Warning sirens blared throughout the deck of the Acclaim, as Imperial warships began to converge on the system. Time to go.

Admiral Dubai's eyes flicked open, and he saw that his crew was in an uproar, shouting orders and reports back and forth while panic dogged at them. With a pound of his fist on the arm of his chair, he brought the madness to heel.

"Inform the Mandalorians that we are leaving the system immediately, and that if they don't disengage they will be left behind. Angle the shields towards the distant Imperial threat and have the fleet make full speed for the opposite direction in good order. Recall all fighters, keep the escorts and frigates as a picket formation to fend off enemy advance units."

The officers stared blankly at him for a moment longer before he slammed the chair arm again. "Do it now, you imbeciles!" The command deck descended into chaos as his crew rushed to obey his orders.

Dubai glanced out the viewport at the planet below, and cursed the Mandalorians for allowing their politics to befoul his mission. No matter. Whatever blood they had managed to spill would have to do.

The Nyxan fleet, moving within the planet's orbit to improve their velocity, began to put space between itself and the oncoming Imperials. Their opponents were still well out of range, but the Nyxan forces had no desire to stick around and let them close the distance. Escort ships slipped in behind the destroyers to provide a wall of anti-fighter defense to fend off bombers and other threats, but beyond a show of military discipline it was mostly irrelevant. There would be little action for the Nyxan navy this day.



On the ground, however, the situation was getting all the more desperate. The fighting between the Imperial and Mandalorian troops had become down and dirty. Rojas and his followers had suffered terrible losses, but their savage brand of warfare was still reaping through the Imperial troops, and one by one their armoured vehicles were being overrun.

It was Krona, who watched from overhead, who had the most to lose at the moment. Having just received word of the Imperial reinforcements, he looked down with unease at the raging battle. "Too soon..." he hissed. "The chief still lives... he must die before the battle ends, or all is lost!"

"Warchief," said a sycophantic warrior standing at Krona's side. "Our ships have finished evacuating the last of the warriors from the city proper. Only Rojas and his men remain - should we press in to evacuate them?"

Krona was uneasy, weighing his words carefully before he replied. To leave with the true warchief still living would cast doubts on his right to rule, and he couldn't wait around to be sure that Rojas died in battle - for his faults, the old chief was a canny fighter, and the Imperial fleet would be on top of them before he fell.

"We have no choice," Krona declared. "For the clan's honour, we cannot afford to leave an enemy alive, even at a price. Order the ships to open fire on the battlefield and scour it of all life - we will leave a blackened wasteland for our enemies to come home to, a fitting tribute to our brothers who die on the field!"

Yes, that sounded good, thought Krona, as he settled into his throne. Once Rojas was reduced to ash, there would be no question of his leadership, and they would be gone before the Empire could close the noose.



Rojas and his men charged yet again, their ragged screams and roars clashing with the thundering explosions that filled the air. Over broken earth and broken bodies, he sunk his blade into Imperial soldiers, spilling blood and limbs across the landscape. He was like a whirlwind of death, reaping left and right, unstoppable and glorious.

An enemy tank turned to face their chage, one of its' swivelling guns hailing down fire that cut up men to his left and right. Rojas dived to the ground, letting the fire rake harmlessly above him, before leaping up on to the tank's body and straddling the turret. He tore a battered thermal detonator from his belt, smashed the hatch hinges with his blade, and hurled the explosive down the hatch.

The explosion came so suddenly that he was hurled, laughing, through the air in a ball of fire and shrapnel. Rojas crashed to earth again, burning hot metal landing all over and missing him by mere inches. Glorious chance, which gave life to some men and took it from others without a care, was his favourite part of war.

As he struggled to his feet, surrounded by his admiring brothers, however, Rojas heard not the blazing battlecries of war, but instead the cold chill of betrayal. A shadow passed overhead, the only hint of what was to come, and before Rojas could look skyward to confirm he already knew what was coming.

Turbolaser fire began to rain from the heavens, turning the already-broken battlefield into a flying storm of men and metal. Mandalorians and Imperials alike hurtled screaming through the air as the Mandalorian warships began to make passes overhead, indiscriminately firing on everything in sight.

"Krona!" Rojas howled to the skies, wringing his fists in impotent fury. "KRONA! Betrayer! Weakling! Serpent!"

There was nothing he could do, however, and even at that very moment a lance of turbolaser fire exploded on to the ground mere meters away. He and his men were pitched in all directions - some in several directions - along with an Imperial party of troops that had been advancing on them.

Rojas' dazing was only temporary, but in that moment he could see nothing but the sky, blurred and filled with the swooping forms of traitorous war-birds spitting fire from above. He rolled over and staggered to his feet once more, trying to appraise what was going on.

It was then, several meters away, that he saw the Imperial commander equally dazed from the recent turn of events.

"You!" Rojas growled, grabbing a discarded vibrosword from the ground. "If we die, let it be together, in blood and glory! I will claim your skull this day!"

"No time," hissed Krona. "No time!"

His warships had turned the land below into a smoking haze, explosions of earth and fire blossomed all around and obscured the ground. He had lost sight of the chieftain in the chaos, but surely by now the man must be dead? He couldn't afford another moment of indecision, as blaring alarms told him the Imperial fleet was breathing down their necks.

"Order the fleet to disengage," Krona barked, slamming his fist on the command chair. "In order to preserve the clan's honour and reputation, we must survive this day. Whomever is still on the surface is lost to us in glorious battle."

None dared raised their heads to question this obvious lie, nor meet the eyes of the new chief. Doubts would remain whispers and hushed conversation so long as the threat of force remained foremost in their minds.

"Set a course to join up with the Nyxans, we must escape this Imperial entanglement."

With that, the Mandalorian ships broke formation and flooded towards orbit, their swift raider ships jostling for position as they attempted to put as much space as possible between themselves and the closing Imperial forces. Their hurried retreat had none of the dignity or discipline of the Nyxan pullout, but it was fast enough to put them out of range of the enemy heavy guns. If any of the clan felt shame or reservations about such a cowardly retreat, they likely lay dead on the field from their own guns.

Not every Mandalorian lay dead, however, for despite the odds (perhaps even to spite them) Rojas still stood, battered and bloody. With a vibrosword in hand he swung and cleaved at the Imperial commander, half-blind with blood and half-deaf from the massive explosions.

"KILL!" He howled, now at last more animal than man. "MAIM! SLAUGHTER! BLOOD! DEATH! DIE!" A wide blow missed the commander narrowly and shattered the blade into fragments as it smashed into a burning wreck of a tank.

Were they the last two men on the field? Rojas had no idea. His vision was narrowed to a tiny speck encompassing his foe and nothing else. All around the smoke and upturned earth from the bombardment clouded the air so that they seemed lost on an endless charnel field.

Unarmed, Rojas lunged forward with his bare hands barreling over the commander who was yelling something - something unclear, distant. Rojas didn't care. He gripped his hands around the commander's throat and began to squeeze, grunting and growling as he tried to crush the life from his foe.

In his blood-rage, however, Rojas failed to notice the commander's sidearm was drawn, and a flash of red light came between them as he caught a bolt in the chest. His thick armour offered what protection it could, but Rojas was still hurled backwards with a yelp, pain tinging his already addled consciousness.

Staggering back to his feet, Rojas saw that the commander was gone. He looked around quickly, gasping in deep lungfuls of air. Where did he go? What was going on? The smoke seemed to close in around him, choking him, sapping the adrenaline-strength from his limbs.

"Savage," spat a contemptuous voice, causing Rojas to turn. Atop the ruined hulk of a nearby tank was the commander, who keyed in an override on the tank turret. The machine's turret beeped a reply, the one warning Rojas got before being blasted by concentrated anti-armour firepower. He was vaporized nigh-instantaneously.

And so ended the Mandalorian raid on Generis, with the one survivor on the field left to inherit what the lives of so many had bought - a barren, blackened stretch of earth, and the ruins of civilization.



"We're breaching the limit of the mass shadow now, admiral," reported a subordinate from the sensor station. "Enemy interdiction is still sixty seconds out. Ready to jump on your command."

"Get us out of this damn mess," Dubai growled. "If those wretched Mandalorians ask for our help, don't even deign to reply."

The Nyxan fleet, still out of reach of the Empire, began their jumps to hyperspace. It was just the first of many jumps in order to shake pursuers, but they were effectively home free. Shields dropped and fighters returned, allowing them a safe escape vector.

For the Mandalorians racing to escape, however, it would not be so easy. Advance elements of the Imperial fleet dogged them relentlessly, and long-range bombardment from some of the heavier guns began to reach them, admittedly dispersed. Nevertheless, they were nimble enough to escape just before any interdiction could be attempted, losing only a few fighters to enemy potshots. They lept after their Nyxan cohorts, taking with them the last Crusader presence in the system.

They left nothing in their wake but a few ruined husks of ships and a heap of corpses. No ultimatum, no spokesman, no message - at least, none delivered directly. Their identity would remain, for the moment, a mystery, but as the battle itself came to an end and the aftermath settled in, the fires that guttered out in the ruins of Generis's capital were just the beginning of a blazing inferno set to consume the entire sector.



The combined forces regrouped on their way to Threshold. Dubai seemed less than pleased that any Mandalorians had escaped at all, but for the look of the thing (and at the urging of his superiors) he maintained an open communications link during the rest of the return voyage.

This link left the two commanders staring each other down from their respective command thrones, quietly fuming about the results of the battle and being as frigidly polite as protocol required.

"So you're the new chief," Dubai finally growled. "Hopefully clan Krona will be an improvement on clan Rojas."

"The old chief was too set in the old ways. The Mandalorians aren't just that antiquated set of warrior codes any more. It's a rallying call for true warriors and slayers across the galaxy, and must be able to accommodate their differing philosophies."

"Yes, well, there wasn't much philosophy to Rojas's mad butchering." A steward approached Dubai, offering a tray with a glass and bottle. Dubai dismissed the servant with a wave. "Leave the bottle."

He poured himself a generous glass and held it in toast before the screen. "May you last longer in your role than your predecessor."

"The clan will survive," Krona affirmed. "Many new Mandalorian warriors are without clans. We will recruit from the best, using our reputation from this battle to come out stronger than when we went in."

"What reputation?" replied Dubai with a sharp, cruel laugh. "You betrayed your chief and fled the field. Killing random civilians was a waste of our strategic advantages and military might."

"We shed first blood with the enemy and instilled terror in their hearts," Krona snapped back. "You Nyxans know nothing of real war. It's ruthless, bloodthirsty, and irrational. Rojas was an idiot, but even he knew the value isn't in strategic leverage or numbers on a spreadsheet, it's about leaving your enemies stacked five deep in the dead, terrifying them with your will and might. That we accomplished today, and will be celebrated for tomorrow."

Krona snorted and turned away from the vidscreen. "Gods only know what you'll be commended for, knowing what little damage you managed to inflict. Running at the first sign of an Imperial response? Even your supposedly 'civilized' army will recognize true cowardice like that. Discipline and pride mean nothing."

"I followed my orders to the letter!" Dubai barked, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. He hurled his half-full glass against the wall where it shattered. "It was your ridiculous infighting and utter disregard for strategy that bungled this operation!"

"Sounds like you're already making your excuses for when you need to explain yourself to your 'superiors', admiral," a smug Krona hissed. "Enjoy your scolding, while I go bask in the glory of my newly-won accolades."

The comm-link was severed, leaving Dubai seething and grasping the arms of his command throne so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When at last an unlucky lackey dared approach him, Dubai turned a withering glare upon him and snapped "What now?"

"M-Message from the Supreme Commander, admiral," the unfortunate young man stammered out.

"Put it onscreen immediately, then get out of my sight," the admiral replied.

Relieved to comply, the man finished his business and departed, leaving Dubai alone. The screen to his side flickered to life again, this time with the face of the Supreme Commander.

"I've already received word of your exploits, admiral," Maxson declared. Dubai gave a restrained nod in reply. "They're all over the holonet. The massacre was quite terrible, and is causing a stir across the galaxy, not to mention rampant speculation."

He paused, as if expecting an explanation. When none was forthcoming, Maxson continued. "You may be wondering what the purpose of the attack was - don't worry, you have succeeded tremendously. Nyx extends it's congratulations to you, our first hero in this historic campaign. There are many more battles to come, and it will take steel nerves such as yours to do the messy work to come."

At this, even Dubai seemed incredulous. "But sir, what exactly have I accomplished?"

"It doesn't matter," said Maxson, a bewildering smile upon his face. "All that matters is that you have heralded our arrival." At that, the Acclaim exited Hyperspace. Row upon row of Nyxan warships had at last come into formation, with warbands of Mandalorian raiders forming up at odd intervals. Where before it had seemed like a mad traffic stop, now the ever-growing warhost moved with a purpose, squadrons setting off in all directions to carry war and devestation to the sector.

"In the end, Generis shall be but a footnote to the honours we will win on the field of battle. It is the beginning, the bloody harbinger of our arrival on the galactic scene. People will forget exactly what happened, but what they will never forget is our coming storm, when the Crusade shall take it's rightful place in the sun, and we, the Nyxans shall lead the charge!

"Nyx prevails, admiral."

Rage. Undeniable, unbridled rage. It was the sole emotion coursing through his veins, the picture which clouded his vision, the very thing that drove him mad. His hands twisted into fists which clenched tightly together, birthing a sharp tearing sound as the black leather of his gloves ground together. Together his teeth did grind and even his body shake until all poise was lost and a horrible growl echoed forth from his lungs, one word fueled by impotent rage.

" No!!!!"

Around him stood the bridge crew from their various stations, each one stopped and starring. They had never seen such a man give in to his anger, nor release it in their presence. They had seen a man calm, and collected - cold, even - their superior and leader. Now, he was something more, yet something less at the same time.

Human.

His growl subsided and the rage dimmed, at least on the surface. For a few long moments he had stood there, releasing emotion no man can sanely bottle; then his position took over his person. The man surrendered and the Grand Admiral returned.

He faced the crew and though his eyes were open, he looked at nothing.

" The enemy has been driven off, but we did not defeat him. Untold horrors the likes of which we daren't imagine have doubtless played out upon our brothers and citizens below. Soon we shall know the extent of the plague we now see festering in this sector. They enemy slipped away and did not pay for his crimes. Rest assured, we have not seen the last of them. No, we have only seen the beginning of this conflict. Intelligence tells me we fight raiders and pirates - "

The Grand Admiral stabbed a gloved-finger at the viewport behind him to where the wreckage of a gunship floated just beyond the last location of the enemy armada.

" - but those were not pirates. No, we face an unknown threat, and they are the most dangerous kind. But we will defeat them. By the Will of the Emperor, we will defeat them - because we have to defeat them. Or what happened down there will happen to our homes. Let that knowledge steel our spines and stiffen our resolve."

Baron Desaria left the bridge in silence. Hesitantly, operations resumed, and the untold horrors upon Generis became told. Drop ships and transports rushed supplies and soldiers to the surface while those that survived lost all composure at the sight of burned corpses and mutilated bodies piled high for the amusement of the invaders. To those that saw such sights, the reality was inescapable - the Onyx Sector, at peace since the arrival of the Empire, was again at war.