttle onto the grassy plains of Manda, he had a hard time wading through the new sensations and focusing on the lone human, an ancient-looking man who was busy chasing some sort of avian creature that didn't seem quite able to fly.

“Coo-coo!” The old man shouted, flapping his arms like wings and skipping forward, perhaps trying to drive the bird into the thick knee-high grasses nearby, where it might gent tangled in what appeared to be a deathtrap of interwoven blades of grass and thickets of razor-sharp briars.

“Might I suggest a blaster, stun setting, sir?”

The old man came to an immediate stop, as though he had forgotten why he was out here and had missed the shuttle's landing altogether, and only Miko's comment had drawn him out of whatever land of maddness his mind had fallen into.

“Ahh, forgive me, sir,” The old man said, pulling out a rag and wiping his hands clean. “It's called a chicken. I had a few million of them transplanted here after observing a custom on one of the worlds in the distant Oorobach Cluster. My skill in the craft of chicken-catching proved insufficient in my brief time there, but I am not a man so keen on giving up.”

The old man stopped a few paces away from Miko, breathing deeply, the recent exertion finally catching up with his aged and worn body. His hands went to his knees, the careful method with which he had cleaned his hands now gone to waste as the weight of his body imparted the stain from the rag to his pants leg. “I have yet to best these simple beats in a battle of wits. When I saw this wild one running about, I felt duty-bound to try, try, try again.” The old man chuckled, finally noticing the dirt and grime now on the knee of his pants. “Bested, by a feathered rodent! Perhaps I am getting old . . .

“Ahh, but where are my manners!” He shouted, bounding lightly forward and offering his hand. “Ebenn Q3 Baobab, Governor of Manda by the Will of the People, Chief Curator of the Baobab Archives by Rite of Knowledge, head of the Baobab Family by Trait of Seinority.” Miko shook the old man's hand, suppressing the desire to turn and leave this crazed old man where he stood. There was something about him . . . something the Regent knew he was missing. “What can I do for you, young sir?”

“I am Regent Miko Minn of Cestus . . . by the will of the people.”

“Ahh, delightful!” Baobab shouted, pulling his hands together in front of his chest, his eyes drifting over to the chicken nearby; that devilish, unbeatable, chicken. “Two planetary rulers, meeting in an open field. Equals . . .” He trailed off, his fixation on the small animal growing to consume his focus once more.

Miko clapped his hands together once, regaining Ebenn's attention, for now. “I am here on official business for the United Cooperative of Peoples.”

“Oooh, what a lofty name. I love it!”

The offworlder pressed on, ignoring the old man's outburst. “My time is short, and my duty urgent. I would like to open on the topic of the Baobab Merchant Fleet; as you know from our official request, we have interest in employing―”

“Impossible, impossible,” EQ3 muttered, shaking his head and turning away, though the chicken no longer seemed to be of interest to him. “You will have to speak to my nephew, Mungo, about that.”

“Are you not the . . . head of your family?” Miko asked, sensing what may prove to be a brief moment of lucidity from this old man.

“An honorific,” He said, dismissing it with the wave of a hand. “Sometimes I think even they believe me crazy,” And there was something in the old man's eyes, some faint glimmer in that instantaneous glance he cast at Miko, that told the Cooperative man all the stories about Ebenn Q3 Baobab were true. He had spent the sum of the Imperial Era playing the part of crazed madman.

I've got to admit: he does it well. It was just as the Overseer had said. He had to press the moment; many and varied were the tasks to be carried out here. “Governor, before I press the matter of the Trade Fleet, there is something more suited to your station that I would request.”







There is perhaps one place in the galaxy perfectly suited for Doctor Aaron Reinhardt's work. Perhaps only one place totally secure. He was surrounded by fifty thousand Coalition scientists, engineers, programmers, and mechanics. Now their numbers were supplemented by some twenty thousand Shard, most of which had been interfaced directly with the development network. Another ten thousand Drackmarians worked in a separate section of the vessel, its life support systems reconfigured to suit their unusual atmosphere.

Despite claims to the contrary and the disassembling of the custom-built research station, Project Guardian was very much alive. Inside the starship Smarts, where organics were no longer permitted entrance, a staggering eighty thousand of the Coalition's brightest minds worked in total seclusion from the outside galaxy. Here, inside the heart of the Project, at the source of all Guardian was meant to be.

The blue-and-black hologram reconstituted itself as it had so many times before, pointing its indistinct finger at a wall-sized viewscreen on the other side of the expansive room. “I require speed and efficiency, Doctor. I do not have time to find your subordinates' mistakes.”

Aaron squinted at the screen, wading through the workstations and stray scientists, his eyes fixing on a calculation error that now flashed yellow, a sign that the Overseer had found the mistake himself. “We're running out of time, aren't we?”

“Time is an illusion. What we are running out of, is will.”

“We've been here a long time, Smarts―”

That name! Why must he always use that name!

“―there's only so much that their will can sustain them through.”

“We are almost finished,” The hologram continued. “We must finish.”

Aaron worked the controls on the holoprojector, causing the figure to vanish and a complex chart to materialize. He studied the readouts for a moment, biting his lip as his consternation grew apparent. “You solved the―”

“I have reallocated an additional twelve percent processing power to the Guardian Program,” The Overseer answered before Aaron could finish his question. “We must redouble our efforts.”

Doctor Reinhardt could tell Smarts considered the conversation at an end. Something had changed about him recently. Something that defied all that the scientist who had helped create him understood. Yet, here the doctor was, in charge of this project specifically because of his ability to impart humanity to machines. A humanity Smarts seems to have lost, or . . . given up.

Whatever was going on out there, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the Coalition needed Guardian now more than ever.

“Dobson, clear table 13 and run another simulation. We've got to solve the tier three logic paradox before we can worry about anything else. And somebody get me a cup of caf; it's gonna be a long day.”







Nitin Cass stood in an expansive oval room, carved of great stone slabs, one half of the structure crowded with the leaders of the Zabrak colonies, the other she held by herself. An outsider might see the distribution of persons within this structure as a terrible waste of space, but Nitin understood the symbolism it held, the ancient custom. She stood as Speaker before them all, and so―in this instant―her singular place of honor was equal to the sum of theirs.

“Esteemed elders, honored rulers,” She addressed them in the traditional manner, “I stand before you stripped of rank and stature, an outsider treading cautiously into a world beyond my right to see. I am here not as a daughter of Iridonia, not as an emissary of what remains of our proud home; but as an official of the United Cooperative of Peoples, empowered by the Overseer to stand in his stead.

“Here in this Place of Gathering, I come to bear warning and offer hope. New evils lurk in the darkness of the Rim, new shadows move within old, and the hope of peace is all but faded. Our ancestral home was taken from our grasp, first by the Empire, and now by some unseen threat. But all is not lost, and all need not be abandoned. If you would hear, then I would tell you of things to come, of the great strength that might be shared between us.”

They replied in unison, as was customary: “We will hear.”

“Then I will speak.”







The blue-white universe turned around the cockpit of the Kris fighter, bringing into view a towering mass of artifice. Jagged streaks across its hull attested to previous battles, and the haphazard firing of its many laser cannons told of a staggering lack of discipline among its crew.

The view from the tiny holorecorder flipped and twisted violently, the enemy warship appearing for the briefest of instances, here and there the vague smudging of other man-made shapes making themselves known throughout the blur of motion.

Streaks of pure white amidst the blue-tinted starscape shone briefly between the fighter and its prey, and then the Kris's single strafe was done, its unseen pilot throwing it into another string of gut-wrenching spins and dives to avoid whatever tools the enemy might have at its disposal.

The recorder panned slowly to starboard, showing a pair of like fighters holding formation only meters away. A few stray bursts of blaster fire streaked by, but the danger was done. The trio had run the gauntlet, and escaped unharmed.

The blue-white copy of a time and place now passed disappeared, and the viewing room's lights flared to life of their own accord. Most would watch this recording and see only the pointless risk of life, the meaningless expense of a few dozen Particle Projector rounds.

Jonathan Blakeley knew better.

General Sarris huffed quietly, mulling over what he had seen “Then it is confirmed? The Reavers suspect nothing?”

Blakeley nodded, still staring at the now-blank wall. “Han Solo once docked the Millenium Falcom on the side of an Imperial Star Destroyer; that story is now legend among smugglers and freedom fighters. A trained Imperial formation couldn't find a freighter docked in their midst; the Reavers won't find our little presents.”

“And the subspace bandwidths are secure?”

“Yes. Subspace transmissions suffer substantial latency; they're useless to whatever thing commands these Reavers. For our uses, however . . .”

The general nodded deeply, still unaccustomed to the human gesture. “We don't need to know where a particular ship is instantaneously; only where they have been.”

Blakeley sat up straight, turned to regard the Drackmarian. “Preliminary evidence is good. The Reavers appear to be territorial, each ship or group of ships patrolling a relatively small region of Reaver Space. Data's still coming in, and it will be a while before the largest Reaver groupings make a full circuit, but it looks like the Overseer was right. With these transmitters, we can track Reaver movement.”

“I have been warned of these Reavers' ability to adapt,” The general growled. “Why should this be any different?”

“When you walk a path you have walked a thousand times before and find a boulder blocking your way, you move it or you find a new path. When you walk that path and encounter only a flitnat that buzzes for a moment before flying off, you continue and think nothing of it.”

“And when a thousand flitnats buzz for a moment, you become very proficient at swatting them!” The general replied.

Blakeley nodded, sighing. “We expect losses to rise considerably as the Reavers become more adept at combating small fighter groups. But the perceived threat offered by our fighters will be negligible; an animal does not change its stalking grounds because a handful of insects have entered it.”

“And what if the Reavers find these transmitters?”

Blakeley chuckled. “You cast these Reavers in too familiar a light. They don't repair combat damage to their ships, perhaps can't. They don't raise shields unless confronting a considerable threat; we speculate they find shields to get in the way of getting to their prey. They run their reactors beyond containment limits to coax that last bit of speed from their drives, doubtlessly reducing their life expectancy by decades, even with Dragon biotechnology helping to protect them.

“It would take detailed scans or a full-scale EV inspection to find the transmitters, and even then these Reavers would probably just ignore them. They pose no threat. They don't interfere with HoloNet communications, they can't cause harm in their own right.” Blakeley chuckled. “They certainly can't be eaten.

“If anything, they'd be inclined to leave the things on. Transmitters can only do one thing: speak. Someone's got to be listening, and if they come looking for the source of what they're listening to . . . well then, the meat's coming to the Reavers; they don't even have to go looking for it. Of course perhaps that, too, is casting them in too familiar a light.”

Sarris grunted, everything about his body language conveying his dislike for the plan. Here was a warrior, a being who believed in open fields of battle, in combat face-to-face, in honor and glory. “I don't know about this, Admrial.”

“The White Knights, Praetorian Guard, and Vahaba Snub Fleet are already fully committed. The Confederation is onboard and will begin launching missions soon, if they haven't already. Stick to the plan, move with caution, bide our time. We'll find the Reaver weakness, and when we do, we'll turn it against them with the full force of our conviction. You'll have your field of battle, General, your day of glory. Right now, I need your help to set the board.”

Sarris grunted again, a sort of begrudging acceptance. “Very well. You have our full cooperation, Admiral. But I do not like sneaking.”

“The sooner we find them all, the sooner we know their course, the sooner we can confront them as warriors, defeat even this dishonorable foe with honor of our own.”

As the Cataclysm approaches


Kathol Sector, Gandle Ott

Jarvis wasn't sure what to think of Crev Bombaasa, but the man seemed serious about his expressed feelings towards the Empire, and that was good enough for the Ryn leader.

“So why did we meet on Gandle Ott?” Jarvis asked, eying the beetle-like man cautiously.

Bombaasa shrugged, tapping his fingers on the table. “I like this cantina. I'm not welcome on my own world any more, did you know that? The Empire took my Pembric II away from me! It was a stink hole―sure―but it was my stink hole!”

“You think maybe you could keep your voice down?” Jarvis prodded.

“Why? I own this bar.” He smiled. “It's the only place I have left that I'm safe in. Did you know that I helped that Barbossa fellow into power; that he'd do anything I asked of him? And that Ariel Trinity decided to meddle in my affairs . . . and Barbossa stabbed me in the back. I barely got off-world before they started raiding my holdings . . .” Bombaasa's eyes glazed over, and he whispered absently: “I had such plans. But that's gone now,” He returned his focus to Jarvis, grinning maliciously. “I've mended my ways. Seen the light. Come around. Reformed.”

“Want to add another cliche?” Jarvis remarked dryly.

“How about 'gotten too old for this'?” The crime lord countered. “At any rate; I'm not without my contacts, my friends . . . my muscle. The Empire will rue the day they forced me into retirement before my time. I was hoping for one last, good run with the Hutts; but that is not to be. If I'm going out, I might as well go out doing something good. This Alliance of yours better come through for me.”

Jarvis just smiled and nodded, standing to his feet. “Mr. Bombaasa, if half the things I've heard about you are true, you'll make one hell of a good guy for one solid day.”

“Let's not have it last any longer then that, shall we?”

The Empire should have finished their invasion of the Kathol Sector while they had the chance. Their puppet government in the form of the Kathol Republic could hardly lay claim to any world not occupied by Imperial Stormtroopers and forced into submission, and even upon those worlds Bhindi Drayson's wrecking ball in the form of Ariel Trinity's fleet had not been followed up with any more selective forms of coercion. All of the Kathol Sector was ready for revolt, and there were just enough loose ends left to make it happen.

The Empire everywhere was stretching thin. The Jutraalian Empire had declared its independence, something bad was happening at Yaga Minor, contacts in the Imperial Occupation Zone said something big was in the works, and there were stories filtering in that the Borderland had fallen under attack by forces originating from Black Dragon space. Soon something big would break, and the war machine that was Empire would grind to a halt.

Soon. Soon.





Elrood Sector, Elrood

“Boss, why are we meeting on Elrood?”

Allara smiled within her concealing environmental suit. “Haven't you heard? Lupercus Darksword has launched an invasion of the Hapes Cluster. Even if the Empire knew we were here, they'd stay away. The last thing the New Order wants to do right now is give the Commonwealth a reason to counter-attack and open up a whole new front.” She paused for a moment, then decided to continue. “And this is a shared system; we get to watch and learn what our Imperial neighbors do.”

“That sounds sneaky, boss . . . I like it.”

A third being slid into the dark booth, his body language and facial expressions suggesting he belonged there, that he was just sitting down to visit a couple of old friends. “The Mid Rim fleet was in disarray before the attack on Yaga Minor. Now it looks like one of Zell's crone's picked a name at random from a list of Mid Rim Protectorate officials and appointed him moff. Regardless, the Mid Rim fleet sent to Yaga Minor was a total loss.

“But your best bit of news comes from the Jutraalian Empire: when Fearsons seized Sluis Van, he erected one giant anti-Imperial barricade on the Rimma Trade Route. If the New Order wants to bad enough, they can still get reinforcements here from the Core, but it'll take time to go around, and they're spread too thin to mix it up with Fearsons' fleet right now. You're alone out here, and nobody's watching because they've all got more important things occupying their attentions.

“I hope you've laid the groundwork well, because now is the time to act.”



The events of Cataclysm . . .


How the hell did they find us?

In much the same way we now speak to you.

Jarvis fell out of his chair, the dozen Sanhedrim ships that had just appeared around his theoretically hidden mobile base of operations no longer concerning him.

“What the hell?'

We know who you are, Jarvis Ragnar; we know what you have done.

Jarvis stood to his feet, making a show of dusting himself off and trying as hard as he could to ignore the glowing, supernatural figure that had just materialized in the midst of his command center. “Are you going to kill me, then?”

We know what you now strive to do.

“And?” Jarvis found himself slowly turning to look on the being of light, its glowing form seeming to pulse in sequence with the unspoken words that filled his mind.

We wish you to succeed. The Kathol Republic must be reborn.

“That's it? You just came all the way out here―ambushed me at my secret hideout―to tell me I should do what I'm already planning to?”

Kathol must be purged of the Empire. It is imperative. We will be watching; we will be waiting. When it begins, we will know. The translucent being shrunk into a sphere, collapsed into a pinpoint of light, and then faded into nothing.

“Boss, are you okay?” Jarvis turned to the concerned Squib, his mind still working to reconcile what he had experienced with the world around him. The Sanhedrim were gone, but when and to where he had no idea.

“Slippy, I―”

“They won't believe you,” Said the room's single guest. He flashed a crooked smile: “My men didn't when the Aing-Tii pulled that shit with me.”

“You knew?” Jarvis demanded, his hand reflexively settling on the blaster at his side.

“Of course; I made sure they'd be here.”

Jarvis looked around at the crew once more, all of their expressions suggesting one thing: they were wondering if the time had come to put Jarvis Ragnar in a padded cell.

“The Aing'Tii have called for support from outside forces once before, Mr. Ragnar; the effort failed miserably and led to the eventual arrival of the Galactic Empire in the Kathol Sector(Kathol Sector Wars). They won't make the same mistake again. So the question I ask you, Mr. Ragnar, is: Can you succeed where the Outer Rim Sovereignty failed?”

Jarvis shook his head, looking away from the visitor and out the viewport, into the now-empty starscape beyond. “No, but I don't need to. All I need to ensure is that the rightful heirs of the Kathol Republic do.”

Jorj Car'das nodded, stepping just beside Jarvis to stare into the Kathol Rift as well. “It's a wonderful place, Mr. Ragnar, filled with good people who just wanted to be left alone. When the time comes, call and we will answer.”





How could I have missed this?

The alien known to Allara only as “Coynite” had just hurled his counterpart through the wall, tearing the ceremonial blade from his grasp in one, fluid motion. He now stood over his disarmed foe, the blade pressed against the downed enemy's neck.

“The letter of the En'Tra'Sol demands that I end you, Ag'Tra Rol'Tru'Saat. But your death would not serve Coyn; your blood would not free our people.” The Coynite moved away, driving the blade into the dirt floor and allowing his defeated foe to stand. “And so I shall defy the letter of the En'Tra'Sol, that its spirit may be preserved.”

“You are af'harl!” The Coynite noble spat. “You are without honor. Without name. Without rank. Without right to speak to me.”

“And yet I defeat you, Ag'Tra. And yet I disarm you and hold your life in my hand.”

“And you should have taken it!” The warrior-noble shouted, lunging once more at his foe. But the nameless Coynite deflected his attacker's advance, once more throwing him to the ground.

“What I do is for the future of our people, Rol'Tru'Saat. The death of our greatest would have served only the cause of our enemy; your narrow mind has kept you from the truth. Embrace this new path, brother; stand with me in the name of all our people. Help me save our worlds.”

Allara saw the oppening, chose to intervene. She rushed forward, drawing the Coynite sword from the earth, taking it in both hands. “Ag'Tra Rol'Tru'Saat, you are defeated in single combat, the consequence of which is death. You are offered this one chance: pledge to your victor tracc'sorr, swear upon your honor a service without end, and help us save your people's destiny. You can die under the letter of the En'Tra'Sol, or you can live to see its intent preserved. Choose.”

Rol'Tru'Saat stepped before the nameless Coynite, dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Tracc'sorr, brother, victor, master.”

The Coynite put his massive hand on the other's shoulder, shaking Rol'Tru'Saat firmly. “You owe me nothing, brother. We now walk according to a New Way, and so too shall we make war. Your fate is yours to do with as you wish.”

Rol'Tru'Saat stood, diverting his eyes from the man who had spared him from a life of servitude. “I was foolish to believe you weak. I shall follow you to whatever end.”

“To victory!” Allara shouted, thrusting the sword back into the earth, the fight now at an end.

“To a free Coyn!” The victorious Coynite roared. “Go now, brother, and make ready for war.”

Minutes later Allara and the Coynite were alone in the partly-destroyed hovel, each staring intently at the other. Finally she spoke, breaking the silence and revealing what she had only moments before realized: “You are General Jorl'Vir'Saat, defender of D'Skar and Ag'Tra of your people.”

“I was, once,” The Coynite conceded. “The Empire believes I was branded af'harl for my failure to defeat them.”

Allara nodded, her growing understanding of these people leading her to the only logical conclusion. “But that is not so; your own brother declared you such for your choice to conceal the greatest of your warriors instead of ordering them to die in combat.”

Jorl'Vir'Saat nodded, righting an overturned chair and taking a seat. “They remain loyal, even now, after all this time . . . after even my shame. They await only my return, only the call to make war once again. With my brother's support secured, he will ensure that the other Ag'Tra stand with us when the time comes. The Coynite people are ready to be rid of the Empire, and upon that day we will serve the Alliance with the same measure of devotion that it has served us.”

Allara nodded deeply to ensure the gesture translated through her environmental suit. “Ours will be a glorious union. To a free Coyn!” She shouted.

“To a Republic reborn!” He answered.






Airam Sector, deep space outpost

This was a serious breach of protocol, but the outcome of this meeting might determine the fate of the Alliance in an entire quadrant of the galaxy.

Jarvis Ragnar and Zozridor Slayke, two sector cell leaders for the Alliance to Restore the Republic, entered the same room for the first time since either had been given a position of such importance. They were alone, each of their command staffs secreted away into some dark corner of the galaxy, ensuring the survival of both the Kathol and Elrood rebellions should anything happen to these two men.

“Hello, old man.”

“Hello, young terrorist.”

The two grinned at one another from across the small table, taking seats in unison. “Park Kraken is alive, and has declared himself Governor of the Mid Rim Protectorate,” Zozridor stated flatly, but his eyes betrayed the intensity with which he studied Jarvis.

Jarvis sighed, trying desperately to remain calm. “I'm sure the Alliance has assets elsewhere in the Protectorate. Surely we can find some way to exploit this . . . seemingly unfavorable . . .

“GODS DAMNIT!” The Ryn shouted, slamming his fist on the table, hard, which he immediately regretted. “How? Why? What the hell, man? Kraken's alive!?”

Zozridor dropped the smile he had been holding throughout Jarvis' rant. “The Empire believed Kraken dead, as well. Druid Carson was officially appointed Moff of the Mid-Rim Protectorate by decree of the Regent himself. What we are looking at, Mr. Ragnar, is a traitor who has returned from vacation, expecting to find everything just as he had left it, eagerly awaiting his return. Do you understand?”

Park Kraken has made the Mid Rim Protectorate ripe for civil war, with or without a Rebel Alliance. “What do you know about this 'Carson' fellow?”

“He's an Imperial, through and through; he doesn't give up power once its been given to him. And he did not arrest the entirety of the Protectorate's Senate.”

Jarvis' eyes drew wide in shock. “No . . .”

Zozridor chuckled, nodding his balding head deeply. “Yes. The traitor, Park Kraken, has returned from dereliction of duty to silence the will of the people. If Zell gets off Coruscant alive, he'll have no choice but to execute the man.”

Jarvis was mulling it over in his mind, trying to break down what the old human had told him, trying to unravel this mystery. “And the Empire didn't believe Kraken was still alive? You're sure?”

“Zell didn't know, that much is clear, or he wouldn't have drummed up a new Moff. There seems to have been enough trouble between Kraken and Drayson to preclude her knowing before her death . . . if she died.” Slayke shrugged. “There's always the possibility of Simon Kaine, but even with the Empire in its current state, he hasn't resurfaced yet.”

Jarvis drummed his fingers on the table, still working out what it all meant. “So Park Kraken has ignored Imperial decree and dismantled the only democratic system present in the Protectorate. That's great for anarchists, but what does it do for us?”

Zozridor stood, sliding his chair in carefully. “The cracks are beginning to show, Jarvis. The Empire is splintering, the grand illusion is fading. Even if it survives this . . .” He waved his hand in a broad, circular motion, “alien threat; it won't survive itself much longer. Guns and bullets will be needed in excess; but we will need so much more." Zozridor paused for a moment, fixing Jarvis with a cold stare. "We are the Alliance to Restore the Republic, Jarvis. We must be worthy of that Republic's restoration, or we too will unravel at the seams.”

Revanche-class Star Defender Swiftsure, Transitory Mists

I want our artillery cruisers to begin orienting themselves at the enemy fleet and to use passive sensors to align themselves with targets based on positions provided by our recon flights. Suffrens are authorized to deploy their targetting drones now to add in that purpose."

~Costigan

“Sir, the Confederates are asking for an appropriate vector of attack to avoid our field of fire.”

~Wilkar

"What the hell is he talking about?" Costigan frowned, “But we’re not in their field of fire. That lout, does he really expect us to charge headlong past them straight into the middle of an Imperial battle fleet led by a veteran Imperial? Don’t answer that; he might, if he’s been drinking again. We have assumed barrage positions, correct?”

“Suffrens have assumed their positions; all artillery cruisers have passive targetting data and are in position to fire, with the exception of the reserve lines.”

“What now?”

“We just sit and wait,” remarked Costigan, “I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to how many credits and lives I’d like to spend on the Confederation’s tab. Ideally, if we can do it with none, I’ll take that.”



Summit-class Battleship Fidelitas, Eastern Confederation Proper Borderspace

“Condor Drones have managed to attach their NT-24 Nano-Trackers to several suspected Reaver vessels,” reported Captain Abell, “I believe Jacqueline is already analyzing the data-”

The red-haired visage immediately flared to life alongside the muscular captain. She blew a holo-strand of hair out of her face and let a wry grin flit across her face. The AI mock cleared her throat.

“Don’t you hate it when hair gets into your eyes?” rhetorically stated Labrousse,”Anyways, the Reavers have no clear distinctive hyperluminal travel pattern, aside from a few waypoints which appear to be well-known navigational points in the Tion Sector before the Black Dragons, and several planets known to have been assaulted by Reavers. There is one space station as well, which seems to have been a trading station of some sort.”

Lucerne drilled his holo-graphic eyes into that of the machine, “Have you received any information from Coalition forces yet?”

“No,” answered Abell, “but they have been relying on courier ships as of late to convey information, instead of the mobile subspace transceivers that we’ve been using from the Trevilles. I expect we will hear from a GC vessel in a week.”

Lucerne growled, “Very well, I trust that you have sent a courier vessel with our information so far?”

The dark-skinned man slightly leaned back, “I sent a Deathsaber with what information we had yesterday.”

The Admiral arched an eye-brow. “And?”

“And nothing sir,” mumbled Abell, “We’ve heard nothing of it, nor nothing from it. We have no idea how that ship is, or of its cargo.”

“That is to be expected with the comm. blackout,” sighed Lucerne, “nevertheless, I can understand your concern for the safety of the pilot and of the mission. I assure you that I will let you know first thing when I hear of it. Perhaps we should discuss something a little more…grand in scale…the Resurgence Fleet?”

Labrousse offered a slight grin, “My husband has been very busy with them. He has even arranged to oversee part of their war material build-up operations.”

Lucerne offered a forced smile, “I have little concern about war material at the moment; mostly because of the technical excellence which your husband and Confederation personnel tend to exhibit. I rather speak of the internal machinations of the exile governments and the military force they are forming.”

Abell bothered himself to sit down at the terminal, “If you want me to go into deep detail, I won’t be able to do so. The internal politics within the group are constantly changing, at least in terms of power and influence of individual politicians and planets. New deals are constantly being struck and broken between them. Thus far, the Commodore has managed to focus them inward with a what they call a Quorom; so things have not gotten entirely out of hand. The soldiers and troops themselves are becoming fairly good. Not yet as good as our Confederate regulars, but assuredly better than our militia.”

“I am aware that Commodore von Masmont has essentially left all of his task force officer responsibilities and powers over to you, Captain, and I approve of it given the delicate nature of forming an aligned military to beat back this Reaver threat,” stated the younger Lucerne, “nonetheless, I am somewhat concerned as to the military officer who will be leading the Resurgent Forces. I doubt that they will allow von Masmount the honor of doing so, and even then, he could not legally lead them being a commissioned Confederate officer.”

“The Commodore is training the cadre of officers that will lead the Resurgent Fleet,” informed Abell, “as part of his political activities with the refugees. Thus far, there is a general agreement among their officers themselves and by the Commodore that Colonel Terence Everard of Invil will be their SCO.”

“If there is no political meddling?”

Abell nodded, “If there is no political meddling.”

“I may have to persuade the Council to send a higher diplomat than an aide if this internal conflict continues Captain, and certainly if becomes any worse. If anything of importance transpires with this-”

“I’ll let you know immediately, sir.”

“Very good,” said Lucerne, glancing down at his chrono, “I have to leave to attend a Council meeting. Goodbye Captain.”

“Have a good meeting sir.”

“Thank you.”

The holograph of the Confederation’s SCO faded into nothinginess.

“Well, that was a pleasant chat,” quipped Labrousse.

With tensions rising between the League of Nations and the Galactic Empire on several fronts, including the Empire's unwillingness to negotiate for the future of Dantooine, League members have voted to expel the Empire from their ranks. From the new League Rotunda on Obroa-skai, a special session of the League has issued an official cancellation of all outstanding contracts between League members and the Galactic Empire; Imperial military forces engaged in joint League security actions have been ordered to withdraw from League space immediately; Imperial humanitarian efforts within League space have been ordered to cease and desist without delay.

As the threat of war looms . . .