Space. Some say it extends forever in all directions. Some say it wraps back on itself, making a continuous circuit. Some say that it has definite bounds, beyond which are the realms of gods. Some say that space simply ends somewhere, a point beyond which man shall never go.
Wesley Vos stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Vos, contemplating these mysteries. Often he came here, when his temporary fleet was not engaged, simply to reflect. The 360 degree view afforded him a magnificent view of the surrounding stars of the galaxy. It boggled his mind to think that everything he saw was but a fraction of what existed. Hundreds of other galaxies had been discovered, if not thousands. And each of them was as large as this one, and probably just as populated. It made him feel somewhat insignificant, actually. He was a powerful man by this point, at least in this galaxy. He commanded several Star Destroyers, two divisions of infantry, a regiment of armor, and the elite ISF. But when compared to the rest of the universe, all his actions were but a drop in the bucket.
He had sealed off the bridge when he arrived. All systems were on automatic at the moment anyway, since the small ISF fleet hung suspended in the blackness. They were lightyears away from any planets, and hundreds of lightyears inside Imperial borders. His men had been promised a month's leave after Ansion - after all, the body can only take so much time in active combat before it begins to break down. The fighting at Ansion had marked the sixth month since the unit's first action on Coruscant. In that time they had fought Coalition spies on Coruscant, travelled to the Unknown regions, come back to fight at Serenno, fought the Coalition in Bothan space, briefly travelled to Metalorn and took part in the action there, took part in a joint effort with the Commonwealth to protect the Astral Astoria, and fought Coalition Section Eight on Ansion. His men, frankly, were bushed.
Now they sat in relative ease. Wes had refitted the four Vos-class carriers with more luxurious furnishings and added a pilot's lounge. His Assault Frigate, the Nightstalker, was similarly furnished. While they waited for confirmation of their leave, they relaxed, doing pretty much whatever they wished. At least, whatever was to be done on a ship. Wes had heard that a few of the men had been extremely anxious to get back to Coruscant - bars and brothels were what they actually longed for. Several of the men had made unwanted advances on several of the female members of the ISF, and Wes had heard that Captain Lomax had severely beaten one who had attempted to go after his sister.
That was an odd arrangement. It wasn't often one saw a brother-sister team as good as these two were. Especially not in the same unit. And now they were wingmates. Captain Myec Lomax led Green Squadron. A very accomplished hand-to-hand fighter, though getting along in years. He was in his thirties, if Wes remembered correctly. His sister Renee, still in her late twenties, was a beauty to behold. But beauty wasn't her only asset; there were few that could match her when it came to electronics. Or piloting.
As Wes considered these things, his comlink went off. He swore. Why the kriff do these calls always come at the wrong time? he asked himself. But when duty calls, one must respond, so he answered, "Yes?"
A staff officer on the other end replied, "Sir, message from Coruscant. Leave has been granted."
Wes forgot his earlier anger and opened the bridge doors. He flipped on the intercomm and said, "All hands to positions. We're headed for Coruscant." Cheering erupted throughout the ship, but loudest in the pilot's lounge. They were going home.
The hyperspace jump had been uneventful. One or two of the pilots had gotten wasted (Gray Squadron - what else was new?) and had been summarily punished, but other than that there were no incidents. Now Coruscant hung before them as if suspended from the glowing orb that was its sun.
It was a beautiful view, or at least Wes thought so. While he didn't so much enjoy being on the planet - he still preferred the rural areas of his native Bakuru - gazing at it from space wasn't so bad. The people below, scurrying about on business, not realizing or even caring that their safety was secured by warships such as his that kept back the inefficient, democratic Galactic Coalition - such people fascinated him. If he were Emperor, he would require universal military service if for no other reason than to instill a sense of patriotic duty in the subjects of the Empire. But he was not, and so he would make do with what he had.
And what he had was pretty good. Forty eight of the best men and women the Empire had to offer, flying the most advanced craft available, working with equipment of their choice. The only problem was that his forces were not large enough.
When the unit had formed, Wes had assumed that since the Rebel Wraith Squadron had prosecuted their war against Zjinn with only one squadron, four should be plenty. There were two problems with that thought. First, the Wraiths had been fighting a defeated, dismembered Empire, not a working, functioning Galactic Coalition. Second, the ISF was performing tasks that would never have been expected of the Wraiths, such as capturing planets and fighting in fleet battles.
So once again, Wes's leave was going to be spent pushing paper. The last time he'd been off active duty, he had spent a year forming the ISF into what it was now. This time, he would spend a month attempting to expand it.
The pilots had departed thirty minutes ago in shuttles, allowed to travel where they wished for a month. At that time, they were to regroup on the ships from which they had departed, ready for active duty. Some would go to visit family, others to the bars and bordellos of Coruscant. Wes had no family, and neither drunkeness nor debauchery interested him. The survival of the ISF, on the other hand, did.
His first task was to leave his ship in capable hands, which he did by turning it over to one of his staff officers. Then he boarded his own shuttle, heading for the headquarters of one General Boone. While they were at Ansion, his immediate superior had once again been promoted and moved, so he reported to a different commander now.
Boone, he had heard, was a strict disciplinarian like himself. A large black man, Boone commanded respect even from Captain Selere, who had served under him previously. That fact scared Wes a bit. Anyone who could intimidate the 6'4", 315 pound Selere had that effect.
Wesley Vos stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Vos, contemplating these mysteries. Often he came here, when his temporary fleet was not engaged, simply to reflect. The 360 degree view afforded him a magnificent view of the surrounding stars of the galaxy. It boggled his mind to think that everything he saw was but a fraction of what existed. Hundreds of other galaxies had been discovered, if not thousands. And each of them was as large as this one, and probably just as populated. It made him feel somewhat insignificant, actually. He was a powerful man by this point, at least in this galaxy. He commanded several Star Destroyers, two divisions of infantry, a regiment of armor, and the elite ISF. But when compared to the rest of the universe, all his actions were but a drop in the bucket.
He had sealed off the bridge when he arrived. All systems were on automatic at the moment anyway, since the small ISF fleet hung suspended in the blackness. They were lightyears away from any planets, and hundreds of lightyears inside Imperial borders. His men had been promised a month's leave after Ansion - after all, the body can only take so much time in active combat before it begins to break down. The fighting at Ansion had marked the sixth month since the unit's first action on Coruscant. In that time they had fought Coalition spies on Coruscant, travelled to the Unknown regions, come back to fight at Serenno, fought the Coalition in Bothan space, briefly travelled to Metalorn and took part in the action there, took part in a joint effort with the Commonwealth to protect the Astral Astoria, and fought Coalition Section Eight on Ansion. His men, frankly, were bushed.
Now they sat in relative ease. Wes had refitted the four Vos-class carriers with more luxurious furnishings and added a pilot's lounge. His Assault Frigate, the Nightstalker, was similarly furnished. While they waited for confirmation of their leave, they relaxed, doing pretty much whatever they wished. At least, whatever was to be done on a ship. Wes had heard that a few of the men had been extremely anxious to get back to Coruscant - bars and brothels were what they actually longed for. Several of the men had made unwanted advances on several of the female members of the ISF, and Wes had heard that Captain Lomax had severely beaten one who had attempted to go after his sister.
That was an odd arrangement. It wasn't often one saw a brother-sister team as good as these two were. Especially not in the same unit. And now they were wingmates. Captain Myec Lomax led Green Squadron. A very accomplished hand-to-hand fighter, though getting along in years. He was in his thirties, if Wes remembered correctly. His sister Renee, still in her late twenties, was a beauty to behold. But beauty wasn't her only asset; there were few that could match her when it came to electronics. Or piloting.
As Wes considered these things, his comlink went off. He swore. Why the kriff do these calls always come at the wrong time? he asked himself. But when duty calls, one must respond, so he answered, "Yes?"
A staff officer on the other end replied, "Sir, message from Coruscant. Leave has been granted."
Wes forgot his earlier anger and opened the bridge doors. He flipped on the intercomm and said, "All hands to positions. We're headed for Coruscant." Cheering erupted throughout the ship, but loudest in the pilot's lounge. They were going home.
***
The hyperspace jump had been uneventful. One or two of the pilots had gotten wasted (Gray Squadron - what else was new?) and had been summarily punished, but other than that there were no incidents. Now Coruscant hung before them as if suspended from the glowing orb that was its sun.
It was a beautiful view, or at least Wes thought so. While he didn't so much enjoy being on the planet - he still preferred the rural areas of his native Bakuru - gazing at it from space wasn't so bad. The people below, scurrying about on business, not realizing or even caring that their safety was secured by warships such as his that kept back the inefficient, democratic Galactic Coalition - such people fascinated him. If he were Emperor, he would require universal military service if for no other reason than to instill a sense of patriotic duty in the subjects of the Empire. But he was not, and so he would make do with what he had.
And what he had was pretty good. Forty eight of the best men and women the Empire had to offer, flying the most advanced craft available, working with equipment of their choice. The only problem was that his forces were not large enough.
When the unit had formed, Wes had assumed that since the Rebel Wraith Squadron had prosecuted their war against Zjinn with only one squadron, four should be plenty. There were two problems with that thought. First, the Wraiths had been fighting a defeated, dismembered Empire, not a working, functioning Galactic Coalition. Second, the ISF was performing tasks that would never have been expected of the Wraiths, such as capturing planets and fighting in fleet battles.
So once again, Wes's leave was going to be spent pushing paper. The last time he'd been off active duty, he had spent a year forming the ISF into what it was now. This time, he would spend a month attempting to expand it.
The pilots had departed thirty minutes ago in shuttles, allowed to travel where they wished for a month. At that time, they were to regroup on the ships from which they had departed, ready for active duty. Some would go to visit family, others to the bars and bordellos of Coruscant. Wes had no family, and neither drunkeness nor debauchery interested him. The survival of the ISF, on the other hand, did.
His first task was to leave his ship in capable hands, which he did by turning it over to one of his staff officers. Then he boarded his own shuttle, heading for the headquarters of one General Boone. While they were at Ansion, his immediate superior had once again been promoted and moved, so he reported to a different commander now.
Boone, he had heard, was a strict disciplinarian like himself. A large black man, Boone commanded respect even from Captain Selere, who had served under him previously. That fact scared Wes a bit. Anyone who could intimidate the 6'4", 315 pound Selere had that effect.