Veerac Mith dreamt of many things. Of family and friends, of a past left behind on Alsakan a long time ago, of a future that seemed quite bleak. Officers who had served in the Empire for quite some time often spoke of the “great wall”, that divides tomorrow from today, and keeps you from looking forward. Every day must be survived before the next one can even be thought of.

Mith had been in the navy for only two short years, but already had begun to understand that the great wall was not just an anecdote, but a way of life. And a terrible way of life, at that. Living from day to day granted no hope, no bright future, just a head-down, into-the-wind approach to living. Ironically, this was precisely what most members of the admiralty wanted; fierce warriors who threw everything into that one day, because they might never see tomorrow.

A man who is thinking of his wife and children will not run out into enemy fire to capture an important position.

And so, Veerac Mith thought only of family and friends, of the past and the future, during sleep, the one area that his rigid Imperial discipline could not penetrate. It was for this reason that he slept only a few hours every night, and thus was not terribly surprised when he awakened, still in pitch darkness, in the bunk of his bed onboard the Starfire. It took him several minutes to understand why there was a dull buzzing in his ears; his vessel was stationed in orbit around Corulag, and the sound was that of a spacecraft’s engines.

He closed his eyes.

And then opened them again, as he slowly came to a horrifying realization. The buzzing sound was not buzzing at all, but the dull whine of ion trails ricocheting against the hull of the Starfire. But, at this hour of the night, there were no starfighters on patrol; or, there weren’t supposed to be.

And then the alarm went off, and speakers began to blare. All around Mith, his comrades blearily awoke, some sliding from their bunks, others looking around obliviously. To his left, Jon Ceras leapt from his bed.

“What the hell is going on?” He asked, glanced at Mith.

“I don’t know!” Mith replied, shouting ineffectively over the blaring alarm and loudspeakers. “I heard ion trails!”

“All personnel, report to battle stations. Officers report to the bridge or other briefing locations.” So went the message, being repeated over and over. Another enlisted man, Petty Officer Sven Biaraldi, sprinted through the doorway of the small, durasteel dorm, shouting orders at the men, rustling them from their beds. “We’re under attack! Get the hell up, we’re under attack, and get the fuck to your fucking battle stations if you want to live out the day!” One man still lay in his bunk, glancing around, dumbfounded by the chaos, as men scurried from the room. “You! Get up, you dumb son of a bitch!” He screamed, grabbing the man by the hair and forcefully throwing him from the mattress.

“Who the hell is attacking us?” Jon, bearded and gruff, shouted at Sven, as he and Mith hastily pulled on their combat gear. Both were gun operators for the Corellian Gunship.

“How the fuck should I know!” Sven yelled back, hastening another few men out the door. “Just – ”

With that, a massive explosion, visible just outside the hallway, silenced the man, throwing all three of them to the ground. Outside, pipes and debris fell from the rafters and fires started throughout the corridor, with broken glass and metal shards spraying all throughout the dormitory. Veerac and Jon immediately leapt to their feet, as Sven struggled to get to his. Glancing down, the two found the cause of his sluggishness – a twisted piece of metal protruding from the bloodied back of his uniform.

“It’s –” Sven grunted, “just a… a flesh wound, I’ll be fine –” He once again tried to lift himself to his feet, but collapsed, exhausted and broken.

“Medic!” Veerac shouted. “For fuck’s sake, there must be a medic in here, get this man some god damn help!”

The ship rumbled again, as another man rushed over. “I have medical training,” he said, quickly ducking as a bar of durasteel fell from the rafters, slamming into another man’s head and spilling blood over the floor. The man glanced back, shook his head, and rushed towards the fallen Sven instead.

“Come on,” Jon said, leading Veerac out the door.

In the corridor, pandemonium was the order of the day. Fires burned and men shouted over the alarms, rushing through with blasters in hand. Nearby, only meters ahead of Veerac, a bizarre, demi-human alien rushed into the hallway from a conjoining one, followed by a bevy of blaster shots. Most missed, impacting on the walls, but several finally hit, dropping the thing.

The squad of marines that had downed the intruder rushed by, and Jon stepped over flaming debris to bend over the corpse. A moment later, he arose clutching a blaster rifle, and tossed a sidearm to a stunned Veerac. “Defend yourself,” Jon suggested.

Veerac nodded, and the two rushed forward, instinct honed from thousands of drills taking hold as they ran the route without thinking. “How the hell did they get on the ship so damn fast?” Veerac asked.

“Must’ve caught us with our shields down. Drilled a hole in the hull or shot their way into the landing bay,” he theorized as they ran. Jon was several years older than Veerac, and had served in the navy most of his life. The shipman’s existence was a religion to him, and Veerac was sure that the man would be ill at ease living on anything that wasn’t moving a thousand feet per second. Another blast rocked the ship, and the two had to shield their eyes as debris rained down from the ceiling, loosened by small electrical explosions along it. More fires broke out.

Turning another corner, the two happened upon a trio of boarders, jogging down the hall in heavy gear with weapons in hand. Instinctively, Jon shot, hitting one of them squarely in the back, dropping him to the deck. “Shoot, for fuck’s sake!” Jon yelled. “Fucking shoot!”

Veerac’s eyes wide, he glanced at the weapon in his hand, aimed it at one of the things, and fired. A square hit in the thigh, but not enough to kill. The aliens, now alert, had turned, and began firing as they ran towards them. Blasts impacted on the durasteel all around them, as Jon ducked and Veerac fired again, striking the wounded one fully in the chest, killing him instantly.

Jon stepped forward as the surviving alien approached them, raising his blaster rifle and smashing the alien in the head with the butt of it. Stunned, the thing staggered back, and Veerac instinctively leapt forward, grabbing its head and smashing it on a nearby wall. The alien still resisted, so he did so again, and again, smashing it repeatedly until the skull gave way in his hands with a sickly crack, deforming and spraying blood.

Veerac whispered, “Shit,” as he dropped the alien to the ground. He’d never used any of those hand-to-hand combat tactics they’d taught him in the academy before, and the difference between abstract ship to ship exchanges and personal killing was ringing home loud and clear, now.

“Come on, kid,” Jon said, and Veerac continued to follow him.

Finally, they made it to their station, the ship now rumbling constantly. Veerac slid into the gunner’s position, Jon climbing a ladder up to the operation controls, preparing to reload the gun and balance the power systems. “More power to the directional shifting, Jon!” Veerac shouted.

“You got it.”

Outside, in the darkness of space, it was a disaster. Small, unrecognizable fighters swarmed around the Imperial vessels. Several burning – but still fighting – Star Destroyers surrounded the Starfire. An Assault Frigate rushed past, followed by a trail of enemy fighters. Exchanging broadsides with the Imperial craft were oddly designed, smooth hulled capital ships.

“Holy fuck,” Veerac heard Jon whisper. “Get moving, kid! Fire the fuck away!”

Veerac’s weapon was a standard-issue Imperial anti-starfighter laser cannon turret equipped with the new ‘stinger’ energy cartridge system. He’d used it before, but always with plenty of notice in a disciplined, controlled assault. Now, he fired wildly at the vessels outside. A pair of starfighters made a strafing run on the Corellian Corvette, red lasers burning into the ship’s hull. Veerac let loose a stream of fire, blowing them into oblivion.

“Our shields are down,” Jon said. “Already. Fuck, I’m getting damage reports… we’re not going to be able to hold out much longer. The ship is fucked.”

Veerac didn’t respond. The Starfire turned to its starboard side, and his view slowly shifted, as he continued to fire. More starfighters exploded. “There!” Jon said. “Coming up on your left, one of the capitals… no idea what the fuck it is, I’m designating it on your targeting system.”

On the red targeting screen, the ship became outlined in red, as it came into Veerac’s view. It occupied the entirety of his vision; they were only half a kilometer away at most, and ever detail of the other ship was visible. In the headsets of both men, a voice blared.

“Private Mith! Respond!”

“This is Private Mith,” he said quickly, firing randomly on the ship.

“This is Lieutenant Gnoril. The Generation is taking heavy fire from that frigate. We need to draw its fire. Attract its attention!”

“Yes, sir,” Veerac responded. With practiced precision, he fired across the bow of the vessel, other gunners on the Starfire doing the same. Closer to the middle of the ship, fighters streamed out of the bay, zooming out into the raging battle. Without thinking, the gunner turned his turret, unleashing a fury of fire on them. He struck one, then another, causing a pair of explosions.

Instantly, other fighters coming out of the bay were obliterated, a growing explosion enveloping them, until finally one spiraled out of control and struck the inner hull of the bay, fire and shrapnel bursting out of it. The ship visibly shut down, suddenly listing, smaller fires breaking out on it.

“Good shot, kid,” Jon commented.

Veerac continued firing, blowing away fighter after fighter, seemingly without effect; the enemy just kept coming, and the Starfire kept shuddering ominously. Even his equipment was beginning to wink out, power gradually draining away.

Finally, Jon appeared behind him.

“Come on, Mith! We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here!” He shouted, as the ship shook violently, almost throwing him to the ground.

Veerac continued firing.

“Come on!”

Centeguard
Duro

A few reporters followed Theren Gevel as he marched briskly down the hall towards the pressroom of the Imperial Palace. Each shouted questions, but were kept at bay by armed Legionnaires. Cris Kellis walked alongside the Governor, as did Morichar Simt, each a Lieutenant Governor. “After the Coalition attacks, do you plan on upping security on Durosian banks?”

“What sort of trade embargoes are you planning with the Outer-Rim Sovereignty?”

“He’ll be in the damn pressroom in a minute,” Kellis finally said, over the din of commotion, and this seemed to calm some of the commotion. The L-Gov turned back to Theren, as they continued walking.

“Thanks,” Theren said quietly.

“Don’t mention it. How do you think they’ll take in the pressroom?”

“However the fuck I tell them to take it,” Theren replied, glancing over his shoulder. “War overrules commerce, and these capitalist lobbyers will just have to lick their wounds like the rest of us.”

“Agreed.”

“Thank you again for coming,” Simt commented. “At least with the Governor here, I’ll be able to hold down some of the sentiment from the bankers and their whores in the parliament.”

“You mean the war profiteers,” Theren muttered. “That’s all it is. When shit happens, you can always count on someone being greedy enough to take advantage of it for their own monetary gain.” He fixed Simt with a stare. “Do what you need to to keep the local governments in line. Remind them of their place, if you have to. We’re all part of the Empire.”

Simt nodded, as they reached the briefing room. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need it,” Theren said dryly.

“You might,” came a voice from behind the Legionnaires. Pushing his way past – something few men other than he and Theren would dare – Dayvid Tornel nodded to Kellis and Simt. “I’ve just gotten word.”

“Of?”

“An attack, on Corulag.”

“The Coalition?”

“The Sovereignty?” Simt added questioningly.

Tornel shook his head. Simt seemed dumbfounded, but Kellis nodded knowingly. “The ConfedVor League,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Tornel said.

Theren seemed taken aback, though not overly so. “The negotiations were going well. We were ready to counter with another offer.” He shook his head. “Damn.

“Dispatch divisions three and four to Corulag.”

“Already done,” Tornel said.

Just as suddenly as Tornel had appeared, the doors to the pressroom were opened by another Legionnaire, and Theren Gevel, now facing hundreds of holorecorders, did the only thing he could, and stepped through. Within seconds, during which he autonomously walked the well-worn route to the podium, he found himself facing a mob of reporters, the trade sanctions on Sovereignty banks now utterly forgotten.

A thousand questions were shouted. Finally, Theren pointed at one of the gathered members of the press, silencing the rest. “Governor, we’ve just received word that a political group native to the Vorzyd Cluster, known as the Confederated Vorzydian League, has launched an attack on Corulag. Is this true?”

“Yeah,” Theren said, somewhat numbly. What else could he say? “Yeah, it is.”

Clearly unsatisfied, the reporter pressed onward. “There was word that trade and peace negotiations with the ConfedVor League were going fairly well. What happened?”

“The negotiations failed, obviously. The Vorzydiaks don’t want peace, apparently, and we’re not going to facilitate their temper tantrums. Holding such negotiations is an act of mercy, on my part. If they’d rather just have a god damn occupation force on their worlds, so be it.” He pointed at another reporter.

“The attack is still in the midst of occurring, and has been described by some planetary observers as ‘devastating’. Does the Bastion Conclave have any comment on how they were so soundly beaten in this instance?”

“Having not been there, I don’t know how the hell I can comment on anything tactical.

“I don’t think I need to remind any of you what this means. This attack is, regardless of its efficacy, the worst tactical error the ConfedVor could’ve made. They can win the day, or they can lose the day. Either way, they’ve signed their own death warrants, and by the time the first anniversary of this betrayal rolls around, there won’t be a ConfedVor League to regret that.”



Corulag

“You know how to use one of these guns, kid?” Jon shouted as the pair stepped onto the Skipray Blastboat, the last remaining craft in the landing bay. The escape pods had been an option, but, in Jon’s words, ‘that would be giving up’. The older man stepped to the front of the ship, hitting buttons steadily, even as the ship rumbled. The Starfire had only minutes – maybe seconds – of life left in her.

“Do you know how to fly it?” Veerac retorted, beginning to climb up the ladder towards the gunner’s station as the ship thrummed to life.

A loud exclamation of, “Shit!” Could be heard from the cockpit, shortly before a sudden explosion rocked the ship. Mith was thrown violently against the opposite side of the chute, head smashing painfully against the durasteel. When he reached back, he felt blood on the back of his head, but ignored it. With a jolt, he found that he had not fallen down the rest of the way to the deck below, but was now resting safely against the side of the chute.

Gravity, apparently, was gone. Climbing quickly to the top of the gunnery station, Veerac found that they were no longer inside the DP20 Corellian Corvette, but drifting away from it. The explosion had sent them spiraling out, but obviously, Jon had gotten the shields up in time. The gun station wasn’t online, but he strapped himself in anyway.

From outside the Corvette, the damage and chaos was even more extensive. As the Starfire exploded brilliantly behind them, other ships came into view. Imperial Star Destroyers trailing debris, still fighting off fighters and small capital craft. Another Assault Frigate was close by, hounded by fighters.

Suddenly, Veerac felt himself pulled down into the seat. “Ship’s online!” Jon shouted. “Fucking comm channel is a mess!” Veerac grabbed the controls of the laser turret, immediately lashing out at any nearby fighters. A wing of them attempted to strafe the Skipray, but one blast ended the run of the lead craft, a domino effect destroying the rest or knocking them off course. “Okay, we’ve got orders! That Assault Frigate is the Merianide, and she’s calling for escort to cut through the middle of the enemy formation.”

“I guess that would be us,” Veerac said into his headset.

With a jolt, the Blastboat leapt towards the much larger ship. It was being picked apart by fighters, and while her gunners were handling themselves as best they could, it was not a ship designed to deal with a fighter threat. “We’re coming up on her now,” Jon said. “Incoming fighters,” he said, and rhymed off a set of coordinates. Veerac immediately swiveled to face them. A wing of starfighters blazed towards the Assault Frigate above him, lasers firing away. He loosed a barrage of fire at them, ravaging the line, sending them into disarray. Jon shouted another set of coordinates.

Veerac was now firing constantly, turret bucking wildly, guns blazing. Madly, he laced one line after another with fire, explosions raging. Fighters passed overhead, only some getting off shots. He didn’t need to stop firing; they were everywhere, surrounding, cannons firing. The Skipray Blastboat shook again and again, as Jon flew madly to avoid fire, only partially succeeding. “We’re right in their fucking line now!” Jon shouted. Veerac only gritted his teeth and continued firing, more starfighters being blown away every second.

“Shields are down!”

The Skipray shook violently. Veerac could now see debris flung off of the damaged ship floating in a trail behind them, but he continued firing on the enemy, cutting swaths of destruction. The ship rattled again, and began to list to the left. Soon, it was spiraling, end over end, out of control, the gravity systems rushing to compensate.

And then, it was over.

The firing stopped, and Veerac let his fingers off the triggers. “They’re going!” Jon yelled. “They’re retreating!” The older man whooped, as Veerac positively flew down the shaft to join him below.

“We did it,” he commented, letting out a sigh of relief.

“I wouldn’t say that, kid,” Jon replied, gesturing out the viewport at the spinning visage of damaged and destroyed craft, Imperial and enemy alike. “We may have chased them off, but this isn’t over. A lot of good men have died, today. Now, I’ve got to put out a call. The engines are shot, and someone’s going to have to pick us up.”

The Zenith
Bastion System

Theren Gevel was one of the few commanders who kept a fairly modest cabin onboard his flagship. Despite the Zenith having become something of a mobile base of operations for the commodore and governor, he still chose less extravagant accommodations, opting to allow his officers to occupy the larger suites. He threw a pair of repulsortrunks down on the bunk. Both were filled primarily with notebooks, datapads, datacards, and reading materials and the like – various means of recording the myriad thoughts that inevitably flowed through his head at all hours and the means to fill it with more.

Tornel, having already dropped off his luggage in his cabin a short ways down the corridor, stumbled into the room and tossed two more boxes on the floor. “That’s the last of them,” the aide said, panting slightly. “What the hell did you pack in these?”

“Books, mostly,” Theren said, examining the packages. He stood up, shaking his head. “No, I think there was one more.”

“Shit,” Tornel said, slumping against the doorframe, while Theren chuckled.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Theren said. “We’re going to be away from home for a fucking while. Best to be prepared.”

“How long?”

Theren shrugged. “As long as we need to be. We can’t let this one go, we just can’t. We have to send a message. Terror isn’t going to be a bargaining chip I’ll accept.”

“Yeah,” Tornel nodded. “Between you and I, though – what happened? You said the negotiations were going well. This was out of nowhere, like something just snapped overnight.”

“Nothing happens overnight,” Theren said. “The ConfedVor are trying to revolutionize millennia worth of cultural thought. Vorzyd 4 and 5 are as disparate worlds as you’ll find, and they’re trying to unite them into one, single armada. Someone with enough power to mobilize politically woke up and decided that if the Vorzydiaks weren’t going to be fucked on the galactic stage, they had to present a united front.”

“A gambler’s world and an obedient industrial planet. Not a match made in heaven,” Tornel commented.

“No, it isn’t. Which tells you something about the force keeping them both together.”

“It has to be strong.”

“And it has to know it. No one in a thousand years has united those planets. Shit, they’ve been at war for some of those thousand years. We were negotiating with Grez Miff, the Prime Minister of the ConfedVor. An aide of Kellis’ was handling it – pretty well, from what I’d heard.” He shook his head. “I’ve spoken to Grev. This isn’t his doing. The man has vision, vision enough to see that this was a poor choice.”

“Which means?”

“Which means he’s taking orders.”

“Orders he knows will result in the complete destruction of this government? If he doesn’t want to be fucked, why is he setting himself up for an invasion?”

“Because he’s taking orders. Someone has a plan – or thinks they have a plan – and they’ve got enough charisma or enough power to carry it out, logical or not. He’s doing what he’s told because he trusts someone or something.”

“The military?”

“The military, the local intelligence agency, his fucking god, I don’t know.”

Tornel nodded slowly, and started to turn away. “Tornel,” Theren said, stopping him.

“Yeah?”

“How are things with – with you?” The commodore asked. “And Kieryn?”

Tornel chuckled, suddenly not meeting Theren’s eyes. “How are things ever? She’s here on Bastion working for whatever intelligence agency you linked her up with, and I’m gallivanting about the galaxy. That’s that.”

“Would you trade it?” Theren asked. “This, to be with her?”

Tornel thought a moment before smiling slightly, and answered, “No, sir.”



The Zenith,
Tezac System

The fleet strode into the system, seemingly unchallenged. The initial trajectory, as ordered by the commodore, was one that took the modest fleet on a slow, careful plot through the system, which was a stepping-stone to Vorzyd itself. The two inhabitable planets of the system, Tezac Prime and Tezac Minor – both pristine commercial worlds – had been augmented with a military base on the rocky interior world of the system, known as Fort Tezac. The crew was on alert, but not at the ready, allotting a small amount of idle realspace flight time.

After the “exceptional valor” Veerac Mith had demonstrated at the Corulag Attack, he’d been transferred to the flagship of all of the Conclave, the Zenith itself. This was a promotion envied by thousands of men across the fleet, and Mith was conscious of this. But the even greater promotion he had received was one that had thrust him into the ranks of those spacefarers who had seen and survived combat; the tested and battle-hardened few that formed the core of the crews below the deck of all Star Destroyers.

“Of course,” Theren Gevel had said, smirking slightly from across the table, “we couldn’t transfer you alone. Jon Ceras will be joining you. I understand you made quite a pair.”

Mith had been speechless. To be promoted in person by the Governor himself had been shocking enough. “Yes, sir,” he’d said.

“After the job you did at Corulag, it’ll be fucking fine to have you aboard, Mith. Welcome.”

The new position had him in command of an entire set of gun batteries aboard the Zenith, orchestrating a team of gunners. He stood at his post, in a small central control room, when Theren Gevel entered. “At ease,” Theren said immediately, even before Mith could snap to attention. “Running drills already?”

“Hello, sir. I mean, yes, sir,” Mith said.

Theren took a look at the console before him, idling tapping a few buttons. “Slave rigging?”

“If we slave the guns together by default, we can decrease reaction time,” Mith said. “The most important thing, in an attack, is to throw up as much fire, as quickly as possible.”

Theren looked at him, smirking slightly.

“In my opinion, I mean,” Mith said quickly.

“No, it’s a good idea,” Theren assured him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you shit for issuing new orders. That’s what you’re here to do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Theren nodded. “As you were.”



Jon Ceras was to be found in one of the sensory stations, a short way below the bridge. Though he’d technically been assigned by Veerac Mith’s side, the man had a particular affinity for sensor work after years of being the secondary operator of a turret onboard a corvette. Theren was all too pleased to encourage this.

Privately, he admitted to himself that taking aboard two of the heroic survivors of the Corulag Attack was a private way of coping. He couldn’t help but think he’d somehow failed, no matter how many strategic advisors told him that it was an unavoidable eventuality; trust, once placed into the hands of a commander, must be handled with the utmost care.

The door slid open, and Theren entered. The room was cramped and narrow, with numerous beams across the rafters and wires and computers on either side. Through the rear viewport of the cabin, the space left behind by the Zenith during its journey through space was visible, illuminated by the blue ion fire of the engines below.

Stepping around several other men, and nodding briefly to them, Theren found the top half of Jon Ceras buried in one of these walls, likely fiddling with wires or consoles. Every available sensor on a ship of any size was vital; the sum total of the information gathered was analyzed and sent to the bridge. It could determine the outcome of a battle. “Mr. Ceras,” Theren said.

Greeting him in reply was a loud clang and an echoing, “Fuck!” A moment later, Jon Ceras pulled himself out, rubbing his head, but smiling. “Sir,” he formally greeted his commander. “Something I can do for you?”

“Nothing. Just checking in. What the hell are you up to, anyway?”

“Rerouting statistical targeting analysis data,” Jon replied, “by processing it before it’s fed into the overall datastream.”

Theren blinked.

“It saves time,” Jon explained.

“I gathered that,” Theren said. “Good to see you being productive.”

Jon nodded. He was the elder of the two, though certainly the less experienced. On a vessel of war, a sixty year old man could be subordinate to an eighteen year old man, and fully accept it; maturity was a product of experience, not age. But Jon had seen a fair few battles. “Sir, permission to ask you a – rather blunt question.”

“Go on.”

“Did you just come from ‘checking on’ Veerac?”

Theren’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

Jon sighed, and hoisted himself to his feet. “Why take us aboard and treat us like Simon Kaine’s sons? You’re the Governor of dozens of worlds. I find it hard to believe that you personally greet every bloody recruit on the Zenith.”

“Ah,” Theren said. “Jon, one hundred and fifty thousand people died at Corulag. One hundred and fifty thousand of my people. This is my ship, and my damn fleet, and no matter what anyone says, I am responsible for keeping all of you alive. No one is supposed to die on my watch.” He stared at the floor. “I feel guilty. What can I say. I’m only fucking human.”

“You can’t be everywhere at once,” Jon replied, somewhat skeptically.

“But I have to be responsible for everything at once. That’s the essence of command, Jon. People place lives in your hand, and you decide who lives, and who dies. If you want to tell someone I’m not god, tell it to the millions of bereaved family members. I’ll bet you they don’t really give a fuck.”

Jon shrugged. “They might.”

The silence that ensued was broken a moment later by the resounding bang and unmistakable siren that spelled attack. Theren jumped around Jon, pulling his commlink from his belt. “Shields up! Report!” He ordered, not panicked, but immediately at the ready.

Outside, a pair of the small, smooth-hulled Vorzydiak vessels flew behind the Zenith’s flank, escorting what seemed to be a heavily modified Star Destroyer, similar to the Vlyx craft once used by the New Republic. All three fired relentlessly on the flagship. Several drifts of debris could be seen floating idly in space behind them, products of hits scored before the shields had come up. “They came at us from behind Tezac Minor, six of them, one large capital and five escorts. We’ve got atmospheric leaks on decks six and seven,” Tornel’s voice came. “Damage to the stern. No hits to the engines, but some pretty serious structural hits.”

“Drop magnetic containment fields around the leaks, seal them off around the inside,” Theren ordered quickly, watching as the enemy craft attacking the Zenith came around, heading once again to attack their aft sections. “Reinforce forward shields, soften the aft shields.”

“Forward shields?” Tornel asked.

“Do it. Shut down starboard engines and maneuvering jets, and divert all energy to the port engines. Pull us around as quickly as possible on my mark.”

Behind them, the three enemy vessels, seeing the aft shields weakened and believing their target to be ripe, were now frantically bearing down on them, firing profusely. Several quakes told Theren that they’d scored hits to the hull. “Mark,” he said. “And fire.”

And began to make his way to the bridge.



Minutes later, he threw his gray officer’s jacket as he strode onto the bridge. The ship had now fully come about, strong forward shields absorbing enemy shots, with the Vorzydiak vessels having to reverse their course to avoid collision too quickly to effectively out-maneuver the Reign-Class Star Destroyer, thus unable to flank them again.

Outside the viewports, one of the escort ships lost its shielding, hastily attempting to turn about. Its rear shields floundered as shots continued to pour in, one finally puncturing the hull around its engines and sending it spiraling away. “Concentrate fire on the flag ship,” Theren ordered.

Tornel nodded to him in greeting. “The rest of the fleet is handling the other ships. One of the Assault Frigates took some engine damage, but she should be all right. Looks like we bore the brunt of it. Only two remaining escort craft.”

“Probably for the best,” Theren commented. “Order the Assault Frigates around the other escort craft to surround it in a triangular pattern, and have each ship lock a tractor beam on them. Have any ships near the other escort do the same.

“Bring us forward, full speed ahead. Evacuate everything in a hundred meter radius around the damaged sections on decks six and seven.” The Zenith was bearing down on the Vlyx-like vessel, damaging its forward shields. Several blasts hit the hull itself, leaving smoking marks.

“The enemy is reinforcing their forward shields, sir.”

“Then bring us over top of them,” Theren replied. “Rotate the Zenith 180 degrees clockwise – don’t expose our belly to them.” With a magnificent effort, the massive Star Destroyer began to rotate even as it approached the enemy craft, still firing, the gravitational compensators rushing to keep up. An awkward sensation pervading, Theren looked up through the viewports at the enemy vessel, where green turbolaser blasts pounded the weak upper shields. In moments, they fell. Turbolaser blasts ripped through, tearing into the enemy vessels’ hull. Grand explosions tore through the vessel, opening gaping holes in its superstructure, atmosphere and fire pouring out of them.

And then they were by. “Right us,” Theren ordered, and the ship began to pull back around, facing relative upwards once again. Behind them, the devastated Vorzydiak craft had ceased all function, evidently surrendering. “Bring us about.”

As the Zenith completed a long, slow turn, the escorts – each surrounded by vessels with tractor beams locked onto them – were held immobile, struggling valiantly against the gravitic forces at work against them, but inevitably being torn apart by the fighters that swarmed them. One of them finally shut down all function, but the other was slowly beaten into submission by a persistent stream of missiles, lasers, and turbolasers, until finally the shields had fallen and the hull of the craft was pockmarked and ravaged.

With a mighty heave, one of the tractor beams pulled a large section of the vessel’s bow hull from it, exposing structure within. Vacuum tore into the ship, hurling debris out the hole. “That’s it,” Tornel said.



Several emergency crews worked valiantly to put out the various fires that plagued the corridor, attempting to reopen it after it had been sealed by turbolaser fire. They were so absorbed in their task that they hardly noticed the Governor of the Bastion Conclave, picking his way through fire and rubble he was scarcely able to see in the dull red glow of the emergency lights.

One of the men finally cut through the last of the rubble with a utility laser, opening up into a hallway exposed to space. The largest hole was separated from the outer hull by only a short gap filled with superstructure and wires, the hole in which was sealed off from the cold vacuum outside with a blue magnetic containment field. to open space sealed off by a blue magnetic containment field. The corridor was wickedly deformed, the melted durasteel difficult to walk across. Exposed above and below were utility shafts rife with wires and conduits, and a number of fallen pipes blocked the way.

Theren stepped through the opening after the crews, observing them only briefly as they began sealing gaps with a self-hardening durasteel alloy plastic and laying sheets of metal into place over larger holes. Another team began surveying the damage done by the turbolaser blast, discussing how they would seal that tear.

Laying by the side of the corridor, next to door to a set of quarters that had been blown open and the room within lain to waste, was the body of a crewman, evidently killed by either asphyxiation or some sort of blunt trauma. He was pale and white, lying on his side, still in a mostly-intact uniform.

Theren knelt beside him, shutting the man’s eyes for the last time. Had the commodore not reduced power to the aft shields, the crewman likely would not have died. He would even now be laughing and joking, overjoyed to have survived. The Conclave’s offices on Bastion would not be sending his family a letter of condolence.

He had killed this man.

The marionettes would spin around and around, dancing their little dance, wicked smiles on their faces. They would laugh and chuckle, even as the knives cut them from their suspension above the darkness below. Their faces were macabre. They didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t a game.

But whose fault was that? It made it all more his. Ignorant, wooden little men placed in his hands, deviously but unsuccessfully avoiding the knife. Always unsuccessfully. Everything ends in failure, eventually. Civilization, organization, life.

Failure. Falling into the abyss.

Theren Gevel awoke in a cold sweat and realized that the dark abyss he hung in was not the endless waste of a dream, but the vortex of hyperspace.

Alsakan,
Three Years Before

Cilliun Velus got out of the speeder, pulling up a hood to shield his head against the pounding rain. His partner, Myra, quickly fell into step beside him. They approached a somewhat archaic looking residence, one of the few non-apartment residential buildings in the city, in a downscale section. “No shots fired,” she said, repeating what they both already knew. “Just a disturbance report. Anonymous. Domestic violence?” She hypothesized.

Cilliun shrugged and kept walking. It didn’t really matter.

Myra was a pretty girl, two years older than him but a few younger in maturity. Both were young, barely out of the Academy, but she'd always been fond of saying that the job had aged Cilliun, torn carefree years away from him put the weight of the world on his shoulders too early. “You alright?” She asked.

“Fine.” That was always the answer.

“Alright.”

“You can stop asking me that,” he said.

“Sorry,” she replied apologetically. “It’s just… something in your eyes.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true. I worry about what this job does to you, Cilliun, I really do. I think it makes you cold.”

“Well, don’t.” They finally arrived at the door, Cilliun more than pleased that the long walk was over. He hit the buzzer, once, twice, and again. There was no response. Cilliun glanced at his partner, drawing his weapon. “Lights are on but nobody’s home, you think?”

“Let’s find out.”

Cilliun nodded, stepping back, and laying a mighty kick into the door. It swung off of its lock, kindly permitting them entrance.

As they entered, the stench of death immediately hit them. Most officers on Alsakan could immediately recognize that telltale smell, given the violent crime rate, but Cilliun was particularly familiar with it. A million horrific cases flashed before his eyes, each worst than the last. Murder, rape, and worse.

Guns at the ready, Cilliun quickly made his way to one of the light switches, turning it on. The door slid shut behind them, and they continued forward, forgoing the stairs to explore the lower level first. “Pretty run down,” Myra observed.

“Yeah.” She was right; the walls were molding, the plaster peeling off the durasteel beneath. The floors were a mess, and the ceiling looked as if it might fall in at any given moment.

But what made them gasp was what they saw as the corridor opened into what seemed to be a living room. Yet it wasn’t a living room at all; chains hung from the ceiling, some with hooks hanging ominously from them. In the middle of it all was the body of – the body of someone, it was impossible to tell – lying on a blood-drenched wooden table. Most of the flesh had been stripped away, but pieces of clothing still lay on the corpse.

It was a torture chamber. “Fuck,” Cilliun swore. “Fucking @#%$. He did this…” The security officer had to look away. “…he did it while they were alive. The flesh, I mean, you can tell from the blood stains…”

“God.”

And then another voice came. “Precisely.”

Cilliun was thrown back, his muscles spasming, saw darkness, and knew no more.



He awoke with a sharp ringing in his ears.

Then it stopped.

And started again.

He was in a basement of some sort. Hooks still hung from the ceiling, along with chains. More wooden tables had been set up, and instruments that suggested a truly grotesque usage indeed hung on the walls.

With a start, as he came to, Cilliun realized that what he was hearing wasn’t ringing. It was screaming. He leapt to his feet, looking around wildly. To his left, he found the source – and almost turned away. The suspect, a middle aged man, dark hair, and thin, was…

What he was doing was almost too disgusting to describe.

“No!” Cilliun shouted, leaping towards the wall and finding the dullest looking instrument he could. As the killer turned towards him, leaving Myra still screaming on the table, he swung the metal implement, knocking the suspect to the ground.

Leaping atop him, Cilliun took one look at the man. “You,” he said. He recognized him. Alvas Murphy, a renowned serial killer, torturer, and rapist. The worst of the worst, whose kind Cilliun dealt with all too often.

“Yes, me,” Murphy replied. “Resilient boy. That stun should’ve had you out for hours.”

He didn’t reply, but grabbed Alvas about the neck, smashing his head back into the stone floor as hard as he possibly could, knocking him unconscious. Cilliun got unsteadily to his feet, daring to look down at Myra. Her breathing was ragged. She couldn’t speak – she only reached for his hand. He took it. And then she was gone. “Motherfucking hell!”

He fell to his knees, screaming at the top of his lungs, and sobbed there for what seemed like years. “Damn it all to fucking hell…”



“…and on seven counts of prolonged brutality and murder, the rape and murder of Myra Chang, and eight counts of manslaughter, we the jury find the defendant, Alvas Murphy, guilty as charged.”

Cilliun sat there, motionlessly, three rows behind the killer. His face displayed no elation, no relief, nothing.

The judge nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Foreman. This has been a… particularly brutal and disgusting case, during which the defendant has shown little or no remorse for his crimes. I would like to thank the jury for undergoing this process, which I am sure has at times, been testing, given the graphic horror of the evidence. Psychological counseling will be made available for all of you. I must say that it would set my conscience at ease, Mr. Murphy, to send you to the executioner. However, your lack of visible remorse seems, most unfortunately, to support the case made by your attorneys of insanity. I believe that somewhere within you, Mr. Murphy, there is a twisted, evil, and cruel soul that no longer deserves to live. However, as a Justice Minister, I am bound by Alsakan law to rule on the mental fitness of all defendants. I thus find you to be criminally insane, and as per the law I sentence you to life in a high-security mental institution with no possibility of release.” The judge struck his gavel, and it was done.

Alvas Murphy clapped his lawyer on the shoulder, nodding to him. Then, slowly, he turned back, throwing a glance at Cilliun. And with that slow, macabre manner of his, he smiled.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Cilliun screamed, vaulting over two sets of court chairs to the row directly behind him. He reached over, grabbing the killer by the neck, and pulled him forward until his head slammed on the bench. “You bastard! I’ll rip your fucking heart out!”

Several of his friends, also security officers, closed in around him, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him back. “Let me fucking go! I want to give him what he fucking deserves!”

“Mr. Velus!” The Justice Minister shouted, slamming his gavel several times. “Control yourself! Control yourself or I will hold you in contempt of court!” As they led Murphy away, he began to calm down, breathing heavily. “Your testimony has been most helpful, and I accept the horrors you have undergone and will blame your outburst on them. Consider yourself lucky I do not throw you in jail.” The judge shook his head. “I strongly advise you to seek counseling, Mr. Velus.”

His friends released him, and Cilliun fell forward, on his knees again. He buried his head in his hands as the tears came again.

The images of her last moments flashed before his eyes. Her moments, and a thousand others. Grotesque, brutal and disgusting, he willed them away but they would not go. They simply kept coming, like a horrible slide show.

The tears came, and he let them. Once again, he sobbed there for what seemed like years. And eventually, no more tears would come.

The Zenith,
Unknown ConfedVor System

Cilliun marched through the corridor, jaw clenched as always, nodding greeting to a few men as he passed. It had been three long years since he’d joined the Imperial Armed Forces, and though it was but a short time in military terms, he’d come to gain a small amount of respect. Though his quick rise to the rank of commander had earned him some enmity, most could not deny he was an adept warrior. Though he was thin – surprisingly so – his ferocity on the battlefield was, reputedly, unmatched.

“Commander Velus,” the guard greeted him, as Cilliun approached the grand durasteel doors to Gevel’s office aboard the Zenith. “You’ll have to surrender your sidearm before going in, Commander.”

Cilliun glanced at him. “You should know better than to ask me to do that.”

“Sorry, Governor’s orders, sir,” the guard said. “Commodore Gevel is a high-profile figure, sir, a lot of people would like to see him dead.”

Sighing, the soldier acquiesced, removing his pistol from its holster, begrudgingly handing it to the guard. “Would you like anything else?” He asked sarcastically.

“No, sir. You can go in.”

Sneering slightly, Cilliun pushed open the doors, finding ‘the Governor’ sitting at a rather stately desk, seemingly filling out documents of some sort. Theren looked up, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Still wearing those stupid spectacles, eh?” The soldier asked.

“Cilliun,” Gevel replied, getting to his feet and shaking the man’s hand.

“Theren. Been a bit of a while, hasn’t it?” Cilliun asked in his heavy accent. It hadn’t changed at all – still sounded like a thick, poor man’s version of an Imperial aristocrat’s. Which was almost exactly what it was.

“Yeah, it has. Sit down.”

Cilliun complied. “You certainly have come a long way. Left a simple gunslinger like me in the dust, haven’t you?”

“Still think you’re funny, eh?”

Both men chuckled slightly. “So, what am I here for? Suddenly, I find myself pulled off of Corellia and ferried off into the middle of nowhere on the far side of the Core. What’s going on?”

“You know what happened at Corulag. Retaliation – it’s as simple as that.”

“Ah.” Cilliun nodded. “Yeah, I saw that press conference of yours. Performed pretty well for a deer caught in the headlights, I thought.”

“Thanks.”

“And it looks like you patched this dingy of yours up pretty nicely, but I hear it got pretty banged up in a scrap, recently. So I’m assuming you’ve routed some of the Vorzydiak Navy.”

“Right again. We’re going to make an assault on Vorzyd tomorrow, and I decided to give an old friend a call. It doesn’t look like we’re going to have a lot of fleet resistance – we gave them another shit kicking around the Tezac system yesterday, and it looks like they’ve run into the deepest parts of their little province. Most of the planning is going towards preparing a planetary assault.”

Cilliun raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t done assault work in a year. You know why they took me off.”

“Yeah, but now I’m calling the shots. The Conclave is mine, and I want you working for it.”

“You know my terms,” Cilliun said bluntly. Indeed, a great many people in the admiralty knew his terms – they were infamous. Cilliun the humanitarian. “No orbital bombardment, no weapons of mass destruction. Traditional tactics only. Infantry, armor, and atmospheric craft.”

Theren bit his lip. “I can’t promise you that. If it goes too far, I’ll bombard.”

Cilliun smiled, and looked at the floor. “See, I fucking knew you would say that, Theren. Always willing to do what it takes, right? How very, very navy-like of you.”

“Look, Cilliun,” Theren said, shaking his head. “What needs to be done, needs to be done. You know that. You have to believe in what we’re fighting for.”

“Justify it however you want, Governor,” Cilliun replied morosely. “Strange what power does to you, eh? Not quite the same person you were at the Academy. If you’re going to start blasting the surface, I’m not going in. I won’t be a part of it.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.” Theren sighed, shaking his head. “I’m trying to do you a god damn favor, Cilliun. Do you want to be stuck pulling patrol and enforcement for Empire Proper for the rest of your life?”

“I can think of worse things,” Cilliun replied coldly.

The two sat in silence, Theren not meeting Cilliun’s eyes. “All right. You have your deal. On one condition.”

Vorzyd 4

Theren Gevel pulled his trench coat tighter about him, determinedly trying to keep the cold out. It was supposed to be made entirely of some form of insulating fabric that felt like cotton, but the intense cold of the Vorzyd 4 winter seemed to penetrate nonetheless. He stood on a hill overlooking a wreckage-strewn battlefield that extended for almost a kilometer, up to a residential installation vaguely resembling a city. This was an agricultural tract of land, owned by a private corporation, which had closed down for the winter season, moving most food production to indoor facilities.

“Walls around the city,” Theren observed to the Legionnaires around him. “Looks like they threw them up pretty quickly.”

In the distance, there echoed a vague crack, followed by a slow hiss. Theren squinted into the distance. “Fuck!” He shouted, motioning the soldiers down. On command, the doggedly loyal troopers ducked to the ground, just as a massive blast erupted ten or twelve meters in front of them, knocking them back and spraying dirt and snow about.

Theren scrambled to his feet. “Come on, come on, damn it,” he said. “Fall back.”

The Legionnaires followed him down the hill, back to the trench that was still being constructed behind it. He, along with them, leapt down into it. A few of the nearby soldiers – officers in body armor, Legionnaires in their full suits, even Stormtroopers, some of which were clones and some of which were not – saluted stoically. The trench was well constructed and deep, bereft of snow.

Theren made his way down the trench, finding the turn leading to a small, prefabricated officers shelter. Cilliun Velus stood inside, discussing tactics with his advisers and officers. He was almost a ridiculous-looking figure, actually – thin and lanky and of only slightly above-average height, outfitted in full body armor, standing next to bulky, lifelong military men. The former security officer didn’t salute or otherwise greet Theren; he simply cast a brief look at him, nodding.

“Well?”

“Looks like the armor was beaten back pretty effectively,” Theren confirmed. “They’ve constructed a makeshift wall around the city, along with some artillery.”

“Isn’t that lovely. All holed up, it seems,” Cilliun said, scowling. “Never would have believed it. Like bloody drones, the lot of them – won’t surrender for god himself.”

“We’ve got them surrounded,” Theren pointed out, and some of the officers nodded.

Cilliun scowled again. It had been a tenuous oligarchy at best during the six days since the invasion of Vorzyd 4 began. Neither man was wholly comfortable with the others’ presence. “It doesn’t work that way. They’ve battened down the hatches, now. Taking them is going to cost us lives, either fucking way. No choice in the matter.”

“Planetary bombardment starting to seem like a good idea?”

Cilliun’s eyes narrowed. “No, it isn’t. We’ve just got to take it, that’s our only option. Swallow hard and attack. I’ll issue orders in the morning. Dismissed.”

The other officers walked out of the shelter, but Theren stayed behind. “These Vorzydiaks are innately obedient. They won’t surrender. They don’t understand defeat. You’re going to have to kill some of them, whether you like it or not. I’m not going to let you jeopardize my men while you fuck about with trench warfare tactics. The weather has been slowing us down for days. We need to get past this, crush them, sweep the continent with armor and get out of the hemisphere.”

“What do you know of it?” Cilliun asked harshly. “This is a war. In a war, people die on both sides. But I don’t want to be responsible for a massacre.” He shook his head. “They’re just doing what they’re told, Theren. That’s all they know. We can’t slaughter them like animals just for that.”

“You can’t save everyone, Cilliun.”

The commander’s eyes widened as he met Theren’s eyes. “Fuck you,” he sneered, and left.

Vorzyd 4

Cilliun Velus glanced at the instruments inside the Darktrooper suit’s helmet, checking for the hundredth time that all systems were operational. It was a tight fit for most men, but the soldier’s thin frame sat easily inside the suit, strapped into place securely. The Darktrooper project had been restarted by both Admiral Drayson and Commodore Gevel, and certainly had caught on among the elite infantry units deployed the massive droid suits. Most users now spoke affectionately of their armor suits, going so far as to name them.

To Cillun, they were just another tool. Just another article of war designed for killing, and little else. As he moved his arm, the suit responded to the motion and mimicked it, bringing the mighty laser cannon gripped in the droids’ fist within the sight of the helmet. While he could not deny the allure that the feeling of control and power they allotted, for the most part, he did his best to resist this feeling. Anything that made one feel so superior was dangerous as hell. Every time Cilliun stepped into one of the behemoth suits, he felt the signature rush that anyone who had ever possessed even a modicum of power could identify with.

It made him sick.

But those thoughts were gone from him now, as he anticipated the battle to come. Around him, a multitude of other soldiers outfitted in Darktrooper suits similarly prepared themselves, checking weapons and preparing for the inevitable rush out of the trench.

“All systems are operational,” The droid interface told him. “There is no need to continue checking.”

“It makes me feel better,” Cilliun replied.

The voice of Theren Gevel in Cilliun’s ear almost made him jump. “Alright. I’ll be leading the infantry in. You and the Darktrooper legion make the initial charge and take down the wall.”

“We’ve been over this,” Cilliun muttered impatiently. “I know what to fucking do. Now, if we could just get this over with.”

“Make your move, then. The armor will follow you on the wings and we’ll be behind you.” Then, the commodore’s voice took on the slightly more metallic quality that told him he was hearing a wide-band broadcast to all of the troops. “I trust that all forces have gone over the assault plan,” he said. “Resistance is expected to be heavy and often stubborn, and surrender seems unlikely. The enemy is waiting for us to flinch first. But the Empire doesn’t flinch. Fight without mercy. Gloria Imperium.”

Anything that made one feel so superior was dangerous as hell…

And then, “Go.”

“That’s our cue,” Cilliun said, making a quick hand gesture to change his channel of broadcast. All around him, snow and dust began to swirl, as the repulsorlift generators of the gathered Darktroopers began to lift them out of the trench. As he turned the massive helmeted head of the suit to glance about, he noted that the others had lifted off to his altitude, hovering over the opening of the trench. Ahead of them lay the city – surrounded by the wall, roughly ten meters in height – with its own trench dug around it. Cilliun checked his weapon one last time.

And then made the gesture for “advance”.

The line of Darktroopers, several dozen in all, made forward, skimming quickly across the snowy surface of Vorzyd 4, their repulsorlifts and maneuvering jets urging them onwards. Several stationary guns, positioned around the trench, began to swivel to target them, attempting to get a solid lock on the rapidly moving soldiers. On either side of the line, Cilliun noted the armor, a number of MT-ATs and several tanks.

The ground rushed past beneath him, the muffled sound of the air brushing his suit in his ears. “I need target locks on all of those.” Cilliun brought to bear his suit’s right arm, which ended in the massive guided rocket launcher the Darktrooper droids were known for. The Heads-Up Display in the viewscreen before him quickly highlighted targets as he cycled through them, controls responding quickly to his every touch.

“Target information complete, guidance system activated,” The computer system replied.

Quickly, he launched a salvo of rockets, and then another. Other troopers followed suit, and the warheads exploded brilliantly in the distance, destroying one turret after another. Soon, the wall was in range, and the return fire from the defending forces became apparent. Cilliun began to dodge and weave, his suit’s relatively nimble repulsorlift systems propelling him about. Red blaster bolts singed past, one or two grazing the thick armor of the suit to little effect.

Cilliun barreled down on the trench, loosing more rockets into it, causing a massive blast to ripple through it. As he stopped over it, he cut the Darktrooper droid’s repulsorlift systems, falling to the ground only meters below into the burned-out section of the dugout. Vorzydiaks in meager armor occupied the trench to either side, now firing on him with the disarray and abandon of a shocked and surprised force. Targeting the massive laser cannon clutched in the droid’s left hand, he let loose a salvo that cut down at least a dozen of them, leaving the rest engulfed in smoke and debris.

As the other Darktroopers rushed into the trench, clearing it out – some falling victim to enemy fire in the process – Cilliun reactivated his suit’s repulsorlift system, hurtling out and moving towards the wall. Almost immediately, a proximity sensor went off in the suit, and, automatically, Cilliun let the forward repulsorlifts drop, allowing the front end of the suit to fall, skimming the ground as he swiveled towards the threat.

The rocket in question passed harmlessly overhead. As a crimson reticule on the display Cilliun was doggedly watching zoomed in by his command on his assailant – one of the few defensive hovertanks the enemy had possessed, thought destroyed by the initial missile volley – he let loose a volley of missiles and laser fire, obliterating it in a shower of shrapnel and inferno.

Getting the suit to its so-called feet with the assistance of repulsors, Cilliun faced the defensive wall once more, now towering only a few dozen meters before him. A few defenders situated on the top fired down at him to little avail. He raised his rifle, showering them with laser fire, blasting away chunks of rock from the top of the fortification.

“I need a weak point on that wall,” Cilliun told the droid interface, continuing to fire at the defenders as he did so.

After a moment, the machine replied, “There do not seem to be weak points. It is composed of a duracrete outer wall and reinforced by a durasteel superstructure.”

Cilliun was surprised. “I guess efficiency is one of the values of unthinking obedience.” He switched to a broad channel. “I need cover fire to mount the wall.”

Activating the repulsorlifts again as many of the Darktroopers began to emerge from the trench, Cilliun’s Darktrooper suit leapt into the air, quickly soaring above the makeshift fortification, the defending Vorzydiaks still firing haplessly on him. Letting loose yet more rockets down upon them as he passed overhead, flinging the defenders from their perches atop the wall, he disengaged the repulsorlifts at last, slowly descending to the ground within the city.

In many ways, the place resembled any normal human city; it was filled with tall duracrete buildings, most of a vaguely rounded design. The streets had the occasional speeder – now abandoned – lying in their midst. Where it differed significantly was the nature of each of these structures; even with the briefest glance, and the text analysis from the Darktrooper droid, Cilliun was aware that their nature was agricultural. There were few – almost no – residential buildings.

As he touched down, the armored soldier found himself in the midst of a small army of defenders, evidently having set up base camp around the defensive wall, as a temporary residence for those not manning shifts on the top. Prefabricated structures barely taller than the droid abounded, as did enemy soldiers. Cilliun was surrounded.

The surprise on the faces of the near-human Vorzydiaks turned to cold determination as they pulled out blasters and sidearms, charging to close range and firing. Immediately, Cilliun brought his right, rocket-equipped arm down as forcefully as possible, crushing the skull of the nearest soldier, sweeping the massive weapon across to smash others from his way. Simultaneously, he let loose a burst of laser fire, missed shots kicking up sprays of dirt and fire. The overpowered blasts obliterated their targets, flash-frying them and sending many flying back.

Charging directly through the nearest pocket of soldiers – seven in all – his enemies scoring only inconsequential hits, Cilliun fired a pair of unguided rockets at the nearest duraplast prefab structure, nearly leveling it. He fired the suit’s laser cannon at the pack of soldiers as he closed in on them. Most fell before he reached them; when he did, he crushed the chest of one of the survivors, aiming the laser rifle at the head of the last survivor.

It was just a kid. Some alien, probably not twenty, forced into the war by the Empire’s invasion. Scared out of his mind, scarcely believing he was there. But an enemy nonetheless.

It would have been easy to kill him.

Anything that made one feel so superior was dangerous as hell…

Cilliun lowered the weapon.

The Vorzydiak fled rapidly, scrambling over rocks and fallen debris from the wall. Cilliun turned away, glancing around. More soldiers would quickly be upon him as they regrouped. “The wall is no more vulnerable from inside than it was from out. Fleeing is suggested.”

Around the destroyed prefabricated structure, more soldiers rushed forward. They were determined, obedient. The orders of a commander could be heard being barked as they rushed forward. The Vorzydiaks of Vorzyd 4 knew no fear or disobedience. Their lives were not their own.

He knew what he’d come here to do. “I need a lock on the weakest structural point on that building. I need it to fall south.”

As he laced the soldiers with laser fire, he extended the arm bearing the missile launcher, training the aiming reticule on the target provided by the droid computer.

The explosion leveled the entire southern support structure, and slowly but surely, the building began to topple.

Outside the Wall

Theren Gevel pulled himself out of the bloodied, singed trench, moving quickly forward with his assigned guard. That Cilliun had implied his incompetence by assigning the defender to him irked Theren, but he accepted that it was doubtful he’d be allowed in the battle at all were High Command notified of it, so he kept the discontent to himself.

The protecting forces atop the now-battered defensive wall fired down at the soldiers he moved in the center of. Aiming his blaster rifle, Theren fired several shots at them. One of his targets clutched his face, the other his chest; both tumbled from the wall. “If I might ask, sir, where did you learn to shoot?”

His escort was a young man with the same thick accent as Velus – though a much more imposing build – who’d identified himself as Sergeant Dilem. “The slums of Coruscant,” Theren replied shortly, continuing to fire. “And that’s where your commander will be living if that fucking wall doesn’t come down.”

“I’m sure it will.” Dilem replied confidently, adding some shots of his own to the fray.

Theren’s communicator unit buzzed. After a brief exchange that Dilem was not privy to, the Governor looked up and said, “Move the force fifty meters east.”

Dilem did not question the orders; he simply began shouting them to the surrounding Legionnaires, who quickly relayed them amongst themselves. Still firing, they rushed to the east. And seconds after they’d finished, Dilem was proved quite right.

Through the wall, rending durasteel and duracrete alike, came crashing a huge, fifteen-story building, scarcely eighty meters away. Crushing itself under the weight of its own impact and sending shards of debris scattering about, it pulled down with it the more-flexible durasteel support to the rear of the wall. Slowly, it pulled the wall forward, duracrete crumbling and finally toppling to the ground. A roughly fifty meter wide gap was opened in the devastated fortification.

Dilem glanced at Theren.

“Yeah, I know,” Theren said, preempting whatever the man had been about to say. “Move the men forward. Line formation. Sweep the enemy base camp and prepare to begin taking the city.”

Past the Base Camp

Cilliun let loose yet another salvo of rockets, obliterating a Vorzydiak defensive position entrenched in a pile of rubble. All around him, the Legionnaires rushed past his position, the wall downed and enemy defenses at its base quickly being crushed. “Perimeter of city captured,” the Darktrooper’s droid computer told him, and the commander nodded. “Put me through to Theren.”

Rushing forward, past the defensive perimeter and into the streets of the city, buildings towering on either side, Cilliun took a quick appraisal of the battle. A squad of Legionnaires had hunkered down on either side of the street, behind the bases of the nearest buildings. Using their cover, they were fighting a hasty street battle against the defending Vorzydiaks. Debris and dust littered the street and filled the air, remnants of the collapse building.

“Order the troops to move into the city and take the outer buildings. Make sure it’s in tandem.”

“No shit?” Came Theren’s voice on the other end.

Gaining speed with his repulsors, Cilliun slashed through a squad of the aliens, gunning most down with his laser cannon, physically striking two others with the chest of his titanic battle armor, killing them as well. He reached the position of one of the squads, dodging laserfire and ducking amongst the rubble and dirt littering the street. A local transmission crossed his ears. “Request assistance. Darktrooper, can you eliminate the western squad?” A voice queried him.

“Transmission originates from Legionnaire squad leader to direct left.”

“Isolate the target he’s talking about,” Cilliun commanded.

Appearing as a red-haloed destination in the distance of his viewscreen, the enemy squad took cover behind a fallen slab of concrete, lacing the Legionnaires with fire. If they could be eliminated, the left squad of Legionnaires could sweep forward, cross the street, and take cover from where the Vorzydiaks now pelted them with fire, effectively flanking the second enemy squad on the left and facilitating a safe advance up the street.

Far behind, near the fallen wall, more Legionnaires flowed into the city. If they could slip up this street, they would be able to fan out once further within the city and flank many of the defenders still holed up within the outermost buildings. Cilliun activated his suit’s repulsors, making a quick hop over piles of rubble, pushing the mechanisms of the armor to close quickly in on the Vorzydiak squad, who now directed their fire at him. He raised his laser cannon, firing on them, spraying bits of rubble about their makeshift bunker.

Still running, he raised the Darktrooper suit’s rocket launching right arm, targeting a spot just beyond their cover, letting loose a single, slow missile. It honed it, zipping down below the duracrete slab, exploding brilliantly in the distance, sending at least one of the aliens soaring out from the safety of their position with the shockwave. Distracted, singed, battered by the blast, the aliens scarcely noticed as Cilliun swept in, hosing them with laserfire, blowing one after another away. “Target eliminated,” Cilliun acknowledged.