The armies and individuals that made up the Palestar Crusade were a fractious lot, who would in normal circumstances likely destroy one another rather than work together. Yet from their division came strength. So long as the Crusader forces were bound together through Dacian, their varying powers and specialties endowed the Crusade with many terrifying abilities.

It was from this vast strategic potential that the Crusade’s grand strategist, Mr. Ridley, needed to draw the elements of an unstoppable invasion force. Tasked by his master to bring chaos to the galaxy, yet given free reign in his means and methods, the young tactical prodigy’s mind had taken quickly to the challenge.

The Crusade’s subjugation of the Unknown Regions had been brutal and overt, but facing no real or concerted resistance, this tactic had been easy to employ. Now that they were the small fish in a very large lake, a new strategic pardigm would be needed.

The problem was that the Empire and the galaxy’s other great powers were heavily established and well-armed. Though they might react slowly to a determined invasion, recent history had shown that all of them could eventually bring to bear fleets and armies that the Crusade couldn’t hope to best openly. Yet the Crusade was not a subtle instrument either, and it certainly didn’t play politics. No one aspect of the Crusade’s forces seemed right to shake up the galactic scene.

It was in studying the fall of the Coalition that an epiphany came. The latest case of a great power fragmenting on the galactic stage, the Coalition had been destroyed not by being bested in combat, but by attrition from many fronts.

The solution, he came to realize, was in employing the Crusade with restraint and care. Instead of one overall invasion, a series of smaller campaigns might succeed to unbalance the galaxy through attrition. The more Ridley thought about it, the more he came to see his mission not as planning a galactic war, but in orchestrating galactic anarchy. Even the greatest conductor needed the right instruments, however, and two such well-played tools leapt to mind immediately for the first campaign...

Dacian may have commanded the galaxy to burn, but it would be Mr. Ridley who lit the match.



It was good to be king, although for Maxson, being Supreme Commander of Nyx was just as good.

From his majestic command center atop Fort Maxson, the commander could look out at monuments to the glory of Nyx that filled the Governing district. This view was only enhanced, in his opinion, by the heavy armed military contingents that tightly controlled and guarded entry to the high-security zone.

For indeed, despite the glory and honour of Nyx, there were many who tried to undermine it - traitors, rebels, and sympathizers to the old and weak regime. Even now they plotted in the dark, instigating violent uprisings in cities all across the planet. Every day on Nyx was a struggle between pro- and anti-Maxson cells, with revolts seizing cities only to be overturned by the highly mobile and disciplined 101st regiment.

As Maxson’s eyes rested on the well-worn executioner’s square, he felt tremendous satisfaction. It was conflict like this that kept Nyx strong, kept it from sliding into the weakness and ineffectiveness it was allowed to suffer under democracy’s thrall.

A lieutenant working quietly at one of the command center’s many terminals quickly hopped to his feet and walked over to the Supreme Commander, head bowed. Maxson noticed the soldier’s approach and recognized him as the one in charge of Crusade communications. The Supreme Commander stirred - though Nyx was proud and independent, even Maxson daren’t forget who was responsible for his rise.

“What news, soldier?” asked Maxson, waving away the customary salute. “Does Dacian send word?”

“No, sir,” replied the lieutenant, keeping his eyes fixed forwards. “Mr. Ridley, sir. He wishes to speak to you immediately about an upcoming campaign?”

“Does he now?” Maxson sniffed, turning back to his panoramic view of the district. “I hadn’t realized a fresh campaign was already being planned... prepare my shuttle, I’ll be leaving within a half hour.”

“Yes sir, Supreme Commander.” The soldier saluted once more and scurried out of sight. Maxson’s attention was already drawn to the executioner’s square, where media cameras and dignitaries were gathering.

A man was lead from a small, squat bunker nearby to a brick wall built for this express purpose. From behind a painted line nearby stood a squad of fully-armoured soldiers, standing at rapt attention.

The man was scruffy, worn, and exhausted, but he managed to grasp the situation he was in. Some sort of deeply held instinct drove him to hunch a bit, as if shielding his face slightly with his shoulder was really going to help. The Nyxans weren’t much for formality or last words, so his attendant guard had only just cleared the line before the waiting soldiers blasted the prisoner to pieces. The brick wall behind was burned black, with the outline of the deceased just barely visible.

Maxson smiled. He liked executions to mean a little something.

“One less drag on Nyx’s glorious destiny,” he murmured to no one in particular.



New Mandalore was awash with excitement.

This wasn’t altogether unusual, consider the warrior-state lived a precarious day-by-day existence. At any moment open combat and brawls could be taking place in the ever-shifting streets. The main settlement looked something like the most advanced form of a shanty-town, and every day buildings had been moved, rebuilt, dismantled, or simply flown away again.

The rock that anchored New Mandaore, however, was the unmoving stone and steel of the coliseum. Built in the heart of the city, the coliseum attracted warriors from across the galaxy who spoke in hushed voices of the fighter’s paradise that lay within. The galaxy neglected and disdained its’ warrior peoples in the current age of order and government, but here was a place where martial skill ruled.

On the day in question, this was more true than usual. Kale, the Mandalore of the Mandalorian clans and thus ruler of New Mandalore, was holding war games in the coliseum. Bringing fresh slaves and plunder with him, many of the finest fighters of the settlement had turned out to compete for prizes.

As for Kale himself, he took the opportunity to satiate his bloodlust.

The crowd roared and cheered as another slave was hurled screaming into the lava-pit at the heart of the coliseum floor. Fully two-dozen grubby humanoids, dressed in rags and armed with knives, uneasily circled Kale. The black-armoured Mandalore ignored them, instead enjoying a momentary respite as he watched the dying man sink slowly into the burning hot magma.

If one was not familiar with Kale or his Mandalorian crusaders, they might have wondered what honour he could have possibly claimed from battle with such obviously inferior wretches. On New Mandalore, honour had become a curse-word - both sorrowfully mourned and scornfully mocked, it had died right there on the coliseum dirt. Now the crowd cheered only to bloodshed in its’ purest form, and the more the better.

Kale was happy to oblige, once more lifting his battered vibroaxe from where it had stuck in the ground. The slave-gladiators all around inched back at the sight of it, wincing at the thought of those who had come before. There was no pretense of challenge or possibility of freedom here, only the question of how long it would take Kale to get them.

A hoarse roar preempted the slaughter beginning anew. Men, women, aliens - some distressingly young or incapable - scattered to the coliseum walls as Kale came lunging after them for his next victim. Running down a desperate-looking man clearly born for a cubicle and not combat, Kale kicked him heavily in the back and brought him to the ground. The scream was cut short by the swing of his axe, and another cheer went out as blood spurted into the air.

A disturbance was growing near the edge of the coliseum’s rim. Curious, Kale stopped in his massacre long enough to see what was distracting from his performance.

A man dressed in black leapt from the edge of the audience seating, landing on the blackened dirt below. Immediately, the crowd’s roaring and cheering dimmed - to leap into the ring while Kale was there was a death sentence. The warrior-king brooked no defiance.

Kale hesitated though, as the black-clad man straightened his stance. A red star was emblazoned on his chest, and though the man seemed hardened and experienced, there was also a haunted expression to his gaunt features. A Void Knight in training, an agent of the Crusade - and even Kale was not so foolhardy as to strike against his master.

“Mr. Ridley has need of you,” the man declared with a nod. There was a slight tic in his voice, the barest hint of personality straining to come forth that suggested this man was not yet fully broken to Dacian’s will. Still a trainee? mused Kale, as he stowed his axe. Must be serious business.

Still, Kale felt insulted by the manner of the young man’s entry. “You demean me in front of my people by entering the battle circle, wretch,” Kale growled, marching up to the Void Knight so that he could look directly down at him.

“Better in front of your men than your master,” the intruder replied, which elicited the barest of smiles behind Kale’s helmet. The spunk would be ground from this one soon enough. “Besides, Mr. Ridley has news sure to excite you - a campaign promising more bloodshed than the coliseum could possibly contain.”

Intrigued, Kale gestured for the Knight to lead the way. Behind him, the helpless slaves peered hopefully at the retreating metal giant. As he reached the gates he paused.

Without looking back, Kale raised a gauntleted fist. Taking his signal that he was finished, eager warriors leapt down into the arena from all sides, eager to take up their previous sparring - and tear through the terrified survivors.

The screams of the dying accompanied Kale and the Void Knight all the way out.



Maxson and Kale sat uneasily in the meeting room. Being that this meeting room was in the depths of Dacian’s black fortress, this wasn’t too surprising. More than that, though, the two men were uncomfortable with each other.

Kale and his Mandalorians had been the ones responsible for breaking the old regime on Nyx, a slaughter that Maxson had taken advantage of to become the Supreme Commander - but at a price, in the form of service to Dacian. Maxson, in turn, had aided Dacian in breaking Kale and his Mandalorians to the will of the Crusade. One was a hands-on warrior who lived for nothing but slaughter. The other was obsessed with advancing the glory of his nation and expanding its’ power.

Whatever brought these two men together would have to be important. A direct summons to Palestar’s lair was that sort of important.

Thankfully they didn’t have to spend long in awkward silence before the door opened and Mr. Ridley entered. Taking a seat between the two of them, Mr. Ridley laid a folder on the table and steepled his fingers. “Thank you for responding so promptly gentlemen.”

Maxson offered a nod and Kale gave a slight grunt. Mr. Ridley might have been Dacian’s minion, but he wasn’t the man himself.

“You’re both busy men, which is why I’m going to get straight to the point - we’re going to invade the Empire.”

This got a slightly stronger reaction, both commanders suddenly taking keen interest in their host. With a thin little smile, Mr Ridley continued. “The Empire is the single most powerful thing in the galaxy - no contradictions, Maxson. If the objective of the Palestar Crusade is to throw the galaxy into chaos, then it’s their stabilizing influence we’re really trying to eliminate. Any other target we undertake, if destroyed, will only further the Empire’s goals and allow them to fill the vaccum. No one is prepared for a galaxy without the Empire, however.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Kale snorted, as he leaned back in his chair. “Destroying the Empire is like blotting out the stars, or making the galaxy spin off in all directions. It can’t be done.”

“We needn’t destroy the Empire entirely to reap the benefits of their fall,” replied Mr. Ridley, as he opened the folder in front of him. “Striking them at just the right place, in just the right way, can send out shockwaves that will destroy their reputation and influence - worth far more to the Empire than mere ships or soldiers. But the question is, just where could such a critical weak point be found? People have been trying to destroy the Empire for generations and failed to find the slightest chink in their armour.”

“Small thermal exhaust port...” Kale muttered, glancing away. “Let me guess, you’ve found this magic weak point?”

“What does it matter to you?” said Mr. Ridley, pulling out a picture of the galaxy from the folder. “What I can offer you, however, is a chance for war, plunder, slaves, bloodshed, and glory. The likes of which the galaxy has not known in years - it’s waiting for us in the Onyxian sector.”

“Onyxian sector?” asked Maxson, brow furrowing. “I’m not familiar with it.” Being a native of the Unknown Regions, Maxson’s knowledge of the outer galaxy was a little weak.

“It’s a large swath of space recently annexed by the Empire,” Mr. Ridley explained, sweeping a finger along a part of the map. “Billions of new subjects hostile to their new overlords, a blunt military presence prepared to put down uprisings, and tight PR-control to keep any incidents of Imperial brutality out of the holonet. It’s the one place the Empire is not yet entrenched, and thus vulnerable. It’s our perfect attack point. It’s your target.”

“Fine with me,” growled Kale. The huge Mandalorian slammed a fist on the table and laughed. “So long as there’s plenty of people to kill, what do I care for strategy?”

“And what of Nyx?” snapped Maxson. “An opportunity to defeat the greatest military power in the galaxy? Our prestige would skyrocket! This campaign must be mine.”

“Which is why you’re both going,” replied Mr. Ridley. “Kale, your murderous brute force will need the strategic tempering of Maxson to overcome the Imperial defenders. Marshall your respective armies in preparation of the invasion. Your first target will be to set up a forwards position on an abandoned world near the inner edge of Onyxian space. From there, I’ll leave strategy to your respectively brutal talents.”

Kale stood up from the table grinning ear to ear. “The first smart thing you’ve said all day, tiny. Don’t worry, I’ll squash this little Imperial bastion for you.”

“Never mind the brute,” Maxson sniffed, getting to his feet. “Nyx will deliver control of Onyx to the Palestar Crusade, and all will know of our victory.”

“I can see you two are the right men for the job,” said James, satisfied. “That will be all. Glory to the Crusade.”

Six days earlier - shortly after the Battle of Xa Fel

Imperial Palace, Coruscant



The Palace was a massive construct at the heart of Imperial City, a humungous trapezoidal structure at the center of statue strewn gardens and smaller buildings each the size of cruisers but dwarfed by the Palace itself. All around flew speeders of every shape and size, carrying the busy citizens of Coruscant to and from work and wherever else they needed and wanted to go. Something, however, seemed off.


From a balcony high up the sloping side of the Palace, Grand Admiral Desaria watched the afternoon travelers rushing about and could even see a dot here and there below, all his eyes could make out of visitors soldiers and officials wandering about the promenada in search of peace, privacy, or clarity. He watched them intently for many long minutes, realizing the movement seemed rushed, more than the normal metropolitan rush. Then he closed his eyes and the tall aristocrat from Kuat changed his mind; they were not rushed, they were hesitant. Out of fear perhaps? Maybe dread - no, that couldn't be it. What did Imperial citizens have to dread?


Over the sounds of a bustling capitol, an officer of General Staff clasped a gloved hand to his mouth and gave a sharp cough, notifying the Admiral it was time. He needed to be off, and that it seemed as the answer. The rushing populace of Coruscant, indeed much of the Empire, was listening to tales of a strange new threat to their way of life. There was always threats though, new and old, Imperial exploration finding new lifeforms and civilizations constantly as they pushed back and back the veil of secrecy at the edge of the stars. Surely the good people were used to such reports of strang new invaders. Of course there were, they had to be. But why dread....


Baron Desaria turned from the railing and proceeded into the hall, a retinue of General Staff officers, aides, and senior commanders following close behind. Down the hall they strode, a dozen pairs of jackboots impacting obsidian flooring as if a stampede were approaching. The sounds the Grand Admiral ignored, turning his thoughts back to the helpless people of the Empire. What made this new threat different? They knew no specifics, only what news outlets reported and mis-reported and tabloids exploded into farcical accounts for the readers' enjoyment. Desaria had laughed when informed the Twin Suns News had still holos of seven Imperial IV-class Star Destroyers laid low by one spired slab the size of a cruiser brandishing some hellish laser cannon. Truth was the people did not know anything, the Ministry of Propoganda made sure fear did not run rampant. The people could only imagine and there was the danger. The people did not know that a battle had taken place at Xa Fel, but they knew one had happened somewhere. Worse, some of the accounts, though imagined in a writer's mind were accurate, describing the horrific scenes from the planet's surface, recounting tales of mindless minions advancing suicidially only because ordered to.


A very real threat, perhaps.


" Grand Admiral the Baron Desaria, Commandant of the Imperial Guard, Acting Commander, Onyx Sector." As the retinue entered the meeting room a pot-bellied Warrant Officer bellowed his announcement, averting some eyes while others greedily read data sheets. Some officers conversed, others fell silent. The Grand Admiral proceeded to a chair at a long lozenge-shaped table, nodding to other officers as he did. Another announcement: " Marshal Prem, Chief of the General Staff. This session is called to order. May the Emperor's Grace crown our Endeavors with success."


The hall stood to order and chanted 'Gloria Imperium!' in reply. Slowly, almost ponderously, the audiance separated from the groups and globs of uniforms and took their seats. All eyes focused on those seated before them.


" We have all been briefed but now we shall receive details. Colonel Kamorn." Marshal Prem fidgeted in his seat, still a large officer despite his diet. His jowels shook as he settled, reminding many, including the Grand Admiral, of a bearded, jolly old Corellian fairy-tale creature who brought presents on a child's birthday. The lights of the chamber dimmed and behind the seated senior officers a great holoscreen lit up.


For two hours, the members of the General Staff, various functionaries from different branches of the government, Squadron and Fleet commanders, and unsettled Generals from the Army listened to a detailed recounting of the Xa Fel action. They heard losses, accounts from participants, and viewed holos of enemy ships and saw holofilm of a Sith Temple walk-through and the halls of cleaved bodies it contained. Several times Marshal Prem had to pound his gavel onto the table to restore order and silence the heated conversations brewing.


" The question is what to do now. How do we respond-"


" How can we respond to an enemy whose location we do not know and whose strengths we are ignorant of? We saw a half dozen frigates and mammoth command ship. How do we know if they will strike again?"


Angry eyes glowered at Marshal Saint Cyr, a brutish grenadier whose medals were deserved but whose position and rank were subject to intense debate. The large Marshal Prem silenced him with a wave of his hand. " Let us look at location. Xa Fel is in the Deep Core, an area now heavily patrolled with detachments from the Central Sector and Third Fleets. An attack in that area would be suicidal."


" We've seen that they are suicidal, so how can we discount any target that sense eliminates? What we consider impregnable they may see as a challange." Admiral Archibald Thomas stood from his seat in the third row, recognized immediately by those who turned as the man whose mission it was to respond to Xa Fel. His squadron had driven off the grotesque warship at the center of the enemy's formation, albeit at considerable cost.


" Perhaps they will, but our fortified worlds and systems have reserves and sector assets within adequate response time. We can deal with such a situation if and when it arrives. If any system is a target that we cannot adequately plan; we must plan for certain contigencies - to plan for them all in this case could be folly."


" Onyx, then."


Eyes turned to Grand Admiral Desaria, the seated black-haired, green eyed poster boy of the Imperial Guard. Despised by many, respected by more, and envied by a similar number, the floor yielded to the taller of the two Grand Admirals present.


" We have pushed the Unknown Regions back for years by exploration and conquest. All of us know there are threats in that area both great and subtle as the Great Thrawn taught. It stands to reason judging from the enemy's escape vector that is where they are from. Could it be elsewhere, of course, but that is my theory. Now, the question of the hour - where will they strike next?


" I say the Onyx Sector. It is the most recent acquisition of His Majesty and by on par with OverSector Outer as a region yet to be subjugated. Thankfully I am dealing with mostly civilized beings who in the future will accept Imperial Will and resist no longer; in the present, I am dealing with beings who still resist. I have one Fleet at my disposal filled out mostly with newer or older officers and men and very few ground troops to garrison barely loyal worlds. It is the weakest point in the whole of the Realm, except for Hutt Space. If those two are the options then, if this new power is from the Unknowns, then Onyx stands first in line to be assaulted."


The hall was silent. The Grand Admiral was right, that was undeniable. So what could be done?


" Do tell, Desaria, are you saying you cannot hold?"


Were his eyes laser cannon, the Baron would have turned to Grand Admiral MacHavin and burned two scarred craters in the slightly older man's face. The two locked their gazes together and were the venue different would have tossed off their tunics and come to blows. Each hated the other passionately, Desaria for his glory-seeking manner and more honourable-than thou demeanor, MacHavin for his playboy personna and nepotistic rise through the ranks.


" I can hold, and I will. I will not be able to defend everything at once, to try to would be folly. The Onyx Sector is new and while the frontier of the Empire we have our powerful defenses from before its fall still active and in place. If by some miracle I am overrun, the second line will hold. Of course, I'm sure they will be content with their conquest and Bastion will be as safe as ever."


Marshal Prem interrupted, trying to stave off the battle that was brewing between the rivals. He looked down the table at the Grand Admiral he considered a friend. " Desaria, what do you need to sure up your lines?"


" Alexei, nothing that can get to me in time. With so many warships taking advantage of this relative peace-period to refit and undergo overhauls, we don't have anything to spare that wouldn't weaken our other commands. Any ground units that can be reassigned would be helpful. Two of my Guard squadrons are on maneuvers along the Dragon border, and I have sent for them."


" Do you really think you'll need them?"


" If I do, it will be a glorious death for us all."

Nyx, as a world and society, has oft been glossed over with broad and sweeping statements. It is the nature of narrative that we have no time to examine the subtleties of culture, the interplay of various factions, when all time must go to feeding the ponderous turning of the plot. This description is not unlike Nyx itself, however, which in recent times has become a society of singular purpose - strength, pride, conquest.

Cities dot the major continent of the world, connected by relatively advanced rapid-transit to give Nyx a very modern look. Culture was primarly homogeneous and centralized, as was power, as in ancient times the near-human founders of Nyx had been united by one creed and purpose. It was this ancient call of Unity, of Nation before Self, and of Nyx Prevails that laid the foundation for its’ eventual inclusion into the Crusade.

That’s not to say that all went smoothly in Maxson’s domain, however, for outside of Might Plaza and the governing district, the planet Nyx was being slowly divided by civil strife. Though power had indeed been centralized through the now-defunct Unity Plaza, local leaders were rising, vocally condemning the fall of democracy and the rise of the autocratic Maxson.

Every day, small uprisings grew in intensity, seizing cities only to be beaten down by heavily-armed security forces. At all times could the cry “Nyx prevails!” could be heard, coming from either side as they celebrate a fresh victory. It may come as no surprise, then, that for the common Nyxan the best way out of this boiler-plate of social chaos was military service.

Though Maxson was far too blind with pride to see that his society was slowly being ground to oblivion for the Crusade, he was at least wise enough to divide his forces into two distinct groups - the Civil Defense Corps, which dealt with the uprisings, and the regular army, which spent most of its’ time as far away from Nyx as possible. For those seeking an escape from the cycle of violence and anarchy, joining the army meant a relative degree of stability, security, and peace.

It is to the universe’s upmost misfortune that this irony was lost on the Supreme Commander as he looked out upon his gathering legions. From the forbidding upper battlements of Fort Maxson, the seat of Maxson’s power, he looked out upon the growing ocean of men and materials that made up the Nyxan Expeditionary Force.

Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, engineers, officers, quartermasters, cooks, attendants, technicians, labourers, and other assorted personnel were milling about all over the wide open spaces surrounding the Government District. The sky was darkened with the huge, box-like shapes of Nyxan warships, to whom were being ferried an army far larger than any gathered in Nyx’s history. Everything from food and water to nails to construction materials to droids to heavy tanks clogged the roadways as far as the eye could see.

“Magnificent...” Maxson muttered, as he looked out upon it all.

The army had not gathered thusly purely for their commander’s viewing pleasure. As the rumbling of engines faded to a low roar and the beat of jackboots faded with the last formation march, the assembled legions of the Nyxan Expeditionary Force turned as one to the towering pinnacles of Fort Maxson.

Displayed by huge holoprojectors set into the base of the fortress, Maxson appeared before them as a ten-story colossus, an image glowing in ominous red.

“Glorious forces of unconquerable Nyx!” Maxson boomed, his eyes fixing upon the multitudes beneath him. “Today is a day of destiny. Mark it well, for in the future it shall be remembered as the dawn of a new age of fame and achievement for our great nation. Let the name Nyx float upon your lips always, for all things we do, we do in its’ name - and through Nyx, we are immortal, enshrined in its’ glory.

“As we plunge heroically into the unknown, to bring the fires of Nyx’s might to foes unknown, remember this. We do this not for ourselves, nor do we ask to understand our duty. We trust only in the manifest destiny of our glorious nation, and without doubt or fear, we charge ever forwards to meet it. Legions! Take up arms, and prepare to join the charge! Nyx prevails!”

This short speech was met with resounding cheers, as well it should be - the Civil Defense Corps were out in force, not to be shipped to some deadly foreign battlefield, but to ensure no disruption of the launching of the expedition. Failure to be sufficiently patriotic was a sign of dissent, and dissent would not be allowed at such an important public event.

Satisfied that their launch had been suitably christened, Maxson turned to an aide and nodded. Immediately the aide began sending out the launch commands to the assembled Nyxan commanders, who in turn began leading their respective armies onboard the waiting barges. It would be a full day of marching, waiting, and being shuffled before the whole expedition would be prepared to leave anyways, so Maxson saw fit to leave the actual work to his subordinates.

Leaving the battlements of the fortress, Maxson headed for his private shuttle docked a few levels lower. It wouldn’t do for the commander to be held up by mere traffic, and as an aide’s whisper informed him, a violent riot approaching the Fort was about to cause quite the scene. Best not to be anywhere near it.



Space above the gently smoking surface of New Mandalore was rapidly filling with what could easily be mistaken for wreckage. A more discerning eye (or more generous definition of ‘spaceworthy’), however, would note that for the most part this scrofulous appearance was purely superficial.

The hulks and uglies that floated in a rough collection above New Mandalore held deceptive power. It’s surprising what a shipwright can accomplish when not limited by OSHA - or sanity. Far more dangerous than any crudely bolted-on turbolaser, however, were the deadly cargos of skilled warriors within. The hordes of the Mandalorians had been roused by the promise of bloodlust.

The ship in the lead, perhaps a tad fresher and sleeker than its’ scrap-built counterparts yet still definitely a loot-me-down, was clearly the spearhead of this migration. Aboard sat Kale, Mandalore of the clans, who although he could not recall the name of his current vessel was at least pleased that it wasn’t exploding around him. This, at least, made it better than his last ship.

Kale sat uneasily in the command throne of his vessel. He wasn’t comfortable with space travel, generally preferring solid ground under his feet (and his enemies under solid ground).

“The Echani have arrived, Mandalore,” said a lieutenant, “the clans have almost gathered.”

“Good,” Kale rumbled, fiddling with his left gauntlet. “The sooner we’re prepared to set off, the better.”

“The Iridonians are late, Mandalore,” remarked another lieutenant, who added with a snort “As usual.”

This caused Kale to frown. The unruly and violent nature of his ‘Mandalorian’ clans meant that every little thing, every perceived slight or possibility of defiance, had to be crushed lest some other warrior seek to overthrow his position.

More than that, though they were called the Mandalorians, only Kale’s own clan were of actual Mandalorian stock. The tens of thousands of warriors that accompanied them, in their varied personal craft, were drawn from the galaxy’s neglected warrior cultures. In modern times there was little place for the Gamorreans, or the Coynites, or the Draethos.

These people did not vanish, however. In the underground culture of the galaxy, word had traveled that the Mandalorians were seeking to revive martial society. Many had flocked for a chance to regain their fortunes in a time of increased galactic order and strictness that looked down on warrior traditions.

And so it was that each clan was really a collection of warriors, each constantly squabbling for recognition and glory, and all united by a love of violence. It was only a matter of time before one of them tried to usurp the Mandalorians, but until then, all would know that Kale’s word was law amongst fighting men.

“Tell the Iridonians we go without them,” Kale grunted, grasping his axe haft and laying the blade flat across his knees. “If they want any of the glory, then they’d better catch us up.”

“Aye, Mandalore,” answered one of his lieutenants, who carried out the command. Within moments, Kale’s craft began to move outwards, towards deep space. A few minutes more and the entire motley warrior fleet was setting out, at last to find battles worthy of their reputation.

Behind his concealing war mask, Kale could only grin in anticipation. Boredom was the most dangerous thing to his position and survival - with battle ahead of them, his warriors would be focused on the bloodshed in front of them, not stabbing each other in the back.

More than that, though, he genuinely hungered the battle that was to come. An unqunechable thirst for death and blood burned within him, and every moment he went without felt like an eternity.

Soon, he consoled himself, running his hand across the axe blade. Soon my thirst will be satisfied... for a time.

It had been months since the first rumors that the warrior cultures of the galaxies were forming an alliance, in which they would take the galaxy by storm, had reached Cendar's ears. Of course, he had disbelieved the rumors at first. The Mandalorians were a broken people, the Iridonians all but extinct, the Echani gone. The Wookiees were isolated, the Coynites all but destroyed. There were no true warrior cultures left but perhaps the Transdoshans, and they were unpredictable at best.

But then further rumors came. More credible rumors. One in particular caught his ear. He had been in a cantina on Tattooine - of course, what better place was there to pick up odd bits of information - when an Iridonian, of all people, sat down next to him. Perhaps it was the human's bulk, or the fact that he seemed different, or the fact that he was sitting alone that attracted the alien. Whatever it was, things changed at that moment.

The Iridonian was, incredibly, dressed in something other than rags. Cendar took in the battle armor - minus the helmet - the battle stripes on the shoulders and arms, the weaponry. This was something one didn't see every day. He was surprised the Empire hadn't picked up such an anomaly yet. Of course, few people want to mess with a battle-ready Iridonian. It was rumored that they did not surrender but rather fought like animals in a blood rage, brutally killing until they themselves were forced to succumb to the blows raining down upon them.

The question running through Cendar's mind, though, was not a question of Imperial policy or of Iridonian culture. The question was, rather, why did the Iridonian sit here of all places? Why did it want to talk to him? The answer was not long in coming.

"I am Dao-Ban. I have a proposition to discuss with you, if you are interested." Cendar simply stared at the alien, almost daring him to continue. Dao-Ban did. "I'm sure you've heard rumors of the warrior cultures of the galaxy uniting together, ready to make one last fight before we are extinct."

At this point Cendar interrupted. "Sure. I've heard them. I've also laughed at them. Please, don't try to sell me on some scam - I'll have your head if you do."

"No doubt," the Iridonian laughed. "I've heard of you, Cendar Robutha, though you may not know me. Your reputation for ruthlessness preceeds you." Cendar was stone-faced again, not willing to reply. "Well, Robutha, while you may laugh at the rumors, is it not true that wherever there is smoke, there is at least a few sparks?"

"Or simply smouldering ashes," Cendar countered.

"True," conceded the Iridonian. "But even coals and ashes can burst into flame if the proper fuel is supplied. That fuel has come, in the form of a new Mandalore. He is uniting the cultures together, and we will burst upon the galaxy in a new wave of conquest, renewing the Mandalorian Wars of old, yet this time we will be victorious because there are no united Jedi to stop us."

Cendar started at the one word. A new Mandalore? he thought. But... "You interest me, Dao-Ban. Who is this new Mandalore you speak of?"

"One so great that no one can defeat him in battle. I have seen many try and fail, usually resulting in their demise. He is a great warrior, worthy of the title Mandalore."

Cendar thought for a moment. This new report was interesting if only for the fact that someone else was claiming the title Mandalore. He knew from reliable sources that a Mandalore already existed, and as soon as his current job was finished the cyborg bounty hunter was going to meet him. This report could be just the ticket he needed.

"Where might I find this new Mandalore?" Cendar asked cautiously.

"Now, Cendar, I may be a warrior, but I am not a dolt. To find Mandalore you must come with me. Otherwise how can I know that you will not report our location to certain authorities and destroy that which we are working to build? You fight for pay; come with me now and I can promise you more loot than even you would know what to do with."

Cendar's eybrows narrowed a bit. "Now?" he asked. "I'm afraid I cannot come immediately. I'll make you a deal, though. I'll finish what I need to do here. You meet me back here in one month, to the day, and I'll accompany you to see the new Mandalore."

That month had been busy for Cendar. He had met with the real Mandalore and spoken with him, dropping in the tidbit about a new Mandalore to get from him what he wanted. He had finished a few jobs that were still on his plate, not wishing to leave anything undone. One month later, to the day, Cendar met the Iridonian in the cantina and they left for New Mandalore.

Due to his slowness to respond, Cendar had the good fortune to miss the first battles of the new Mandalorians. He missed Kale's speech and the glory of the first large-scale invasion. He even missed the attack on Xa Fel, as that was just before his second meeting with Dao-Ban. He heard about it, though, as he heard about most things, through rumor and idle talk in barrooms. He did not, however, miss the Onyxian War. He arrived as the forces were gathering and was duly placed in the ranks.

Now, he waited on board a shuttle, wondering exactly what in the Nine Corellian Hells was going on. It had been a bit difficult to place him, as he didn't fit in with the Mandalorians, or the alien clans, or the Echani. He was something of an anomaly, really. Finally, he found a place with some displaced humans, pirates and bounty hunters mostly, as well as other criminals. It was with these individuals that he would fight, and possibly die, for...well, what exactly was he fighting for? He had barely seen this new Mandalore, and had certainly not spoken with him. He didn't know why they were attacking...well, he really didn't know where they were attacking. Of course, his 'leader' - if the guy could be called a leader - knew, and his inner circle knew, but Cendar had not yet had a chance to prove his fighting ability. So, as simply cannon fodder (or so they thought), he was uninformed.

Nevertheless, it was his task to fight and win, to kill (a pleasant thought) and to discover what exactly was going on here. He had been tempted to bring his own ship, but Dao-Ban had ended that thought. If nothing else, Cendar's reputation made him very untrustworthy. He didn't even know exactly where they were at the moment. Still, the men around him were like-minded, each wishing for nothing more than to kill and make money. If the two went together, then so much the better. From the little snippets of conversation that Cendar picked up (something that was quite easy, as his ears were cybernetic), he knew there was a battle coming in which killing and looting would be not only allowed, but prevalent. He smiled. This could actually be fun.

Both Kale and Maxson had received similar instructions from Mr. Ridley about the invasion. The first step was to secure a foothold nearer to the action, to avoid endangering the heart of the Crusade. With that in mind, preliminary scouts moving ahead of the Nyxans had already selected an uninhabited world about halfway between Shili and Desitus.

The truth about the galaxy is that it's simply too large. No matter how many millenia pass and how many explorers are sent out through hyperspace to chart new systems, the number of worlds in the galaxy might run up into the billions. Though most are entirely uninhabitable and uninteresting, even just the life-supporting or life-supportable worlds are so numerous and widespread that finding one is generally just a matter of searching.

For glory-hungry Nyx, however, the discovery of this plain terrestrial world (dubbed "Threshold"), immediately became a matter of pride. Even as the first few scout reports filtered back to the Nyxan Expeditionary Force, Maxson decreed the first true establishment of a Nyxan colony was nigh. Army political officers goaded the troops through the expected bouts of 'spontaneous patriotic celebration', then switched shifts in order to punish those same troops for their lack of discipline.

So it was with fevered excitement that this world on the edge of the Onyxian Sector was at last approached by the Nyxan fleet.

The local star burned a fearsome shade of red, casting Threshold like a darkened orb of blood. The Nyxans approached from the night side, their solid ranks of box-like destroyers and frigates maintaining rigid formation.

Maxson stood upright in front of the bridge's window, a sheet of reinforced glass and skin of shielding all that was standing between him and the void. On the other side of that void, however, was his prize, looming ever larger. "Have the fleet prepare for our first landings. I expect to be on the first barge that makes landfall."

Startled, a lieutenant turned from his workstation to say "But sir, we have yet to conduct a proper survey. Would it not be prefferable to complete the scouting work before-"

Maxson turned from the window to fix a baleful expression on the impudent underling, his eyes reflecting the evil glow of Threshold's star. "Were our initial surveyors competent in their duties? Is the world habitible?"

"Y-yes, sir," the lieutenant stammered nervously, pulling at his now all-too-warm collar.

"Then there is nothing to worry about. I will be heading directly to the hanger. The 101st will accompany me, as will an engineering company from each destroyer. Once we've finished the initial documentation and ceremony, execute the order to begin our full-scale landing."

"As you order, Supreme Commander," the officer replied, bowing his head in relief.

The irritant was just as quickly forgotten as Maxson walked away, towards the Pride of Nyx's hangar bay. A group of staff and attendants quickly coalesced around him as he walked, everything from bodyguards in military uniforms to civilian-clothed historians to record his actions, to the common assistants who carried luggage or kept Maxson updated on the actions of the fleet. It was a background noise that the Supreme Commander had become adept at ignoring.

Emerging in the cavernous bay, ranks of black-suited 101st soldiers stood to meticulous attention. They were the elite of the Nyxan army, a highly disciplined fighting force bristling with modern weapons and armour. They were also prepared to make the historic landfall on Threshold.

Maxson wasted no time with lengthly speeches, finding it sufficient to simply wave and nod to his troops as he boarded his private shuttle. All around the troop barges were filling up, preparing to deliver the first wave onto unknown shores.

"The moment we are prepared, launch," Maxson said to the pilot as he walked to his cabin. His eagerness for achievement had risen to the fore, and his imperious attitude promised only to worsen. "I will be the first to set foot on our new acquisition."

Left alone in his cabin, Maxson settled for watching the planet before him from afar, the red orb grown now to fill his vision. Soon... first this world, then many. Nyx prevails!



The Iridonians had eventually caught up the rest of the Mandalorian fleet, who were only gradually making their way to the rendezvous point. Being slow and ramshackle as it was, the Mandalorians had to take additional time when travelling so that all their ships could keep up. Not only that, but natural tendencies meant that detours to burn and raid nearby minor settlements or isolated space stations kept their pace down to a crawl.

Not that this was a problem for Kale, who - despite his hunger for bloodshed - didn't especially look forwards to working with Maxson. The Nyxans and the Mandalorians simply couldn't hope to reconcile their differing views on warfare, and somewhat less philosophically, Kale also simply despised the pompous self-important windbag that was Maxson.

Yes, these happy diversions into mindless bloodshed would do nicely for the moment.

It was as Kale considered this on his throne that a Mandalorian cohort approached from the work pit where slaves operated the ship's systems. "Sir, we're detecting comm signals within one hour's jump. Looks like an independant trading cruiser that's dropped out of hyperspace for repairs."

Kale seemed to consider this for a moment, scratching rather pointlessly at his thick black helmet. "Send out some of the new initiates to bring it in. We'll continue to the rendezvous point and meet them there - not worth sending the whole fleet after one ship."

"Understood, Mandalore," the cohort replied with a bow and swift departure.

Kale regretted he would have few opportunities to sate his appetite for blood, at least not in the short term, but a lifetime of violence had taught him patience. Savouring a feast to come made it easier to weather the lean times, and there was such a feast awaiting them all. He could feel it in his bones. Or perhaps someone else's bones that he'd kept. Either way.



The boarding ramp had barely touched the dusty earth when Maxson's black jackboot followed it up and imprinted the first step of any living creature on to the surface. "In the name of Nyx and the cause of the Palestar Crusade," the Supreme Commander announced, "I claim this world of Threshold!"

All caught on tape by the camera crews and attendants who followed closely behind the Supreme Commander. Already the other barges were landing, disgorging their cargos of soldiers and engineers, but Maxson was blind to this. All he could see were the boundless horizons of this new world, a vast badlands tinged with red. Combined with the crimson sun that burned above them, and Threshold might have seemed desolate.

As Maxson took a deep breath of the oxygen-rich air, however, all he could see was opportunity. "Let the Imperials and Onyxians quiver in their boots, for uncertain death approaches." This too, was dutifully transcribed for posterity.

The deployed soldiers began to fan out, forming perimeters and columns even as the engineers dragged out the parts to simple prefabricated constructs. Quite quickly, one of the generals of the Nyxan Expeditionary Force managed to extricate himself from the confusion of planetfall to reach his superior.

"Supreme Commander," the old veteran grumbled as he approached. The officer in question was grizzled in the way that Nyxan's officer class - hardened in the fires of combat - had begun to develop. "What are your orders now that we're here?"

Maxson seemed only now to remember the army all around him, taking in the general and the surrounding forces as something beneath his usual notice. "On this spot will be built the hub of our operations in this sector. Here we shall erect a command center, from which the war effort shall be commanded. I want barracks, armouries, heavy weapons batteries, vehicle bays, fuel silos, communications relays... everything that we have brought, we shall deploy here to create an impregnable stronghold.

"That's not all, however," he added, now sweeping his hand theatrically to the sky. "The sky will grow dark with our warships. With our foothold secure, I want constant contact with Nyx to ensure the flow of supplies and troops is uninterrupted. We shall build stations, nay, whole shipyards with which to maintain the fleets we shall use in the subjugation of this sector."

"Understood, sir," the general replied, unfazed by the grand scale of his orders. "When do you want it completed?"

Maxson seemed to snap free from his reverie for a moment to shoot an irritated look at his senior officer. "Immediately! War waits for no man!"

[font=Verdana]The Edge of the Onyx Sector


“ Control, requesting charge-transfer. Clearance code transmission begins now.”


“ Clearance accepted, Tormentor; charge transferred. Assume high orbit track 28 and stand by to receive supplies.”


Captain Travys nodded as if orbital control could see him, then turned away from Illiax, the brownish-orb that was his destination. The men around him on the bridge went about their work as if nothing was new of different, and indeed for them it was as normal as could be: a battleship of the Imperial Navy had successfully escorted a twelve-ship convoy from Onyx to the farthest reaches of the Occupation Zone. The battleship’s Captain however was positively beaming as he sauntered down the catwalk for this routine operation was his first command, a test passed as master of a Mark III Star Destroyer.


“ Mr. Doxman, plot the appropriate course for orbital track 28 and engage engines to one-tenth. Loading crews to their stations.”


The acknowledgement fell on deaf ears; Travys was far too pleased with himself. Ten years aboard battleships, the last two as executive officer, were now rewarding him. His chest puffed out within the confines of his olive-green tunic, he resolved to be the best captain the Fleet had ever produced. Caught up in dreams of medals and awards to come, he did not hear the first report of his communications officer. Still facing aft, gazing at his reflection in a polished hull-strut at the control-corridor’s entrance, he only snapped out of his reverie when tapped on the shoulder by the short and muscled martinet of a first officer as new to the Tormentor as Travys was to command.


“ Sir, orbital control has registered three unidentified ships approaching the outer markers. They are refusing to acknowledge all hails. Two patrol craft are moving to intercept.”


Travys turned and shook his head, pushing away the dreams – they could wait until later. Protocol stated that a non-assigned battleship follow orbital control orders until otherwise deployed by system command. However, the Tormentor was the most powerful ship in the system, the defense force consisting of a half-dozen Sienar patrol craft and two Fire-class Frigates. Surely they would not need the assistance of a battleship. Yes, Travys was Captain now and couldn’t go galavanting around a system like a cruiser commander. He watched the holo-display his tactical officer had thoughtfully brought to life shimmering above the catwalk.


“ Captain, the patrol craft are taking fire. System defenses are responding.” The display flashed as two Sienar ships rocked with high-powered impacts on their shields. Tiny as they were, they sped up and maneuvered as one, flying low over the tops of the three intruders and swinging around behind them. Blast after blast was shot into the intruders’ engines until their reactors breached and the three ships were reduced to so much debris pushing towards Illiax by inertia alone.


“ Raiders?” the first officer asked, turning away.


“ Or pirates. Good to see that this command hasn’t rusted!”


The short martinet might have retorted something in kind but the tactical officer could not allow him the remark. He pulled the headset from his ears and looked up at the Captain before almost yelling at his superiors: “ Incoming! Seventy-five tracks and counting; multiple hyperspace reversions in sectors 37 through 75 of the defense grid!”


Travys furrowed his brow, straining his eyes to see these incoming bogies.


The ship, however, approaching Illiax, was oriented away from the approaching hoarde, and he could only see the tactical display that had no vanished. By the time Travys focused on the 3-D projection, both Sienar craft, victorious moments ago, had joined their prey as victims. These new intruders did not look like the decrepit casualties of the brief engagement: there were fighters of every shape and size, long slender ships Travys reckoned were frigates for their wings and bulky drive sections; boxy vessels moving slow and ponderously that given their size were either heavy cruisers or battleships; smaller craft the size of patrol ships moving in swarms as if fighter pilots were at the helms.


“ Helm – bring us about! All hands to battlestations! Launch all fighters into a protective screen; stand by assault shuttles and blastboats. Raise shields. Comm – has orbital control sent out a distress call?”


“ Yes sir, but we won’t be able to. All circuits are being jammed.”

[/font] [font=Verdana]
Travys felt his back stiffen. As his ship completed its slow turn, he could see clearly the smoldering remains of the convoy he had so diligently protected along with the wreckage of the patrol craft that had relieved him of his mission. So much for a flawless start to the rest of his career…





Onyx


The reports that came in were sketchy at best, and among those received in full, most were conflicting. One report from a merchantman claimed he had arrived in a system only to be pounced on by fighters of unknown origin; he had barely escaped with his life. Another claimed to have dropped from hyperspace to make a course correction only to be fired on by no less than twenty capital ships. These reports were alarming and confusing, no two the same: but they all were from civilians, and mostly dismissed.


Then, however, there came the cries from soldiers. Cries from officers. Those were much harder to dismiss. Those also were not received in full, as if they were jammed while being transmitted or sent before completed. One of the latter came from the garrison commander on Illiax, a world close to Threshold on the extreme border of the sector - and by default, the extreme end of the Empire itself. That report was garbled and unfinished, but it began with the right codes and on the right frequency, and it told of an attack and overwhelming numbers and the casualties suffered in a matter of moments...........then it ended.


Admirals and lieutenants alike were unsure of what to believe, and were unable to get any reports from another military unit in the area - there was no planetary garrison of any size for twenty minutes hyperspace' in any direction and no squadron for an hour. Analysts analyzed and General Staff officers compiled, but still the reports came, mingled and unclear. What decision to make?


The Grand Admiral made it when he was awaked from his slumber. The message went out to all posts and all ships, all officers and all men: ALARM!
[/font]

The burning wreckage around Illiax vented silently into the hungry void of space. Brushed aside like so much dust, the Mandalorian horde had descended upon the Imperial defenders, and through sheer numbers and concentration of fire utterly destroyed them.

Even as his warriors cheered and exulted in their victory around him, Kale felt morose. Space warfare brought him no great joy. No, for while his followers celebrated the deaths of their foes, Kale could only think of the handful of warriors he had lost in the initial volley. Fighting men of irreplacable, peerless skill denied the glorious deaths in battle that were rightfully theirs. Kale feared such a fate, and in this brief skirmish he saw plainly just how valuable his warriors were.

He could not afford to risk them in such sterile combat as this. The Mandalorians needed to make contact with their Nyxan allies, if only to put warm and expendable bodies between them and the void of space.

"That's enough time wasted," the Mandalore grunted, rising from his place on the command throne. Immediately, his warriors quieted and turned their attention to him. "Set a course for Threshold, immediately. No more distractions, we'll recall all outbound patrols and make directly for the rendezvous point."

"Sir," said a lieutenant, turning to manipulate his command console. "The Iridonians, I'm picking up their signals coming out of hyperspace nearby. Do you want them to rejoin the fleet?"

Kale paused, a malevolent grin spreading under his helmet. "No... tell them to stay here and start raiding the planet below. Tell them we'll be back for them when they're done." A test of Imperial response times would be useful, and anyways, Kale never liked the Iridonians to begin with.

"As you command," said the lieutenant, who gave the order. The other warriors and servants returned to their stations, preparing to direct the horde onwards to Threshold.

His orders given, Kale sank back into his command throne, idly sharpening the blade of his axe as he looked out into space. A floating scrap of debrise, the word Tormentor etched onto the side, drifted lazily past the prow of the Mandalore's vessel. His patience was wearing thin. He hungered for blood, not steel.

Outside, the horde began to move, the dozens of scrofulous Mandalorian warships navigating out of the wreckage of the brief battle. A handful of recent arrivals stayed behind, moving towards the planet with murder in their hearts. Was there anyone to kill? Some distant garrison or backwater settlement? It mattered not - if no Imperials yet remained, more would come. If none did, the bloodthirsty warriors would turn upon one another and exact their frustrations from each other's hides.

It was a tenuous thing, the warriors' life. In a flash of light, the Mandalorian horde entered hyperspace towards parts unknown, hoping only for a greater slaughter in the future.



The construction work at Threshold had taken on a fever pace. Reacting to Maxson's burning rhetoric and the taskmaster's stinging whip, slaves set about erecting military outposts as directed by the corps of engineers. First a central command had been raised, then barracks and billeting for the Expedition, then batteries of heavy guns and fortifications to secure their new holdings.

As the sprawl of Threshold's groundside base grew, so too did Nyx's presence in orbit. Maxson had ordered the construction of a shipyard and orbital station much in the pattern of the one orbiting Nyx, in order to supply the expedition forces directly instead of requiring them to backtrack to Nyx for repairs and reinforcements. A cluster of the distinctive box-like Nyxan frigates enclosed the growing station, that sprouted modules and bays at odd angles as various engineers applied new and interesting designs to the original plans.

All of this controlled chaos was overseen by the Supreme Commander himself, who kept a watchful eye on the situation from the groundside command center. Though not quite as glorious or grand as Fort Maxson on Nyx, the command center was nonetheless fully-functional and equipped to allow the commander to direct the expedition throughout the sector. Even as the men behind him powered up holographic maps and tactical readouts, Maxson could almost taste the glorious campaign to come.

"Sir, if I could get you to sign off on the latest requisition orders," asked Maxson's second, the craggy old general from the original landing. He proffed a sheet of paperwork that Maxson quickly signed without examining. "Thank you, sir."

"Not a problem," Maxson murmured in reply, his attention fixed on the growing base before him. Already his men were moving into their new barracks, ranks of men standing at attention next to immaculately stacked personal effects.

"There's one more thing, sir," the general replied, a hint of unease filtering into his hoarse voice.

The slight change of tone caught Maxson's attention. "What are you talking about?" he asked, turning to face the general. "Come on man, spit it out."

"The Mandalorians have been detected at the edge of the system, approaching fast." The general shuffled his feet and glanced away. "The Pride's already called, they're awaiting your orders, sir."

Maxson cursed quietly under his breath. He'd allowed himself to simply forget about Kale and his damned Mandalorian brutes. What with all the business of establishing a beachhead in alien territory and orchestrating the affairs of a massive army, Maxson had dreaded the oncoming Mandalorians and the chaos they would bring. "I suppose I shall have to go and treat with them."

"Understood, sir," the general replied with a stiff salute. "I'll have the staff prepare your shuttle for departure immediately."

"See that you do," Maxson replied as he strode out of his new command center. He grabbed his combat armour from where it hung near the door, knowing better than to go see the Mandalorians underprepared. "Until we've gotten a few things straight, I won't let those barbarians step one foot on Nyxan soil."

When Crusaders treat away from the eyes of their master, the manner and results of their meetings depends a great deal on this nature of those involved. Without Dacian's mediating influence or dominating presence, only the thinnest bonds of begrudging allegiance exist.

The Nyxans' neat rows of identical, square-ish warships stood as a thick hedge before the coming tide of the Mandalorians. The Mandalorian swarm only careened to a halt when it was clear that they could go no further without seriously risking collision, though one or two cruisers may have bounced off each other near the back of the formation as their breaks came into play at different times.

The two fleets stared each other down for a while, not a word of comm-chatter passing between them. The fanatical Nyxan officers would have little to say to the thuggish Mandalorian warchiefs anyways, for only their respective lords had any business. At length, each lord made their way through the narrow intervening space between them, the Pride of Nyx facing Kale's flagship, no more than a handful of meters apart.

"Kale," muttered Maxson, his tone haughty and laden with practiced scorn as he stared down the barbarian-king on his viewscreen.

The Mandalorian stared back, inclining his head slightly in greeting. "Nice little playground you're having your toy soldiers slap together, Maxson."

Maxson managed to contain his flinch, at least mostly. "Not that I don't enjoy our chats, Mandalorian, but maybe we should conduct this discussion in person. We can meet on the orbital station and discuss our... strategy."

"Sure, I'll play along," Kale grunted, stretching luxuriously in his crude throne. "Of course I assume my boys are invited as well."

"Your rabble are not welcome on honest Nyxan soil," replied Maxson. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arm rests of his seat. "I invite you and you alone, leave your men."

"I get my personal guard," Kale returned, his voice quickly losing its' good-humour. "Everyone else will stay here."

Maxson paused for a moment before responding. "Acceptable. See you shortly."

Maxson terminated the communication and sat back in his chair, muttering "Savage."

"Peacock," Kale growled, jumping up from his chair. "Get me the clan chiefs and take us to the station. Let's see what war we can make of this."



The Mandalorians' flagship was a highly-modified Marauder-class corvette. The sparsely crewed Marauders were a favourite of the Mandalorians, for they were truly worthy of the designation (Both the vessels and their Mandalorian pilots). It packed many more turbolasers than might be expected of a ship of its' size, and quite a few more than the ship had originally been designed to hold.

Nevertheless, it was terribly vulnerable flying through the tightly packed Nyxan formation and towards the half-completed shipyard-cum-spacestation. Kale was all too aware of this fact, and he and his chosen brethren paced uneasily in the ships' halls waiting for it to dock. After what seemed like an eternity the airlock popped open with a rasping hiss, and the station beyond became visible.

Relieved to be out and about, Kale immediately set out with his cohorts following behind. The docking bay beyond was empty, save for a Nyxan officer who was respectably unfazed considering the hundred or so savage figures spreading out into the wide chamber.

Kale approached the officer and glared at him from behind his helm, the officer grasping his guest's displeasure without having to see his expression. "Well?"

"Maxson and his staff await you in the conference room," the officer explained. He was a craggy old man, Kale noted, and some of the wrinkles looked more like scars. Kale's respect for their greeter went up a notch. "I'll take you right there."

With the old man in the lead, Kale and the Mandalorians were lead through the incomplete structure of the station. As he looked around, Kale was forced to admit the Nyxans had vision, mad though it was. Workers and droids laboured in every corridor, and were visible from every window, adding electrical systems or bolting machinery into place. The workers wisely parted as Kale and his warriors passed, doing their best to keep from offending either their guests or their overseers.

"You guys sure got on quick, eh?" remarked Kale as he paused to watch a team direct the laying of a ship berth. "It's barely been a few weeks and you're already slapping up construction yards."

"The Supreme Commander believes strongly in self-sufficient military outposts," their guide explained. As they watched, one of the magnetic clamps being fixed into place activated prematurely and crushed a worker within its' pneumatic workings. This seemed to raise little commotion, beyond orders quickly being given to have the remains scraped out of the mechanism.

"This was supposed to be a temporary base camp," Kale grumbled. "I don't remember any plans to take and hold the Onyxian sector."

"Maxson wants to minimize this base's dependancy on resupply from Nyx and the rest of the Crusade," said the guide, turning back to their path through the station. "With the exception of manpower, this base should allow our combined forces to remain supplied throughout the campaign, assuming strategists' estimates about looting income are correct."

"The one thing I really got from that was the word looting," said Kale, who followed in behind the guide. "So whatever it is you just said, it's fine with me."

The guide stopped at a doorway that slid open automatically, leading to a large briefing amphitheater. Many of the seats were filled by Nyxan staff, be they generals, attendants, or others. At the front of the room and seated before everyone else was Maxson, who sat at a table across from which was another seat for Kale.

The Mandalorian chiefs spread out to the remaining seats in the amphitheater, while Kale went to take his place alongside Maxson. The two leaders glared at each other by way of greeting as they waited for the last of the Mandalorians to take a seat.

"So..." Maxson finally mumbled, the beginning of what promised to be a less-than-fruitful council of war. "Here we are, leading two huge hosts of war, preparing to invade a province of the most powerful nation yet known... Where do we stand?"

"Nice choice of weasel words," growled Kale. "We're here to wreck the Imperial's shit, Maxson. This isn't some grand game. This isn't the place for posturing about Nyx's glory for your history books. The only thing we need is a direction, the killing'll take care of itself."

"Statements like that are why you'll never be anything more than Dacian's hound," Maxson snapped.

"Better hound than bootlick," Kale snapped back. The two men seemed close to blows, but their anger quickly dissipated into wordless frustration. Despite their prejudices, each knew they needed the other's help to successfully prosecute the campaign. Mr. Ridley had chosen well - and failure was not an option.

At last, Maxson decided to take a second stab at diplomacy. "For all the glory of Nyx... we have no experience fighting this sort of campaign. I lack the dedicated shock troops, and my men require even basic knowledge about galactic society and the enemies they're likely to face. Your Mandalorians are vital - they have experience from fighting every enemy across the galaxy, and have knowledge of every foe and tactic used in war."

Slightly mollified, Kale gave a slight nod to Maxson. "I don't want to waste my warriors on massed charges or prolonged engagements. The meat grinder is a great but short-lived existance, and if we want to come back alive and successful I need to spend my warrior's lives effectively."

"Then let us work together," Maxson urged. Tinges of sincerity creeped into his voice. "I can provide the resources - the ships, the encampments, the rations and logistics. We Nyxans have the numbers and discipline necessary for the mundane battles, freeing your men for strikes and bloodshed in the manner you are accustomed. Provide us with that strategic edge and we will provide the means to fight this war."

Kale still seemed cagey, but he knew they were unlikely to hit upon a better compromise. "Well if you put it like that, I guess we can work together... for now." Kale extended a gauntleted hand for Maxson to shake, who did so promptly. "My men'll start setting up camp outside your planetside base. I'm not into fortifications."

"Regardless, I'd much prefer if our position here was more entrenched, even if it's temporary," said Maxson. "We'll need more materials and manpower, though. If we manage to salvage anything on campaign, expanding our foothold would be wise."

"You take care of the tactics and details," said Kale giving an almost dismissive wave that threatened to break their only recently forged alliance. "I'm more concerned about our first actual move. What's the plan?"

"Well we don't have much intelligence to go on," said Maxson, who turned to the gathered staff. "General Shumer, I think you were in charge of this, correct?"

"Yes, sir," replied one of the better-dressed Nyxan officers. "What we have is from Mr. Ridley, as well as some simple plainclothes preliminary scouting and comm-traffic monitoring. We have dossiers on most of the Imperial holdings in the area as well as general facts about their presence, including common tactics, estimated fleet and army strengths, a few basics about the command structure and political system in the sector."

"We'll forward all the data to you," said Maxson, turning back to Kale. "For our opening move, though, we should take advantage of surprise. The Imperials will be more concerned about internal disputes and divisions than outside intervention. Their misplaced confidence in the safety of their position will be our greatest asset. Strike fleets to test planetary defense at key strongpoints would be good, as well as task groups to harry shipping and any other interstellar transport."

"So raiding and invasion," said Kale. "Sounds good to me. Where and when?"

"I'll set up a task group of officers to organize the initial sorties while I work on our overall strategy. Divide your clans as you see fit and attatch groups to Nyxan raiding parties. That should be a sound opening move."

"Works for me." Kale rose from his seat, giving Maxson one more nod - this time a little more respectful. "I'll put my warchiefs in touch with your task force, when you've got ops on the go just give my men the word and we'll mount up to join in."

"Then this council of war is adjourned," said Maxson, rising from his seat. "Nyx prevails, Mandalore."

"For blood and skulls," Kale replied. "And, I suppose, glory to the Crusade as well."



With an accord having been reached, the tense standoff in orbit ended. The Mandalorians started landing on the planet, there to build a shanty town outside the heavily fortified Nyxan encampment. Huge orbital cannons sat next to armouries of crude weaponry and slave dens, while neat prefabricated barracks stood next to hurridely-assembled warrior lodges. Taken one at a time the aesthetics were clashing, but as a whole the Crusader outpost had a strange unity of savagery and discipline. Barely-restrained violence was in the air.

Just above the air, as a matter of fact, unrestrained violence was building. Even as legions of slaves and engineers laboured on fortifications and space stations, the warships of the Mandalorians and the Nyxans danced and shuffled into new formations, generals and warlords plotting fresh conquest and sharing battleplans and intelligence. All around the Crusader expedition prepared to - at long last - enact its' great command of setting the galaxy ablaze. From the most wild-eyed Mandalorian warrior to the most pompous Nyxan bridge officer, every soldier knew what was coming.

The Crusade was coming, and war rode with them.

Standing on the bridge of the Reign-class Star Destroyer Autarch Vice Admiral Alfonz Messhir looked distinctly out of place. He was a short, squat man with a neck as thick as most men's legs. He had a shaved head and bushy black eyebrows that concealed grey eyes that drank in every detail, even if the brain beyond did not fully grasp their significance. At every joint, his uniform buldged from muscles produced over years of weightlifting in heavy gravity environments: he appeared more a Sergeant Major than an Admiral.


An Admiral, however, he was.


There, looking out at Illiax with those deep-set grey eyes, he grasped at the blackness but saw nothing he wanted to see. The sounds of the bridge faded in his ears as his mind focused all its energy on sight but it was to no avail. As his sensor officer confirmed, there was nothing there to see. That let his mind wander.


I don't understand. No ships, no debris, no satellites, no platforms. They destroyed everything.


From under the bow of the mighty Destroyer came a squadron of Mark IV TIE Defenders. The craft were tiny to the eye, but the wily old Admiral spotted them and felt a tingle of pride in the pit of his stomach as they broke by flights and shot off like missiles in different directions. Their mission was standard: scout the areas passive sensors could not view. Barely had the dozen fighters cleared the shield perimeter when another squadron appeared, followed closely by another. Messhir turned his head to the crew pit where the blue-uniformed Colonel Tazieri was dispatching his fighters with his typical zeal. The Admiral was pleased by the efficiency of the Sixty-third Squadron of the Line, but he still felt uncomfortable.


" Priority Message, Admiral! Reconnaissance reports seven ships of unknown designation six points beyond the horizon."


Seven? Vice Admiral Messhir did a quick moment of basic math: even considering Intelligence's lowest estimates, that left fifty ships unaccounted for. The defense force is lost, at any rate. There may be survivors on the world itself; we can see to them later.


" Captain, all ships to flank speed. Cruisers, break formation and engage those ships! They are not to escape. Imperial ships are lost and they will pay!"


The Autarch rumbled slightly underfoot as her ionization reactor was pumped full of more and more plasma. Reactions similar to the fusion of a star released humungous quantities of power the engineers harnassed and directed to the propulsion systems. They glowed blue as super-heated gas rushed out of them - the Star Destroyer moved off slowly at first, then faster and faster. On every side, three companion Victory-class battleships and a dozen frigates moved off as well. The formation spread out for the turn then closed its gaps with remarkable precision for a unit composed of warships destined for the scrap yard before Onyx was annexed.


" Crusiers have engaged the enemy!" reported the sensor officer, his eyes never leaving the readout panels in the crewpit. Above him, the Vice Admiral tapped his foot impatiently, the racket a constant motion that under normal circumstances might have unnevered a new Petty Officer.


Messhir looked forward, straining around the bulk of the brownish orb of Illiax. He cared not for its unappealling surface or even the civilians on the surface - dead or alive. His eyes and mind were fixed forward - he tasted battle drawing near. Unconsciously, his gloved right hand grasped the cuff of his left sleeve and the wide black band thereupon with its silver Gothic-script lettering: Imperial Guard. His eyes turned to slits as vyed with the sensors to look ahead - then he saw what he wanted. Bright flashes dotted the horizon, a spark here and there of red and orange, and a majority of blasts neon in colour.


" Crusiers disengage!" Messhir ordered, rubbing his gloves together. There was a look in his eyes none of the bridge crew had seen before.


" Sir?" asked the flag-captain, moving up to the Admiral's side. " Our cruisers are sufficient to eliminate those ships. They've destroyed two already and disabled the engines of the remaining craft."


" Silence!" the Admiral snapped, glancing hard at the impertient officer. " I will not be denied my victory. Helm - increase to maximum speed. Foward batteries: open fire!"


The Captain did not argue, instead bowing his head and stepping backward dutifully. The Destroyer moved off from the formation, coaxing another percent from a retrofitted reactor. She moved forward, her gundecks giving the warship a grinning look to those now under her guns. For a long moment, her guns were silent as the crews savored their vision victory. Then the guns spat bright cannonades of lethal light than dispensed the Emperor's Vengeance on those who had dared defile the Realm.




Seconds later, it was over.


Vice Admiral Messhir had regained the natural pallor of his skin and turned towards the lanky officer who directly commanded his flagship.


" Analysis, Captain Ramm."


" Of the ships, sir?" the flag captain asked, slightly unnerved.


Messhir turned his gaze out the nearby viewports to where the smaller gunships of the Squadron were towing away pieces of debris with rarely-used tractor beams. " Of the action, Captain. There is one question that overrides all the others."


" What is that, Sir?"

The grizzled old Guardsman went stone-faced, his eyes narrowing to that look he had had a short time before. " Where the hell are the rest of them?