Threshold

"Results are looking good from the latest war parties," muttered an Onyxian general as he entered the small meeting room. He grabbed a seat at one end of the table and took a deep gulp from his mug. "The spacelanes have been easy pickings."

"Slim pickings, maybe," snapped a well-dressed admiral to his left. "Between the Imperial occupation and our own operations, hardly a ship dares to cross the void of space."

Around the table, the high command of the Onyxian Expedition shared uncertain glances. It was their first meeting of the day cycle, and already they were retreading old ground.

"Our success rate at containing civilian activity has been tremendous," countered a younger admiral across the table. "Negligible casualties, a near-90% capture or destroy rate upon engagement, most every eligible target in the sector we've spotted and contained."

"We have spotted nothing but Imperial patrols for days, and yet our hands are tied to only engage civilian convoys that do not exist!"

"If the orders I issue are insufficient for you, admiral, then by all means, speak your mind."

An uneasy silence descended on the room as a grand chair at the head of the table slowly wheeled round. Supreme Commander Maxson, dressed in his full regalia even in their private meeting chambers, took a full minute to eye each of his commanders in turn. "My primary concern is bringing glory to Nyx. Don't be afraid to tell me if any of you see flaws in my strategems."

Where the others hesitated, one admiral persisted. "We have done almost nothing to disrupt Imperial control of the sector since our arrival. Petty raids and piracy are beneath Nyx's glory! When are you going to send us into the fire of war?"

"Our activities until this moment are bound only by the strategic realities presented to us," Maxson replied, with practiced ease. "The moment we have an opening, I will not hesitate to seize these weak and slovenly Imperials by the throat and claim rightful victory."

"Then by all means, set us loose!" exclaimed the admiral, slamming his fist on the table.

"In due time, admiral Grue," said Maxson, his voice calm and soothing. "For the moment, we will continue our pattern of war parties and space-raids. Surprise will be our greatest weapon, and I have no wish to squander it before our time is ripe. Our presence is a cancer on the sector, and the longer we have to weaken the system, the greater our strength will be when we pluck out the heart. My orders stand, you are dismissed."

As the admirals and generals sullenly filed out, Maxson spun his chair round again so that he was facing a wall of screens. From a speaker lodged somewhere in the mess, a booming laugh could be heard. "I didn't realize Mr. Riddley had you reading cue cards now."

Maxson glared at the multimedia display, but said nothing. The door to the meeting room closed behind the last general, and he was now alone.

"I'm sick of treading water, Kale," Maxson growled. "Tell me your warriors have found something."

"This is your lucky day. A war party just got back from the Generis area, scouting in the aftermath of our raid."

"Bah!" barked Maxson, who slammed his fist on he arm of his chair. "Some raid. A heap of corpses and a few bloodied savages - hardly the resounding triumph I was looking for."

"Yeah, right. Anyways, my warriors spotted a fleet gathering not too far away. Looks like a civilian convoy, heavily guarded but also rich in slaves and plunder."

"Refugees?"

"Probably. Some backwoods Onyxian colony trying to get out before they suffer the same fate as Generis."

"So Dubai managed to accomplish something after all," Maxson mused. He leaned back into his chair and stared into the darkened screens that covered the wall. "That's exactly the sort of rich target we've been waiting for - something no one can mistake for a pirate raid or rebel group, it will be a chance for us to flex true military muscle."

"Hey, I saw it first!" Kale barked back. "My warriors will provide the spearhead. We know how to snare a convoy and deal with frightened weaklings. Your soldiers can back us up."

Maxson gritted his teeth, but eventually nodded to himself in begruding agreement. "So be it. We will... share this victory. I'll meet you in the ampitheater for a strategy session at 1200 hours."

"To bloodshed!" With that emphatic announcement, the audio feed was cut.

Maxson waited a few moments, his attentive ear listening for any slight movement or sound. When he was convinced he was absolutely alone, he touched a panel, causing the screens to come alight with maps and battle-spreads of the Onyxian Sector.

"Ahhh, to dream..." Maxson murmured, as he began plotting out his warlike fantasies, each of which crept closer to reality.



With the commanders of both sides of the Crusade's joint task force filing into the station's grand ampitheater, Maxson and Mandalore Kale took their opposite seats at the front table. Holoprojections of the sector floated above them, with strategic overlays in various colours marking various priority targets and areas of concern.

As the last few fleet admirals and war chiefs settled into their seats, Maxson turned to the Mandalore and murmured "I have a whole battlegroup prepared for launch, destroyers, a carrier, frigates, corvettes - everything, and many thousands of good soldiers to crew them."

"Some of my best clans are vying for the honour of this battle," Kale replied. "I brought them in their tens and hundreds of thousands to Threshold, but only the finest few thousand will accompany us. I need no unblooded fools to ruin this for us. We will be the spear."

"Right," said Maxson. "Let's get started then."

He got up from his chair, and immediately all chatter amongst the commanders fell silent. "First things first. Due to some new intelligence, there's been a change of plans-"

With that very word, the doors to the ampitheater flew open with a resounding clang. All eyes turned as a bald-headed figure in a thick black uniform stepped through the doorway. Emblazoned on his chest was the red crest of Palestar himself.

"Indeed," declared the Void Knight, his voice lifeless yet terribly resolved. "There has been."

"You can't just storm in here and-"

The guard that had run up to intercept the Knight immediately relented under his gaze, an emotionless expression through which the piercing gaze of Dacian could be felt as an echo. With his audience suitably cowed, the Knight descended the steps towards Maxson and Mandalore. "I bring a message from Mr. Riddley, operating on behalf of Palestar. He instructed me to carry this message to you personally and immediately, and brook no intereference."

Mandalore rested his hand on his axe haft, as though he meant to rise and strike down the intruder, but Maxson raised a hand to ask for peace. "We'll take it in the side chamber, now. The rest of you, keep your seats."

The three of them retreated to a side door leading to a small projection chamber just behind the ampitheater. With the door shut behind them, Maxson rounded on the Void Knight red in the face. "Just what the hell are you playing at?"

"I could ask you the same question," replied a cold and familiar voice. The Void Knight lifted a small device from his belt, upon which stood a tiny holographic Mr. Riddley. "You have disappointed me, gentlemen. I expected more. Your current inactivity is nowhere in my projections."

"Tough talk from Dacian's prize poodle," Mandalore growled. "The master's away, so the dogs have their say, and I will not bow and scrape to the likes of you."

"Then don't," said Mr. Riddley. "I'm not here to lecture you, I'm here to get you back on track. We need to speed up the Onyxian campaign. Instability has barely begun to seed, and if the Empire gets their roots in too deep they'll never be torn out again. Update me on your present situation."

"A convoy just outside of Generis," said Maxson. "It's a big target, the largest we've seen in weeks, lots of refugees, we're going to lead a major space-assault on it."

"Generis was weeks ago, Supreme Commander. It's a little late for a snap retreat." The tiny holographic Mr. Riddley paced on and off camera as he thought. "It's a trap. It has to be. They've had no success in starving you out and they haven't been able to find our catch you with patrols, so they're baiting you into the open with a prize you can't resist."

"So you'd ignore it?!" Kale seemed fit to burst. "I cannot stand another moment's peace! Turn us loose on something, anything!"

"I didn't say to ignore it," said Mr. Riddley. "Use it. Send those whom you trust the least, give them more than they need for the task - but don't cripple yourself, don't expect any of them to come back. Let the enemy think they've caught the whole of the 'Rebel fleet', or whatever they think we are, and while they're blind with confidence you can hit them where it hurts."

"Sounds risky..." Maxson muttered, uneasy. "What if it isn't a trap? We'll look foolish."

"If it isn't a trap then it'll still be hard-fought, that will weaken the power-base of your rivals within your own forces. You'll still have your prize while keeping yourself safe from harm. The Empire has many competent strategists and they have the time and resources to lay many traps, so don't expose yourself needlessly. Execute draconian measures if necessary, wipe your men's datacomputers except for what they need to jump into battle then send a "rescue" ship with the coordinates home if they win and the zone is secure. That'll keep the location of your base a secret, in case they capture your ships."

"A fair idea," Mandalore admitted, scratching at his chin through his sealed helmet. "What of your... servant?"

"This Void Knight will remain with you for the time being," said Mr. Riddley, his attention apparently already drifting. "I need to remain up-to-date on the situation and that means I want a presence at your side during the campaign. Dacian has apparently told the Void Knights to follow my orders specifically, so for the time being consider anything you hear through this Knight as a direct message from either myself or Dacian."

"I'll allow it, but I won't like it."

"Then that makes two of us," replied Mr. Riddley. "Don't get me wrong, gentlemen, I take no pleasure or ego out of this, but the stakes are too high for mistakes. Organize your troops then get back to me, we have a lot more to discuss."

The three of them emerged from the little side room and took their places at the front table - the Void Knight now taking a seat next to Madalore and Maxson.

"Like I said," said Maxson, who drew the holomap of the Onyxian sector close. "There's been a change of plans."



The Obedience was a mighty ship, suitable for a mighty man, or so admiral Grue considered as he looked down on the ship from one of the command lounges high on the station's peak. The battleship was designed in the style of the Imperator class Star Destroyers, although Nyxan engineering had made the ship almost irrecognizably boxy and utilitarian according to their own visual philosophy.

As the iron heart of his battlegroup, it sported more than enough firepower for any opposition the good admiral expected. To be given such a high-priority mission after weeks of frustration was a sign of great favour amongst the admirality - he could feel his star rising.

"Remember your orders," said Maxson, who stepped neatly in besides admiral Grue with surprising stealth. "I want total obliteration of the convoy, all ships must be seized or scuttled. Show no mercy, and do not be afraid to show them the glory of Nyx."

"I will show no fear, Supreme Commander," Grue boasted. His chest swelled with pride as the associated frigates and corvettes began to detatch from the station and enter formation. "I shall teach the Empire that Nyx prevails over all!"

A faint bell, barely audible over the low chatter of the command lounge, indicated that the final boarding call for the Obedience had been sounded. "You'd best to your ship, admiral. Nyx prevails."

With a sharp salute, the admiral departed the command lounge swiftly. The lounge was filled with well-kept tables where the finest members of the task force's elite wined and dined one another, and from a nearby table one such officer detatched himself and quietly approached the Supreme Commander.

"Remember your orders, as well," Maxson murmured, his eyes remaining fixed upon the ships below. "I won't lie, colonel. Not to you, not now. It will be difficult I'm sure, but what we do is for Nyx, and in that service every life is well-spent."

The colonel nodded. He buttoned up his uniform and saluted, before departing the lounge in pursuit of the admiral. Maxson waited until the sound of both men was distant and forgotten, and then again until the Obedience weighed anchor and detatched from the station.

Soon the Nyxan fleet was in formation, silver geometric specks swimming in infinity. Maxson watched them go until they disappeared into the dark, and then spun on his heel and was off. He was content to never see any of them again.

The Grand Admiral inhaled.


Such a sweet aroma it had, the hand-rolled Abucan cigarra. It's wrapping was lovingly treated and preserved, the bac inside exquisitely dried then shredded then packaged - and all with the bare minimum of automated assistance. Thousands of men and women, their skin leathery and darkened from a lifetime spent working in the terraformed cliff-fields of Abuca, toiled to provide what was now the most expensive legal cigarra on the market. Perhaps it was the sheer rarity of purchase, perhaps the reminder that each one was produced by a twentieth-generation artisan and not a machine; regardless, they were a rare treat that only a percent of a percent of the galaxy's known population could afford. Such were the luxuries of men of noble birth.


The Grand Admiral exhaled.


The smoke rushed away from the Admiral's face, slamming against the viewport with impotent fury until it dissipated into nothingness, the cloud sucked in by ever-working air purification ducts. As he watched the greyish smoke vanish, he was reminded of time before, when he had stood with colleagues and friends as was alone among them in partaking. Was it pride? Perhaps vanity? Perhaps the 10,000-credit per cigarra price tag made them conscious of their status when not in uniform; the Grand Admiral knew not. But he was alone, even among most of his friends.

Watching the smoke, he felt more alone than ever before. He was isolated. Though it was barely half-finished, Baron Desaria crushed out the cigarra in a nearby tray and grasped one black gloved hand by the other at the small of his back. Were it not for the hustling and bustling of the officers' lounge, a person nearby might have head the leather rub and squeak as one hand gnshed on the other. Certainly no Grand Admiral entertained an emotion such as fear! No...something not nearly as base but far more reaching.


Loathing.


With the smoke now gone, the reflections in the viewports were quite discernible. All but a few were men, and all were human. All wore black throughout except for a broad stripe down the seam of each set of trousers, denoting branch of service by color. Naval officers wore white, Fleet Assault Corps officers wore yellow, Army red, Medical and Scientific Officers a purple so dark it was nearly perfectly camouflaged by the black that flanked it, and so on. They moved and talked in groups of twos and threes, giving them every similarity with the olive-green uniformed officers one would expect to find on any ship of the regular military. But there was one glaring difference.


Against the backdrop of cold, limitless space, it stood out like a beacon in the mist. Though it was flanked on both sides by thick wood panelling quite more lavish than one would expect on a warship, it robbed such accoutrements of their beauty. It sat there, unmoving, its inverted form in the window interrupted in part every few seconds by one of four droids or the human attendent behind the bar: white double runes that ran from ceiling to floor like twin bolts of lightning sent forth by an angry god. The white runes set so precisely on a field of black nicely hid the blood that such a symble was drenched in.


The SS. Smallest and newest member of the Imperial Armed Services. Ruthless, efficient, operating without any scurple that hindered victory. Laudable perhaps in their zeal, their methodology of success did not allow for prisoners or wounded or civilians. Grand Admiral Desaria shuddered to himself - inwardly, of course - as he saw with the bend of his head many of the young SS officers watching him. He knew some undoubtedly hated his personage, most of the SS being fervently anti-aristocrat. Others, most, even, probably looked up to him with a sort of interest that bordered on idolitry: no Grand Admiral save him had ever graced such a ship with his precence. He was a holder of the Imperial Cross with Pforr Leaves and Crossed Sabres and a dozen other decorations that had been earned, not given. These young SS men were curious, perhaps even wanting to be friendly.


And how did this tall Kuati noble, the Kommandant of the Imperial Guard, repay their wished-for courtesy, their interest? With contempt. He had spent a lifetime fighting according to a set of rules. Some called it his attempt at an old style of gentleman's war, others called it chivalry, still more, especially the xenophobes, called it pointless. The Grand Admiral and his lot, the cuff-title toting Guard, knew it simply as honour. That was the concept, for all their zeal and victories, the SS would never know.


Thus was the Grand Admiral alone. Worse still, he was among these men by choice, brought about by precipitate need. His position as Grand Admiral placed him above the Guard and forced his hand to do things were he a rank lower he would have fought to the death not to do. But high command brings with it high responsibilities. Thus here he was, in the den of those he despised, because he needed the very baseness, the very ruthlessness, the very thoughtless obedience that the Guard in its glory could - and should - never provide.


That sickened him.


He doubtless confused his spectators when he left his brandy untouched and stalked out of the lounge. He needed these men for a horrible mission, and he was none too happy about it. But such was the burden of gold braided epaulettes.


The Grand Admiral put such thoughts from his mind. He had a trap to spring.

In deep space, there is no movement. In the truly vast gulf between stars, there are whole swaths that have never been touched by a single particle of matter. The web of distant lights that surround them shift at the speed of aeons. Patches of space like this are perhaps the closest the galaxy comes to unchanging, one moment frozen in time and emptiness.

Then, for a moment, the Crusader fleet surges out of hyperspace. Rank after rank of dull grey warships appear, shattering the stillness of this virgin void, before banking sharply and launching back into hyperspace, enroute to a distant destination. In the interstellar wilderness it'll likely be further millions of years before that spot sees anything every again.

Admiral Grue mused on this poetic fact as he stood before the full-length windows of his command bridge. The swirls of hyperspace were an unfamiliar sight still, though the relatively new Nyxan Navy was rapidly getting a handle on space and it's various nuances. To go where no man had gone before, and with more firepower than they had ever known, appealed strongly to the militiristic spirit of his people.

"Status report."

"Closing in on objective blue, admiral," reported Grue's lieutenant from his command console. The shipmaster punched up a holographic display, showing the remainder of their circuitous route. They were past Generis, and were very nearly at the last confirmed location of the convoy.

"Fleet status?"

"All wings reporting green and ready to launch. Cruisers are in battle order, frigates in position around them, pickets prepared to take up defensive positions according to localized command. Command control has been established, tethered to this station. All captains have signalled full readiness, and I'm seeing all personnel at posts and at combat readiness on the Obedience. We are at your command, admiral."

Grue sank luxuriously into his command throne. "As you were, lieutenant. Update me if anything changes."

Admiral Grue, hero of the Nyxan Empire. It had a ring to it, really sounded like something future generations could admire. Still, Supreme Commander Grue, that might be an improvement.



The bridge carries a certain amount of prestige on every warship. What some people forget in the excitement and thrill of interstellar war and politics is that for every warship, for every speck in the infinite void, there are thousands (and potentially thousands of thousands) of people who help make the ship work. Gun crews loading, firing, and maintaining the heavy artillery. Droid specialists who run the automated systems. Petty officers who organize the mobs of manual labour used to help the ship overcome mechanical challenges. Engineers, soldiers, janitors, clerks, all working to keep a hunk of space afloat in hard vacuum and blowing up people not unlike them.

That's why the auxilliary bridge tends to be a somewhat less-prestigious post. Though theoretically the place where the commanders would regain control of the ship in case of disaster, in reality it is privately aknowledged that if the auxilliary bridge were needed it's already probably too late. As such, the bridge's officers tend to be a motley collection of less-than-stellar midshipmen types tasked with boring data processing and remotely assissting the more important, 'real' bridge crew.

So when the doors to the auxilliary bridge of the Obedience opened, and a smartly dressed army officer stepped in, it caused a bit of a stir.

"Who's in command here?" he asked, taking in the slack-jawed crew.

One relatively anemic and pale old officer stepped forwards, saying "I can comm the admiral immediately, if you wish to speak to-"

"No, I mean who's in command right here?" said the colonel.

The same officer cleared his throat, somewhat unnerved by the look Hark was giving them - like a bird of prey selecting amongst morsels. "That would be me, sir."

"Excellent. In that case, I will be relieving you of command, effective immediately." With that, the colonel passed the stunned old man a sealed letter from within his uniform. "Don't worry, though, I'll be needing your help to better direct your crew. I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Captain... Ostick, sir."

"Ostick, then," said the colonel, as he eased into the command throne - somewhat less luxurious than the one on the main deck, to be sure. "I'm colonel Hark, with the 101st."



Upon a few planets, a bare few out of the countless that populate the galaxy, destiny seems to play a strange role. Despite the odds or the obstacles, a few worlds consistently find themselves the fulcrum of galactic events, or producing individuals of exceptional merit.

One such world was Yinchorr. The world had been touched by many galactic events, and the hardy Yinchorri had influenced some events in turn. Even when their civilization was devestated by the Empire and they sunk into obscurity, the planet itself produced the deadly Imperial Royal Guard, and in an incident of galactic irony, one of those guards would be exiled there only to become a founding member of the crusade.

Lord Silk was not the only one to drag himself from the obscurity of Yinchorr to a galactic stage, however.

The warrior, Quintar, could not remember his early life. Life had begun in the ring, where he had fought against others for money and glory. Underground fighting had become quite popular in the anarchy and chaos following the collapse of galactic society, and strong races like the Yinchorri were in high demand.

What he did remember - one of the few things he deemed worth remembering - was the day he had heard of the Mandalorians. There were many things he did not understand, but strength was something he knew intunitively, and so did this new clan. After killing his supposed 'owners', he stole a ship and was one of the first to answer their call on the volcanic world of New Mandalore.

Perhaps it was this singleminded eagerness that had garnered him special attention, for when the Mandalore and a man in black had needed warriors for a special mission, they had come to him first.

"Stealth, force, control," the newcomer had said. "You possess them, and we have need."

It was by the Mandalore's command Quintar had gathered a group of warriors of his choosing and set off quietly from Threshold, ready to complete a new objective.

Aboard the Firebird, the two-dozen Mandalorians struggled to stay comfortable. Swathed as they were with urban camo and scavenged, personalized gear, this proved to be more difficult than perhaps planned. Quintar had chosen well, however, and not a complaint was heard.

From his position in the cockpit he could turn and see all of them, seated silently in the passenger section, but his attention was forward.

"Quite a posse you've got here," the crusty pilot said with a chuckle and a thematically-inappropriate knee-slap. "No chance you're keen on telling me what's the plan yet, huh?"

Unfortunately, in assembling his team, Quintar had required a very particular calibre and specialization of the pilot. This sort of consideration left little room for being selective about personality. When no answer was forthcoming, the pilot frowned and pulled down his homemade flying goggles. "Fine, be that way. Coordinates're all punched in."

"Engage hyperjump."

The Firebird disappeared from Threshold's system and began the trip to Onyx. There, mysterious new parts of the Crusade strategy were about to unfold.

It wasn't the fact that he was an aristocrat, or that he did things differently, or even that he hated them. It was that he thought himself better than them. It was that one thing that drove Captain Tribek to despise the Grand Admiral that now had made the Visectus his flagship.

The white-uniformed Guard had a role to play in the Empire. They did everything they did with honor, holding it above all else. They would not kill civilians, even if doing so would decrease the number of lives lost. They would not shoot a wounded enemy, even if they knew he might later come back to shoot them. But people liked them for it.

The SS did what it needed to do. It did those things the Guard wouldn't. They did not kill needlessly, but neither did they hold back. War to them was unrestricted, because to them unrestricted warfare was the only way to win a war. It was the only thing that brought nations to their knees, thereby sparing the lives of millions of people that would inevitably die in an honorable war. They did their part. And people hated them for it.

Both played a vital role in the Empire. Yet there remained an animosity between them, one that Tribek feared would never be cured so long as people like Admiral Desaria led the Guard. It was understandable that they may not understand each other, or that they would even not like what the other did. But to think themselves better...that was unforgivable.

Tribek turned his head as the Grand Admiral's boots clapped on the deck behind him. The man was his superior, but Tribek knew how to run this ship. There had already been some conflict about that. Desaria came here thinking he would be able to run this vessel like he did in the Guard, not realizing that the SS fought very differently. Tribek had complained to Colonel-General Vos, who had in turn approached Desaria. Now, it seemed, there was an uneasy truce between the two, but Tribek wondered who would actually be in command once the fighting started.

He knew the Grand Admiral's plan, and to him it was unacceptable. He didn't mind giving up civilian lives; such was the cost of war. But to throw his men's lives away in a needless slugfest was beyond his abilities. If the fighting began, and Desaria ordered such an action, Tribek had already determined that he would refuse such an order.

Tribek had been raised in the Imperial Navy, his father the captain of his own Star Destroyer. The younger had followed his father's footsteps, going to the Imperial Academy and graduating just before Endor, where his father was killed by the Rebels. The fair-skinned Tribek's service record was impeccable; he had never lost a fight yet, no matter the odds. He always seemed to be able to pull out victory. Some said it was his flaming red hair. Others attributed it to his good luck. Tribek said nothing to these rumors; he simply smiled and continued to win. He had been drafted into the SS and given command of one of the largest battleships of the Imperial fleet, an ISD-V, the Visectus. She was a beauty, her lines smooth, her engines powerful, her guns deadly. He hated the thought of someone else ruining her.

But such was a Grand Admiral's prerogative. Turning fully, Tribek saluted. "Admiral, I take it you have been enjoying the hospitality of my command?"

Desaria stared at him coldly. "Sir," Tribek corrected, "Apologies, Sir. Just trying to make conversation. Sir, the ship is ready for action. She is yours to command," he continued, without any enthusiasm. "Her guns are clean and smooth and ready for enemy targets," he finished with a grin.

Not entirely complete.

"Hyperspace reversion in five."

"Notify all commands, standby for orders."

The Nyxan fleet stormed back into realspace at the coordinates for the refugee fleet. The rally point was in deep space, away from most neighbouring planets and thus meant to let the escapees hide in the trackless expanse of darkness. That the Mandalorian scouts had found them was pure chance, and they were about to pay for their bad luck.

At least, they would have, had there been any ships to attack.

Grue rose from his seat, his brow furrowed. "What the hell? Where are they?! Are we in the right place? Damn it, I want answers!"

A frightened lieutenant came quickly to his aid, punching up a hologram of surrounding space. "Sensors show no non-Nyxan vessels within short and mid range, sweeping long range now to confirm."

"Did that Mandalorian bastard send us on a wild goose chase?" Grue was furious, his mind racing with scenarios of deceit and betrayal. Had he been set up?

“Picking up something on the long range, admiral,” answered a sensor techie. “Can’t tell what, though. Signal strength’s too low.”

“Bring us about, helm,” Grue demanded. The bridge broke into chaos as he thundered commands. “That must be the target. I don’t care what it is, we’re going to demolish it. Launch all fighters, raise shields, prime weaponry - in that order - and order the fleet into approach formation. I want our Immobilizer on point, in case they try to run.”

Nyxan fighters and bombers began to pour either side of the bridge, star fields by past as the Obedience realigned to its new target. They couldn’t see it yet, but Grue knew it had to be the refugee fleet.

If it wasn’t, all his high-flung dreams of glory and prestige might well be forfeit.



The Firebird slipped gracefully out of hyperspace, the sleek and stealthy vessel wasting no time in approaching the planet Onyx.

“Smooth jump,” the pilot declared with a wry grin. “They don’t see us yet. Punching in approach vector.”

“Hold,” said Quintar, raising a hand to stay the pilot. He pointed towards a grey blotch hanging above the planet. “Tell me.”

The pilot tapped a few commands into his sensor console. “Looks like the local shipyard. She’s a beaut too, those Onyxians had style before the Empire shot ‘em to hell.”

“Approach.”

The pilot was a little uneasy, but unwilling to disobey. “I’ll try and bring us close, but there’s no way the Baron didn’t leave some heavy protection around his prize.”

As the Firebird daringly skimmed closer to the planet, the grey splotch slowly took shape into a vast orbital shipyard guarded by several Imperial warships. Quintar was unfamiliar with the nomenclature of the Imperial navy, so to him the vessels were simply large and threatening triangles. Even his limited understanding told him that something was off about them, however.

“Not enough, seems like…” the pilot muttered. He flipped his goggles up in surprise, almost as if in disbelief of what he was seeing. “That’s hardly a trifle of the occupation fleet! I seen it myself, back when I used to do smuggling runs in the sector - they were tearin’ everything up between the borderlands and Onyx. Barely escaped with m’life after gettin’ caught in an interdiction net.”

“Mandalore was right,” Quintar muttered. Good. That made his job considerably easier.

Though the warships were brilliant weapons, the vast shipyard they protected was somewhat less sophisticated. As such, it was easy for a pilot of sufficient skill in a well-chosen vessel to approach from such an angle as to avoid the sweep of military sensors.

“We’re getting lucky,” said the pilot, perspiration visible upon his brow. “They shoulda seen us at the station by now.”

The station will only be lightly guarded and populated. With the Imperial engineers occupied with converting the station to their standards and specifications it will be inoperable and thus mostly closed. This they believe to be a security measure, in order to limit access by native Onyxian crew or staff that might attempt partisan sabotage. Their guards will therefore be few, and easy to overpower.

So far, everything Quintar had been told in the briefing was true. This gave him confidence in offering his next command. “Set down in a hangar bay, one dark and unattended. We will not be seen.”

“You crazy, lizard?” said the pilot, giving the Yinchorri a sideways look. “Fine then. Don’t blame me when we’re blown to hell, though.”

Picking a hangar bay built into a vast, darkened bulkhead, the Firebird landed neatly in the station and magnetically-locked on to the ground. There was no field separating space from the hangar, nor any atmosphere or gravity within - the whole place had been shut down. The Firebird’s pilot and passengers tensed, waiting for automated defences, comm hails, or at least a sensor ping.

Nothing.

“Good work,” said Quintar, as he go to his feet. “Now ours begins.”

The air hung thick in the bowels of the Thermidor, flagship of the 70th Squadron of the Line. Everywhere was stillness, a hushed atmosphere of calm - and trepidation. The lifesounds of a battleship underway were among the few disturbers of this uneasy tranquility as pistons pumped and generators hummed. Only in the engine room was cacophony the order of the day, for the very heart of the warship could ill afford to stop beating. Orders were shouted, reports relayed, and statuses changed and amended. Seemingly, all was well, or at least normal, in the irradiated workspaces of jumpsuit-clad technicians and grease stained officers - seemingly.


On the bridge, silence was thunderous. Droids beeped and consoles chirped, but the men and beings that manned those terminals waited for something to happen. Anything.


Line Captain del Valle, for his part, tried to remain a rock of order. Not only was he master of the Imperial V-class Star Destroyer on which he sat but also the pair of cruisers and five frigates which made up the squadron. With that already weighty responsibility came the protection of one hundred forty-seven other vessels ranging from skiffs and pleasure yachts overflowing with anxious evacuees to humongous but unarmed supertransports either belonging to the Fleet's logistics arm or some private concern who'd barely enough credits to paint over the black Imperial Crest emblazoning both flanks. More than enough to make a man nervous. Certainly too much for one squadron to guard.


" Report?" asked Executive Officer, Commander Gravann, not for the first time. The same reply came from every station that replied when such a call was bellowed: all appears normal.


The Captain ignored his jittery first officer. He had stopped being nervous after the first hour of hyperspace. He was only when the armada - if it could be referred to as such - had to drop out of hyperspace to change course. Times like now.


" Reversion in five...four...three...two...-"


As had happened each of the three previous correction points, the bridge crew sat a little straighter in the seats. The countdown echoed throughout every corridor, booming like the voice of a god in a low-budget holo-drama. If they were to see action, it would be there at the jump points.


"-now!"


Blues and whites tunneled out for a moment, transmogrifying the cloud-like view of deep hyperspace into long string of light which shortened every so quickly into the endless panorama of stars and stellar gas that was deep space. Commands did not need to be echoed; standing orders did all that was required. Scanners reached out, searching everything their tendrils could grasp or graze; guns were primed and turbolaser casings placed on breechblocks; missiles were readied in their tubes; TIE pilots stood on the racks next to their mounts, ready to board, release, and charge.


But alas, it was not to be. The scanners pushed out and out to the limits of their abilities, and found nothing. The casings of plasmized energy that fed the mighty guns independent of fallible generators were placed back onto secure racks; missiles were de-primed and, deprived of the launch codes, rendered inert; the TIE pilots doffed their helmets and returned to the launch floor where caf and soft chairs awaited.


" One down, five to go," muttered the dark-skinned Gravann.


The Captain, for his part, was not set at ease. Around him, the sky began to fill with the other ships that straggled behind even the one minute lag between escort and escorted. Another twenty minutes would pass before the slowest of them reverted to realspace, twenty minutes scanners would still scan and guns would stand ready.


This is going too well. We're being watched.





Though he could not see it, a tiny beacon dropped at length by those that would bring such a convoy to a stop, was indeed watching - and waiting. It beeped and chirped into the cold silence of the vacuum, sending only binary signal that if intercepted would be thought gibberish by those that might look. The intended recipients, of course, could udnerstand such code well enough. They had looked - and they had found.





The Viscetus, nestled in the nebula, was home perhaps to an atmosphere almost as tense as that on the Thermidor, but for much different reasons. All hands knew they were soon to come to grips with an elusive enemy under the only senior officer in the Imperial Navy who realized the threat for what it was. All waited for information, the word that battle had been joined so they could harness the power of their reactors, slip the bonds of realspace, and charge off into action. None knew they would not have to wait much longer.

"Sensors have identified multiple contacts. Resolving..."

"That's them!" Grue spat, punching his arm rest as he did so. "I want firing solutions on the double! Jam any and all non-Crusade transmissions! Order our fighter screens to prepare to pursue if any targets break off! Raise the grav-wells! And for gods' sake, close range already so that we can open fire!"

His officers scrambled to obey, leaving Grue licking his lips like a hungry dog. He could almost smell victory!

"Picking up... potentially hundreds of refugee ships. Relatively small defensive contingent. Tagging the enemy flagship, looks like an Imperial Destroyer."

"Ha!" exclaimed Grue. "Then that is our target. Bring us down upon them, helm, I want all our firepower concentrated forwards on the enemy command. Tell the captains to take their pick of the defenders and refugees, we must leave no survivors."

The Nyxan formation blazed a trail towards the distant Imperial column, which was slowly enveloped in their gravity well's bubble. Though still somewhat out of range, their approach from port meant they were set to bisect the enemy formation neatly, and Grue did not envy the job of his opposite in trying to reform a panicked refugee fleet to face an oncoming enemy.

It was only through the harshest discipline that the Nyxans kept formation at all, as even their fighters and bombers yearned to cast off their leashes and attack. To their credit they stayed the course, knowing glorious bloodshed was but moments away...



"The bridge has just ordered all enemy transmissions jammed," reported Ostick.

"Good," Hark replied. "So he's still following standard protocol. Use this opportunity to reroute communications from the bridge through our comm station. I want everything sent in or out."

"As you command, colonel." Ostick seemed ill at ease with the order, but one thing he'd learnt quickly in the new Nyxan military was not to disagree with a superior. He took shelter by the comm desk and managed to mutter to its operator "Who is this guy?"

"No clue," the young man at the control panel whispered back. "I don't remember hearing about any new officer postings on the Obedience. Especially not from 101."

"Best keep our heads down. The battle could kill you, sure, but politics'll murder you."

Hark, for his part, seemed satisfied to pace about the auxilliary bridge and look over the shoulders of the minor functionaries, making them nervous. Every so often he seemed to scan the space before them with a keen eye, ignoring the target they were heading for. What he was looking for Ostick couldn't tell, but it'd almost certainly be trouble.

The sirens shrieked into the confines of the Therimdor each corridor and bulkhead amplifying the horrific noise to a pitch no humanoid could ignore. Herald as it did some impending crisis or emergency, men went scampering from cabins and mess halls to duty stations until the collision of jackboots on deck plating drowned out the speaker-box' scream.


Line Captain del Valle was upon the bridge for the sounding of the alarms. He had tuned out the sirens' skrietching a half-dozen reversions ago; he barely noticed the increase in activity by his captain's seat on the catwalk. Were it not for the stalking approach of his ever-nervous first officer, the Captain might have gone on perusing the scrolling text of the crime-drama he was reading.


" Yes, Commander?" del Valle asked, not even averting his eyes from Corellia's newest best-seller. For the moment, the lines had blurred together, only feigning disinterest for the sake of keeping up appearences. Later, perhaps, he would reveal the truth to the Thermidor's latest addition, that even the Captain was nervous: he just hid it well.


" We're reverting to realspace, Captain. I've sounded general-quarters."


" Very well." For the seventh time since we left, yes.


Out beyond the hull, the ocean of colors that twirled around the battleship and her escorts faded away until lines of light were drawn out around them. Even those lines faded until each one had taken a place not as slash of light that assault the eyes with its brightness but one pinprick against an endless panorama of black.

Commander Gravann moved to just behind the captain's seat, staring bolts at various scanner technicians and terminal operators. " Sensors, extend out to full. CommScan..."


As he had done so deftly with the klaxons, Captain del Valle tuned out his first officer. His eyes, however, needed to adjust from the novel. Reading line after line could tire out a man's mind, so he gave a good stretch - as best he could in uniform - and stood. His jackboots were not yet worn in, the leather still creasing and creaking as he stepped. He came up to the viewports as the Thermidor moved away from the reversion site, thr frigates pushing out around it. With his own eyes he scanned the vista, settling on a flash of pseudomotion at the edge of his sight. Squinting, he tried to pierce the depths, but to no avail. Before he could turn to send the sensors in that direction, the fair-haired Commenoran female at that station cried out, piercing the tension of the bridge like no klaxon could.


" Contacts, multiple vectors! Incoming at flank speed. I read fifteen, correction twenty; now thirty capital ships, ranging from frigates up. Unknown descriptions at this range! Fighters..."


The young woman continued her report, steadily but with a horrid shriek to her voice that betrayed her angst. Del Valle placed a jackbooted foot on a terminal top in the crewpit and leapt down into it, a major breach of protocol that almost all captains ignored when an emergency presented itself. Gravann was next to him in a heartbeat, both men staring at the sensor officer's panel.


" We could regroup jump before the overrun the exit vector."


" We'd abandon the convoy - "


On cue, the first ships of that undisciplined mass they were sheparding through the expanse began to arrive in ones and twos.

" - the best we can do is hold them off till they've jumped out; IF we can jump out. Signal command our position and enemy composition. OPS - deploy fighters. TAC - bring a cruiser along each side at five kilometers, I want those frigates behind us to screen the convoy. Raise shields and prepare to fire by battery."


The massive Star Destroyer oriented its bulk towards the approaching ships who's distance had yet to close. A broadside might've given more of her guns a clearer shot, but would have made maneuvering harder; she bore on, training the pair of triple-gunned Super-turbolaser turrets on the targets they would do the most damage. Smaller batteries - by comparison only - marked their targets. The Strike XIX-class Cruisers rumbled into position, forming a brief screen in front of the ever-growing mass of civilian transports slipping the bonds of hyperspace.


Battle was joined in a minute only, the oncoming craft surprising the Imperials with their speed. Flashes of red and green painted the hulls of all involved and fighters threw themselves into the fray. Missiles began exploding with torpedoes coming next. And the ranges were still counting down...





" Where?"


" Reversion Point 7820.3 along that route - Captain del Valle was able to shave off a course correction through careful navigation. The description we got was pitiful: thirty capital ships, possibly more, with attending fighters. Even if the 70th isn't cut off, they can't run for fear of abandoning the convoy."


" Thank you, General Wheeler."


Grand Admiral Desaria turned from the quarter-sized holo of the Sector Communications Chief on the arm of his command chair and stood deliberately, almost dramatically for the cadre of SS men around him. He knew, as they did, that jumping to light speed immediately would put them at the scene in fifteen minutes, at best. For that time, so short in the galactic scheme but so long to any man who's felt the fires of battle on his skin; the 70th Squadron of the Line was on its own.


" Hear me men, the time has come. All ships, mark our course and speed and jump on my command. Gloria Imperium."


He did not expect a resounding cheer, he expected nothing at all. Oberstgruppenfuhrer-SS Vos was, undoubtedly, giving a much more stirring speech to his black clad comrades. Now, however, he had a more important goal than the morale of already fanatical devotees to the Imperial way of life.


" Engage."


The SS, heavy one Imperial Guardsmen, gave speed to its engines, slipped free of the nebula, and vanished into the realm of hyperspace.

Explosions lit up the darkness of space as Nyxan ordnance pummled the Imperial forces. With the advantage of surprise and position, not to mention having no civilians to protect, Nyxan warships had their pick of Imperial targets.

For the Obedience, however, there would be no greater prize than an equal - the enemy's command ship above all else.

"Enemy heavy guns are coming to bear," warned a bridge officer, eliciting a barking laugh from Grue.

"Let them! They lack the means to protect such valuable ordnance. Order in the third and fourth bomber wings, I want their shields down and their heavy batteries smouldering!"

From either side of the great Nyxan warship, waves of bombers rushed towards their primary target. With the enemy escorts tied up trying to protect the civilian fleet, there was not nearly enough protection left to defend their command vessel. A wave of ordnance was loosed, pounding on the shields as the Thermidor and a handful of fighters tried to fend off the enemy bomber swarm.

Content to pick apart the foe at his leisure, Grue settled into his chair and glanced over at his strategic display. The enemy Strike cruisers had fanned out to protect the growing convoy, but they were stretched thin - a thin grey line facing the concentrated firepower of the Nyxan navy. Battlecruisers and frigates were lining up to pass between them, firing punishing salvoes at their isolated foes.

Space was awash with dogfights, but the Imperial starfighters were outnumbered. Grue was forced to concede they had the edge in skill and technology, however, for although they were unable to travel far from the protection of their home vessels they managed to scatter the Nyxan fighters and fend off all but the most determined bomber runs. Clearly, the Nyxan fighter corps needed to be hardened in the heat of battle before they showed that sort of skill.

"Wake me when something interesting happens," Grue quipped in an odd moment of savage satisfaction. "Otherwise, carry on with their complete destruction." As he said the words, an Imperial fighter ragged with flames burst in a collision with the Obedience's shield, eliciting a malevolent grin from Grue.



Through the dimly lit halls of the Onyxian Orbital Shipyards, Quintar and his warriors stalked. Twenty five shadows wrapped in urban camo slipped silently along, passing vaunted windows that let in the barest glimmering starlight. It was all they needed to make their way deeper into the facility.

Abandoned. Just as the Mandalore's mysterious guest had said. Not entirely, however. He had also said the station was being reclaimed, repurposed for the Empire's needs.

The Crusade had needs of its own, hence Quintar's mission. He rested a clawed hand on the satchel slung over one arm. Soon.

As his war party reached the huge blast door on the far side of the corridor, he signalled for them to stop. In silence he crept to the door and pressed an ear to it, listening.

Conversation. Definetly human voices beyond.

Quintar signalled for his men to ready weapons. They did so, priming carbines, pistols, and exotic rifles. For his part, Quintar slipped a blue sphere from a bandolier under his thick grey camo, turning the object over in his hands as he did so.

When the moment was right, Quintar pulled the emergency release and the door began to trundle open. The moment a wide enough crack appeared between the door and the floor, he lobbed his EMP grenade in and stepped back. The loud, static-filled bang that followed mixed with the startled screams of the people beyond.

When the door was fully raised, Quintar and his warriors surged into the observation deck beyond. The lights were shorted out, but the warriors wore goggles to assist them in the twilight. Their prey had no such provisions, however, and were taken down with a few swift blows to the head and chest.

Quintar kneeled over a fallen engineer and pressed a finger to his throat. Still alive. Preferable.

The sound of someone running could be heard from an open doorway on the other side of the deck, causing Quintar's head to snap back up. He gestured for two men to check it out. The operation had just begun.

From the behind a curtain of swirling reds and purples emerged two squadrons of Imperial warships, coloured gases rolling off armor plating only to reform in a new pattern once the armada had cleared. Pointed like a lance at the Nyxian ships, the force sat back on powerful drive engines and pushed the tolerance of Kuati designed engines to their limit and beyond.


" Time to maximum range?"


" Five minutes, Sir."


Grand Admiral Desaria maintained his composure, though the men directly below his command chair might have seen the muscles about his jaw tighten as he clenched his teeth. He had good reason for anger, however well hidden: one inverted-triangle viewport to his right was acting as a display and showed him the progress of the action to which they steamed, full throttle. What had began with eleven cruisers and frigates, commanded by one battleship, was now four cruisers and a battleship, the latter the just target of considerable enemy attention. That the battleship, an Imperial V-class Destroyer named Thermidor, was being set upon was not unforeseen: it's massive super-turbolaser turrets had accounted for seven enemy ships in the ten minutes the battle had raged.


As the SS ships drew closer, more and more details were visible with the naked eye, causing more and more crewmen to stare and watch. An explosion flashed brightly to the left. When the light had subsided, it was easy so see a mid-size enemy ship, perhaps a light cruiser or heavy frigate, broken in two and venting plasma from a ruptured reactor. Grand Admiral Desaria smiled to himself. Eight...


Five minutes later...


The time spent waiting and watching had become harder as the numbers ticked down in both range and minutes. All but the Thermidor was gone from the convoy's escorting force. The Crusaders had maneuvered expertly, drawing the battleship away and giving it enough targets to keep it occupied; the remainder had set upon the convoy which had the wherewithal to try and run. What had reverted to realspace as a mob faced in direction, towards the next jumppoint, now looked like a holo of an explosion, each ship resembling a piece of debris rocketing away against the pull of gravity. A few were far enough under their meager power that the Crusaders did not seem to mind. Most, however, were not so lucky. Many were incinerated by marauding frigates and careening fighters, the latter group which seemed to take perverse joy in simply opening their hulls to space rather than destroying them outright.


Aboard the SS ships, some men swore, some shouted oaths both pure and vulgar, others simple stared.


The Grand Admiral, for his part, felt sick. It was not that he was watching the slaughter of Imperial civilians and feeling revolted...he felt nothing. For the first time, he felt nothing at all. No pity...no pain. Only hate; hate and duty. His apathy, that made him sick.


" Captain, activate the interdictor."


The command came out forcefully and perhaps startled a few of the SS men who were standing about. Most just went on with their tasks with a cold efficiency for which Desaria would have to remember to compliment General Vos. A large force of Crusader ships had decided to turn and face the new threat, doubtless shocked by its approach.


The moment the immobilizer globes hummed to life, glowing a pale blue through the transparisteel that protected them, the Empire had the attention of every Crusader captain on the field. The convoy ships spared further depredations ran with whatever power they could muster.


Less than half that arrived were moving.