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In the waning days of the Cree ‘Ar Invasion and the Greater Dominion War…





Minos, Caprician System


“Incoming!” shouted Tyscio Korban, Jedi Knight of the Republic as the plasma blast overhead raked defense line burning man and machine alike. The Caprician cursed the enemy fighter as it flashed overhead only to be blown to bits by the anti-aircraft batteries that zeroed in on its position.

In a grim turn during the war, the Cree’Ar had developed a nominal fighter force and was quickly closing the experience gap between the inhabitants of the Corusca galaxy and the Dominion. Single craft fighters were not the preferred method of combat from the Dominion but the fighter tactics of the inhabitants of the galaxy had forced them to reconsider their strategy. While the Cree’Ar were extremely slow to adapt to new forms of combat, when they did, they went “all in”.

Reports of the failed attempt by the Empire to retake Coruscant had spoke of the emergence of Dominion fighters which had turned the tide against the attack. That and the lack of a strong and organized uprising to the occupation that pushed the already strained fleet of Supreme Commander Wes Vos back out of the system.

The Empire had become a quagmire of organization as worlds began to join the League of Nations in a desperate attempt to protect what little they had left. Supreme Commander Vos had tried to follow up his astounding victory on Corellia with a drive to Coruscant hoping reinforce the Imperial presence in the Core. Especially with the Dominion having moved on from Vladet and Kashan to the Republic by striking hard at the Caprician planet of Minos. It was still not quite certain what the goal was but information provided by the Rogue Jedi Master Ahnk during his investigations into the Cree’Ar indicated that there was something that had drawn the old Yuzhan Vong to the world and that same thing would probably draw the Cree’Ar. Whatever it was, it had.

The Republic fleet was smashed in the opening round trapping the ground forces in a hell all their own. If not for the Republic fighter craft, the Dominion would have scoured the world of all who opposed them. As it was, the Republic was losing ground and there was a debate between the powers that be as to whether an all-out attempt to hold the planet should be attempted or if the Republic should cut their losses and fall back. It was a debate that was foremost on Tyscio’s mind as it would certainly hold the fate of his immediate future whatever their ultimate decision.

The League of Nations, the Cooperative of the Coalition, the Confederation and the Republic had vowed to concentrate their efforts along a unified front against the Cree’Ar and the Reavers while the Greater Coalition under Regrad and Empire forces under Supreme Commander Telan Desaria launched a bold offensive into the very heart of the Dominion. Word from the offensive operations there were few despite intelligence operations chasing down signals from the great gate in the Tion Cluster but the reports that were discovered indicated a certain success. But for how long was anyone’s guess.

At best, the defenders hoped the attack on Dominion space would halt their offensive operations against the Corusca galaxy or force them to pull their forces back to defend their own. The Cree’Ar, practical as they were had doubled down though and increased their invasion operations while letting their holdings in Dominion galaxy go. It was a race to see who would fold first and there were advantages and disadvantages to each side at the moment.

Tyscio felt his throat burn as the air from the plasma that washed over the lines blew his way. He started to cough only to breath in the stench of burning meat. As he climbed a mound of glassy gravel he heard the low release of moans from the survivors. “Medic!” he tried to shout into his comlink only to cough again as the fine dust of his surroundings was breathed in.

“Medical unit to grid nine,” growled a voice from behind and Tysico turned to see Ahnk, his cloak tattered and muddy. The Republic Jedi’s earlier unease around the man had dissolved as the Rogue had put his own life on the line in defense of his investigation. It was his willingness to remain that consolidated the support for Minos and it was the Republic’s own fault that such support was slow in arriving, not in Ahnk’s information.

The sky began to redden and Tyscio grimaced at the prospect of what the enemy was prepared to do.

“Do you think they would really destroy our own terraforming equipment?” the Caprician gasped out.

Ahnk looked briefly at the sky and frowned, “I think they would slit their own throats if they felt it would give them victory.”

“Wonderful,” Tyscio murmured as the Rogue helped him up from his seated position.



Varn

Varro Kai seethed with rage as the world burned below. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Already, his command ships were withdrawing the callousness of the defense was such as to draw even admiration of a Cree’Ar. Except to that Cree’Ar to whom the defense was enacted against.

Even as his blood boiled he could feel the subtle receptors working to calm his mind, the emotionalism only a phantom of the mind and even as his eyes continued to watch the destruction of the world, his mind working on the next move, the next maneuver.

They will pay!

It was as if his biology warred against the calming influence of the Nexus but only for so long. It was inevitable that the flesh would lose to the Nexus for to defeat the Nexus was to defeat the Cree’Ar.

It was a point that had been discovered by an enterprising individual known only as “Mr. Universe”. The Nexus had pinpointed the habitation of this elusive Mr. Universe and so they had sought to destroy that habitation and, in fact, they had. Unfortunately, another enterprising individual, a mercenary by the name of Beff Pike had rescued their prey. Despite the resourcefulness of these men, the contingent attacking the habitat of Mr. Universe chased the Mandalorian into the attack on Varn and inevitably into Varro Kai’s hand.

Or so he thought.

The trap had closed around Varn like a fist tightening over a stone and, as was done on Coruscant, the siege began. However, this time, the Dominion was not looking to capture the world, only destroy its greatest defender, an artificial intelligence termed “Guardian”.

With the planet closed, the Nexus was to be launched at the world thus revealing every secret the world thought to hide from Judicator Kai. But, even though the AI knew that it was no match for the Nexus, it also knew the key to defeating the Dominion was to defeating the Nexus via the timely arrival of Beff Pike and Mr. Universe.

What to do?

There was nothing to do.

Varro Kai had felt a certain satisfaction at the ultimate destruction of the Galactic Coalition for, once this world fell, the remaining worlds would shatter. The resistance was strong due to the single mindedness that could only come from an artificial intelligence. At the end of the day, however, it was only programming and the Nexus was of far superior sophistication. A philosopher could have made the argument that the Guardian was a primitive that would eventually evolve into the Nexus given centuries but Varro Kai was no philosopher. It was merely a obstacle to the greater Dominion plan and was one that would be removed

What to do?

What could they do?

“Strip the world of it’s atmosphere,” he had ordered. The plasma weaponry that worked well enough in space and against enemies in the upper skyline of Coruscant was unreliable against the greater distance between the vessel and the surface of Varn. And so, the great weapons were tempered to attack the atmosphere of the world in such a way as to eventually wipe it away thus killing all life on the surface. While the planet may continue to fight even then, it was determined the loss of atmosphere would be of such a blow that not even the mighty military of the Coalition and Cooperative could come back against.

And then..


The planet lit up like a star…..

The sensors and scanning instrumentation were momentarily overloaded blinding the Dominion envelopment. And yet, it seemed the world had not counter attacked in that moment of blindness that Varro Kai seemed to feel contemptuous that even the momentary advantage was squandered by such inferior minds that their destruction would do the galaxy good.

Even as the Nexus compensated for the momentary overload, it still looked as if the entire planet were broadcasting such a cry that every star in the galaxy could hear.

Was it anguish?

Was it fear?

Was it their death-knell?





















And the victory that Varro Kai was savoring was snatched from his closing fist as he realized that the blinding signals were their last cry of defiance for, in the next moment, the advance elements of a Reaver horde crashed into the Cree’Ar envelopment shattering it completely.

It was the first time that the Cree’Ar and Reavers had clashed and the indirect weapon that the Cree’Ar-Dragon Imperium merger had created was now used against them in a most diabolical move.

As the Judicator’s fleet reacted to the attacking Reavers, those inhabitants that were left and who had decided to fight another day were given the opportunity to do so. They retreated from there world in the madness and, eventually, Varro Kai’s own fleet was forced to retreat lest the Reavers consume them all. And as more Reavers fell to the world that was still signaling brightly its determined defiance, Varro Kai had cursed the Coalition and its artificial guardian with such fury that the Nexus receptors in his blood reacted slowly to the rush of emotion.

Failure did not come easily to a Cree’Ar.

The world burned behind him…


But now, even as the Reavers landed, it served as a burning beacon of hope that the tide of the Dominion could be blunted. Blunted and shattered completely.


Corellia


Supreme Commander Wes Vos’ command ship had just docked with Centerpointe Station when the call came in.

The hologram of Seth Vinda appeared and the Republic Senator came straight to the point. “Supreme Commander, word has just come in from the Cree’Ar galaxy. The first engagement of the Rebel Alliance against the Dominion has met with a defeat.”

While the Supreme Commander of the Imperial forces winced at the name of the nominal conglomeration of races that Regrad and Desaria convinced to join them in their quest to rid themselves of the yoke of Dominion oppression, he could not fault it as it was a statement of fact. His wince turned to a frown as he informed the Senator of his ill-fated attack on Coruscant.

Vinda looked saddened at the loss but dwelt on their collective failures no more as he pushed the conversation ahead indicating a need that if they did not win a victory soon, questions about their ability to defeat this Dominion would crop up more and more.

“What can we do?” Voss asked. “Whatever forces I can scrap together would represent the entire Imperial Fleet, this side of the universe. The Empire will be completely defenseless…”

“Supreme Commander,” interrupted the Senator. “I must apologize for saying this so bluntly, but I feel that your Empire, as you know it, is gone. Soon, the Republic and Coalition, as we know it, will also be gone if nothing changes and changes fast. We are experiencing our own invasion and it seems the Cree’Ar push into the Caprician system represents an important goal given the amount of materials they are throwing at us.”

“You expect me to betray my Empire?” Voss asked coldly.

“I expect…” Vinda nearly shouted back but reigned himself in. “I expect, Supreme Commander, for you to defend what is left. Even if the government is non-functioning since the fall of Vladet, you represent the highest ranking officer left. You, your men and your fleet are all that is left. The people are looking to you, as the last remaining effective of the Empire, this side of the universe, to see what you are going to do. Is your loyalty to your defunct government or to the people remaining? To the men and women still serving?”

“I do not have nearly enough ships and by your grim look, the odds will be stacked against us. So where, pray tell, is this suicide mission of Wes Voss, the Last of the Imperials to take place?”

“I won’t lie to you, Supreme Commander. The mission is going to be tough but it is all we have. And you will not be alone. The League of Nations is sending their fleet in support of you and they have agreed to operate under your command. I know, with some planets having gone over, the politics between both of you is not ..”

“I am not a politician, Senator,” Voss interrupted. “I am a military man. If you say my numbers can be augmented by this fleet, then you give me something I can work with and you give us hope.”

The Imperial Commander stared at the Republican.

“So, Senator. Where is this attack to take place?”

“Ithor. I am sending you the data now…”


When the information scrolled across the Imperial’s screen, his eyes widened in surprise.


This would indeed be a tough mission.


His eyes narrowed.


If the galaxy needed a victory, then he better do his damndest to provide it!










Algeron System



Echoes…

"But, you love this Empire! You are attached to it! You have, subtly I grant you, disassociated the Empire from the Emperor and while all the soldiers of this grand government may pay lip to their service of the Emperor, it is not what they love. They do not say, "Emperor in Excelsis" or "Hail Emperor Hyfe" or some other derivative. They say "Gloria Imperium". The Empire! Greater than any single man can encompass but you do come close! You love it and it is going to be ripped apart! Ripped from you like everything else in your past with whom you've associated or identified with.”


“Well, Major, we have to be willing to sacrifice that which we love the most for the greater goal."

Dominion Proper



Tas'Kellon - 2nd World to Join the Rebellion


The Selection of Four stared as Supreme Commander Desaria explained his strategy.

"Numbers are our strength in this galaxy because the more worlds that join us gives us a million to one odds against the Cree'Ar. It was evident that while the Dominion was an organization made up of a variety of races, only the Cree'Ar were of consequence and everyone else provided the fodder the Dominion War Machine utilized with an efficiency that would awe the most disciplined soldiers.

High Lord Regrad of the Azguard Fleet and he had been amazed that the Cree'Ar held such sway over their member worlds that one Cree'Ar could hold an entire world subject to the Dominion. It was not that this one Cree'Ar was all powerful but the initial conquest of the subject worlds that had happened centuries ago was such that now, even after all the time that passed, the Dominion yoke over them seemed normal and was unquestioned. Even the idea of removing that yoke was as alien to them as the Cree'Ar had once been. After centuries of indoctrination, the infallibility of the Cree'Ar was just something not questioned.





Until the arrival of the Corusca galaxy leaders.


"We have warned you, Imperial. If even one Cree'Ar makes it to the surface, we are lost."

The Imperial nearly slammed his palm down on the stone table out of frustration. It was true that the fleet he had sent out under Regrad left Tas'Kellon vulnerable too counter-attack but the strategy was sound enough for if Regrad proved successful, they would win over three more planets to their cause. The window for a Cree'Ar counter-attack was small and, while the Imperial Supreme Commander had only two warships, he felt it was enough to protect that window.

Whatever communications system the Dominion used, it was effective and quick for the Cree'Ar did launch a strike at them, albeit a small one. The lack of Cree'Ar warships was something of a boon for them as it was all the Corusca's galactic government's intelligence agencies that put together the observation that replacement warships were coming in faster than their shipyards over Ithor were capable of producing leading everyone to realize that those ships were coming from somewhere...else.

Somewhere where the Dominion held sway and could afford to strip their military assets in the area and hence the entire war effort's strategy to go on the offensive even as they lost ground in the Corusca galaxy. The Empire was crumbling too fast and there was doubt that combined efforts of the Coalition, Confederation, Republic and League could effect a credible defense. Especially since they were fielding tactical strikes against them by the Dominion even as they tried to work together.

There were times alone in his quarters that Telan Desaria despaired. Especially since his loved one had been left behind to fight for his life. Were they all doomed to the same fate as the worlds they had found in this Dominion? Where, eventually, they would not question their own fate and circumstance?

Where the word of Borleas would pervade their every thought?

It was as Admiral Wilkar has bluntly asked before the Cree'Ar attack on the Republic, "Who the fuck was Borleas?"

By offending the Cree'Ar ambassadors and thus launching their attack, the blunt military leader had squashed the talk of appeasement from a small fringe of frightened leaders.

These Cree'Ar might worship a god but they were not gods themselves. And it was time that those on Tas'Kellon realized it. It was time that they stiffened their backbone and held onto their shreds of dignity for honor's sake if nothing else.

And he stated as much even as he and his soldiers moved to the wrecked Cree'Ar pod that had crashed down from their ill-fated counter-attack. Desaria was right in guessing they would try and was right in guessing that his two warships were more than enough to handle it.

"You do not understand," The Second said as all four of the Selection accompanied Desaria and his stormtroopers.

"I understand that liberty is something you fight for! I understand that this irrational fear of these devils needs to be overcome even if you must pound it into your heads consciously every time you take a breath. Eventually, it will come as naturally to you as breathing!" It was ironic that Supreme Commander Desaria had unknowingly echoed the thoughts of a rebel poet during the Galactic Civil War.


"The teachings of Borleas are engraved into one's flesh and bone. They are engraved upon one's soul and it is not a burden that can easily be cast aside." The First Select stated as they came upon the pod.


"All it takes is the will," Desaria retorted as the stormtroopers encircled the pod and a locking mechanism clanked and turned.


"You do not understand," The Second restated.


"But you will," the First added.


"We have nothing else but honor and we make this choice so you will understand," The Third Select stated matter-of-factly.


The pod's door opened and the massive Cree'Ar stepped out onto the soil of Tas'Kellon facing the Selection of Four, leaders of the world in rebellion and the invader Telan Desaria and his stormtroopers.


The Cree'Ar ignored the Imperials and looked directly at the First Select. "You will submit," the Cree'Ar stated pointedly.


Desaria's lips quivered into a smile as all four solemnly stated their refusal.


"You are not just Vat'a'leg'a but are declared A’lora dir’a’tad’or’a," the Cree'Ar added as if there was any doubt.


"We understand," the Selection of Four replied and the Cree'Ar nodded and uttered a command:

"Se'p'tad'or'a" ("So Be It", Negative response)



*



It was as if the Selection of Four simply burst into a billions of tiny flickers of dust right before Desaria's eyes and even as his mouth screamed out a response even as his mind tried to wrap itself around what he had seen, the stormtroopers needed no order to fire everything they had trained at the Cree'Ar.


The Dominion soldier was dead before his body hit the ground but it was a poor substitute to losing the Selection of Four. What would the inhabitants of Tas'Kellon think and would they blame him?


They had to be made to see the truth for what the Cree'Ar and this wicked Dominion was.


They had to see!


As he quickly marched back, he noted aides running towards him. "I need to speak to the people and quickly before this ..."


His voice stopped as he saw the look on the other's faces.


"What is it?" he snapped.


"Th... They are all dead, Sir!"

"Burst into dust, they did! Right before our eyes!"



"Everyone?" Desaria asked incredulously, shocked.


Mein Gott!


"We can't find anyone!" someone shouted back in panic.


"Search!" snarled the Imperial Supreme Commander.


In retrospect, it was he who was made to see the truth as for what the Cree'Ar and their Dominion was. It was he who now understood the nature of the enemy that they were fighting. It was he who understood that if they lost, there would be no coming back from this.


They were right.

Honor was all Tas'Kellon had and they calmly and deliberately accepted their fate even as they listened to the strategy, his strategy and his assurances that two ships were enough to protect them from anything the Cree'Ar could throw their way.

They knew better.

They knew he had to see...


..and now, he knew better.





Borleas was the fucking devil.

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Unknown World


"This is fucking bullshit, is what it is!" snapped the elder as he tossed the paper into the garbage.

The parents gasped at the use of language the elder barked out casting worried glances towards the child. More specifically, their child.

"What the fuck are you looking at him for?" the white haired man cast a thumb out at the little wide-eyed nip seated between his parents.

"This... this is an outrage," the father stammered, casting an glance at his wife.

"What the fuck are you looking at her for?" the old teacher snapped out drawing the father's eyes back to the old man.

"In the first place," the elder started, pointing to the paper in the trash, "the sacrifice of the Tas'Kellon would not have shaken the Imperial Desaria. He was an Imperial after all and, if the League's Propaganda is to be believed, well versed in the arts of all types of warfare. Now, one also might think that such revelations about the sacrifices of war might shake the core beliefs of say, the Azguard Regrad but, if Coalition propaganda can be believed, Regrad is no stranger to war either, especially after having his ass kicked from one end of the galaxy to the other for a good number of years. So, tell me, young bullshitter, who are you really saying is surprised by the sacrifice of the Tas'Kellon as it is written?"

The child stared at the elder unable to speak.

The old man snorted. "It's obvious that the surprise is with the author and, quite frankly, this assignment was supposed to be about spinning a good yarn, not relaying a writer's insecurities about subjects he knows nothing about!"

"Must you be so harsh?" the mother finally blurted out.

"My lady," the old man smirked, "life is harsh. The embers of this fucking Cree'Ar War are still warm and already everyone seems to be forgetting those little realities of life."

"Such as?" the mother pounced.

"Oh, I don't know... that kids will do drugs. They talk about the high-mindedness of rising above the temptation as if kids are fucking smart. The parents don't realize they will just turn to another drug or turn to fucking instead and getting abortions and charging it to their parent's credit chit. You snivel in disgust over my language without realizing that your kids hear it every day from their peers. Reality is messy! And war is fucking hell!"

"I am sorry he doesn't live up to your high standards but he is only a kid." the father started when the elder held up his hand.

"Don't give me that bullshit. Push the little bastard! Don't reward him for reaching the lowest damn bar in the galaxy! Don't praise him for some achievement that any lizard-monkey could do! Just because the little bastard sits their sucking up air is not reason enough to praise him! Parents nowadays give their kids this fucking sense of entitlement that is fucked up!"

Just then someone banged on the door to the classroom interrupting the parent-teacher conference. Another school official, a teacher, barged in sweating.

"Elder! There is someone shooting students!"

The parents gasped and moved protectively over their child and the teacher sighed.

"Let me see..."

"No! You could get shot! The Counselor is on their way!"

"Half the school could be shot to hell in the time it takes for the Counselor to get the shooter to open up about their feelings!" snapped the old man.

The other teacher suddenly jerked around as a blaster shot was heard out in the hall and moved deeper into the classroom.

The elder started to stand and walk towards the door when the intruder appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wild and searching, darting here and there about the room as if searching for something.

"What the fuck do you want?" the elder snapped and the intruder's weapon moved his direction. The parent's screamed clutching their child and the shooter opened his mouth.

"I want..."

And that was as far as he got as his body was thrown back by the blaster shot that came from the weapon in the elder's hand.

"Fuck what you want!" the old man spit.

"You... You shot him?" the other teacher stammered.

"Damn right I shot him. The fucker would probably had killed fifty people before shooting himself. It seems these idiots always forget to shoot themselves first!"

"You.. you.. the Counselor.."

"I really don't give a shit," the elder retorted. "It is little shits like them that grow up thinking that life owes them shit and that they are entitled to "happy, happy, joy, joy" crap the cartoons dribble out nowadays."

"The Counselor will have your job for this! Rehabilitation could have.."

"So, the parents of the victims are not only supposed to work through their pain but also pay for this fucker's rehabilitation in taxes? Fuck that!"

"Revenge through capital punishment isn't..."

"Revenge?" the elder chuckled incredulously. "This isn't revenge. I don't know that asshole I shot. This is about putting down a rabid animal before it does more damage. Thankfully, I always carry my blaster. You never know when you'll need it."

"You..You're not supposed to have a gun here?" the other teacher was scandalized.

"But you're fucking glad I did have one. Otherwise you'd be playing harps in heaven or whatever boring fucking thing you people believe you do after you die. Now, shouldn't you go give the all-clear and get the authorities in here to clean up the mess?"

The elder turned to the wide-eyed student whose fear turned to something akin to awe, much to his parent's consternation.

"And people wonder why the Cree'Ar did as much damage as they did. Because they could! It was because everyone was too busy trying to be nice and 'save the fucking day' by being heroes. The alien bastards had half the known galaxy in their grip before everyone started to wise up. They were playing for fucking keeps and all we had were long shots and short odds.


Kid, if there was one thing that won the war against the Cree'Ar bastards, it was guts. Not some fucking mind-blowing revelation or backdoor double dealing. It was iron-willed bloodied guts!"

Unknown World

Back at his house, the child stared at the crumpled pieces of paper that comprised his latest effort. An effort that had been discarded like so much refuse.

"Not reality", the elder had stated.

The greatest tribulation of their century since the Year of Cataclysm and the doses of hope and determination on the part of the victors the elder had likened to bits of candy, not even fit for a meal.

No. The elder preferred to dine on ashes!

As if everything was garbage and if it didn't kick you in the gut and make you spit blood, it wasn't fit to soil your sheets. Or so his father had said on the ride back home of the elder.

How could the old man look at life through such a lense?

What did he know?



The child went to his room and looked at the source material littering his bed. The articles of despair as the Invasion marched ever onward from victory to victory. And how, slowly, the pieces clicked into place that would become the wall that would shatter their strikes.

It almost did not happen.

It was a tribulation that would bring out the best and worst of everyone.

His mind flared and he began to type...







In the waning days of the Cree ‘Ar Invasion and the Greater Dominion War…


Varn


Ultimately, it was the numbers.


And Guardian had considered it his greatest act as the mighty Cooperative Fleet smashed through the lines that were systematically destroying Azguard's defenses. The final rallying of the remaining marshal strength of the Cooperative after the debacle at Vahaba that was to prove the salvation of their brothers in arms, the people of the former Prime Minister.

The only surprise was the ease with which Cooperative Fleet punched through to join Regrad's defending forces but if there was one thing that the AI had learned from those sentients it cared for was that one never looked at a gift askance.

And yet,


Yet...there was another truth that the beings of the galaxy lived by...



...one never got anything for free.





The vanguard of the Cree'Ar Armada struck at Varn with most of the Cooperative Fleet enroute to Azguardia. The retired Guardian had not considered itself worthy enough to take part in the action on Azguardia and was prepared to return to its self-imposed exile when wormholes opened in high orbit around the capital of the Cooperative releasing the combined firepower of the Dominion Fleet shot from lightyears out.


The Sword of Borleas they called it.

It was quite a trick and one that devastated Varn's defenses before they had time to even realize they were being attacked.


Guardian began to enact protocols to defend the world when Beff Pike arrived with Mr. Universe. Amid the defenders fighting and dying, the information was passed that Guardian had more to fear than just the conventional warships of the Dominion of the Cree'Ar.


Their enigmatic Nexus.

Embedded into their culture, their technology, and their biology. To call it a computer system was like calling the counting of sticks quantum physics.

And for the first time, Guardian faced something it really had never faced before. A force stronger than itself. In every calculation, in every action, Guardian always presented itself with the odds in it's favor. When something was lacking, actions were taken to remove that lack. The Guardian System was one such program. The Global Computer was another.

But here?

All those plans and preparations were for naught for if the Nexus got a hold of his programming, it would breach his firewalls in no time.

The Guardian observed the mounting fear that the remaining forces were displaying. Fear of the Invaders. Fear of their limited and outnumbered resources. Fear of the Guardian and a repeat of Vahaba. That their lives would become the whim of that which the Guardian so wrapped itself in, namely: Numbers.


And the numbers, being what they were, displayed for Guardian the world as it was. That the envelopment was methodically closing. There were ways to delay the encirclement. Tactical application of force here and assets there could turn the loss to kill ratio in Guardian's favor for at least two point six hours until the resources of the attackers began to overrun them. To conscript the civilians and have the Guardian program hurl their vessels savagely against the Dominion forces would extend the favorable loss to kill ration for another five hours but would it be enough time to delay the foothold until Coaliton reinforcements arrived?

Until Coalition allied reinforcements arrived?

Until Varn's sun went nova and took everyone out?

New query, could the destruction of Varn's primary be used in any tactical sense?

The numbers, being what they were, displayed for Guardian that world that was.


But it was not the world that Guardian wished.

Every action was an exercise in determining which unfavorable action was the most appealing. An exercise in locating the answer to the question: Just how did one want to die?


It was a collection of thoughts that built a meme bridge into possibilities that had not occured to the Guardian prior.


It could run away. It had done so once already after Vahaba.

It could start over.


And as the logic trees of a variety of decisions were carried out to their conclusions, Guardian found itself shutting down certain pathways, purposefully not even considering actions no matter how objective the analysis presented itself as.

It found that there were just certain things Guardian could not....would not...consider.


And as a result, there was something that Guardian learned even as Varn's inadequate defenses, fighters and blasters and turbolasers all shouting a defiance that had become part and parcel with the people of the world, fired back at the enemy's advance.


Guardian learned who he was.

It was a kernel. A root that flared in its mind that burst forth in a variety of branching decision trees.


There was really only one action left to take. Only one action that would save his people.

An action it had never taken before. At least consciously.


A familiar situation that required sacrifice.

Only, this time it was not the people of the Cooperative who would be made to sacrifice themselves.


No.


This was a willing sacrifice.

This was ...



...self sacrifice.







And every receiver, sensor and scanning device suddenly became overwhelmed as the planet lit up like a star...

The kid looked at his latest work and grinned. He was sure his kick-ass teacher would definitely think it worthy of a glance. His parents, of course, would be shocked at just how much his teacher's opinion of him mattered. In fact...


*cough*


...in fact, there was a reason why the old man pushed the boy so.


*cough* *cough*


His teacher was trying to publish his student's work as his own to make a quick credit. The retirement plans of the people on this forsaken world were about as beneficial as putting your mouth on a blaster. Any way to increase one's holdings bore looking into. Even if it meant stealing the work from his students... stupid little nips.



The violent onset of coughing caused the train of thought to derail and, in a huff of frustration, he erased what he had written.


It was all crap anyway. To be stuck on a world with no access to the holonet. To be stuck on a world that thinks throwing satellites in orbit was a major technological achievement.


He might as well have had his fingernails pulled off. It would have been less painful.


Another fit of coughs caused the man lying on a small mattress to pull the shabby blanket closer as he squinted at the datapad before him.

It was a device that would probably have jumped the world up a century or two in technological advancements but the old man would be damned if he was going to let go of his conveniences for some deaf kids to hear again.

Fucking planet

"So let me get this straight," the rather skinny man pushed his eyepiece further up his nose as he gathered his thoughts.

"You are writing a book about a student being manipulated into writing a story by a much older teacher and that this story is a science fiction piece about an alien space war."

The old man coughed, covering his mouth with an old rag before nodding. "Yes, and the kicker is that the teacher is actually feeding fact to the student. Not fiction."

The skinny man turned to his companion, a rather frumpy looking woman with a rather serious expression. "So the student thinks he is writing a science fiction story but is really writing a factual account of a space war."

"Exactly!" the old man pointed to the woman.

"But how would the teacher know of the space war?" the skinny man asked.

"Because.." the old man gasped out before having another coughing fit. "..the teacher is not native to the world he is on. He is from that war and because he is not native, he is profiting from his knowledge of the war..."

"..while profiteering off the student.." the woman added.

"...and yet the student profits by being pushed hard by the unrelenting standards of the teacher from space and eventually the community profits from the teacher's otherworld experiences and life outlook..."

"..as demonstrated by the bit about the school shooting?" the man interrupted.

Another round of coughing but the old man nods vigorously. "Exactly!"


"But those opinions are not in line with progressive sentiments we wish to instill in our children," the woman stated flatly.


"But it is a story about the space man's values and opinions. It is another civilization's values that he is espousing," the old man retorted.


The skinny man frowned. "Authors try this trick all the time. Just because it is science fiction it is ok to laud opinions contrary to current etiquette and political correctness."


"What?" the old man frowned.


"I see nothing in your story that glorifies God," the woman remarked.


"I don't see how the science fiction world I am creating has anything to do with God," the old man bit back angrily.


"You do not think that these Kree Air beings are not reflective of the glory of God? Are they not God's creatures as well?"


"I am sure that would tickle their fucking fancy," murmured the old man who cleared the phlegm out of his throat before answering directly.


"I think trying to fit God into a work of fiction is counter productive and opens up your religious beliefs to all sorts of criticisms."


"Like what?" the fact that anyone would criticize religion seemed like a thought as alien as the book subject matter to the woman.


"Are you fucking kidding me?" the old man sputtered.


Ignoring the cursing, the skinny man plodded ahead, "As long as the devil-spawned aliens were crushed by the white, slightly affluent, God-fearing people, what could me more glorifying than that?"


"Suppose the Kree Are are actually the god-fearing bastards?" the old man grinned.


"I don't see any reference to the genders of the Kree Air," the woman accused.


"What the hell does that have to do with anything? They are aliens."


"There is no need to make them deviants," the skinny man spoke up.


"Deviants?" the old man was truly confused.


"We feel you may be promoting homosexuality."


The old man started to laugh. "I never thought of them as faggots but I could get used to calling them such."


The woman had a slight look of disgust. "Please sir, just because homosexuals are going to burn with the devil there is no need to spread your brand of hate!"


"They are not gay," the old man relented.


"Are you sure?" the skinny man prodded.


"I build this science fiction world on the foundation of evolution and, believe me, there is nothing more detrimental to evolution than homosexuality. In fact, there is probably no one more messed up than a homosexual!"


"What?" the two exclaimed.


"Well, think about it," the old man was warming to the idea, "God hates homosexuality so anyone doing it automatically puts themselves on the 'outs' with him.. At least until someone rewrites the fucking book. But then, if that happened, it really wouldn't be the word of your fucking god then would it? So, god hates them no matter how much they are in denial of it and yet, they cannot truly embrace evolution as their life choice sort of puts up this big fucking roadblock over the whole damned theory."


"Some people do not choose to be gay!" the skinny man snapped.


"Then there you go! Already, this choice that is made for them is already putting them on an evolutionary dead end path. If every human turned gay tomorrow, the race would last only one generation! Therefore, the dead end idea of same gender fucking is evolution getting its wires crossed or it's a fucking choice. And if it is a choice, they are saying 'fuck you' to god and fucking him up the ass!"


"I find your language coarse," the woman snapped.


"I get that a lot," the old man lamented.


"What is your opinion of the God's Children Initiative?"


"The what?"


"The prohibiting of contraceptive use," the skinny man clarified.


The old man smirked, "I think that Priests and Politicians who can't keep their diddling hands to themselves should not be in a position to influence how others want to live their lives."


"You are truly a horrible man. But never no mind. God still died for your sins as well."


"Did he?" the old man's eyebrows rose as he coughed slightly, masking a chuckle.


"If God died, who raised him up?"


The two looked at each other in confusion. "He did!" they answered in unison.


"If He raised Himself up from the dead, then He really didn't die did He? And if He didn't really die, then what the fuck is all this crap about Him dying for my sins if He really didn't fucking die?"


"He still died for your sins even if you don't believe," one said stubbornly.


"If that is true, then who gives a flying fuck whether women use contraceptives or not. Who cares if they get abortions or not if their sins are already forgiven whether they believe or not?"


The man shook his head exasperatingly. "You just don't understand."


The old man's lips pressed together slightly. "Oh, I think I do. I think I understand perfectly."


Fuck belief! It's all about power! Gender power, racial power, religious power...political power.


And if there is one thing I do understand.... it's power, you dumb fucks!


He sighed.


I am not going to get myself published here! What does a fucker have to do to earn some credits?

In the end, the old man's publication was not printed. No one, it seemed, was very interested in an embittered view of the world and the ridiculousness that permeated existence.


And so, here he lay, once arguably the most powerful person in the galaxy wasting away on a backwater world that hailed as an achievement the mere rudimentary act of putting something into orbit.


Had the world been capable of building a holonet receiver, it would have found out quite early on that it was not alone in the universe. Stellar radiation and the proximity of the world to the galactic core successfully shrouded it from various forms of communication and telescopic observations. Not that the world did not try to find out if they were alone in the universe but after centuries of failure, most people no longer cared all that much and extraterrestrial life was relegated to those stages of fiction and entertainment.


**



"The problem with the core.." the old man murmured. "No stars."


"We have stars.." the delivery boy corrected. Having a degree from college prompted many young people into believing they actually, you know, knew stuff.

As far as the old man could tell, however, the boy couldn't even deliver food on time.

Before, he might have commented on it, but speaking to dumbasses had seemed to lose its flavor of late.

The telecast news reported the typical evening update on the state of the world's economy which was, to say the least, ready to be flushed down the fresher. And everyone was blaming everyone else for the set of circumstances with precious time being lost that could be better used to actually fix the problem.


But no, that'd be too fucking easy!


The boy glared at the old man as if he were personally responsible for the current state of retirement accounts.


As if the idiot could earn enough for retirement delivering food packets to homes!


Sometimes the old man wanted to just take out a blaster and gun the whole damned world down.

But even that brand of therapeutic action had been corrupted by this world. It was always the loons, the weak-minded dumbasses who went out in a blaze of gun-fire. No statement. No refreshing ideology. Just a dumbass who thought of himself as a movie or comic book character or someone who hated a certain group of people so much that he went out, got a gun and shot up an entirely different group of people because he mistook them for those whom he originally hated.


Again. Dumbasses!


The fucking world couldn't even get murder right and the sheer numbers of people on prescription drugs that gave them more debilitating side-effects than the damn illness they took the drugs for in the first place were staggering.


You may fucking die but at least your last breath will be free, full and unobstructed!


And, in all reality, the democratic governments of the galaxy were no different. No smarter, at any rate. All the fucking wars, the Galactic Civil Wars (all of them), the self-righteous attacks by the Coalition, the Cooperative, the Confederation all of them ranting and raving about the virtues of mob rule. The ever self-delusional stance that people have the rights to be fucking idiots.


Even if it burns to the ground everything and everyone else around them!


The Coalition was slowly but surely giving up their rights in favor of artificial intelligent overlords. As if the lessons of old Joren Logan and The New Alliance were just fables to scare economists at night. The Confederation was no better. They already were replacing their standard workers and even some soldiers with droids all the while having a compulsory military service requirement.


It was funny how all the same shit everyone hates the empire for could be done to the masses if only you called yourself a 'Republic'.


Apparently the flock wanted the opportunity to choose the manner in which it was fleeced.


The bleeding hearts wanted universal love and understanding without the accountability of having to pay for it. And the hardcores?


The hardcores started to believe their own bullshit.


Some thought themselves god, while others followed an invisible god's command to do this or that. The Cree'Ar's military was presumed to be led around the nose by some religious caste.


But, wasn't that always the case? He briefly thought back to a situation that arose with one particular Citadel representative but then shook his head. The Empire was broken, with a variety of former military people still thinking themselves part of the Empire (even claiming an Imperial rank to suite them) but answering to no one. They were merely warlords and Park Kraken? That self-styled Emperor who worked feverishly to build his own paradise of dreams on Vladet, before even his world was smashed scattering even this faux Empire like so many rats running from a fire, he thought to bury his head in the sand as if these Cree'Ar would leave well enough alone preferring to go after the force users. But going after the force users was never the endgame. No, it was a means to and end. An end that had no place for self-styled emperors or even the trumped-up citizen leaders of a republic.


After the food delivery boy sniffed at his tip and left (he delivered food for fuck's sake!), the old man turned off the news broadcast.


Same old shit. Even the different packaging by the newest politician thinking their not-so-out-of-the-box ideas were akin to discovering faster-than-light travel for the first time was getting old.

Because there is still shit, there always will be shit and, goddammit, it still the fuck stinks!


It was a situation that do-gooders, love-everyone-tree-huggers, recycling loving, let's-not-spank-our-kids-because-it-fucks-them-up-politically-correct shitheads could not wish their way out of. And these were the fucking intellectuals!


So fucking proud to kill the god their ancestors worshipped in favor of the claim that they descended from animals but who somehow manage to find themselves shocked when most of their problems could probably have been solved with good old-fashioned, animal-inspired head-bashing!


It was ironic how the more intellectual one gets, the more stupid they become.


How hard was it to remember a truism once universally known that to make an omelet, one had to break a few eggs?


Still, the other side was no better.


Those that do promote the head-bashing are the god-loving hypocritical racists that would use said head-bashing not to fix the problems but, rather, their problems which seemed to be with homosexuals, the poor and women's privates. These were not this society's intellectuals and yet they knew, instinctively, how to hammer their agenda into policy. By being brutish despite the pacifist preaching of their supposed religious affiliation. And the idiots were blind to their own hypocrisy, which was amazing in itself. How did such a creature remember to breathe?


Why did I pick this fucking planet?



**


"Why ever did you pick this damned planet?" came an indignant query that shook the old man from his reverie.


The aging occupant had not heard the man come in but, then again, that was how the intruder was trained.


Damn his grinning face!


"Ciscero," the old man rasped out. His voice was going and age was playing its little dirty dance on his soul as death seemed to beckon.


"No, don't get up," the former Imperial Intelligence agent motioned as he sat down across from the occupant. The old man glowered, both of them knowing that he had no intention of getting up. Not that he could any longer.


"Let me guess, pre-civilized society with no contact with the rest of the galaxy? No one to hide from? No one on the outside to know you were here.."


The old man coughed in response.


"You probably would have been happier in a pre-industrial planet. You know, wearing loin-cloths and being wed to teenagers."


The old man wanted to say something but it came out as a strangled gargle.


Ciscero smiled. "Can't have that, can we. Come on, old timer. Time for you to go."


And with that, the former Intelligence Agent picked up the former Regent and carried him out of the domicile.


He was logged as a missing person by the local authorities but there was no real effort to look for him.


For those non-intellectuals who used their effective-but-brutish tactics against the stupefied offend-no-one intellectuals, they not only succeeded in not raising their debt ceiling but even enacted draconian taxation. The planet's middle class evaporated overnight.

That was when the non-intellectuals realized that when you corner someone with no way out, the only direction they can move is through and over you.


Cannibalism ensued.


It was a very fucking stupid planet.



**



"Ahh...nothing like bacta! Nothing like it in the galaxy!" Zell exclaimed loudly and proudly as his boney fingers pushed his shaking body out of the tank and grabbed for a towel.


When he had suitably dried he ambled over to the storage locker mumbling, "You have anything to eat? Nothing makes you hungrier than a bacta treatment!"


"Did not really have the time to cobble together a fancy meal in honor of your return to the civilized galaxy at-large," Ciscero shrugged, "But we do have some..."


He showed the old man what was where and Zell tore into the food with all the zeal of a starving man.


"Got anything to wash it down with? The liquor on that world was horrid! I've pissed stronger stuff than the swill they offer!"


Ciscero politely chuckled and pulled out a half empty bottle and two glasses.


They both saluted each other and Zell murmured, "Fuck the Republic" by way of a toast.



When he felt halfway normal for an Imperial with nothing on hand to shoot, maim or kill, he settled back into the synthetic fabric of the non-descript chair of the transport and casually asked, "So, Ciscero, what is the situation?"


When Ciscero did not immediately response, he smirked. "Are you on your way to hand me over to the Coalition authorities? Even a fucking Azguardian jail cell would be more welcome than that fucking hovel I lived in for the better part of a year!"


"No," Ciscero replied, "the galaxy still thinks you dead." At Zell's questioning glance, Ciscero laughed out loud, "But no, there is no chance of your assuming your former position."


"Hyfe has not returned?" the old man inquired.


"Not to my knowledge. If he had come back, he surely would have made straight for Coruscant with the Ebony Vigilance."


The mention of the Empire's Eclipse Class Star Destroyer pulled at Zell's heart. What a boon it would be to command such power right now, this instant! How would that play in galactic politics?


What was the galactic situation?


"The Empire as you, as we, knew it is dead." the agent started but Zell waved that away.


"We've been an Imperial Remnant before..."


"Not like this.." Ciscero interupted.


Zell frowned for a moment before pouring himself another glass. "All right," he growled, "What the fuck happened?"


Ciscero paused. Where to start? The Year of Cataclysm was the start of the Cree'Ar War. He knew the high points but not the motivations or reasoning behind the scenes.


"Before my receiver died, I heard something of an attack on the Cooperative world... and something about an Imperial counter-attack on the Dominion home galaxy.."


Ciscero nodded.


"The broad-strokes are like this: A Cree'Ar Fleet pounded the Confederation but their ultimate target was Azguard and they did break through to reach it. The Confederation did not have much of a chance as Darksiders had organized enmity between the Confeds and the Coalition, namely, the Cooperative. A series of diplomatic disasters brought the two to the brink of war until the Cree'Ar simply cut the Confeds at the knees. The Darksiders tried to push the Coalition into an enemy of my enemy is my friend situation with the Cree'Ar but they underestimated how much the Cree'Ar hated force users, the Coalition Minister of Ethics and their new Prime Minister and probably the guilt of the Cooperative at being the vehicle that launched a near coup by the Darksiders. The Cree'Ar attack on Azguard galvanized the
Cooperative, Coalition and Confederation into working together. I don't know what happened to the Darksiders but they do not seem to have an influence anymore on the Triple C Alliance."


"Triple C?" Zell raised an eyebrow.


"It's the unofficial name," Ciscero shrugged. "In the meantime, the Republic moved against Lupercus Darksword on Almania but it just amounted to them pushing the Sith off the world. They sent an Expeditionary Fleet to help relieve Azguard but their presence was not a large one in the battle. It might have been more but the Cree'Ar attached the Republic at the Caprician system."


"Fuck me. Where else did these bastards hit?"


"The Cree'Ar seemed to continue their steamrolling of the Empire. The Gyndine Compact fell rather quickly. Some other systems. Ossus was attacked and eventually Vladet. After Vladet, there was no Imperial Center."


"Bastion?"


"You were not the only one lost on Coruscant. It seems Theren Gevel did not make it off Coruscant either and without him, the Conclave did not activate the Apocalypse Protocols and were not organized."


"Park still alive?"


"Unknown. Supreme Commander Vos put up one hell of a fight but a smaller force against a much larger force can only do so much. Eventually they pushed through and Vladet became a carnage house. Park and Vos retreated to Muunilist, probably on their way to Bastion but Muunilist was where the money was. Arliss Industries threw their weight in behind the Emperor and it looked like an Imperial Resurgence was coming."


"That usually what it looks like before someone kicks us in the nuts," Zell sighed.


"The Triple C pushed the Cree'Ar out of the Azguard system, the Overlord of the Cooperative saving the day. However, in doing so, the Cooperative exposed their own capital world to the Cree'Ar who immediately counter-attacked. The Cooperative fought like a mother womprat protecting her young but the Cree'Ar had the upper hand in that fight."


"Until the Reavers became involved."


"Until that, yes. Varn is a Reaver world now and no matter how much the Triple C try to do something about it, those Reavers are not leaving. It seems when Kach Thorton's fleet moved from the Core to the MidRim, they carried the Reaver infection with them. They were not allowed to remain in the MidRim and Thorton knew enough to realize to be separated from his fleet was a death sentence."


"Serves the traitorous prick right!" Zell sniped out.


"No world wanted his fleet and so he became the proverbial traveling leper and he began to hemorage ships. Like Lupercus, he is probably out there somewhere but little more than a pirate force."


"So what happened?" Zell asked getting the story back on track.


"The Empire, based on Muunilist had two fleets. What Vos could cobble together with Arliss support around Muunilist and the Imperial Guard under Desaria. The Triple C banded together to form a good size fleet, the Republic with what was left after Capricia and the Jedi Enclave utilizing Fearson's old fleet with LON support. Even so, everyone knew that as long as the Cree'Ar were supported from their galaxy with reinforcements, there was no way to win."


"Cut the umbilical cord!" Zell barked.


"Yes, but it could not be the typical rebel strategy of blowing something up to win the day."


"It worked for them against us!?"


"We did not use dark matter in our tech the same way the Cree'Ar did. It was that component that allows for their wormhole technology."


"So?"


"Imagine the galaxy as a starship engine. All the components working in synchronization. Now imagine that you figure out a way to take some parts out of the engine and use them for your own designs. The more parts you take the less in-sync the engine becomes and if those parts were to be shattered completely..."


"..the engine blows up."


"The Cree'Ar were messing with something that helps make a galaxy, a galaxy. We had to be very careful and so we needed time."


"We?"


"Imperial Intelligence was co-opted by the galaxy." Ciscero grinned. "We could no longer work for just Emperor Kraken."


"Why not?"


"Well, there was that sticky subject about the manner in which he became Emperor. Isard never believed in his legitimacy and he had his own people anyway."


"In any event, Emperor Kraken was going to shoot down Desaria's idea to lead a strike into the Cree'Ar galaxy but the Cree'Ar used their Nexus to launch a computer attack against Muunilist and wiped out the Empire's financial information throwing Muunilist into turmoil. Arliss was bankrupt overnight and people went crazy. The hold Arliss had over weapons of mass
destruction due to the Biogenic Accords was released and it became a free-for-all. Those worlds that sided with the Cree'Ar were used as the glove to follow-up the electronic attack. No word if Wes Vos, Kraken, Arliss ever made it out of the area. But I can tell you this, those weapons were used and a lot of people died."


"Fuck Me.." Zell whispered.


"So, Desaria, having no one to answer too, moved forward with is plans and invaded the Dominion and the other governments supported him. The oppressed of the Dominion galaxy rose, the umbilical was cut and, with their extra-galactic support gone, the Cree'Ar resources dwindled right along with ours. They were beat to a standstill and eventually put on defensive ground before they pulled out. That was last month."



"So, Coruscant...?"



"Is under Triple C, Republic, LON and Jedi control. There is no empire and Desaria and those with him have yet to be heard from. What I have mentioned does not describe the war in detail but are merely those highlights I have readily in mind. There were other battles..the stories go much deeper but for now, to get you up to speed, that was it."


"So where the fuck are we going... if not to some fucking jail cell? If I know those backstabbing democratic governments, they can't wait hang former Imperials for the sin of fucking surviving!"


"There has been a complication," Ciscero remarked uncomfortably. "Known only to Isard and myself so far."



"What-," Zell was about to ask something when a proximity alarm sounded.


"We are here," Ciscoro explained as he went to the cockpit of the small ship to cut in the sublight engines.


"Where are we?" Zell asked trailing the agent to the cockpit.


"Algeron System."


"Never heard of it."


"It is a nondescript system. Nothing here."


"Why is it important now?"


"Because something is here now."


"What?"


Ciscero pointed out the forward viewport.


It took a while for Zell's eyes to make out that they were coming upon a ship. Did Desaria arrive with his damned armada?

No, it was not a Guard's ship..


Hyfe?


He would be pissed...


There were no running lights...


"Is it a derelict?"


Even as he spoke, the ship suddenly lit up and Zell saw that it was much larger than he at first imagined. But it was not an Eclipse SD.


"A Venerator.....no.. the lines are different.."


Ciscero maneuvered their craft towards the bow.


"A Reign..." the agent started but Zell waved him off.


"Don't be a fool. It's too big to be a Reign Clas..." his voice drifted off.



"Holy Shit," he whispered.


The name, scarred but visible in the running lights, turned his blood cold.







Galactus..