Above the surface of Threshold, the Crusade’s foothold into the Onyxian sector, squadrons of Nyxan warships danced and twirled. So many were their numbers and so complex their routes that the orbiting station had to dedicate a space traffic control staff just to handle everything. Dozens of frigates, several destroyers and battleships, plentiful cruisers and wings fo fighters crowded space around their exasperated conductors.

The reason for this confusion was simple - the Nyxans were preparing for war, and as the High Command hashed out their various orders, the fleet needed to be broken up into strike forces. One of the greatest such forces was gathering around the destroyer Acclaim.

On the Acclaim’s bridge, a dozen petty officers worked feverishly at their posts, the air thick with orders and updates as they received information about the small fleet gathering around them.

At the center of this organized chaos, on a raised throne, sat admiral Dubai. A weathered old man in a plain black uniform, the admiral rested with his fingers steepled and eyes closed, seemingly ignoring the pandemonium around him.

“Status,” murmured the admiral.

One of the officers, fresh-faced and sweating, looked up from his control panel. “Two more cruisers have just arrived in formation, the Lancer and Harbinger, bringing the total to five. Fleet group now at 85% projected size.”

Dubai gave the officer a slight nod before leaning back in his chair again. The work went on for a few more minutes before loud beeping from one of the consoles cut above the general chatter.

“Admiral,” another officer called out. “Transmission from the planet. One of the mandalorian war chiefs.”

Dubai’s eyes flickered open and his expression soured. “Patch him through.”

The screen before the admiral darkened before coming alight again, this time showing the red war-mask of a mandalorian. “Am I speaking to admiral Dubai?”

“You are,” the admiral replied, giving a slight inclination of his head.

The mandalorian threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. “You are a hard man to track down, admiral! I was lucky to catch you before shipping out.”

Yes, Dubai thought, feeling his mood worsen. How lucky indeed.

“Your superiors told me yours is the first strike force to make contact with the enemy. My name is chief Rojas of the Rojan clan. I want to be on the cutting edge of the invasion, and I pledge my brethren to your assault.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Dubai replied in measured tones. “The defenses around Generis are expected to be few. We will have the element of surprise and overwhelming force on our side.”

“I yearn for the glory of first blood, admiral,” the mandalorian shot back. “My clan has many warriors, drawn from across the galaxy including many of my fellow mandalorians. We are the most eager warriors in the entire horde - we will come with you.”

Dubai let silence reign for a moment before inclining his head once more. “So be it, Rojas. We leave within the hour, have your fleetmaster talk to my navigation officer and we’ll work out the details.”

Pleased, Rojas gave out another hearty laugh and cut the transmission.

“Detecting several ships taking off from the mandalorian camp and moving towards our position,” the sensors officer said. “Mostly Marauder-class, preparing to integrate communications and command.”

“Sir,” said one of the officers, looking up from his post. “What should we do about the mandalorians? They could wreck our battle plans.”

“We’ll simply have to work around them,” Dubai muttered, sinking again into his chair. “At worst, they can still be used as fodder. Give the fools a target and they’ll take care of themselves.” Dubai closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his lap. “Wake me when we arrive.”

Meanwhile, on the mandalorian vessel, Rojas had left his bridge to rejoin his fellow warriors in the hold. Standing row on row, tightly-packed and eager for the kill, stood dozens of Rojas’ elite brethren. They were mandalorian, Trandoshan, Coynite, of all different races and all different appearances, but all shared the look of barbarian glory, of bloodthirst and of hunger for the slaughter.

Rojas smiled. They were his people. “Brothers! Just a few hours more - just a few scant hours stand between us and the slaughter we have been promised!”

A rasping roar shook the hold as guns, swords, and axes were thrust into the air. The warriors stamped their feet and frothed at the mouth, ready to tear the ship apart in their drive to come to grips with the foe.

“For so long we have waited, we have heard the promises of glory and death, we have seen the mounting tides of war grow, and we have tasted blood on the wind. Now is our time! Be ready! Be prepared! The time of great things is at hand!”

A few minutes later, a string of ships could be seen breaking free from the dense fleet mass hanging over Threshold. The neat rows of Nyxan warships, alongside a string of scrofulous Mandalorian raiding vessels, blasted off towards the edge of the system. The moment they could, each leapt into the folds of hyperspace, pointing themselves towards their distant target - the world of Generis, the world where the Crusade’s war against the Onyxian sector would begin.

"Interesting."

Colonel-General Wesley Vos leaned back in his chair and stared at the wood-paneled wall. His quarters on In'chion were much more lavish - a gift of the people of the planet in return for freeing them from a formerly tyrannical government - but for now he was on board the Tyrant, the flagship of the SS fleet. The dark-stained wood and soft lights were perfect for his office, creating an ambiance that was unmatched in almost any other ship of war. It was said that Thrawn's art room created a similar ambiance, but in the years since Thrawn's defeat nothing could match it. Not to say that Vos was a Thrawn - far from it - but he did aim high.

Currently, his mind was working overtime, thoughts and ideas whirling about in his head. The staffer that stood before him, Lieutenant Lorenz, had just delivered the report from the Onyxian Sector. Days before that had come the report from the forces at Xa Fel. It wasn't often that such attacks occurred in Imperial space, and even less frequent did they occur in such order with such rapidity. His eyebrows scrunched over his hard, narrowing eyes as he tried to make sense of the reports.

Never mind the fact that the ships used were antiquated. Never mind that the attacks were on a smaller scale than usual for anything larger than a pirate gang. It was the organization that struck him strangely. Of course, he knew the official Imperial position - that this was a gang of pirates who simply were capitalizing on the chaotic nature of the newly annexed Onyx sector. But what about Xa Fel? If the attacks were related - and in spite of the High Command's feelings, Wes was sure that they were - what would a pirate gang have to gain from the planet of the Sith?

In his mind, first of all, was the idea that this could be a trick of the Confederation or the Coalition. Of those two the more likely would be the Coalition, who had been known to have a presence in the Unknown Regions, albeit not a large one. Still, it was not impossible that they has secretly built a presence there, unifying existing planetary forces under their banner and using them as a strike force against the Empire. Still, though, Wes would have been surprised if the divided and fractured Coalition could accomplish such a feat without the Empire's agents knowing about it. Unless, of course, the Azgard was smarter than he thought and had faked the division of the Coalition...but that was unlikely, and even if Regrad had tried a stunt like that the Empire would have smoked it pretty quickly. Besides, this division was not faked. The Confederation really had seceeded.

There was the possibility that the still-unified Cren Alliance was attempting a hidden strike, shaking the hand of the Empire even while hiring others to stab it in the back. After Bilbringi, though, the Cren had been closely watched, and even if they had managed to avoid the Imperial observation, they were just too kriffing scared to try something like that. There was little to no chance they were behind this.

That left the Confederation on the very short list of enemies. But Wes himself had been keeping a close eye on them, and he hadn't noticed any decrease in fleet size. His few informants within the Confederation borders also indicated that their economy, while in good condition, was not up to the standards that would be needed to fund an operation of this magnitude on the other side of the galaxy. Besides, Corise Lucerne and Proconsul Thorn were not fools. They stayed on their side of the line, and while the frontier was tense, they weren't about to launch a strike anytime soon, not on the Empire at least.

"Very interesting," he continued after a pause. "Lieutenant, summon the SS High Command. I want their input on these attacks."


ISD V Tyrant
Orbit above In'chion


"So, it does not appear to be an operation by the GC or the Contegorians. As you were gathering, I also considered the Commonwealth, as foolish as that sounds, since they're the only other galactic power with a fleet and an economy that could pull off such a major operation. But as you know, their treaty with the Empire would be destroyed were they to attempt such an action, and their economic minds would not allow something like that." Wes sat at the head of the conference table. To his left sat Moff Liam Zhukov, the political head of Oversector Outer. Next to him was Colonel Racen Selere, head of the Kommandos, then General Mauritius, commander of the Waffen-SS. To Wes's right was Admiral Typton, commander of the SS fleet, and Captain Drury of the Tyrant. General Sepp Dietrich and the Mandalorian Sennacherib also were in attendance, as well as General Willy Bittrich and a Mandalorian envoy from Concord Dawn, Candor Trek. All stared in rapt attention at their commander as he continued.

"I fear, gentlemen, that we are only seeing the tip of the iceberg in these attacks. The attackers are gathering force, launching strikes that are coordinated enough to seem uncoordinated and using resources that only a galactic power could have. Having ruled out all of these individual governments, I am at a loss. It seems that we were facing an unknown of incredible strength, assuming as I do that we have only seen a tithe of their full power. So, I summoned you here to receive your input on..."

As he was speaking, the door to his left opened and Lieutenant Lorenz stepped in. "Sir," he said, interrupting Vos's speech, "you have a visitor."

Vos, who hated being interrupted, whirled towards the door, a tongue lashing already boiling in his mind, when he caught sight of the figure behind Lorenz. The dark hood and cloak covered the person's features, but it was obviously a female of the human species. What caught his eye was the glint of metal on her belt, just under the cloak, and the way she held her hands together and her head down. He checked his words, simply saying, "Yes?"

If the others at the table were shocked by the lack of a reproof, they were even more shocked when Lorenz declined to answer his commander. Instead, he simply bowed and stepped back out of the room, bowing to the female as he did so. Dietrich, indignant, rose to lash out at the visitor, but the words never came. Even as he clambered to his feet, the visitor's hand came up, the fingers squeezing the air between them. At the table, Dietrich's windpipe closed, denying him the air needed to speak, and all that emerged was the sound of choking.

All the officers present had lived during the time of Palpatine and his servant Darth Vader, and all had heard of military personel treated in this manner during those times. All knew that the Sith were still active in the galaxy. None of them ever thought they would see the powers of the Force called upon in such a devestating and shocking way again. Only a few of them had ever seen such a display; only Admiral Typton had seen Vader do it when he was serving as a midshipman on Vader's flagship. Vos, shaking his head, said, "Welcome, Lady of the Sith. If you would, please release my general; he may be impertinent, but we need his expertise. And I promise he will be polite."

The figure nodded, and Dietrich collapsed into his chair, his sixty-year-old lungs gasping and wheezing, drinking in the life-giving oxygen. Even as he wheezed, the figure took another step forward and said, "I'll hold you to that, General." Her voice came as somewhat of a surprise to the gathered military officers. They had expected the harsh rasping of someone completely consumed by evil, or at least a bit of a deeper tone. They did not expect a melodious sound that filled their ears with pleasure.

The figure reached up and removed her hood, and the officers' eyes widened further. Not only was her voice lovely, her face was beautiful as well, unmarred by the effects of the Dark Side. No scars, no wrinkles, no blemishes; it seemed as though she had stepped directly out of one of those holonet shows. Looking around the room, the lady smiled and said, "It appears I was unexpected. I am sorry for the intrusion, but I have urgent business with this branch of the Imperial military."

Selere, directly across from the woman, replied, "I don't mean to be rude, Ms..."

"You may call me Darth Skygge, or Lady Skygge as you prefer."

"Lady Skygge. But what possible business could a Sith have with the Imperial SS?"

Skygge, for Skygge it was, grew grim. "It has to do with the report that is currently sitting in front of your commanding general. Colonel-General Vos, I have heard glowing reports of your conduct. That is why I sought you out, for I believe you will do what needs to be done."

Vos raised one eyebrow. "I'm not sure what it is that you think you will make me do." He raised his hand as her eyebrows shot up. "I know you can use your Force to control me, and probably all these men if you so chose. But I do not believe you could control enough people to do what you need. So I'll need an explanation before I agree to anything."

Skygge smiled. "That's what I've heard about you; you're smart. Very well then. You are correct when you assume that this invasion is by an outside force. At the same time, you are mistaken." Wes's other eyebrow shot up, and Skygge chuckled. "The leader of this invasion is someone called Dacien, and it appears that he is nastier than even most of the Sith. He employs an army of Force users, including an individual that seems to be similar to the notorious Lord Silk, if it is not the devil himself. However, these specialized ranks have dwindled; we cut down many of them on Xa Fel. I myself dispatched his Huntress, an individual who is driven by her hatred of Dacien and yet is entirely loyal to him. Or was, I should say, as she is now dead, cut down and sucked into oblivion by a Force storm that also claimed the life of Lord Vicirus.

"His minions have, as nearly as I can tell, attacked the Onyxian Occupation Zone now. They have established themselves on several planets, and it seems as though their forces are once again massing for an assault. Where that attack will come, I am not certain. That is for your strategical minds to figure out. I simply bring warning and a personal request: that you gather as much of your fleet as possible and proceed to the Occupation Zone. If Dacien's forces are as large as you and I believe they are, then even the Empire will have difficulty stopping them."

With the new information presented, Wes's mind cleared quickly. "Onyxian Occupation Zone, eh?" he said, a smile beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. "I think we can handle that. Admiral Typton, gather the fleet proper. We're taking a trip to Generis."

In Orbit - Onyx

Sector Capital, Imperial Occupation Zone



The stars shimmered in the distance, painting the blackness of space with intermittent beauty. The closer one got to the worlds of the Onyx System or any one of the hundreds of craft milling about, the harder it was the appreciate the view of the gods' creation; so much light from sublight drive engines, viewports, and the flash of beacons and buoys obscured little to the untrained eye. For a man whose eyes seemed almost closed at a glance, the product of years and decades spent straining against the darkness for some residue of vision and clarity, the beauty unseen was a memory sorely missed.


High above the largest and most populace world of the Onyx Sector drifted the massive form of the Conqueror-class Star Destroyer Intimidator, with the tall and imposing form of its owner, Grand Admiral the Baron Telan Desaria, peering out from it. His eyes were strained to slits like so many of the veterans who had fought with him, and fallen for him, over the years but his view was unobstructed from high orbit – the glare of the world itself was obscured by the battleship's prow, and few errant vessels even helmed by mad men dared approach the awesome guns of the Emperor's most powerful ship of the line. The Grand Admiral looked out and found peace in the blackness, in the untarnished beauty of twinkling suns so far away, in the rare glance of a star's nursery twirling in barely visible shades of blue and purple gas. Unconsciously, he let out a sigh: too often he pursued war, not to be outdone, war pursued him; for him, he realized, his peace had become war itself.


'Ding.' A single chord sounded from the door chime, filling the observation chamber ten decks below the bridge. Desaria turned and face the door as it slid open to admit newly promoted-Major General Maxim, a capable administrator and adjutant as much a veteran of the desk as his charge was of the battlefield. One could not function without the other.


" Good afternoon, Your Excellency. I have the latest…" General Maxim trailed off as he moved closer to the viewport in front of which the Grand Admiral stood, regal as ever. The younger olive-uniformed General Staff officer narrowed his eyes on the Grand Admiral's face, noting something that had not been there before. He did not dare broach the subject, however. Instead, he gazed on, confused. It did not take the Kuati male to flash a quick toothy smile.


" Something amiss, General?"


Maxim faked a cough. " Your left eye, sir – are you all right?"


The smile on the Grand Admiral's face grew wider as he turned ever so slightly to catch his reflection in an 'Net receiver panel. His white uniform, pristine and pressed, topped off with its gold-braided epaulettes and shinny Imperial Cross had not changed, and the same fire was in each of his emerald eyes, but one was less visible than the other. A circle of glass attached to a thin black string which disappeared into his tunic covered the left eye, held in place by its press to the top and bottom of the eye socket. He turned back to his Chief of Staff. " It is a monocle, General, something favored by flag officer on my homeworld many years ago. At my last physical, Dr. Halberg noticed a weakness in my left eye which he offered to correct with surgery. I find this more…appealing. Besides, we mustn't forget who we are, nor where we came from."


" Yes…sir." Maxim shook his head as Desaria smiled wider still and moved off towards one five chairs situated around a small table the battleship's senior staff often sat round and played sabacc. When the Baron was seated, Maxim handed him a pair of data sheets. " Today's deployment is on top. Vice Admiral Tragget has moved to the 80^th Squadron into the Lantaru System for replenishment and pursuit exercises. That does place both formations here on rapid response duty for the surrounding eight parsecs until he is done."


Desaria nodded, reviewing the notes and other facts approvingly. Then he came to the second and the smile vanished from his face. The words atop in white headed an exert from a bi-weekly holozine pamphlet by self-professed civilian military authorities: Grand Admiral worried? The Baron read on, immediately aware the article was about himself. The topic, despite military secrecy, was anything but, and it was something he expected. By calling for additional units to the Onyx Sector and even activating a squadron of his vaunted Guard, Grand Admiral Desaria had listened to a multitude of diatribes saying he was overeating to a minor threat. True, the Empire had been attacked by nothing larger than a squadron of loosely managed warships around one archaic command vessel and at a location with no strategic importance other than to its Sith occupants. True, the second strike had resulted in the loss of one Imperial Destroyed and a few gunships – but these were acceptable losses and far less than expected in the relatively quiet Onyx Sector.


" I'm sorry, sir. I thought you should see this. It has not made it onto the Net – the Inquisition arrested all those involved and ISB has erased all copies circulated for editing. The reality, sir, is that the Empire does not think we have to be worried about the two attacks. They are a nuisance and everyone does have faith you will smash it like you have others before."


The Grand Admiral relaxed into the chair, tossing the two pads carelessly onto the table before him. " I know there are officers laughing – Desaria has lost his nerve, they say. I've faced threats greater with less – and now I have the resources of a entire sector group against one pirate gang, yes? Hmpf! Let us hope they are right and I am not. If I am, and this new threat is more like an iceberg than a boulder, with the largest and most dangerous parts unseen and unknown, then that laughter will turn to screaming. Then, we will have the fight I have longed for, but it will be far bloodier than they imagine."

Through the twisting hyperlanes of the Onyxian Sector, the Crusader fleet flew ever onward. They had a long way to go, for the Expedition's High Command had tasked admiral Dubai with invading a system on the far end of the sector. Their reasoning, it could be guessed, was that this would throw Imperial investigators off the scent and make finding the Crusade's hidden base all the more difficult.

The blocky grey steel of the Onyxian cruisers and frigates contrasted sharply with cavalcade of colours and hues that adorned the decorated Mandalorian contingent, an unusual medley of styles that intrigued the admiral as he watched from the command center's bay window. His officers, who appeared by hologram, were arranged around him, waiting in patient silence.

At last Dubai seemed to have his fill of the mesmerizing view, tearing his eyes with difficulty from the fleet to take a seat at the head of the conference table.

"Gentlemen," the old admiral croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Gentlemen, as you know we are nearing the planet Generis to begin operation thunder hammer. I've called you all here to go over our strategic situation and objectives one last time, to make sure we're all on the same page about our purpose here and on how best to handle our... special allies."

The battlegroup's officers glanced uneasily amongst themselves. "The Mandalorians have agreed to share formations with us, sir," offered one captain, a young man with a face like a trout gasping for water. "They still refuse to integrate command with our tactical officers, however, and won't confirm any of our strategic priorities."

"This is of no surprise or concern to me," said Dubai, who gave a dismissive wave. "The Mandalorians are fools and barbarians, but they're our fools and barbarians. Let them do as they want, we'll maintain our battleplans as though they weren't here and just mark up any damage they do as a bonus towards our own ends."

"What about orbital defenses?" prompted another officer, this one a shade more respectable. "If they're as low as our scouts would have us believe, wouldn't it be best for either us or the Mandalorians to engage them independantely? So we don't get in each other's way?"

"In all honestly, I don't expect the discipline of the defenders to hold," Dubai replied, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "The Imperials and the natives don't get along well, and Generis's population poses little strategic value. They'll likely retreat once they see the size of our force, or failing that be swept away in the tide. They are a minor hurdle, nothing more."

"Agreed, sir," said a third officer. "The real threat is response times. We don't have a good idea of Imperial reserves, but the remoteness of the chosen system should ensure we'll have enough time to strike, make a show of force, and be off again before we face reprisal. Failing that it will provide powerfully useful information about the Empire's response capibility."

Dubai's steepled fingers had turned into clenched fists, and his gaze was levelled sharply at the third officer, who promptly fell silent. "Are you quite finished, captain Ruford? By all means carry on if you are not, it's clear you have the whole strategic system well in hand." The coldness of his tone was more than enough to cow the lesser officer, who quickly looked away.

"Don't lose sight of your objective out there," Dubai snapped, giving his officers appraising glares. "Our purpose is to scatter the local defenders, terrify the civilian populations, incite confusion and disruption, then retreat and regroup before the Imperial navy can respond. Any glory-hunting, disobedience, or deviance from our task will be dealt with harshly, am I understood?"

"Yes, admiral," the officers chorused back.

"Good," said Dubai, turning his chair to face the bay window. "This battle is a vital step for the campaign, and for Nyx. Only if every man does his duty can we hope to achieve victory. Nyx previals."

As he said the words, the streaking lights of hyperspace gave way to normal space, dominated as it was by the planet of Generis. In the distance, black shapes moving around were instantly recognizable as warships.

There was a hum audible from the command center as shields were powered up and guns went live. Sleek fighters, launched immediately upon arrival, came into view on either side of the window forming into tight wedges around the flagship.

"And so battle is joined," said Dubai, rising from his chair. "Get to your stations, gentlemen. Today we go to war."

Generis
Surface

About one hundred klicks outside the main Imperial land base on Generis sat a small cabin, a small escape house for one of the planet's most upstanding citizens. It is there that this young woman went to flee from the stress of life and work. Or at least that's what people thought.

In truth, Jaeriel Skynia was an agent for the elusive and secretive Alliance to Restore the Republic. She also contracted out services to any other group that hated the Empire and wished to see its downfall, organizations much more secretive than the Alliance. Her cabin was a front for a much deadlier, much more dangerous, and much larger work. By entering a secret passage in the cabin's basement, one could find three elevators, two of which led to destructive ends for the unsuspecting intruder. The third, though, led down nearly two-hundred feet to a natural cavern that had been transformed into a small complex for Jaeriel and her team to do their best to hinder and hamper the Empire in any way possible.

For several months now, Jaeriel and her team had been smuggling in equipment: computers, moniters, disguises, weapons, tracking devices, electronics - anything they might need. By now, the entire center was fully online. Three of the computers were dedicated to monitering and maintaining a passive spybot sent to the Imperial satellites so Jaeriel and her team knew at all times who and what was coming to the planet. It was in this way that they first saw the images of the invading fleet appear on the screens.

Cynthia Dmitrius, the computer expert of the group, noticed the massive influx of warships first. "Guys," she said, eyes glued to the monitor, "you might want to take a look at this."

The other two individuals in the complex, Amanda Bates and Mika Lau, hurried over. Eyes scrunched, Bates quickly analyzed the info running across a fourth computer. "Do we know what they are yet?" she asked.

"No," Mika replied. In addition to being a master of K'tara, she was also the resident expert on ships and spaceborne vehicles. "A few of them seem to be large versions of Uglies, but the larger ones, the ones here," she pointed, "are unlike any ship currently known. At least as far as I can tell. They have similar characteristics to some known ships, but their design is unique. Pirates, maybe?"

Amanda shook her head. "I've known a lot of pirates, but they never had the kind of organization that group shows. This group, maybe; they're more disorganized, and they're rushing into the fight. But these ships over here are more methodical. They're moving slower, more cautiously. It's possible...no, there's no way they're Coalition or Confederation ships. Not the same movements at all. Unless they've completely rewritten their tactics books."

"Either way," Cynthia said, "we should get the team together. Contact Jaeriel."


Generis
Outside the Imperial Complex
100 km from the cabin


The watchmen outside the Imperial complex on Generis were nearing the end of their shift. Unlike the original Stormtroopers, these soldiers were not brought up in the firm discipline of clones, and they were succeptable to weaknesses of many kinds. One was weariness, and they were about ready to go home and go to bed. It had been a long, boring day; it seemed that no one wanted to get into the complex anymore.

Their downfall, though, was their second weakness. Both guards were male, and the weakness inherent in most males was especially strong in them. So when they caught sight of a beautiful woman walking their way, their eyes were glued. The low-cut shirt, the short, tight skirt - that was enough to keep them plenty occupied. Especially since this woman was so well formed...

So obsessed were they with the view that the didn't notice the shadow slink along the wall and through the open gate. They didn't notice their weapons being lifted; in fact, the first clue they had that something was wrong was the feel of cold steel pressed against the backs of their necks and a woman's voice coming from behind telling them to slowly raise their hands.

They obeyed. The woman they had been watching so intently smiled as she approached. A quick flick of her wrists, and both guards' eyes went wide as they watched their life's blood flow from their necks onto the planet's surface. Quietly and slowly they dropped, dead as they hit the ground.

Jaeriel dropped the weapons beside the dead guards and drew her own blaster. A click in a comm link, and a third woman appeared, dressed in the uniform of an Imperial Lieutenant. "Alright," Jaeriel said quickly, "you have five minutes." Nodding, the third woman strode into the compound and began her part of the mission.

Waiting outside the walls, Jaeriel asked quietly, "You're sure Amanda confirmed the looping of those security cams, right?"

The second woman, Alana Vlupteur, nodded. "She contacted me just before I started my approach. Oh, kriffing bantha fodder!" she continued, looking at her arm. "I got that nerf herder's blood on my sleeve!"

Jaeriel shook her head. "You always were concerned about the most trivial of things in the most dangerous times. I will never understand that."

Before Alana could reply, the third woman, Jaqueline Stone, walked nonchalantly out of the gate and turned right, headed away from the other two. Jaeriel and Alana disappeared into the woods, leaving behind two dead bodies and no record that they had ever been there.

As they were heading towards their rendezvous with Jacqueline, Jaeriel's comm beeped. "Yeah?" she said quickly.

Amanda's voice came through a bit garbled, "You need...back here...away. We've...company. Multiple ships...space a...planet. Hurry."

Hitting the throttle, Jaeriel sped to the rendezvous and grabbed Jacqueline, then hightailed it for home.


In'chion
ISD V Tyrant

Skygge stared out the viewport of the massive Star Destroyer, gazing at the extensive defenses of the planet. "I must say," she said to Wes and Admiral Typton, who stood with her, "I like what you've done with the place."

Wes smiled at the humor inherent in the remark. "I never knew the Sith had a lighter side about them," he replied in jest.

Skygge got the pun and shot back, "Oh, we're not so bad as we are believed to be. In fact, I heard once that even Lord Vicirus had his good days." That, though, brought the memory of the Force Storm back to the forefront of her mind, and her face grew somber. "How much longer will this muster take?" she asked.

Wes shook his head. "Not much longer. We had a bit of a problem with the crew of one ship; their ship has just come out of drydock and they were still all on leave. We had to track them all down. But we're about ready to head out."

"Good," she said. "I feel that if we don't move soon, we'll be too late. The chance to stop a terrible destruction, the likes of which has never yet been seen in the galaxy, is every minute slipping from our grasp, and once it is gone, it will only be reaquired by an ocean of blood, sweat, and tears."

Windswept though the plains of Generis might have been, the end of the seventeeth week of the year was unique in that not a breath of air stirred from its place. There was no breeze, nothing; just rain falling in unceasing sheets down from thunderheads which blocked out the sun leaving the most eerie, greyish light to shine below. Citizens of the argi-world were quite used to the downpours, which came thrice a year. The rasputitsa it was called in an old dialect, one forgotten by all but the most senior of citizens who rocked back and forth on their porches, phasing in and out of reality.


The citizens of Generis were quite used to the rain; they acted and dressed accordingly. Those soldiers of the Empire, on the other hand, stationed hither and thither to better protect the people, brooded about as the deluge continued, sounding like the impact of so many blaster bolts on stell at the height of a battle.


" Damn."


Colonel Alazahr stepped passed a saluting Corporal of the Imperial Army and as quickly as was possible removed the plastic rain slicker from his body. The material itself worked wonders, keeping the rain out and moving away; the problem was the creases in the material which formed pools of water that emptied into collars and arm-holes and sleeves. For all the glory and technical supremacy of the mighty Galactic Empire, its soldiers, like every other man in every other army, could not stay dry.


" Report, Major. I am quite soaked, quite cold, and considerably pissed off to be summoned on my day off."


A young major nodded his apology but did not avert his eyes from a two-dimensional plot table spread out before him. His black gloved hands clenched the edge of the display; his eyes seemed fixed at moving splotches of blue and red - altogether, he looked considerably more apprehensive than the Colonel was used to seeing.


Of course, that's not saying much. My previous second was killed by that monster than killed Bradford, so he has reason to be anxious. But what has him going now, in command?


" Sir," the Major said, speaking to a thought he did not even know his superior was having, " we have unidentified contacts in system and approaching. Most of them are in what I assume is combat formation with one trailing group that is more a jumble or gathering than any military unit."


Alazahr removed his gloves and dropped them to the floor, smacking as they hit and spraying water on the ferrorcrete. He moved over to the Major and let his eyes stare. There he saw it: the outline of Generis itself in green approached by several red dots of varying size. Too many, in fact.


" That trailing group might be pirates or mercenaries. Whoever they are, they're not friendly. Send word via HoloNet: Generis is under attack."





In Orbit


Generis looked like a world troubled, confused even. Here and there were patches of green in a wide panorama of light browns puncutated here and there by a swath of deep, penetrating blue. Of course that brown was simply the rolling savannahs and endless farms that dotted the surface, but to the unlooker it was simply a world unsure of whether it wanted to cast of life...or embrace it.


Lieutenant Golgan, a veteran of nine campaigns with almost fifteen years' service in the Imperial Navy, couldn't care either way. To his brutish form, worked up from seaman to petty officer and only by the prodding of a dying captain, into the ranks of commissioned officers, he no longer distinguished between planets. Each world was little more than a name and a set of coordinates on a star chart. His world was made of hulls and grease and lreactors. The only worlds he knew as more than strings of letters were Kuat, Rendilli, Corellia, Sluis Van - and then only to curse cheap mechanics and careless engineers.


" Captain."


Golgan cursed under his breath, then above it: the habits of old Non-com's died harder than they themselves. He glowered at the tactical officer, a sniveling, pasty-faced Ensign who had dared ate a Captain's daughter without permission and was thus sentenced to a career in a gunship. The young officer withered under that gaze, but he reported all the same.


" Contacts are approaching. Frell - look at them!"


The Ensign had gone from merely cowed to panic in record time. He stood from his seat and looked forward, his mouth agape like the yaw of a black hole. The viewport filled with the fast-approaching shadows of ships that grew more discernible by the second.


" Word from garrison command," whispered a junior rating from the communications console. Golgan just waved his hand and the audio played, the only sound on the bridge. It was Colonel Alazahr.


"[i]Golgan, withdraw at once. Your three gunships won't do anything but give them target practise. Bring me reinforcements; you're the only hope if they've found a way to jame HoloNet. Go - now!"


The rough and unapproachable Lieutenant cast his head down. He would rather have fought, but the Colonel was right. Glory is eternal, but the lives of those below were not. Seconds later, the naval defense force in orbit was gone.


Generis was open to invasion...

The Crusader fleet seemed content to watch the handful of navy ships guarding Generis orbit to run for their lives. What little civilian space traffic there was followed desperately in their wake, leaving the Crusaders to advance unopposed.

"All contacts are in full retreat, Admiral," explained a boastful young lieutenant who did a poor job of suppressing his sneer. "We await your orders."

Ah, the confidence of the unblooded, the old admiral considered humourlessly. Sadly it won't be broken today. "Let them run, they're of no interest to us. Order the fleet into geosynchronous orbit and hold fast, we'll be delivering articles of surrender to the garrison within half an hour."

"Detecting no orbital weaponry, relaying commands," the lieutenant replied. A sharp bleep from a distant command console caused another officer to pale.

"Sir, the Mandalorians are breaking formation."

"Disappointing, if not unexpected," replied Dubai, clenching his fists instinctively. "Hail their idiot immediately!"

The bridge crew, recognizing their superior's rising ire, followed his orders in silence. The comm screen lit up with the war-mask of the Mandalorian chief Rojas, marked with a bloody hand print. "The field is ours, Dubai! My warriors and I are going to seize the glory of first blood from the field, so do not waste my time."

"You barbaric buffoon!" Dubai hissed. "We have no idea what the Imperial garrison consists of! Don't waste our advantage by meeting them on their own terms, my destroyers could bomb them into submission from the safety of orbit!"

"I had no idea the pride of Nyx was defended by cowards, admiral," Rojas roared, his voice thick with amusement and mockery. "Go ahead and play at soldiers if it pleases you, but don't meddle in the affairs of warriors. We go to take skulls!"

With that, Rojas cut the transmission, leaving Dubai fuming. Taking a deep breath, Dubai exhaled in a slow hiss before addressing his officers. "Open a channel to the Nyxan fleet, I want to inform the captains of their new orders."

His officers were quick to comply, a faint chime indicating he had their attention. "Not one of you will follow the Mandalorian idiots in their attack. If they want to throw their lives away, that's their business, but I won't waste Nyxan might on a fool's errand. Our objective stays the same, we'll secure orbit and demand the surrender of the garrison - and with Rojas and his warriors battering at the gates, they may be more inclined to accept our 'protection'.

"Am I understood?" Hearing no dissent, the admiral signalled to cut the channel. "Take us into orbit, adjust the formation to account for the Mandalorians, and tell the gun crews to prepare for bombardment procedures."



While the Nyxan ships positioning themselves above Generis's population centers and scanning for targets, the Mandalorians in their Marauders and assorted uglies blasted through the atmosphere towards the planet's surface. In the lead was Rojas's personal warship, the Skull Throne.

"Faster!" Rojas bellowed to his second, who slammed down on the acceleration. He could almost feel the wind rushing through his hair as clouds shot by and the ground rapidly approached. It felt good.

"Vengaris on the horizon, chief," the second replied, glancing over with his one organic eye to the chief of the Rojan clan. "What we gonna do?"

"What do you think?" replied Rojas, a wicked grin cracking across his face. "Let's come in low for a strafing run, then get in nice and close! We'll do to them what we did to Frandor, and Dexis, and all the others! Tell the boys there'll be no slave-taking and no mercy, we're here to claim glory and send a message."

Rojas rose from his command chair and hefted a repeating blaster that lay to his side. The thing was huge, designed originally to be operated by two men and a tripod, but for the burly warrior only a shoulder strap was necessary. "I want to see their blood run in the streets, don't disappoint me."



Coming in low to the ground, the Mandalorian ships screeched over grassy hills and isolated woods towards the one truly notable settlement on the planet. As the city center drew closer, the bark of turbolaser cannons could be heard as red fire flew from their advance. Along the city outskirts, houses were blown to smithereens and streets were torn by craters. The civilian population, caught entirely unaware, ran screaming through the streets while above them the unknown raiders attacked.

Much was made of their surprise and superior firepower, the wave of warships creating a veritible wall of devestation before them as they advanced. Businesses were destroyed and farms set alight. The warriors made a game of it, jockying to kill a vehicle speeding towards freedom or taking turns trying to bring down a tower block.

This was just a taste of the destruction the Mandalorians were set to bring, however. The attack had only just begun.

They descended from the clouds in tows and threes, little black specs thhrust through the thunderheads on the shriek of atmospheric drive units that had not yet adjusted. Up to the sky did look farmers and business alike, each struck in tandem bu curiosity and fear. A pair of the black specs descended to be seen as craft of unknown design and swept over the captail city; they were heralds of approaching horror. Not a shot was fired as a populace felt itself now in the inescapable grasp of dread.


The black craft were seen to be fighters, and many naive civilians assumed they would be all with which their new protectors would have to contend; many ignored the warning sirens which blared in the steel and ferrocrete canyons of the city's center. Then, piercing the clouds, defiling them almost, larger black craft descended which grew larger and larger till they were ten or fifteen times the size of those that had dashed about.


With the wail of so many grav-jets pushing into gear, the storm did break. The large black craft dove into the city, firing at all targets of opporunity: fruit carts, trucks, trams, and even a grain train moving lumberously on its mag-tracks. Civilian targets all.


Through Vengaris the marauders went, missiles striking and cannon blaxing. Though the rasputitsa clouds cast the city in a dark pall, all now glared bright as fires lit the bleakness. One gunship, not content to fire on the civilians in the crowded city-center, screamed onto the Avenue of the Arts, paying tribute to statue and painting with a gift of ash and flame. Tehn onto the Central Boulevard it did scream, towards the city's edge where towering buildings and large structures gave way to quaint homes and modest apartments. There, on the edge, was one sprawling grey structure, alien among the shops and homes. The gunship's commander's eyes filled with greed and a lust for destruction. Driven by the lash of the captain's cursing tongue, the gunship sped towards the warehouse, or factory - the target!


The shock was palpable when the gunship drew near for above the structure it saw not an open sky but the black-crossed red Imperial Standard. The ship wanted to change course and orders were issued to that affect, but it was to no avail. Pairs of neon bolts lanced out from the structure, shots from the five light turbolaser turrets at each corner of the pentagonal garrison base. In rapid succession, scarlet bolts joined the fray when the quad-laser turrets on Whirlwind repulsor ranks opened up. The gunship turned but fell and joined its victims in short order.


One down, twenty to go.


Colonel Alazahr remained silent while his staff whooped: his regiment was bored, classified and deployed as a garrison-unit for almost two years. Then men, despite the presence of death, suddenly felt alive in the midst of battle. Such was the mind of a soldier.


" Captain Drummond," Alzahr called, quieting the command chamber with his words, " take an infantry company and a platoon of FlaK into the city. Drive off what you can and keep an eye out for landings."


A young, sandy-haired officer with the broad carmine stripes of the General Staff on his trousers, moved close and nodded. " You think this more than a raid, sir? Will they actually invade?"


Alazahr looked towards a wall-mounted display of the situation in orbit. The more disciplined part of the arrived enemy were shifting assets from an assault formation into one that resembled either bombardment or siege. Either way, it was certainly far from a cheer possibility.


" They would be stupid not to."

The Marauders circled the city, strafing it with blazing turbolaser bolts and turning towers into rubble. The screams of the citizens were drowned out by the sheer volume of the destruction, shattering steel and stone falling like thunderous rain to bury the bombardment’s victims.

Rojas itched for the chance to inflict death up close and personal. “Give me an update on the situation, can we start our landings?”

“Looks like we’ve lost the Snaggletooth,” Rojas’s second replied after examining a cracked viewscreen. “There’s an Imperial fortress a few points out from the city, they’re sending out a relief column.”

“The rats are out of their hole?” Rojas exclaimed, stomping over to look at the sensor reports. “Then we have our target! Order the landings then take the ships to start bombing that Imperial fortress - by the time I’m finished crushing this relief column, I expect nothing but rubble to cross on our way to claim victory, understood?”

“By your command, Mandalore,” the second replied with a reverent nod. Satisfied, Rojas left the bridge and headed for the hold.

Therein, tightly-packed ranks of Mandalorian warriors hungered for battle. Rojas took a moment to gaze warmly upon their blackened power-armour which covered each man from head to toe.

“Brothers!” Rojas howled, his own bloodlust mounting. “Prepare for a hot drop! Feet first into the maelstrom!”

The warrior-brotherhood began to bellow and roar in response, slamming together wicked durasteel blades forged in the slave-pits of New Mandalore. Rojas strode amongst them, his roars the loudest, feeling the building pressure of so much anxiety and waiting that would at last be released. At last, the promised blood and glory awaited.

Quite suddenly there was a groan as the floor beneath them moved. The Mandalorians parted quickly as the belly of the hold opened up to show the wrecked city streets. The streets themselves whipped by, for the Marauders were hunting a target.

The sound of laser fire and explosions told the Rojan clan that the enemy was fast approaching. A flicker of light below meant the shields had been dropped - a sure sign that they were just about to pass over the target area.

The very moment the first of the Imperial soldiers came into view, Rojas screamed “Now!” and the Mandalorians began to leap madly from the low-flying warship.

They fell like black steel meteors from the sky, crashing into ranks of panicked Imperial soldiers or slamming into half-deployed flack cannons. Rojas himself leapt laughing into the chaos, freefalling long enough to appreciate sight around him - Mandalorians gripped with bloodlust, throwing themselves from their ships into battle.

A few died foolishly, crashing at odd angles or simply being too weak to survive the dangerous maneuver. Others died as the Imperials regained their wits, firing what weapons they had upon Mandalorians falling from above or upon those not yet recovered from their landing. There were always more, however, and soon what had begun as an ordered column of uniformed soldiers became a wild melee.

This was the one great field of the Mandalorians, and the Rojan revelled in it. From the "True Mandalorians" in their heavy armour, swinging vibroweapons around with scant regard, right through the menagerie of alien fighters down to the dirtiest and most ruthless mercenaries that made up the clan, these were warriors who cared nothing for discipline. Nothing for formations or grand strategy. They landed in twos and threes, firing strange weapons and unleashing rare fighting styles upon terrified and untested Imperial troops.

Rojas landed with a sickening crunch upon a young man in a grey uniform. The man screamed and screamed, his legs broken but his lungs apparently unharmed. Rojas rested his hand on the man’s throat while lifting himself up, the pressure sufficient to crush his trachea and silence his infernal shrieking.

A second Imperial soldier, wild-eyed and cursing, tried to level a carbine on Rojas, but the more experienced warrior spun his own heavy gun around and cracked the man hard on the shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. His weapon raised, Rojas began to laugh maniacally as the rotor sped up and he fired a constant stream of laser-fire into the melee.

Having forgotten to watch his back, Rojas was surprised to feel a stab of cold pain as blaster bolts began to smash against his head and back. Brought to one knee by the pain and the weight of his gun, Rojas managed to turn and see a grizzled-looking Imperial sergeant taking aim with a pistol from the top of a smoking flack gun.

Without hesitation, Rojas pulled the war-mask from his head, yanking a grenade from his belt with the other. He tore the pin out with his teeth and hurled the crude explosive at the flack gun. It missed the sergeant, but the ensuing explosion that turned the turret into an expanding ball of fire consumed his target utterly.

As blood ran down Rojas’s face and the heat of blast singed his eyebrows off, the insane warrior allowed himself to be lost in the psychotic thrill of battle.



“The Imperial column is collapsing quickly, admiral,” reported a Nyxan bridge officer. “I’m reading the first three flack cannons have been downed, the escorting troops are trying to rally around the remaining two, but the Mandalorians are too mixed in. A rout is likely in the next few minutes, as support is impossible from the main base.”

“What’s the situation at the main Imperial base?” asked Dubai, as he rubbed his temples slowly.

“The Mandalorian ships have started to do fly-bys on the fortress. They’re keeping their distance until they can gauge the defenses, but the loss of those flack guns is going to cost the defenders. Still, they’re sealed up tight and I don’t think the Mandalorians have the ordnance to crack it.”

“But we do,” Dubai mused. “Hail the Imperial commander. Tell him I will restrain the Mandalorian attack in return for his unconditional surrender. Inform him also that this is the only time I can hope to make such an offer, as once the Mandalorians shift their attack to the fortress they will be quite immune to my commands. Hopefully the sight of the massacre of their colleagues will take the fight out of them. Oh, and make sure to add that in victory, the Mandalorians are likely to sack and raze the entire planet’s population, unless they are restrained in the next few minutes.”

After sending the message, the officer in question turned back to the admiral. “Sir, are you sure we’ll be able to restrain Rojas and his clan? Our reports indicate he’s on the ground leading them personally.”

“Don’t bother me with questions above your station,” Dubai snapped, as he sank into another contemplative torpor. “Inform me when we have their response.”

The Imperial garrison base was among the largest structures in the Generisian capitol city. Far out from the city's center, it looked all the larger, sprouting up from the tops of small ada-trees and bristling with the shafts of numerous weapons emplacements that a day before had glistened with the spit and polish only bored and tired garrison troops could apply. Now, those guns were covered in grease having actually had to recoil from shots fired in anger - a first for so many sweat-covered gunners and fresh-faced officers. Judging from the wreckage of one enemy gunship whose crash had consumed a dozen homes, those gunners did better than they might have, but not as well as they could have.


Damn. Colonel Alazahr knelt beside a firing slit below the curved shrapnel-shield on the top parapet of the garrison base. He looked out at the overcast sky, broad grey and white clouds slowly losing the fight for dominance with hideous splotches of black that were not the creation of the Gods but of Daemons come to Generis. Squinting, the Colonel could see up the main boulevard to the wreckage of one of the regiment's two attached flak platoons. Most of the grenadiers who had sallied forth to protect them were dead or dying. Almost two hundred Imperial soldiers killed in a matter of minutes. So the landings begin.


" Incoming!" Alazahr was no war-hound; he was a soldier. He had gone where he was told, fighting who he must to survive. He had seen enough action to abandon his gaze and flatten himself on the metal plating under his boots, clutching his helmet as he did so. An officer barely twenty meters distant was too curious and peered over the parapet wall at the embrasure where a single--mount repeating blaster opened. Two concussion missiles lanced at the base on tongues of jet-blue flame and white smoke, slamming into the durasteel armor plating with a terrible force that rocked the surrounding sections. Flames shot hight over the wall, sending the repeating blaster, its crew, and the curious officer flying into the air in small pieces that would never be recovered.


The craft that fired the missiles streaked in low over the base, testing its defenses. A shoulder-fired micro-torpedo fired up from an alert grenadier on the opposite wall; the projectile was sucked into an exhaust fan and exploded - the debris was a welcome rain down on the defenders.





Surrender? I fear no surrender is possible.


Righting himself, Alazahr took another look into the city, absent-mindedly wiping the dust and grime from his breast plate. No, surrender was not an option. His intincts told him his men would die anyway and if die they must, it would be on their feet. He returned to the command chamber at a run.


" Colonel?"


Alazahr just shook his head. There would be no surrender and the issue was dropped. The regimental commander felt a dozen eyes on him, all of which he ignored. " We fight, Lieutenant. We'll hold here as best we can then we will head off into the farmland. We have to protect them."


The Lieutenant looked over the shoulder of the Colonel to a holo-vid feed of civilians running into the grassland that surrounded Vengaris on foot, in vehicles, on pack-animals - anyway they could. Alazahr was stabbing a finger at the civilians, sure of their charge. The garrison was on Generis to protect its people - they would hold off the enemy until reinforcements came.


If reinforcements come...


Fellix System


Fellix was nothing. Literally. There had been a star there eons before, long before the minds of man had come to fathom the life-cycles of stars. Now, it was only a General Staff officer's attempt at imposing a map's order on the endless void of space.


Fellix did however, have significance, despite its desolation. There was a small, unmanned transponder station there the size of a Carrack-cruiser, pulsing at all hours as it pushed HoloNet transmissions throughout the Onyx Sector. And there, next to it, was the diminuitive form of an Imperial gunship, connected by low-jack. Into the systems the guship's crew did tap until it overrid the security protocols by passwords for emergency use only. Eventually, a small blue-ish figure shimmered to life in the sector-relations cabin aboard the Conqueror-class Star Destroyer Intimidator.


" This is Lieutenant Golgan, commander, Naval Detachment of the Generis Garrison. Generis is under attack by superior enemy forces. Send reinforcements."