Admiral Jutka walked down the empty street in solitude. Admrial, He thought once more with disgust. It's not proper for a general to command a navy! It had been years since the Empire had conquered his homeworld and taken control of the Kathol Republic, but even now their meddling haunted him. Well, at least they didn't kill me in my sleep . . .

Memories of an old friend came to mind, found dead of a “heart attack” because the Empire couldn't allow the President of the Kathol Republic to dislike his new masters.

But the Kathol Republic Navy knew its place; Jutka had seen to that. They had payed their lip service, taken what responsibility the Empire had permitted them, submitted to the shackles their political counterparts had bought for them. And so the Kathol Republic Navy had been permitted to pick up the pieces, dust off some old equipment, and reassemble itself.

But most of the Imperial Fleet had pulled out by now, rushing coreward to fortify more “important” worlds. If anything happened out here, at the ass end of Empire, Jutka and his forces would be all but alone.

Jutka slid his identcard into the house's security reader, walked through the opening door, pausing for just a moment to take in the familiar smell of home. These visits were becoming less and less frequent, his duties taking up too much of his time, calling him too far away too often. “Honey, I'm home!” He exclaimed, a broad smile forming on his alien features.

His wife was just standing there, a nervous sort of smile on her face. He saw the secret hand gesture : don't be alarmed. Alarmed? Alarmed at what?

“Hello, general.”

Jutka froze, searching his memory for that almost familiar voice, afraid to turn around and see the face belonging to those words. “When last I heard that voice, it belonged to a friend,” Jutka ventured.

“Darling, I'm sorry,” His wife began, moving to him and squeezing his arm lightly. “I thought―”

“It's okay,” He said, turning to face this uninvited guest. There was nothing to fear here, Jutka knew that now, had read it in his wife's eyes. “It's admiral, now.”

“No,” The middle-aged woman shook her head. “I think it will always be general.”

Jutka looked to his left, saw someone else approaching from the kitchen. He looked back to the woman, who had been joined by another companion. “Are you all here?” He asked.

“All of us that are left,” She affirmed.

“Where?”

“Where friends that might be enemies can't find us.”

The admiral's eyes narrowed, the full weight of this encounter falling on him. “What's all of this about?”

“We want to help you get your Republic back, whole and true.” The woman smiled; it seemed cold, distant, like she had almost forgotten how.

“We should not be having this conversation,” Jutka barked.

“We weren't followed,” One of the newcomers said. “The house is secure. You weren't followed, either. Surprising, really.”

“Oh, and why is that?” Jutka demanded.

“You are an alien, serving under the Empire,” The woman said. “An alien in a position of power.”

“I serve the Kathol Republic!” Jutka exclaimed.

“Then the only conversation you should be having is this one,” The woman pressed.

If Jutka shooed them away right now, left them out in the cold and never thought about this again, then maybe―maybe―the Empire wouldn't find out. Maybe he could continue living his double-life, his double-service to a Republic and an Empire; one that he loved, and one that mocked his love. This is no way to live. “Tell me. Say it.”

“The New Republic is reborn,” The woman obeyed. “It would like to see the same of its old ally.”

“And you are the proof?” He asked. “The proof that this is true?”

“We are the proof,” The woman confirmed. “The original crew of the FarStar, the original ship that offered friendship from the New Republic to the Kathol Republic.

“There is someone I would like you to meet,” The woman continued.

An alien entered the room, circled around the woman and stopped facing Jutka. “Do you recognize me?”

Jutka's eyes widened. “You're on the Empire's most wanted list!”

The Ryn chuckled, nodding. “My boys have been busy, yes. Do you know what we've been doing?”

“You've been striking Imperial convoys across the whole of the Rim!” Jutka exclaimed.

“We have been depriving our enemy of vital military resources,” Jarvis Ragnar corrected. “We have been turning the Empire's eye away from the Kathol Republic, so our real work could be completed. And it is almost complete.”

“What have you been doing to my Republic?”

Jarvis grinned.





Before

Senator Karva of Lorize wandered the halls outside the Kathol Republic Senatorial Chambers aimlessly, his thoughts far from the eight hours of debate and discussion that were about to begin.

For Senator Karva of Lorize understood what all of the Senators understood: the Senate of the Kathol Republic was a joke. The difference was: Lorize had been forced into the Republic by Imperial meddling . . . I don't have to bother with precedence. I don't have to pretend I care.

If only some part of it mattered, if only some legislation they passed or some resolution they struck was for the betterment of the people, not the upholding of Imperial Law. But those sorts of thoughts were treasonous; men died in their sleep for sharing them.

This is the Kathol Republic. This is the fate of its people. It was disheartening to admit, but this was reality. Nothing could change it.

Eight hours later, with another session at an end, Karva was only all the more assured of his assessment. No wonder Palpatine disbanded the Senate; he wanted all those good-for-nothings to go get real jobs.

“Senator Karva.” The address broke the young man's quiet reflection; he turned to see a somewhat familiar face: Senator Jormug, from Exocron, another planet forced into the Republic by Imperial manipulation.

“Hello, there,” The young man managed, confusion evident by the unexpected disruption.

“A number of us were wanting to discuss something with you . . . away from the others,” The older man said. This was definitely out of the ordinary; senators from Exocron and Lorize didn't bother themselves with this sort of political maneuvering, and everyone else knew better than to bother them about it.

“Alright,” He answered, his curiosity getting the better of him.

But the older man didn't lead him to some adjoining conference room, or even a building within the governmental complex. Instead, Senator Karva soon found himself in a groundcar, speeding away to a destination unknown.

And it was a destination not at all what the young man had expected. He found himself in a dark room, meters below ground, a faint smoke in the air. There were about a dozen of them, in no particular arrangement, some of them not even bothering to sit. “There are others,” Senator Jormug whispered at the younger man's shoulder. “It's not safe for too many of us to meet like this at a time, you understand.”

Karva nodded, checking the faces of all those present. Some of them were not senators, but they were all government officials he recognized at least vaguely. “What is this?”

“This is where we plan the legal secession of the Kathol Republic from the Galactic Empire.”

Karva's eyes widened. Surely he hadn't just heard that; surely the other man hadn't just said it. “There's no such thing . . .”

“Republic Law says there is. Here, it supersedes any Imperial mandate.”

“Not in any way that matters!” Senator Karva's exclamation drew the room's attention. He took in the looks with furtive glances, wishing to be anywhere but here, knowing he couldn't leave now. Fate had gripped him: he would see this thing through. If it gave his people the slightest chance of freedom . . . “How?”







Elrood Sector, Coyn: Somewhere Dark, Damp, and Safe


Ag'Tra Rol'Tru'Saat had to crouch to fit through the low doorway. He took in the room's inhabitants with one quick sweep; all of them were known to him. The Coynite noble moved into the center of the room, placing himself nearer to the meeting's leader and opening the doorway for another to enter.

And another entered. “I am General Jorl'Vir'Saat,” He said gravely.

“Af'harl!” The leader of this meeting shouted, jumping to his feet . . . to find the drawn sword of Rol'Tru'Saat at his throat.

“Tracc'sorr, Jorl'Vir'Saat,” Rol spoke forcefully.

“What!?” The other man demanded, his outrage overcoming his fear of the blade at his throat. To speak such of one who is af'harl is . . . sacrilege.

“I am General Jorl'Vir'Saat,” The Coynite framed in the door said again.

“You are af'harl; you are nothing!” Another shouted as he rose to his feet . . . only to be thrown to the floor by a leaping Jorl'Vir'Saat, who straddled the man, grasping him by the throat, pinning one arm painfully to the side.

“Look into my eyes, Coynite.” The general moved his face closer to the detained man, eyes unblinking, staring straight into the other's. “Do you see cowardice? Fear? Failure? Foolishness? Do you see the slightest doubt, the shadow of disbelief? I could kill you now, tear your throat out or crush your skull. I do not do this, only because deep beneath the shadows swirling in your eyes, I dare to believe a Coynite lives, proud and unconquered, strong in spirit as well as body.”

He rose to his feet, turning his back on the other man, who remained prostrate on the ground. “Put that away,” He demanded of Rol'Tru Saat, eliciting a gasp of shock from the man at whose throat the blade had been placed: to draw a weapon and not use it is a violation of the En'Tra'Sol. “My name is Jorl'Vir'Saat,” The Coynite continued, his brother having obeyed despite the apparent affront to Coynite law. “A general, and an Ag'Tra. Is there one of you who doubts my claim? Is there one of you who would challenge my spirit?” He paused, turning slowly to take in the whole room. “I am not here because of you; you are here because of me. I am General Ag'Tra Jorl'Vir'Saat, defender of D'Skar, true servant of the En'Tra'Sol, a Coynite, an enemy of Empire and friend of Republic. I will see our righteous people freed.

“Is there one here who doubts me.” He paused again, surveyed the room slowly. Reaching down, he offered his hand to the fallen noble, a symbolic gesture not lost on the room's inhabitants.

“But . . . but you defy the En'Tra'Sol,” The man said, fear evident in his voice as he eyed the outstretched hand.

“Why?” Jorl asked, leaning over to bring his hand closer to the defeated man. “Because I do not kill that which makes my people stronger? Because I do not offer the guidance of the En'Tra'Sol to dishonorable enemies who operate beyond its bounds? Is the blood of my brother not my own? Are you not my brother; are not Coynite? Surely you would not say that the En'Tra'Sol demands that I spill my own blood.”

“You twist truth,” The man sneered.

“No!” Jorl shouted, drawing back but making no aggressive move. “I could kill you for calling me af'harl. But you are not my enemy. You have not mocked the En'Tra'Sol. You have not defiled my homeland. You have not spilled the blood of my people without need, without cause. You are not my enemy. You are my friend, my brother under the En'Tra'Sol.” He extended his hand once more. “Stand with me, and let us bring justice against those who have dishonored us all.”

The floored man reached out to the offered hand, rose to his feet and moved away to grant Jorl the attention he deserved. “You all know my great secret,” The General continued, returning his attention to the remainder of the room, “the reason I have been called af'harl. Now you will know how and why:

“After witnessing the fall of Sat'Skar, I knew that I would be unable to defy the Imperial Fleet once they decided to move against D'Skar and Coyn. My defeat was inevitable, and I knew that the Empire would not offer me the opportunity to surrender. In the weeks before the Imperial attack, and in the days I bought through enjoined combat, several fellow Ag'Tra set about rewriting . . .” He paused, finding what he was about to say almost too amusing to be taken seriously “. . . official documentation.” He could see that they didn't believe him; he would have to explain further.

“You have wondered, I am sure, what became of the millions of warriors whom the Empire believes dead, but are very much alive. They were given new names, on paper and in data files. Whole families were created from nothing, willed into existence.”

“Such a charade could not stand,” Someone spoke up. “A Coynite would have seen through this deception; it is dishonorable.”

Rol'Tru'Saat nodded. “How can one honorably defy a dishonorable conqueror? This is a question I have asked myself many times, and never have I found an acceptable answer. In the end, for the sake of our people, I found myself believing that there was no dishonor in deceiving a dishonorable foe. But you are correct: this 'game' would not stand long against a Coynite's scrutiny. So I was presented with a most difficult task: where could these 'new' Coynites with false names go? Where would they be safe from being discovered by their fellow Coynites?

“That is why their new identities were crafted as to make them the perfect Imperial conscripts.”

The sounds of revelation were everywhere: gasps, curses, laughter . . . “The Galactic Empire invaded Coyn,” Jorl continued, “and what was the first place they seized? The Hall of Judges, in whose depths our records are stored. They conquered a mountain of paper, and dared to believe insodoing they had conquered our souls. But our names carry with them our identities; they are not a part of us, but we are a part of them. A Coynite's name cannot be conjured; it must be forged in fire, and conquest, and challenge. A man with a false name has no friend; there is no where that he can go where a Coynite will look upon him and say 'yes, I know that man. I stood with him when he earned the name Vir, or Choo'nuk, or Kal, or Hur'ku.' A Coynite with a false name might as well be called af'harl.”

“And so you made them loyal Imperials,” Someone spoke up. “You wrote papers showing such quality the Empire would admire, such traits they believed they could subvert.”

Jorl'Vir'Saat nodded. “The 'dead' defenders of Coyn have become the living warriors of Empire; they salute in the manner of the Empire, they dress in the manner of the Empire, they conquer in the manner of the Empire. Stationed within the Coynite Division of the Mid Rim Fleet, they await only the order to 'die' once more and be reborn as true defenders of the En'Tra'Sol.”

“And the Empire knows nothing of this?” Rol'Tru'Saat asked, this being the first time he had heard these things, as well.

Jorl smiled broadly. “No Imperial has ever accused a Coynite of having an excess of intellect. We are battle axes to them, with minds too small for the surgical necessities of 'grand combat.' Theirs is an empire built upon records and Halls of Records, upon data cards and census readouts. And this is the Empire's great failure. They do not―cannot―understand us, for we and they are too dissimilar. Their mandate of 'sameness' requires that if we are not like them, we must be beneath them.

But soon those beneath will rise, and the Empire will see that it is the spirit of the Coynite people―not our 'documentation'―that guides our steps and compels our fate. On that day, brothers, you must be ready with the weapons of war.

"Freedom awaits us.”

The Coalition's secondary fleet pulled into the Ossus system. Commander Cevil, a Mon Calamari, glanced idly at the plant through the window in his private quarters. "Are we here early?" he remarked while pulling on his uniform. "Could've sworn we had another hour."

"Negative, sir," replied a bored voice from his wall-mounted comm. "We're still exactly on schedule to make the Varn rendezvous. Ossus shouldn't take too long - if you want, we could handle it."

"No, no," Cevil mumbled with a yawn. "Better I be there for the look of the thing. Never know when Regrad'll check back in."

"Roger sir, awaiting your arrival."

Aboard the Indefatigable, despite the constant pall of war and desperation, mundane routine reigned. This was the half of the border where nothing interesting was expected to happen, so Cevil's mission and fleet had an unspoken 'second-string' status. While the Coalition and the Freedom-Vlyx were leading a huge warfleet towards history, an older, smaller fleet brought supplies, logistical organization teams, diplomats, and military advisers to the unharmed backwaters that lined the rim of the galaxy. Why the Reavers hadn't blown through this space Cevil couldn't guess, unless perhaps the machine-zombies were just as vulnerable to boredom as everyone else.

Half way to the bridge, however, Cevil started to notice uncommon excitement - crewmen started to run through the halls, pausing only briefly to throw hasty salutes before hurrying on. They weren't frightened, some even seemed eager or excited, but after countless long, dull shifts Cevil couldn't imagine why. He picked up the pace and grabbed the comm from his belt. "Bridge, this is Cevil. What's going on up there?"

"Um..." came the reply. "You might want to get up here and have a look at this, sir."

Now almost running to the bridge, Cevil bounded up a spiral staircase and rushed through automatic doors. When he arrived he quickly scanned the faces of his crew to see their reactions - fear, horror, excitement? No, just surprise.

"Hello, commander." Cevil looked up and immediately knew why.

The Indefatigable's main screen was displaying a communication link with the leadership on Ossus. There were many national and military figures, but they weren't important, practically invisible in fact. What dominated the screen and the attentions of the crew was one figure in particular, half-recognized from diplomatic briefings given way back when they were first learning about notable figures in present galactic politics.

The smiling face of Zark Ekan shone back at them.

Crap, thought Cevil. A lieutenant standing nearby leaned in and whistled in the commander’s ear. “He says he looks forward to meeting the Prime Minister in person.”

Double-crap. “Well… maybe we can get him a high-definition holofeed?”



Not everyone was dealing with diplomatic embarassment at that moment. After stopping off at Roche to convince the local Imperial and Coalition garrisons to point their fortifications outwards instead of at one another, the growing compact fleet headed on towards Donovia to regroup, and then at last rounded the ‘corner’ of the Reaver’s expansion and headed on towards Obroa-Skai.

The fleet commanders maintained their comm network, but had little to say to one another. This part of the journey was actually a part of quiet embarrassment for most parties. Had the Borderland fleet not been squandered and stripped by Kach Thornton to feed his own vain ambition they might have had many friendly ports to visit on their way to Obroa-Skai. Without those ships, however, a large number of Imperial worlds now lay ‘beyond the wire’, defenceless against the Reaver’s predations.

Feeling the unease among the fleet as they considered this terrible fate, Regrad retreated to his own quarters to mediate and contemplate. He sat in his Spartan accommodations wearing a simple prayer robe and staring out a window into the swirl of hyperspace. It was comforting. After long years of war and spaceflight, it was the familiar calm before the storm of arrival.

His reflections were interrupted by a knock at his door. Despite his professed open door policy, only one person on the ship ever saw fit to bother the Prime Minister. “Enter, Yolem.”

As expected, Regrad’s steadfast second entered the room. “Sir, pardon my intrusion, but the crew is restless.”

“So are you, old friend,” said Regrad, giving him an appraising look. “So am I.”

“It’s not just on our ship. The whole fleet is uneasy, the Imperials most of all.”

As he spoke, Yolem walked towards a screen implanted in Regrad’s wall. He switched it on, and an Imperial face realized. Regrad couldn’t recall his name, but he recognized the man as the Imperial SS’s representative on their little council. “Prime Minister, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you those are Imperial worlds we’re passing right now. I don’t know how you can expect my men and women to sit by while-”

“You want to protect your countrymen, fulfill your oaths, this I can understand. We are passing by Imperial worlds abandoned by Imperial soldiers, and it is a blot on all you fight for to allow desertion to go unpunished. Besides, I think we can all agree that the suffering of the people on those worlds weighs heavily on our minds and all we do.”

“If we could divert course, drive the Reavers off just long enough to-”

“Before we are prepared? Well and truly?” Regread here got to his feet and gestured out his window, from which warships of several nations could be seen. “We are stronger, yes, with the compact, but we’ve already seen that raw martial strength is not enough. If we run off without thinking and fight the Reavers, and in the effort bring ruin on ourselves, who will we have saved? How will the Reavers ever be defeated? No, not until the full measure of our strength is gathered and plans have been made can we act.”

“And when that happens?”

Regrad clenched his fists reflexively, his teeth set on edge. “Then we will waste not a moment in the pursuit of justice. We will wipe the Reavers off the face of the Galaxy, restore the people of these blighted sectors, and avenge ourselves on the perpetrators, but such justice cannot be achieved a moment before we are ready, and anything that delays or endangers that moment must be set aside.”

The Imperial representative nodded. Grimly, he said “You know, that’s what Kaine would have said. Understood Prime Minister, over and out.”

Suddenly paler - Colder? Older? - Regrad began to sway back and forth a little. Yolem furrowed his brow. “Sir, do you require my assistance?”

“No… no…” said Regrad. “I think I just need some rest. You are dismissed, Yolem.”

Alone now, Regrad sat down on his narrow bed and turned to look out the window as space rushed past, planets crying out for rescue just beyond his reach.

Sentry-class Station #182, Gestalt-Kashan Hyperlance


The station had been seized and as the Teel walked the narrow corridors, he felt a sense of futility. For centuries his people had been walking the razor's edge of a Pacifist Reformation and a retiring of the Sovereign once and for all time or a return to the extreme militarism that spawned Sovereign in the first place.


The Reform Movement had gained momentum and the Sovereign was undergoing decomissioning when word came that the Glorious Enlightenment was destroyed.


Where the Sovereign was the entire Remoran heart and soul of war made physically manifest, the Enlightenment was their testament to beauty and intellectual achievement.


It was a ship grown from a crystalline superstructure that had taken a century to build as opposed to the five centuries on the Sovereign. Where the military ship resembled essentially a smooth brick in space, bulky, armoured and so very large, the Enlightenment was graceful, expansive and boasted not the greatest weapons their civilization had built but the best laboratories, hospitals and exploratory equipment their imaginations put to form.


Ceti-Quan had won the referendum putting the Reform Movement front and center in the people's collective conscious and as they boarded their ship for the stars, there was nothing that could stop them.


Except mines.


The Enlightenment had transitioned into deep space only to find that it was in the midst of an alien minefield. Their destructive power shattered the crystalline craft in a matter of minutes sending hundreds of thousands to their death.


In those moments, the Reform Movement died and Remoran blood called out for blood.


The Sovereign was reactivated and a grim determination overcame the masses. They had dared to dream and were crushed.


And so, here they were, the flotilla of the Sovereign, the advance elements of the Remoran war machine, to answer for the crimes against their people and to crush utterly those who had shattered their dreams.


And so, here he was, Commander Teel, on an enemy sentry station with a numeric designation one-eighty-two. The leader of the base had tried to set a self destruction of the station to render it useless to the Remorans but, truth be told, the the station could have been intact and it would still have been useless to the Remorans. As it was, the critical damage done to the station in the Remoran's opening volley had rendered most of it's systems inoperable, including the self destruct.


As their massive fighters set about casting their 'nets' to remove the fields of mines the enemy seemed to favor in spreading, Teel set about to interrogating these people.


As expected of any war-like race, at first, they did not divulge anything other than names and a list of meaningless numbers and letters. Teel did not have any such restrictions imposed on him. In fact, he wanted to tell these people why he was here and why they were going to be destroyed.


And as the Remoran Military Commander told the prisoners (all grouped together) of the reason for their attack, namely, the destruction of the Enlightenment, the enemy suddenly broke off their recitation of meaningless numbers and letters and proclaimed their innocence.


"There were very clear signal markers to ensure no..." the man stated but Teel's armoured hand waved him to silence.


"You would blame our people?" his translator quietly asked.


"Your ship had no defenses. Your ship had no way to..." the prisoner continued, as if trying to justify the reason for a hundred thousand deaths.


"Of course, not. It was a ship of peace. Not a ship of war."



"What stupid captain runs their ship into a minefield??" the enemy charged back.



Runs? The armoured mask covering Teel's face hid his reaction to the enemy's use of terms.



"What idiot mines space?" Commander Teel asked back, though, more a rhetorical question than one he expected to have answered.



The prisoner did have an answer,though.



"We are protecting what is ours!" the enemy shouted and Teel became quiet. Was it possible?



Had the Enlightenment encroached on another civilization's world? Had it been seen as a threat?



"Where is your homeworld?" Teel asked and the enemy's lips pressed together deliberately.


"Is your homeworld near here? Did our ship invade your homeworld?" Teel pressed and the prisoner gave a suprised look.


"No..not exactly. It invaded here."


Teel was confused, "But your homeworld is not here!"


"But this space is ours!" the prisoner exclaimed and Teel drew back.


"You claim space as your own?" Such a thing had not occurred to Teel. In fact, the more reports he heard from his people, the more distressed he found himself.


While they did not know the exact position of the enemy homeworld, they did find out enough to find that it was nowhere near their location but was on the other side of the galaxy.



The other side of the galaxy!


These people were obviously not content with their own homeworld holdings but felt they needed to stake out claims across the bright galactic core!


They were invaders.


And this was not just an outpost but a garrisoned outpost. It held function.


It was guarding something and it soon became obvious what this place guarded.



"A road," Jaad, a Remoran Scientist, concluded. "A road or path through space."


The scientist continued, "The wreckage from their ships indicate linear acceleration, similar to our fighters and weapons. They seem to have an ability to propell their ships faster than we do ours along a linear trajectory."


"Such a journey, even at such speeds would be long.." Teel murmured and the other nodded in his armoured suit.


"They seem to have an association in this area," the portion of the map nearest their own position was gestured too by Jaad, "and so they set about laying bases and mines between both."


"Half a galaxy mined for a simple path?" Teel was disgusted and he made sure the prisoners knew it.


"It was an accident!" they cried out.


"You deliberately set these fields of mines across half a galaxy to do what? Kill those you do not want on your road?!


What gave you ownership of this space!? Did you not think the civilizations in the area might object to you setting mine traps through their area?

And where would they go to redress this clear insult?! You won't tell us where your homeworld is!"


Teel stared at the ranking survivor of their attack, "Will you?"


The prisoner's lips stayed pressed together.


Teel was enraged, "So already, your people do not want to hear any grievances from us!"


If the prisoners could have seen Teel's eyes behind his armoured mask, they would have cringed.


"But they will hear us!"


He cast the prisoners out the airlock and ordered the base destroyed. They found that this enemy built small and so they would be treated small.


"We will follow this road and destroy everything of these people along the way!" The arrogance of this enemy was too much.



The vanguard of the Sovereign changed course and transitioned.



**


Colonies



Destruction of outposts and bases were one thing. Those people inhabiting such places had forfeit their lives for their presence signified agreement with their people's arrogant vision to claim space not their own. No. Not just claim but kill any not their own who violated their imperialistic claims.



But this was different.



They had reached the end of this road and their investigative probe had found the Gestalt Colonies as they were launching a large battleship.


As either the starting point or the ending point for this road, the Colonies were culpable. Thus, the attack and destruction of their largest warship by the Remorans was carried out for blood called for blood.


Yet, that same warship they destroyed was something they could appreciate. But to attack the homeworld of these Colonials was tantamount to genocide and that was something the Remorans were not agreeable to undertaking. They did not kill indescriminately, after all. They did not leave mines out to kill innocents nor did they claim that which was not theirs.


But how many "Enlightenments" would die if these people's arrogance continued unabated?


These were philosophical questions left to thinkers but too many of them had died on the Enlightenment. Who was left but those tasked with action?


So, in the end, Commander Teel sent Captain Vaala, of the Vanguard Laerne to speak with these people.


The warship transitioned a few kilometers away from the colony known as David and immediately detached a one hundred meter shuttle. Save for the shuttle detachement, the Laerne was cylindrical in nature, about a thousand meters long and had no windows or open ports though there were outlines etched all over the solid hull.


The large shuttle stopped a distance away, in orbit, above the David Colony, detaching yet a smaller craft, a 20 meter vessel.


The cylindrical vessel further descended toward the floating metropolis landing near the center, near the Spire of Spirit (or David Tower).


Throughout this time, the inhabitants of the system were obviously alerted to the sudden presence of the Laerne and so gathered their own resources together in response.


While the Laerne made no hostile moves, the Colonies must have known something was coming their way as each sentry station from one-eighty-two to Gestalt had been reduced to dust.


The small craft opened and Captain Vaala stepped out in full armoured uniform, her optics setting upon the defenders of her uninvited presence. Her voice projected from her armour, a mix of the authoritative yet deferential.


"I wish to pray," was all she said.

Sons of Corellia

Bel Iblis made motioned for Hilter to follow, and began leading Hilter deeper into the interior of Liberty Base. Hilter paid attention to the running commentary, noting the sophistication of the base, and marveling at the ingenuity of its design. Corellians had a reputation as excellent engineers, and their handiwork lived up to the lofty things Hilter had often heard.

The Moot

There would be no better time. Governor Darksword was gone. The Corellian Protectorate Fleet, under his command, was also gone. There had been no reinforcements from Coruscant since the disappearance of the Emperor and since it's being beseiged by an unknown alien power.


Liberty Base had been in a precarious position amassing the resources required to liberate Corellia but with the Empire in firm control of sister worlds within the system, there was always the chance of things going wrong and all their work being undone.


The Union had it's tentacles in the Sons of Liberty and no one knew better the talons at the end of those tentacles than Kyle Iblis. He found that the aims of the Union followed the aims of Kyle only to the extent that they hurt the Empire and lined the Union's pockets. There was nothing ideological about money but it did sink hooks into a person that would make even the most courageous despair.


And yet, all along the Union's network, the disappearance of their top commanders had given General Iblis the much needed breathing room to consolidate his plans.


Even without Union obstacles, there was Lupercus Darksword, a Sith Lord and his vast military fleet whose presence in port destroyed any hope of liberation.


But now....now, events had swung back in favor of the plans he had so painstakingly drawn up several years ago that to not act was the stuff of foolishness.


The main force set against Corellia was to arrive removing the temporary governor and install a provisional governmental system. The problem was retaliation.


The problem was always retaliation. It was easy to find people who hated the Imperial Government and not just because of the independent streak inherent in Corellians. Corellia had been the capital of the New Republic in opposition to the Empire before the Wrath Virus (coupled with Grand Admiral Desaria's blockade) kicked out from under them their remaining resources.


Would people rise up in support of the provisional government if Imperial assets from other planets within the system could be brought to bare?


It was this very issue that the secondary attack would address...

It had been a long time since I had set foot on Corellia. Two years in fact. I wanted revenge on the Empire, not revenge in an evil way but in a way just to make them see justice for everything that had happened on Corellia in the past 20 years. Constantly under the Imperial's boot, without the freedom to walk down the street at night without an Imperial Stormtrooper Patrol coming along and interrogating the life out of you. Not having the freedom of going off planet without going through some ridiculous security checkpoint. Not having the freedom to protest or to establish demonstrations without worry of being shot with a E-11 set on stun and waking up in an Imperial Prison cell. I personally was tired of not being able to have the freedom of walking Corellia's streets without worry of seeing a wanted poster with my name and face on it declaring I am a murderer. Wrongfully acused I had been sentenced to 5 years confinement and then death in an Imperial Court. I served my 5 years but death had no place in my life for being wrongfully acused. So I escaped my fate for a second chance...

And this was my second chance. If the Empire was removed from the Corellian System then my name could be cleared in a free Corellian Court. Because I could keep running from being caught was the reason I wanted to clear my name. It was the right thing to do.

But all thoughts aside I return to the moment at hand and at that moment...the General looked around the room at the men that had assembled here and then scanning the crowd he came to me... his gaze, one of question.

But my face never changed, my stare was solid but confident and I gave him a simple nod. In that nod I meant that I was willing to go all the way to the heart of the Empire and rip it out with my bear hands if it meant Corellia's freedom. He then continued scanning the people around the room.

He returned his eyes to the new guy's and welcomed him to the fight. And soon after he turned towards the crowd agian and screamed his battle cry that was very quickely followed by everyone in the room. "FOR CORELLIA!!!"

The cheer certainly had the hearts of everyone behind it and it had a power to it as well saying that Corellia would be free, it was only a matter of time.

A grin forms from my face and I close my eyes and remember the old days of when I wasn't a hunted man. I wanted to be free, but I wanted Corellia to breath the free air more than myself, and I was willing to give it everything I had... everything!

Biography of General Kyle C Bel Iblis

*


Independent Intelligence Report:

CENTERPOINT STATION SEIZED, CORELLIA DECLARES INDEPENDENCE

In a daring attack, General Kyle Iblis and the Sons of Corellia seized control of Centerpoint station while launching a secondary attack against Imperial power centers on Corellia. The temporary Imperial Governor who was filling in for absent Governor Lupercus Darksword was imprisoned awaiting trial and a provisional planetary government was reinstated until an electorial process can be applied.

Some observers considered General Iblis' move to be foolhardy in light of an inevitable retribution from the New Order. Others are not so sure.

'It was a brilliant maneuver made at the most opportune time. With Coruscant under seige, the Empire has better things to do that keep malconents under their heel!'

In response to queries regarding a fleet from Tralus being readied to deal with the liberating forces, General Iblis simply stated, 'We will be ready.'

What this may mean...

CENTERPOINT STATION ACTIVATED

In response to yesterday's daring liberating attack of Corellia by General Kyle Iblis and the Sons of Corellia, the Imperial base on Tralus had launched a reserve fleet only to have it stranded between worlds as the Corellian System was put under and interdiction field.


While the provisional government has issued a statement that the move was considered a military move tactical in nature to prevent Imperial reprisals and retribution, there were a number of civilian and independent ships caught in the field.


The Corellian Government and General Iblis' forces have not responded about what they will or will not do regarding that fact or how long the interdiction of the system will last.

There has been a warning issued to all ships traveling to Corellia...

Wes grimaced as the ships reverted to realspace. The maneuver had not worked as well as he had liked. Apparently, Sith Apprentices could not perform as well as Sith Knights or Sith Masters. Even together, these were not sufficiently trained to guide his fleet through hyperspace without losses. Come to think of it, they weren’t trained to pilot anything, either. That could account for the fourteen SS ships – not to mention the several Borderland ships – destroyed during the jump and immediately after.

As Wes looked at the status boards, several losses hit hard. One of the brand-new Defence-class Frigates, the Hierophon – Who in the Empire named that? Wes thought – had lost the jury-rigged slave circuit immediately after the jump and had reverted back to realspace. Apparently, while it was still slowing down from lightspeed, it slammed into alien ships that had been emerging from some sort of wormhole. At least that one hadn’t died in vain, as three of the enemy were caught in the unexpected massive explosion. Three of his Fire-class light frigates – including the Lemure, which had been commanded by the brilliant Captain Summerhayes – had also lost the slave rig sometime during the jump, two being ripped apart by the gravity fluctuations and other managing to take a ship or two of the enemy with it. Three of his Fury-class light frigates and four of the Protector-class pickets also dissolved somewhere in hyperspace or reverted and crashed into alien fleets.

And even that wasn’t the worst of it. As they reverted, three ships lost the slave rig and overshot the exit area by one second. Normally, reversion one second too late would not be a problem, since ships normally came out of hyperspace with room to spare. But with the closeness to the alien fleet, the late reversion was deadly.

At least, Wes thought, it was lethal for both sides. A Fire-class light frigate never even had a chance. As it reverted from hyperspace, and while it was still at near lightspeed, it slammed into one of the larger alien ships in the way. The resulting explosion destroyed the frigate, atomizing it and its crew, but the enemy ship, as well as a few nearby ships, broke into a thousand pieces. As they did, Wes noticed a slight decrease in what appeared to be a gravity interdiction field in the area, but he put it out of his mind for the moment.

The Stalwart-class frigate Fox, commanded by one of the most accomplished frigate commanders in the SS, Captain Simmons, also overshot the exit zone. It, however, managed to avoid the ships of the alien fleet – a miracle, some thought – and ended up right in the center of the enemy formation. It fired all cannons and missiles immediately in all directions and continued to fire until the enemy managed to overwhelm and destroy it. Wes had to assume that all hands were lost. Finally, the Fury-class frigate Barghest slammed into one of the little ships in the alien fleet – Wes wasn’t sure what they were, but clearly they were not as important as the two gargantuan ships headed in his direction.

Not only that, but apparently the hyperjump had exhausted the Siths’ reserves. Most of them lay unconscious on the deck where they had been meditating. Yuagith and two others were still standing, but the Iridonian seemed to be the only one still mostly functional. At least he had one left. Still, he didn’t want them fooling with his ships anymore, and the regular officers took over as soon as the ships reverted to realspace.

To top it off, the comm system wasn’t working. At least, normal ship-to-ship communications weren’t working. Light signals still seemed functional – a bit old fashioned, but at least it worked.

The first turbolaser volley had been mostly ineffective, as had the second. Wes scowled. Nobody should have shields that good. Nobody! But then again, if they have that much power against turbolasers…

Turning to the comm officer, Wes ordered, “Signal the rest of the fleet. Fire missiles – target those large ships in front of us.” Remembering what had happened when the Caledodonia had crashed into one of those ships, there was a subtle shift in the gravity readings in the area; Wes assumed that those were the interdictors. Take them out, evacuation could proceed more easily. And then he could bring in more ships without the losses he just suffered.

The missiles were away. As they got closer to the alien fleet, Wes watched as their flight paths began to shift and waver. Nevertheless, most hit their intended targets, though not as precise as he would have liked. Those that didn’t struck the smaller craft that were flitting about around the large interdiction ships – or are they shield ships? Wes thought – wrecking a few of them. But those paths…

Gravity, he thought. They’re using gravity as a shield. What if…

Before the thought was completed, Wes noticed the four massive ships approaching his fleet. “Lieutenant,” he said, “order half the Borderland Reigns to take out those approaching vessels. They seem to be coming outside the range of whatever they’re using as shields.”

The attachment from the Borderland fleet acknowledged the orders and moved to intercept. Wes, counting on the regular navy to take care of that threat, concentrated on that shieldship again.

“Any chance of getting a message to our fighters, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” the comm officer said. “I can try to interject a series of numbers on the same frequency the alien jamming seems to be using. The astromechs in the fighters should be able to pick it up and interpret it.”

Wes nodded. “Do it. Tell them to target the large Interdictor analogs, and send along any information you can on those ships. Missiles only. Have the Schutzstaffels lead the run, with the Hurrikanes escorting the Storms. Any fighters returning from the planetary assault should land and rearm, then make a second-wave attack on those ships. And Lieutenant, have the Scout TIEs launch – I want them to run a recon on one of those Interdictor analogs and then on one of those smaller ships – figure out what they are. Also, duplicate the signal as LOS. If we can't overcome their jamming, at least we'll be able to get the gist of the message through.”

The officer nodded, then ran the data through the Tyrant’s computer to numerically code it, sending when it was finished. Wes hoped it would get through.




Wing Commander Radge Sarus twisted through a series of quick maneuvers, avoiding the relatively slow plasma blasts from the alien vessels with ease. Never had he enjoyed the maneuverability of the TIE Schutzstaffel fighter more, not to mention the coordination of his squadrons. They had been flying together long enough that they certainly knew what they were doing. The formation was still intact, even without communications. It was a testament to the skill of his wing.

Something twittered behind him, and words scrolled across his HUD. That was one thing he still hadn’t quite gotten used to. The Empire usually didn’t include astromechs in their fighters, even the TIE Defender. But General Vos, in designing the Schutzstaffel, Hurrikane, and Storm, had seen the possibilities. Still, it was hard to get used to the twittering in his helmet and the words projected on the HUD.

“Yeah, I am proud of them, X-5,” Sarus responded. “The superiority of Imperial training is apparent.”

More beeping. Glancing up, Sarus saw what X-5 was talking about. “I see them. Let’s see what they’re made of.”

Twisting the flight stick, Sarus rolled his fighter ninety degrees and pulled up, pointing his nose directly at the incoming alien fighters. The four squadrons with him rolled and pulled up as well, orienting their squadrons around his. Two squadrons of Hurrikanes dropped in behind them. “X-5, designate targets One, Two, Three.” The targeting scope appeared on his HUD. Making slight adjustments, Sarus released a pair of proton torpedos at the first target, quickly switched targets and fired again, then once more before the two forces collided.

He wasn’t able to see what impact his torpedoes had on the fighters, but he did see his lasers disappear just before hitting the alien ships. Rolling and spinning, he twisted his way through the enemy formation, firing when he could. Still, it seemed as though his shots had no impact. Kriff, he thought, I hate jamming. It would have been nice to know what the rest of his wing thought.

And then they were through, one fighter short in his squadron. Sarus cursed again, then accelerated, preparing to turn and engage the enemy again when X-5 beeped. “How many kills?” he asked, incredulous. More words on the HUD. “Stang!” he exclaimed. “How in the Empire did the Hurrikanes do that much better than us?” More beeping, more scrolling. “Turrets? They must be weak in the rear, then. Alright, set us up for another run, and analyze the enemy’s maneuvers. Figure out what their patterns are, and set us up to get behind one of them.”

The two forces met again, still in formation, but this time the Schutzstaffels didn’t keep going after blasting through. Twisting quickly, they lined up on the alien fighters as they began firing at the Hurrikanes. Breathing a soft prayer of hope, Sarus squeezed the trigger, blasting into his target with all six of the Schutzstaffel’s laser cannons. The alien fighter came apart almost instantly. The same was happening all down the line, as the faster and slightly more maneuverable Schutzstaffels blasted through them. As the aliens turned to engage the Schutzstaffels, the Hurrikanes then opened up with their turret guns, scything through the fighter ranks even as the Schutzstaffels broke away. Caught between the hammer and the anvil, the alien fighters broke into individual dogfights, but they were overmatched. Within a few minutes, Sarus had lost eleven more fighters, but the alien craft were breaking back for the safety of their ships.

Sarus smiled as he saw them run. Then more words began scrolling across his HUD. “Orders?” he asked. “X-5, how are you getting orders? We’re being jammed.”

A long string of beeps followed, the translation coming as a revelation. “Line of sight light signals? Alright, see if you can contact the rest of the squadron. And scroll the orders for me.” An affirmative beep, and general orders scrolled across the screen. “Alright. Send orders to the rest of the fighters in the squadron. Have them form up on me – we’re going after those big ships. Detail Squadron Four to accompany those scouts.”




So focused was Wes on the result of the fighters’ run on the shield ships – for by now there was no doubt that was what they were – that he made his second nearly-fatal mistake of the day. He didn’t notice the four behemoths powering their weapons.

What he did notice was four Reigns going completely inert, drifting in space, and the small vessels – troop transports? – heading towards them.

But he couldn’t concern himself too much with them at the moment. “Lieutenant, signal the rest of the Borderland attachment. Have them send Interceptors and Defenders to intercept those transports, and see what they can do to get those four ships back online.”

The day hadn’t been as good as he’d hoped. But they had gotten a lot of information about their enemy. The question was whether they’d be able to hold Coruscant.

“Lieutenant,” Wes said, turning to another bridge officer, “Get me full tactical of the system. Highlight Imperials blue, Civilian yellow, unknown and hostile red.”

The display appeared before him and his heart sank. Even with the SS fleet and the Borderland attachment, the aliens still outnumbered them. And if reports trickling through from the ground were true, there wasn’t much hope there, either.

Returning his attention to the communications officer, Wes said, “Send another message to all fighter wings. Have them target those smaller ships, the corvette analogs. Use whatever torpedoes they have left, then have them return to their base ships. Helm, start lateral drift towards the Corridor.”

And then the message came through from the enemy. It was in Basic, though spoken with such an accent that it was almost impossible to understand. But Wes got the gist of it.

One more hour to fight, he thought grimly. Which means we need to figure out what our orders are. And whether we’ll get the order to stand down. Then another thought struck him. And I wonder who’s in charge to give the order?

“I wish to pray.”





Famous words.

Famous last words.

“Pray on this,” declared the hero of the Gestalt Colonies, Lance Shipwright.

Trigger down, the blaster shot up from his side streaking the air with blast after blast of ozone-stinking laser bolts. What it lacked in accuracy, it made up for in theatrics.

The first blast detonated a chunk of concrete at the aliens feet. It, eyes wide, wore a stupid look, a blank dumb-struck look that said, “How did I not see this coming?”

Second, third, fourth...

Each successive blast tore progressively higher. Feet followed by shins, next to the kneecap. Like some slow motion action-flick, it screamed, threw its arms in the air. All in slow motion.

Torso, the incandescent shots blasted through, peppered with holes. Spurting blood, or what passed for it.

Lance was shouting, the words a mash of rage-rich vowels. Spittle sputtered, his lips practically flapping with the force of his booming, thunderous, god-like roar.

A shoulder, shot, snapped back pulling the alien sideways. Perfectly poised, in those milliseconds, the last azure flash struck the creature, the inhuman monster, between the eyes.

And then, time seemed to move very fast.

They were swarming around him, the Colonial Commandos, laying down suppressive fire while forming a defensive perimeter around the Vice Commodore. For their own part, the aliens tried to react but their slow witted brains, no match for human potential, struggled to comprehend what they had just seen.

They, the first envoy of the alien enemy, were cut down in a bloody massacre.

Lance, enraged but striking a memorable vogue, pointed his auto-blaster at the alien landing craft. “Do you think you scare us with your invasion force? Do you think us without recourse?”

A moments reflection, remembering with fondness the construction, and then with profound sadness, the destruction, of the Colonial. Such a grand ship, such a testament to their success, and it had been taken from them in an act of unprovoked, and outright, war!

The memory gave him strength, his chest boomed.

“Destroy them!”

At his command the Commandos, an elite fighting force, surged ahead. The aliens fell at their very advance failing utterly to prevent them from flooding the ship. They would bring death to these invaders.

In the space beyond David Colony, they had awaited just such a moment. They, the shadows of the Colonial navy, had moved in to position behind the transitioning alien starship. They had bode their time, watched with baited breath as the aliens had dispatched their envoy. And all the while their weapons, their deadly, deadly arsenal, had tracked them with invisible eyes waiting to unleash all unholy hell.

Now, they did.

The MC-170 Krakana was a predator of unparalleled skill and ability. It, like its namesake, represented the pinnacle achievement, they were both at the top of the food chain. Brutally, it lashed out.

Torpedoes, spat like flaming thorns, moved through the inky black. Six meters long, thick, and packing a warhead so powerful it was on the upper limits of what could be considered an anti-ship weapon, they moved with alarming speed. Fractions of a second, that is all it took for them to bridge the distance.

Alas, their explosive power, their sheer destructive ability, was lost. Their paltry detonations played but a minor part in the bigger event. The Azimuth Doomsday ISBM which had moved in the ranks of the smaller missiles, was the main event, the torpedoes a mere undercard.

Even from his vantage, his feet placed firmly on the man-made square fanning out around David Tower, Lance was able to see the destruction. The artificial sky glowed bright like the birth of a star. Fractions of a second later, the shock wave hit.

The station shook, its shields struggling to cope with the kinetic force. It was a pointless venture, he knew. If the colony survived the explosion, radiation poisoning would soon spell doom. Lance had prepared for this.

This, and so much more.

Their invasion, preceded by attacks along the Gestalt-Kashan hyper-lane, had given them time to make preparations. For what? There could be know way of knowing. So Lance, brilliant as he was, had hedged his bets.

Had gambled that David Colony would be the first beachhead, had evacuated the majority of the Colonists, and gambled with his life.

“Die, alien scum!”

These would be his last words.

And they would become a mantra, a motivating war chant shared throughout the remaining Colonies, to those who would carry the fight to the invaders. Those who would seek out the inferior aliens who had invaded their sovereignty and kill every last one.

Every.

Last.

One.




Lance blinked.

He blinked again.

Daydreaming, he thought.

What had it said? Something, it had said something, the alien had.

They had blown up, totally destroyed, his ship. His ship. Jerks and bullies, they had broken his toy and not had the courtesy to even say why!

Lance felt a little like the galaxies biggest dunce.

Enemy Determined To Attack Gestalt Colonies, the report had read. They'd had the information, and they'd failed to act. Hyper Fighter squadrons began to disappear, their communications dropping out. Next, the relay stations.

Truthfully though, the Colonials hadn't been taking that big a role in maintaining and overseeing the Gestalt-Kashan route. As the Confederation continued to expand and prosper, developing into an asset rich nation, the Gestalt had slowly been withdrawing their limited resources from the route leaving its oversight to the now much more competent Confederation.

That, coupled with the generally lackadaisical attitude of the colonial government, had generated an attitude of neglect. Given the largely one way trade, again due to the fact that as the confederation spread it became increasingly self sufficient in so far as that which the colonies had to sell demanded such a high price compared to buying within their own structure. More and more it became was the colonists who were buying and not selling.

In the face of arguments to the contrary. Admiral Mar-Veil the most vocal advocate, he decided to do as little as possible. The military was allowed to increase security measures, which was a fancy way of saying, do nothing.

It was not until, in examining the details of the hyper-lane contacts, he saw a pattern.. and a direction did he get truly alarmed. And still, he had done nothing.

After all, representatives from across the galaxy were present...

No one in the galaxy would attack, not now. Not with so much else going on.

And then it was too late.

And now here they stood, face to face with the enemy in the false atmosphere, starry skied, artificial gravity of David Colony.

Well, face to face... so to speak.

Lance Shipwright was, in fact, watching the proceedings from a bunker buried under the mountains of Gestalt I. They played out in digital reality captured by the countless scanners which ensured the utter security of David Colony, tied in to the central police network, and gave big brother... Lance and his cadre of government elite... a way to keep an eye on the least stable element of the Colonies, its religious center.

Shipwright did not trust religion.

Case in point...

“You wish to pray.” Cardinal Oyzamndais observed.

Prophet of the people, he was the heart of the strange religion which dominated the colonies. It was called The Way of David and never failed to totally confound Shipwright, however; it was a neutral religion and its primary mandate seemed to be one of indifference.

David Colony was considered to be the center of the faith, it's physical core. Again, for reasons that eluded the Vice Commodore, but as it espoused the value of education, had been twinned with the church. And so, church and college lived side by side and comprised the vast bulk of David Colony.

He remained neutral, totally indifferent. That was a testament to his character.

David Colony had been attacked.

The enemy had chosen this to be their first contact.

To many, the message was clear. It seemed clear to Shipwright.

“Then let us pray.”

The High Cardinal, religious epicenter, bowed his head to the enemy. On the monitors, all across the station, the residents bowed their heads. Some had been wounded in the onslaught, others killed. Yet they all...

Lance scoffed. He considered, deeply contemplated, ordering the counter attack but some part of him, that illogical, impulsive and all too human part of him, wanted to see how this played out.

He watched.

Something was wrong.

Skygge knew this instinctively, as soon as the large durasteel door slammed shut behind her. She stopped for a moment, reaching out with her senses, trying to find the source of this disturbance. She could feel the chill of death in the guardroom, she could feel her apprentices locked in combat…

But she couldn’t feel their opponents

She cursed under her breath. These Jedi are tricky, she thought to herself. What in the Empire are those things, then? Droids?

The answer didn’t really matter, of course. Whatever they were, their very presence showed that her plan was falling apart before it had even started. Skygge had forgotten how resourceful and inventive Leia was – she had underestimated her opponent. It was a rookie mistake, possibly a fatal one, and Skygge knew that it would not go unpunished.

She had two choices now. She could call off the entire mission, collect her apprentices, destroy those Force-less abominations they were fighting, and head home. Back to Katarr, or perhaps Korriban. It wouldn’t be hard. Slight manipulation of the door lock, a quick mental call to her apprentices, a few lightsaber strokes, and they’d be gone.

Or she could finish the job. Do what she came here to do, even with the increased danger. She had certainly been spotted by now. It was only a matter of time before Leia and her sidekick husband showed up. Skygge sneered at that thought. Tyscio Corbin, she thought. I never liked him much. Can’t see what Leia sees in that nerf-herding son of a Gamorrean sow.

Either way, she had to make a decision quickly. The longer she delayed, the greater risk either option presented. For a moment longer, Skygge stood there, considering her options. Then, finally, she nodded. “Alright, Master Organa Solo Corbin,” she whispered, projecting the thought out even as she did, issuing it as a challenge. “Come and get me.”





Something was wrong.

Telarni knew it instinctively, as soon as the Force push hit him. There was force there, but it was not the sort of power he had expected. Not what should have been there. It was nothing like the punishments he’d received from Skygge. Not what should have come from a Jedi Master. He backed down the hall, fighting defensively, trying to figure out just what was bothering him about this situation.

The lightsabers clashed again and again, Tyscio’s Ataru attacks being met perfectly by Telarni’s Djem So defense. The two seemed evenly matched. This isn’t right, Telarni thought. I may be good, but I’m nowhere near good enough to be holding this strongly against a Jedi Master.

Which meant that either Tyscio Corbin was not all that he was represented to be, or…

Or this was not the true Tyscio Corbin.

His blood flowing with aggressive rage, Telarni suddenly moved from defense to offense, three quick strikes coming in rapid succession, using the power of his opponent’s attacks to feed his own. Battering down “Tyscio’s” defenses, Telarni lunged for a quick kill. But his opponent flipped out of the way, seemingly back towards the guardroom. As he landed, Telarni was on top of him, his crimson blade weaving a powerful pattern, slapping aside “Tyscio’s” attacks and time after time penetrating his defenses, though never enough to score a hit. Now it was “Tyscio” backing down the hall, Telarni, in his anger, driving forward ceaselessly, knocking aside the “Jedi’s” blade time after time.

This would end, soon.





Something was wrong.

Elana could feel it in her bones, in her heart. She knew she shouldn’t be more knowledgeable in the Force than the head of the Jedi Order, and yet time after time her Force attacks penetrated Leia’s defenses. Their blades clashed, crimson against blue, moving quickly and efficiently. Elana’s unpredictable Shii-Cho attacks kept her opponent off balance, forcing Leia to use every bit of her training to defend herself.

Still, something was bothering Elana about this whole arrangement. It wasn’t just that she and Leia seemed evenly matched. It was something different, something in the Force itself.

Striking out, Elana surprised Leia again and smacked her lightsaber out of her hand, then kicked hard into Leia’s chest. The Jedi flew backwards down the hallway, but Elana did not pursue. Reaching out with the Force, she called to Leia’s lightsaber…

And it didn’t respond. In fact, it wasn’t even there. Elana squinted her eyes, narrowing her brows. She quickly probed Leia’s mind as well…

And the Jedi wasn’t there, either. There was no mind. There was nothing for her to grab onto. Stang, she thought. I’ve been had. Time to finish it.

Even as Leia was rising to her feet, Elana jumped, bringing her lightsaber down hard as she landed. There was a spark of light, a briefly-blinding explosion, and “Leia” fell, cloven in half from head to pelvis.

Once her vision cleared, Elana stared at what was, apparently, a carefully constructed holoimage of Leia Organa Solo Corbin and shook her head. The implications were astounding. It meant that Leia either knew or had predicted that they would be coming. It meant also that Lady Skygge would be in serious danger. Elana had to get to her, to help her. But there was one slight problem.

Elana didn’t know where she was.

I dont' like this post.

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, in orbit via Genon

“…a CMF convoy that was en route through that waypoint has not reported back in,” stated Lucerne, “I have consequently ordered an immediate halt to the use of the hyperlane for the moment being. There is a chance that the communication’s net in the area is down, but if that were the case, I would have expected a courier ship to arrived by now stating just that. In addition, we have not seen any colonial starships come through the hyperlane since then, which is rather odd.”

“Odd you say?” blurted out Councilor Lysting, “I think it’s clear that the station is lost.”

“That is probably true,” stated the Admiral, “despite our attempts to keep it low-profile. I admit that I myself am tempted to activate the minefields to deny use of the hyperlane to any possible enemies.”

“You think it is possible for them to have that information?” questioned Thorn, a frown etched across her face.

“It depends on what happened to the station,” sighed Lucerne, “essentially, each Sentry station is a hidden support base for ships using the hyperlane. We usually think of them using it to refuel or make repairs. But one of the main functions of the station is provide additional navigation data, particularly updates if rogue asteroids or other dangerous objects are passing through the route.”

“How much would they know?”

“Only enough to take them to the next station…or Gestalt…that station is the last one on the hyperlane before the Colonies,” stated Lucerne.

“I recommend a vote be called to lock down the lane immediately, turn off guide satellites and transmitters,” said Lysting, “as for any Colonials in the area, they will just have to wait it out.”

“Are you suggesting an impounding of Colonial vessels?” questioned Lucerne, raising an eyebrow.

Lysting snorted, “As far as the use of the hyperlane is concerned. But given that is the only real effective way to get there without taking weeks, they might as well sit down before we fix the problem.”

Lucerne winced, “If it is, in fact, fixable. I will make no guarantees until we know the situation.”

“And when will that be?” said Thorn, leaning forward.

“Soon, I hope.”



La Galissonière-class Star Destroyer L’Ocean, near Sentry Station Waypoint Two

“At ease,” growled Line Captain Basile Allard, “I will take the watch now Lieutenant.”

“You mean you’ll head the operation.”

“That too.”

As the woman retreated towards her quarters, Allard hobbled over to the viewport of the star destroyer’s bridge. I can see more rocks than space, more dust than stars. Basile grumbled. Put me on the crappy assignment of seeing absolutely nothing of interest, will you Lucerne? Put me on the crappy assignment of overseeing a trade lane whose custodianship has been ceded to us, for whatever reason. At least I thought this would be easy assignment, watching over hollowed-out rocks and the merchant ships that plied the lanes…no, now I have to plan for an assault on one of our bases and figure out who’s trying to kill us, or whatever took out everything at my other station. He snorted.

“Sir?”

“What?” snapped the grey-haired man, “you don’t have to be so loud, I’m not that ancient.”

“Of course sir, my apologies. Lucerne has just sent us a message…more or less demanding an immediate recon of the base.”

“Well no crap,” said the Line Captain, “have flight control send in a bunch of those Stellar Enterprises drones. We have to consider our own base. How are those transports coming along?”

“The CMF has grudgingly allowed us to take a few galleons for the purpose of evacuating the base. They are docked and loading up the most valuable equipment. Commander Tyris there has her people all set to take two of the galleons for personnel transport, and by two, I mean one and a half.”

“I see. Very good. The Admiral says jump,” coughed the man, “so I guess the drones will have to jump now. Keep the rest of the squadron updated, and make sure all ships are battle ready. I guess we were going to have to have our ships carbon-scored sometime.”



Six RS-20 Condor drones off of the Suffren-class Cruiser Villaret surged into realspace into the asteroid belt around Station #182.

Or so they would have, if the station was intact.

The stealth drones rapidly maneuvered through the dense clouds of rocks; deftly slipping by rolling boulders and barely avoiding shards of flying rocks that broke loose when asteroids collided. The very spacescape was one of the station’s intended defenses. But it too was a double-edged sword. While the belt itself was a virtual minefield, it was also a convenient sensor shroud for anyone who already knew that the base was there. The drones flew dangerously close to some of the larger elements, utilizing their signature to augment their inherent stealth abilities. Each weaved through their own labyrinth of stone to the station’s location. As they all converged, they found no station, but rather bits of charred bulkheads and a graveyard of depressurized bodies, all aimlessly drifting past the brink of a fate worse than death. The drones carefully scanned their surroundings and transmitted their data back to the L’Ocean.



Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, in orbit via Genon

“It is an act of war,” decided Lucerne, “there are no defensive mines left in the area, which means that we didn’t lose the station to a natural disaster. Furthermore, there is evidence of a large, previously unknown object from millions of shards of crystal and what appear to be bodies of some sort. It appears that the station and its defenses managed to destroy one alien vessel before it itself was destroyed.”

Pro-Consul Thorn leaned back in her chair, “How prepared are we to wage a new war? With TF Fidelitas with the Coalition, and TF Swiftsure aiding the Commonwealth?”

“TF Fidelitas is barely a task force,” said Harding, “and it would be merely a heavy squadron if the Fidelitas was not present. But TF Swiftsure is rather large. I must admit, we should consider withdrawing the task force back towards our space if Lord Lupercus return to the Commonwealth goes without any more problems.”

“It would appear that way,” stated Lucerne, “but there is no need to withdraw everyone back right now. The bulk of our ships are still defending our homeworlds. I would like to siphon off ships so that each planetary fleet within the Confederation Proper and the Almas Demesne is at half strength. I would not ask of such of our members who are threatened by the Reavers…”

“And this will be your war fleet to fight these aliens?” said Harding.

Lucerne nodded, “Indeed. I would be taking the Revanche with me to join up with Allard’s squadron that is in charge of the Hyperlane.”

Thorn leaned back, “The Council will now take a vote to approve of the SCO’s resolution.”

Across the conference room, various beings approved or disproved the measure, each expressing their view in their turn as the vote went around the table. Finally, the measure ended at Lucerne’s seat. The Kashan man cleared his throat.

“I approve of the SCO’s resolution,” said Lucerne.

That was almost a given. Who would not approve of their own plan? Yet the Council was such that he did have a vote, and ceremony dictated that he say the obvious. The golden 3PO unit attending the Council made some sound that Corise guessed was its imitation of clearing its throat.

“The Councilors who have voted have approved the measure by a difference of eighteen. The resolution decisively passes.”

"Time is everything in war," stated Lucerne, "therefore, the Revanche will leave the system in two hours. It has been a pleasure to host the council, councilors..."

Gestalt Colonies


When the Remorans had discovered the Colonies, they found two great artificial structures, one hailed amid pomp and ceremony and the other quiet.


As blood called out for blood, one of the great structures was destroyed even as it was being launched. But this second great structure seemed different in nature and while both appeared to be able to house a great many people, the structure that Captain Vaala stood on did not appear to have any weapons.


This, according to strict Remoran Code, prohibited an attack upon the structure.


The ship that had detached Captain Vaala's landing craft simply remained on station, as if waiting for a report from it's one-person landing party.


The craft left in orbit around the David Colony was square and, as with its larger mothercraft, devoid of windows and ports.


The landing craft was similarly lacking the typical aesthetics and, as the doors closed behind the vacated occupant, the David Colony's plethora of cameras could not help but catch some aspects of the landing craft's interior. A single chair with various switches, buttons and handgrips indicated a rather manual descent as opposed to a computerized landing. What this meant was that the person before those of the colony was not just a representative but also a pilot.


The representative themself was encased in some sort of heavy armour giving only the impression that they were bipedal and humaniform. But what they actually looked like was, as yet, unknown.


As Cardinal Oyzamndais and those around him bowed, Captain Vaala slowly knelt. It was difficult to accomplish in the massive body suit but it was accomplished.


It was a surreal moment to be sure. Here the enemy's single representative had put themselves in a vulnerable position before the crowd and perhaps that was the point. Either they did not fear a reprisal or they did not care if there was a reprisal. Both, the embodiment of mutual understanding or the sacrificial lamb of failure wrapped inside a single package.


As the figure knelt, the seconds passed as if it was waiting for something. An action perhaps?


When there was none forthcoming, the gears of the eyes whirled slightly as if narrowing their gaze at the Cardinal but the voice that followed was one of curiousity, "To what should I pray? And for what should I pray?"