Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, Deep Space

The denizens of the galaxy came in all shapes and sizes; from all different environments and cultures. Yet the Galactic Republic and the age of galactic-wide contact had streamlined many of them into loosely fitting into what could be perceived as “normal” by even creatures defined as aliens by that most illustrious and successful creature; the one that had sprung up across like the galaxy like Rodian verbin: Humans. Yet staring at the alien across from them, and despite the human-centric racism which the Empire had promoted in years past, Kolir found himself emphasizing more and more with freedom fighter’s enemies. The reptilian creature leered forward with another demand. The hazelnut furred Bothan threw up his hands in the air in an exaggerated and emotional appeal, only offset by his simultaneously maniacal and calm speech.

“Quite frankly, no. Not yet, not now. No.”

“You will give us ten cases of blaster rifles then,” demanded the golden-skinned alien.

“No,” replied Dha’tey, “I will not…yet. Have the Quenno not learned patience over the decades? The time to strike is not now. Supreme General Fossk may have been wounded by my attacks, but he will not simply roll over if all of your people go up into arms. There will be war, and he and his people will land and support the Des’mar and their mining corporations. And then what? I am unsure if my fleet could continually hold up Fossk’s navy, and I have little doubt that his army would completely smash open resistance.”

“No time to think like this. Des’mar having meeting with Regent Eniak to cement relations, and supply Protectors and security forces with new guns, new armor, new stuff. Rumors are that Eniak will supply white statues to hunt us like hoskas. In turn, Fossk get more minerals and permanent allegiance of this term’s Council of Elders.”

“Stormtroopers are coming?”

“Yes, white men.”

Dha’tey rolled his eyes, “Wait…you said term of Elders. When will they retire?”

“When they die. At least twenty years now from.”

“You may be right then,” sighed the Bothan, “now may be the time to act. Send me all of the information you have on their meeting, and I will arrange for the weapons to get to you. But you must promise me this: do not use them until I have acted.”

The Saurton frowned. “That is difficult promise if come white men.”

“The Quenno must be patient if they wish their cause to survive.”

“No,” demanded the creature, “the Quenno will use weapons if threatened by white men. We must survive, and you want us to survive. We then will do planned deal.”

“Try not to use the weapons then, unless it is a life or death situation. Fair?”

The reptilian creature nodded. “Yes. We will wait for red fleet’s move before we avenge ourselves.”

“That is good. Happy partings, Qu’ertoa.”

“Death to you enemies, Dha’tey.”

The holofeed fizzled out into a twister of dust particles. After a quick glance at the projector, the Bothan let out an exasperated sigh. Dha’tey shook his head and began to tap several keys on his console. He felt a furry paw on his left shoulder, and immediately swiveled the chair around; certain of his uninvited visitor.

“Sei’lar, did you hear all of that? We give them a little help, and now they want it all; they want it now,” muttered Kre’fey.

His fur flushing with amusement, Sei’lar toothy grinned. “Most of it. Freedom fighters aren’t what they use to be. Remember the Dressilians? They were overjoyed when the Clans gave them old-fashioned slugthrowers with which to fight the Empire.”

“Still,” admitted Dha’tey, “their defiant, argumentative spirit is something to admired in its own way. It certainly explains why they’re willing to fight Fossk’s mini-Empire in open battle after all these years. They’re the only ones willing to aside from the those of Entrus.”

“That’s because Entrus cheated, and the other peoples aren’t stupid,” chided Sei’lar lightly, “it’s a wonder the Saurtons haven’t killed themselves it is.”

“I’m fairly certain they will, if we leave them alone,” sighed the Bothan officer, “Can the arms shipment be arranged?”

The spy nodded. “Easily. But can the information on Ekian’s arrival be gathered correctly? I think Fossk might have caught on to our slicing activities; their holo-net is loaded with virus and trojans that have identification software embedded in them…”

“Well, I think it’s fairly safe to say that if they’re doing that, that they’re probably channeling at least some false or incomplete information through it too.”

The spy nodded. “My thoughts as well. We can only get from the ground then; from the local resistance.”

Dha’tey let out a slight groan. “Because they’re so reliable.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Dha’tey considered the question. “Yes, I think I do. When the intelligence doesn’t come to you, you bring the intelligence to yourself. A little personnel appropriation exercise?”

Sei’lar recoiled. “Possible, but I would not like to risk any of the assets I have been developing on Fossk’s worlds just to maybe get a glimpse of what could be the Regent’s visit. The one on Essowyn certainly aren’t worth it.”

“The one?”

“Yes, do you know how hard that was? Saurtons aren’t remotely suitable to this sort of work; their warrior cultural with its honesty and straightforwardness pervades all things. No, I managed to come by a Sullustan with old rebel ties, and convinced him to help us out. And even then, he’s shut up in the mining complex mostly; not anywhere near the governmental areas that would have knowledge of this sort of thing.”

“It’ll have to be a ship approbation mission then?”

“You’re willing to risk ships and men for that?”

“I think it’s worth it, in this case.”

Imperial Patrol Frigate Royala Solis, Trax Sector Deep Space

Captain Ascalon stood at the old frigate’s viewport, staring at the light freighter fleeing from the customs squadron. Mere minutes ago, it had refused to be boarded when stopped by the group; apparently their anonymous tip had been correct: this was a smuggler’s passage way. The squadron and the freighter had briefly exchanged fire, and in the process, pyrotechnic flames had sprung up from the YT-2400’s rear. Ascalon suspected that the ship’s ion drives had been knocked, or more likely given the ship’s current sublight speed, its hyperdrive. The florid man waved a hand at the criminal starship.

“Have the Lexrollian Sword, Shield, and the Solstice come about in a pincer movement; we’ll cut their escape off before they do something ridiculous.”

“Sir yes sir.”

“Has comm. been able to decrypt the freighter’s message?”

“Not yet sir; the rebel is using a surprisingly well encrypted code. We may have to send it to intelligence to decrypt it.”

“No matter,” dismissed Captain Ascalon, “We will have that ship, and the crew will tell us the transmission’s content, if they want to live.”

“The Sensor Gondola is reporting a local hyperspace entry flux; the hyperspace profile matches that of a Dawn Star-class Bulk Freighter. It is headed directly towards the Nova Flame.”

“A friend of his, perhaps,” suggested Commander Ahpla.

Ascalon nodded. “If the Flame’s hyperdrive is out of commission from the Sword’s attack, then naturally it makes sense to call for a ride out of our wrath. Yet a bulk freighter...slow and underarmed… what an odd choice for an escape vehicle…”

“They must be desperate then,” concluded Elam.

“I dare say so.”

“Ship reverting from hyperspace!” cried out an officer.

“I want a full visual of it on the command holo-projector,” demanded Ascalon.

The bridge’s holo-projector formed a wispy image of a bulky vessel; from a distance, the boxy image did indeed appear to be one of the Dawn Star bulk freighters built by Ventil Shipyards Limited and used throughout the sector. But its crimson color immediately vanquished any thoughts of security or its harmlessness in Ascalon’s mind. As the image was magnified by feed from the closer Lexrollian Sword and Lexrollian Shield, both officers were aware of the unusual superstructure modifications to the original design; small quad gun turrets uniformly dotted its sides, and several large rings, filled with quad turbolaser cannons, immediately broke any idea that the starship was harmless. Starfighters flooded out of the converted bulk freighter and surged forward to meet the custom’s craft. Their starfighters off of the Royala Solis fell under peppering fire from the quad turrets, who slugs ripped completely through the small ships. As they neared, the bullets seemed filled with small explosives which blasted holes into the Imperial starfighters. Ascalon spared a glance at his XO; the man’s usually smug grin had been replaced by an expression which transmitted an amalgram of disbelief and fear. Ascalon grunted.

“Call the Sword and Shield back towards us; I want a tactical withdrawal, now,” demanded Ascalon.

As if to confirm their fears, the space between the two Adz-class Destroyers and the Phlegethon lit up gunfire. A rapid succession of scarlet bolts from the Inferno Fleet warship immediately was immediately returned by the quad laser and ion cannons of Fossk’s ships. Tiny blue sparks and brief red blossoms lit up across the exterior of both Destroyers, and Ascalon was immediately aware that Hunters and Kalrechis were strafing both ships. Sword and Shield, still firing, began to sluggishly and sporadically fire their thrusters.

“Well what the frak?” swore Ahpla, “What are they so slow?”

“Their engines have been damaged by ion cannon fire from the enemy starfighters,” reported one officer.

“Sword has lost contact with several hull sections; they seemed to been knocked out by whatever heavy projectile gun the Deuce Fighters use. Probably have lost some crewmembers and the slave circuitry in the process,” commented one soldier.

A flurry of blue streaks poured out of the Phlegethon’s sides; as if the warship was releasing a shower of shooting stars. Like meteorites streaking through the sky, the ion torpedoes burned up into fire and blue lightning as they connected with the destroyers’ shields. Shield’s engines flared out under the ionic attack, leaving the patrol destroyer to endlessly spin about with disabled engines. The Lexrollian Sword fared slightly better, with half of its engines escaping attack. As if awakening from a bad dream, the customs starship began to slowly chug away from the crimson warship. But the Phlegethon latched onto the patrol destroyer with a pair of tractor beams, and pounded into submission with a several more ion torpedoes and ion cannon fire from its Hunters. Without orders, the customs frigate Solstice began to jet away towards and past the Royala Solis. Ascalon swore.

“Tell the Solstice to get back here now, or face a court martial,” demanded Ahpla, “They will maintain formation until said to abandon it-”

“Communications, get the Admiralty on the line.”

“Our long-range communications seem to be disabled, sir.”

“What?”

“I don’t know; I can’t activate them. It’s like the program has been completely frozen up….I…I can’t reboot it. It’s not letting me.”

“More ships reverting from hyperspace,” reported another officer.

Acalon and Ahpla quickly returned their attention to the holo-projector. The Solstice had abruptly changed course again, streaming back towards the Royala Solis; but under a torrent of ion cannon fire from two squadrons of newly arrived Hunters. Behind the starfighters, a single Cerberus cruiser and a quartet of Torch-class gunships cruised towards the patrol frigate’s rear. The Crescent Flame's ion cannons lashed out at the sensor gondola, and within a handful of seconds, the exterior lights of the sensor pod had been completely extinguished with the rest of its electronics.

“Solstice is reporting heavy damage; they’re about to be taken out of the fight…I’ve lost all communications with them.”

“Sensors show that the Solstice has been disabled,” reported another officer, “along with the sensor gondola and its winches.”

“Prepare to jump into hyperspace,” demanded Ascalon.

The ship rocked suddenly, and the Nova Flame flew by the bridge’s viewport, exchanging laser fire with frigate’s defensive cannons. Ahpla spared a glance at the diagnostics board, and both officers became aware of the freighter’s concussion missile attack at the ship’s spine. The ship diagram there glowed a fiery red in sharp contrast with the calm cyan of the rest of the vessel.

“Hold that order,” cried out Ahpla, “Sir, the spar has been hit pretty bad. We’re on an old ship, I’m not sure we can make a jump into hyperspace and have the hull hold up.”

“When was the last inspection of the area?”

Ahpla winced. “Two, three years ago? It was considered adequate by the inspectors.”

“On a ship two decades old and heavily modified? Didn’t they take of it during the refit?”

“Ah well, sort of. The welding jobs were not quite up to standard in my opinion. The Admiralty hired alien welders to do it. They said it was more…cost effective.”

“Could be saboteurs,” muttered Ascalon, “we can not chance it then. We will have to surrender then or potentially kill ourselves.”

“They’re pirates, they may kill us anyways-”

“They’re mercenaries,” corrected the captain, “Do not get fooled into believing our own propaganda.”

“Sir, we have a communication from the Inferno Cruiser Crescent Flame.”

Ascalon shook his head. “Very well, put in on the main projector.”

The bridge holo-projector transformed the visage of the battle into that of a lanky man with brown hair, shaggy and unkempt. He probably had not shaved in a week, yet his maroon uniform seemed remarkably well-kept. The soldier smiled, his green eyes piercing into the cavernous bridge of the Royala Solis.

“We have you brah.”

“Excuse me?” said Ascalon.

“Uh, brah Captain…yeah, that’s it.”

“Who are you?” demanded Ahpla.

“My name is Gamark, my friends call me Gammie, but everyone else calls me Commander Syfonne, I think,” considered the man, “let me check on that. Hey Isky, what should they call me? Commander? Thanks brah. Yeah, you guys can call me Commander.”

“I am Captain Ascalon, and this is Commander Elam Ahpla
, of the Trax Sector Authority.”

“Gee man, that sounds very squarish-”

“Forgive me, Commander,” interrupted Ahpla, “but what the hell are you calling us for?”

“Harsh man, harsh,” complained Syfonne, “I could have vaporized you guys thirty seconds ago…”

“We are sorry, are we not, Commander?” replied Ascalon.

“Nawh, it’s okay dude; it’s all cool,” sympathesized Syfonne, “I’d be a bit tense if someone was about to vape me too. Anways, I was just calling to see if you guys wanted to give up. You know, less people hurt-”

“Go to hell; everyone fire!” demanded Elam.

“Hold your tongue,” bit back Ascalon, “I give the orders around here. Commander Syfonne, we will surrender. I’d rather live another day that get vented into space or shot a dozen times by a boarder.”

“Yeah, me too man. Hey, I’ll be sending some people. Could you be a brah and show them around? Thanks mucho Captain brah.”



Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, deep space Trax Sector

The brig of the Hammer was unlike that of any other warship within the fleet. For not only could the drunk and disorderly members of the Fleet itself be temporarily held here, but they were joined with the high most officials of the Trax Sector Authority captured by Inferno Fleet. Escorted by a pair of Inferno Marines, Sergeant Lawless walked over to a cell with an enemy officer in one corner, and three somewhat hung over Bothans lounging about on the cell’s bunks. The intelligence man felt the dual stirrings of amusement and pity as viewed the forlorn man: Commander Ahlpa. Lawless gestured at the guards, who opened the cell and dragged out Ahlpa bound in stun cuffs. Several doors later, Ahpla found himself seated with Lawless in a dim, crimson room discussing information.

“Look Commander, I can’t help you if you can’t help me. Knowing Dha’tey, he’ll probably handcuff you to Syfonne until he gets information out of you.”

“You are joking, right?” questioned Ahlpla, slowly rubbing his face with his hand, “What time is it?”

The interrogator pointed at a chrono mounted on a wall. “I know that you’re smart enough to read, Commander. Don’t take me as a fool.”

“But…it can’t be that late. It’s been but a couple of hours”

“Uh, well, it’s been nearly a day since Syfonne dropped you off in our brig. Are you sure you’re feeling out, sir? If not, I can get a medical team to check you out.”

“No, I’m sure that chrono is off,” replied Elam, “what kind of rust-bucket is this ship? Do your people ever take care of it? Maybe have an elite janitor team”

Sergeant Lawless barked a laugh. “You are funny Commander. I think Syfonne would enjoy your company very much. Maybe we can handcuff you together while he’s on shore leave with his crew. You can be with the man when he’s roaring drunk then. Let me tell you, he becomes even better…”

“You wouldn’t dare betray a fellow officer like that? Torture?”

Lawless’ grin turned suddenly somber. “Look sir, we’re a rogue mercenary outfit. We don’t generally follow any rules, and Dha’tey certainly doesn’t feel obliged to either. It’s not as if your people haven’t issued a death warrant on him. He’ll do whatever it takes; the ends are just a mean. I’m afraid that if you aren’t cooperating with us soon, my interview session will be over, and another will begin; this one with some vengeful Eddel. You know, they really don’t like slavery. Heck, Dha’tey could probably sell you to them for their fun and his profit.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Lawless’s brown eyes hardened. “It’s pure economics. We work for profit, remember that. We aren’t bound by any taxpayers’ rules or government regulations; we don’t have the luxury to simply sit around while the taxes flow in to keep us paid and our equipment operational. If you aren’t profitable to us with information, then you are an economic loss. We have to keep eyes on you, give you a room, food, drinks, and so forth. Do you think that stuff is free of charge? On the other hand, selling you removes that loss and instead gives us a small profit. But not as big of one as what you could provide for us.”

“But once I tell you everything, you’ll just dump me.”

Lawless shrugged. “That’s a risk you have to take. But let me assure you, we don’t normally do that; simply because if you’re cooperable, you’ll probably continue to be so in the future in case we need some more information about something else. And that can pay profits. Now look, I’ll give you five minutes to make up your mind. You talk with me, your safe. If not, the aliens will get you. Clear sir?”

“Yes,” mumbled Ahpla, “you don’t really give me much of a choice. What do you want to know?”

“Two things, the state of the Trax Sector Authority customs and patrol service in the Essowyn System, and the security plans for Regent Eniak’s visit. We know he’s coming, we know that your ship was scheduled to do something; especially since the Royala Solis is based in the area. Now, where do you want to start?”

Bulk Freighter Waterspire, in orbit via Essowyn

The cargo ship held suspended above the battered world of Essowyn, barely. Several cavernous holds riddled the lower half of the vessel, complimented by a scores of scorch marks from enemy weapon’s fire. At the ship’s sole functioning airlock, a Guardian-class Light Cruiser had docked and dispatched a small customs’ team; both to inspect and record the damage occurred on the vessel from alleged pirates and to document the ship’s cargo. While most of the crew was busy with repair work, the ship’s captain, Ted Reitar, walked around the cargo hold with the chief official of the customs cruiser.

“Hey look officer, you think I have control of the pirates? Since the customs squadron disappeared a week ago, those red-colored brigands are everywhere. DMC is even having to escort its own ships with hired help. You think I have the funds to pay for that sort of thing?”

“No, I suppose not,” replied the Customs Officer, “Very well. We are a bit short of customs agents at the moment…”

“Look, I promise you that we don’t have anything. I’m not even sure what cargo I still have left. Heck, you can see that half of my ship is a bit blown up…”

“I am sorry Captain. But rules are rules, unless of course, you are willing to pay a consultants’ fee.”

Reitar rolled his eyes, “How much?”

“One thousand credits.”

“Outrageous. It’s only worth two hundred credits tops.”

“Eight hundred.”

“Four hundred, and you’re pushing me,” bantered the captain, “I don’t have that much money to spend, considering that those pirates blasted away my at least some of my cargo…”

“Six hundred then.”

“…because the customs and patrol force failed to counter a bunch of pirates?”

“Five hundred. I would suggest taking it, Otherwise I will put you up on charges of smuggling.”
“But I’m not smu-”

“Take it or leave it,” interrupted the official, “and do not say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fine, fine, here’s your credit chips,” replied the captain, pulling out a several credit chips.

The customs officer grabbed them, and glanced at them closely, “Authentic looking enough…let me say that it has been a pleasure to inspect your ship, Mr. Reitar. I will contact traffic control and put your ship on a priority status…given its state. I do not much envy your state.”

“Thank you sir.”

The customs official confidently strolled out of the cargo bay, a few hundred credits richer, without ever looking at more than a few durasteel crates; most of which had been filled with the latest clothing sundries as the ship’s manifest listed them. Several of the crates had spare droid parts, but the man hadn’t looked at them with much alacrity or effort. Within ten minutes, the customs crew and their ship departed, and the Waterspire began its descent to the world below. Reitar muttered. Whoever Roger’s clients are, they’re certainly getting a bargain price…I wonder why. Heck, I wonder what we’re even carrying? Forty men and nearly three dozen crates? Not spice or any simple drug run. There’s too many people to be a simple illegal immigration run, heck, I would wonder what attractions Essowyn would even hold for them…A diminutive Sullustan waddled over to Reitar, and chattered in a high voice.

“What? No, you can’t; not this run. Listen Sparkles, we’re carrying some special passengers, and we don’t want to see them when we leave, and neither will any of your guests. I bet they’ll end up face down in some alley if they do. We just have to give the ship to them for an hour, and then we can all get back…What? No, Rogers gave the job to me…Yeah, I know. Not a really good trade, but he has us by the balls…and we did get this ship, though we’ll have to fix up…Where did he get it? You think I know? I don’t care to know, probably some pirate’s former prize by the looks of it…”

The starship landed deep within a crater in a crumbling docking bay; probably the most pristine structure any of them would see during their stay on Essowyn. As quickly as they could without looking overly hurried to port employees, the crew abandoned the Waterspire for shore leave. Five minutes passed, and out of the ship’s dark smuggling compartments arose men in crimson armor with golden highlights: Inferno Marines. The soldiers quickly formed into groups, and pulled out crates with built-in sensor baffling. Nearly ten minutes later, a group of Saurtons arrived at the vessel in landspeeders, ready to offload the precious cargo of contraband blasters and their ammunition. And as quickly as they had come, the Sautrons, Marines, and blasters disappeared into the landspeeders like a Defel in the night; no-one the wiser.



T4A Lambda-class Shuttle Fasces, en route to Essowyn

“I am so terribly sorry Regent, but we are all out of Corellian Port. Would his excellency care for a white Merkelbach wine instead?” asked the serving droid.

“Yes, that will do,” replied Eniak cheerfully, “make sure it is chilled correctly. Thirty degrees.”

“Yes, of course sir.”

The gold-plated droid wandered off to the shuttle’s refurbished galley, precariously balancing an overworked silver tray. Eniak smiled a little; even in a galaxy of turmoil, the elite of the Trax Sector Authority were only typically troubled by the most trivial of problems. And his business to Essowyn would ensure that, if everything went according to plan. And why shouldn’t it? The Des’mar were only to willing to give into Fossk’s demands in order to keep their own power for a few operations; they failed to realize the operations benefited the Authority as well, as well as the mineral tribute imposed on them to allegedly make the operations profitable for the TSA. SE-4 tottered back into the cabin with the tray; this time carrying a crystalline glass and a bottle of roan-colored liquid.

The ship suddenly vibrated intensely, and the exit growl of a realspace reversion reverberated throughout the cabin. Eniak’s lip twitched. He glared at the droid.

“You were suppose to warn me fifteen minutes before arriving on-planet…”

“I beg your pardon sir, but we still have precisely twenty-two minutes in our journey before we reach Essowyn.”

The ship’s intercom buzzed. “Your excellency, we have a problem. We’ve been ambushed by Inferno Fleet. They are demanding that we surrender, or they will take us forcibly.”

“Set off the emergency transponder beacon and announce our surrender.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do not worry captain. The Supreme General will get it, and we will be restored to our rightful positions. See-four, you may pour the drink. I should very much like to get a taste of it before our guests arrived.”

“Oh my,” replied the drid, “Shall I prepare drinks for them too?”

“I would not bother, my dear valet; they are the sort of unwelcome guests who vandalize and consume my own work. Humph. Wait to they get caught.”

“Shall I lock the airlock, sir?”

“I would not bother, See-four. I do not think it will stop them.”

“I see. These ship-guests of which you speak are quite bothersome. There should be a decree against them.”

“There already is See-four, there already is.”



Asagov, Essowyn

“Right, they there are! Fire!”

Nearly five dozen blasters, striking at the Des’mar guards, sounded at the cry of the Quenno leader. The reptilian creatures lurched forward in their hunched over posture, charging the Protectors guarding the facility. The endless torrent of golden-skinned creatures pressed forward, apparently intent on beating the Protectors by courage and pure numbers. Lieutenant Robinson raised his hand upwards, and winced inside his helmets. The neat column of red-clad troops halted among the flood of Quenno guerillas. There is something terrifying about seeing the Saurton fight. I wonder…I wonder if they eat their opponents…certainly have the teeth to do the job. A cry rose out from the forward ranks of Quenno fighters, and the guerillas came streaming back; with the blood of friends and foes splattered across their muscular chests. Robinson toggled his helmet comlink with his tongue.

“Hold…everyone holds their ground now. Twenty-six, try and keep the Quenno from running.”

The last of the guerillas fled by the formation of marines, pursued by less than a dozen similarly blood-splattered Protectors. Robinson let his hand drop; the neat ranks of the Inferno marines unleashed their fire from their alleyway, chewing into the flank of the charging Protectors; the Des’mar Sautrons fell under the heavy weapons fire and stumbled into the confusion. The Inferno Fleet lieutenant began to jog out of the subterranean alleyway, blaster pistol drawn, followed by his men. Sautron bodies littered the streets before the Grand Des’mar Chambers; both seat of power for the Council of Elders and holding block for theirs and Fossk’s political prisoners. Nearly five hundred meters away from the Inferno troops, a thin white line of men stood ready: stormtroopers. Fossk’s men leveled their blaster carbines, clearly ready to hold their ground. But the Inferno soldiers did not charge, but rather formed their own line of men spanning the width of the street. Robinson toggled his comlink again.

“Thirty-two, are your people ready?”

“Ah, no tanks or walkers present, sir.”

“I want the stormies softened before we advance.”

“Just give us the order then, sir.”

“Fire at will then.”

Wisps of smoke erupted across the crimson lines periodically as the rocketeers embedded within the marine ranks unleashed their concussion missiles. Orange blurs zipped across the abandoned and bloodied streets before plowing into them with explosions and sonic booms. Robinson saw with some satisfaction several of the stormtroopers tossed against the duracrete floor as if nothing more than toy action figures. But smoke and fire soon eclipsed them from his view. Even more problematic, the rallied Quenno fighters seeped through the Inferno ranks, from buildings, alleys, and from every crevice imaginable; all heedlessly charging to reclaim the power for their populist movement or for individual glory. The Inferno officer sighed, and signaled with a brief flick of the wrist to advance in formation. As the frenzied golden stream coursed back and forth from the Grand Des’Mar chambers in retreat or pursuit, the crimson block held, and simply pressed forward.



Imperator-class Star Destroyer Dark Angel, in orbit via Lexrol

“Eight thousand insurgents and prisoners released across the Sector! Do you realize what the fall of Essowyn means to us? The capture of the Regent? People are worried Supreme General. Your old guard and their supporters wonder if the aliens can be kept down here in Lexrol and Deysum when they see the success against the government…”

“Is that all you came here to tell me, Director?” sighed the Supreme General, “I knew as much from simply reading the holo-news.”

“We cannot let things like this stand as they are. The trend needs to redirected; people must have confidence within the Trax Sector Authority; within their leaders. We must act, at all costs. Crush Entrus, crush the criminals at Ventil.”

“But-”

“But what? Your family is endanger. Well, they still are now; you never know when one of the rebel’s minds is going to collapse. For all we know, they’re dead. Your government demands you to act. We are your extended family. Save the rest of us before it is too late.”

“I cannot do that,” replied Fossk quietly, “not when I know that she could still quite live. And knowing that my actions could result in her death, or our children…it would be…it would be unthinkable. I am sorry, I cannot act Excelis. I know you mean me well.”

“I do, sir,” noted his advisor, “but I must warn you that not everyone else sees the situations in the same light. There is talk of a coup abounding within the advisory board’s courts and households. I know not who will lead it, if any. But the thought is in their minds, and that is danger enough.”

“And that is why I am here,” informed the General, “do you really think that they could get here? Into the heart of the military, my power base, my comrades in arms. If I lose these people, these ships, then all is truly lost.”

“You have lost some within the few weeks…”

“The disappearance of a patrol group is worrisome. But it is just that; a patrol group.”

“And that is how it will start out before all of your strength is suddenly sapped away from us…”



Bothan Assault Cruiser Armageddon’s Hammer, Trax Sector Deep Space

“We have managed to ship all of the political prisoners to Inferno or havens of their own choosing.”

“How many have stayed to fight with us? Or join our cause?” questioned Dha’tey, spinning about on his cabin’s chair.

“I would say about half. Most of them are peaceful though. We will have no large number of new recruits from this mission to fill our ranks.”

“Of soldiers,” added the hazelnut-furred Bothan, “But that does not stop them from fulfilling other more vital roles. I heard Daskar Gru’nesh was among them to stay.”

“He is,” acknowledged the Bothan spy, “and he has requested to work at the Ventil yards. As a design team supervisor.”

“He shall have it, the Efreeti project needs new talent, new input,” considered Kolir, “put him in charge of it.”

“And Donahue?”

“Donahue has a pet project to work on it. Explain to him that this project of his is worth more of his time right now than the Efreeti one. Tell him anyone could take charge of the Efreeti Project, but only he is capable of leading Project Terecon.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes,” informed Dha’tey, “I do. Donahue is uniquely suited to that project. And besides, given the stage of the anchorage, it is rather important for future construction.”

“I see.”

“Has Regent Eniak told us anything yet?”

“Not yet, but the interrogators are making progress.”

“Making progress, give him an injection of Bavo Six…”

“We tested blood samples from him; it turns out that he has been conditioned to them and possesses traces of drug counteractments within his bloodstream. Bavo Six might not work, and may simply kill him instead. Fossk wasn’t taking chances with him, apparently.”

“The signal beacon almost got us, I have to admit.”

“But the equipment is only as good as its user,” muttered Sei’lar, “and that pilot was green…”

“We got lucky,” countered Dha’tey, “yet it is inconceivable that Fossk would have such a device implanted within that shuttle, apparently unscheduled for any tasks and no crew according to their own databases, and yet not equip that to his warships.”

“You’re saying he wanted to know where the Regent was more so than his warships?”

Dha’tey nodded. “Rarely is a single man that important. They can simply be replaced within Imperial hierarchies with little work. There are hundreds of career diplomats in his service more likely than not. So what is so important about Eniak?”

“Only time will tell…”