OOC:

Edited: 09/16/2010

This is a CD meant to explain Drac's departure from the fleet after the events at the Battle of Lehon. Others are welcome to join so long as they remember that only Driver and Hunter witnessed the final conversation. One caveat: Anyone whose character did not exist at that point who wants to join in will need to get with me to work that out.

Note: Since this takes place directly after Lehon, we're writing about events that have already passed on the timeline. So no references to events/conversations/missions/etc that have taken place since that time.

-Drac

Several days after the events of Board of Inquiry: Lehon…

Drac tried to override his feelings as Lt. Commander Atrasin entered the room. The old officer gave them all a curt glare, visually measuring the remaining command staff of Phoenix Wing. At a casual glance, the small group of pilots appeared to be exactly what they were: some of the most deadly and skilled pilots and leaders to grace the cockpits of the Vast Empire’s starfighter squadrons. Their uniforms were perfect, with nary a piece of lint and creases sharp enough to draw blood. Their postures were ramrod straight and their salutes crisp. But if one looked deeper, if one looked into their eyes, they would see agony. Every officer stood with a haunted countenance- they’d all seen their pilots die by the handfuls, screaming in their final moments before being ripped to shreds by lasers or shrapnel. Of those who survived, few left the battlefield unwounded. Indeed, these officers were marked by physical pain as real as their psychological wounds and several, should they disrobe, would reveal discolored skin where bacta treatment had yet to completely heal their wounds.

I honestly wonder why I’m not among them, Drac sadly thought to himself. It’s a rare mission that doesn’t end with me getting treated for blaster burns, broken bones, or other injuries. That others died while I got out of Lehon without so much as a split lip is…I don’t know. Cosmically unfair? I don’t know how to describe it, except that I should be dead and I’m not. I don’t deserve to keep living. So many died there, and they deserved it no more than I do- less if anything. I should have died instead. Pausing his reverie as the group sat down, he glanced at the insignia on his uniform. An inverted chevron had been added atop the Vast Empire insignia, signifying his promotion to Master Chief Petty Officer. He shook his head subtly. Not to mention that farce. You shouldn’t get promoted for surviving a losing battle- though I suppose that’s all political isn’t it? Bribe the stupid pilots with rank so they won’t go and cause a panic by telling people what really happened. Bah. What do I care? Let the people of the Vast Empire continue to think what they will- they aren’t my people anyway. So what do I care?

Driver began to speak, interrupting the Mon Calamari’s morbid thoughts, “Gentlemen. As you know, Lehon is to be buried- forgotten. As part of that, Phoenix and all of its squadrons are being reassigned…elsewhere.”

Hunter frowned, leaning forward, “Where are we going, sir?”

“We’re not.” The Lt. Commander shook his head sharply. “As I said, Phoenix Wing is being…reassigned.” He paused, looking at each person one at a time, “You will be taking over new squadrons, as part of a new wing. Your relative positions will remain the same as they were in your old squadrons- for the most part. Some pilots will be transferred in order to maintain balanced squadrons. High Command has deigned to let you name your own units. I’ll let you go about that now and we will continue in a few minutes.”

Drac turned to Hunter, who was now looking back at him. He cocked his head slightly, still thinking about Lehon and these most recent occurrences. His distraction didn’t stop him from speaking to his friend, though, “Tuk’ata?” They had discussed such an opportunity before, and had settled on Tuk’ata for a new squadron’s name, never expecting to have the opportunity to use it. Using it now seemed a tribute to those happier days and the comrades who had still been with them then.

Hunter nodded, “Tuk’ata.”

The meeting reconvened some fifteen minutes later and Driver entered the new units’ names. Drac idly thought to himself that maybe, just maybe he’d seen something in the officer’s eyes as Hunter gave him the name. It was…a mixture of pleasure and hatred, or something very like it, and almost disturbing in its intensity. But then the Wing Commander moved on and the moment passed. Maybe I was just imagining it.

The meeting dragged on, covering the many miscellaneous details necessary to build the new units: pilot placements & new recruits, acquisition of ships, parts, and maintenance supplies, fuel, assigned ship, etc. It was necessary, but it was boring. And it gave Drac far too much time to think. Time to think about Lehon, to think about the survivors…and to think about those who would never come home.

When the meeting ended, he caught Driver’s eye and indicated he wanted to talk. As the officer came near, Drac examined the man he’d known for so long. Geordi had certainly suffered terribly for his mistakes, but he seemed intent on punishing himself even more- for he wore on his side not the advanced prosthetics that seemed as real as true flesh, but metal limbs that clanked and whirred and served to remind everyone who knew of how they had come to be there. Overall, Drac decided he wasn’t sure if he could trust Geordi’s judgment –or his sanity- any longer.

Hunter still stood there as their commander stalked up, having intended to discuss the new squadron with his XO after the meeting. He looked on as Drac asked his question, “Commander…what about those who died at Lehon?”

Driver stared coldly at the Mon Calamari and remained silent for nearly half a minute. Then slowly, precisely, he replied, “What about who, Master Chief Petty Officer?”

Drac frowned, incensed, “Those who died! The ones who aren’t coming back. What is being done for them- for their memory and their sacrifices?”

Atrasin’s eyes were pits of darkness as he replied, his voice dangerous, “We are Imperials, Mr. Mihawk. We do not award those who lose- nor do we remember them. They lost- therefore they aren’t worthy of any remembrance. You would do well to understand that…and to understand it now.”

“That’s wrong!” Drac shook his head angrily, “Their service deserves to be recognized.”

Suddenly Driver's prosthetic shot out grasping the MonCal by the throat. Atrasin pulled  him near, the non-com’s face mere millimeters from his, “That’s how it is, Master Chief, and you had better understand that right now and remember it from now on. You do not serve some soft, cushy military where everyone who takes a blaster bolt is a hero. You serve the Vast Empire.”

Drac could felt his windpipe crushing under the pressure from the hydraulic fingers he choked out a retort, “That doesn’t…” but Driver interrupted him.

“Mr. Mihawk, you will be silent, or be silenced permanantly.  Continue this line of protest and you will find yourself making a home of the brig- if not the execution stand. It. Will. Not. Be. Tolerated. Remember the reality of the Empire you serve, or that will be your fate.”

“Drac…”Hunter began, lifting a hand. But before he could continue, Geordi turned his head to glare at the Chief Warrant Officer and he let his hand, and the pilot drop. The Lt. Commander’s attention returned to the Mon Calamari before him.

Drac stepped back, glaring at the man who’d taught him so much. He snarled roughly, “I don’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Geordi! This isn’t like you- you who always cared for your men, no matter how you showed it. Or is life so cheap to you now?” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “Whatever. I won’t serve an Empire that cares nothing for those who spend their blood to defend it.” Reaching into his sleeve, he pulled out a combat knife. The other two jerked, Hunter in shock and Driver in combat reflex. They each reached for a weapon, but stopped as the Mon Calamari turned the knife toward himself and watched as he cut the Vast Empire patch and his rank patches from his uniform. He sheathed the knife and threw the patches to the floor before Atrasin, thinking of a time when he had cut off another’s patches and hoping his fate would not be the same. “Lt. Commander, I resign my rank, position, and duties as a pilot of the Vast Empire.”

Estrangement 3: Rendezvous

Scaling back the throttle, Dracule let his E-wing begin to drift. He was well out into the middle of the Vectra system, far from any planetary gravity wells or main shipping entry and exit vectors. He was at the rendezvous.

He didn’t have long to wait. Five minutes after he began holding position, space flickered and resolved into the shape of ship only six kilometers from his position. He confirmed identity with the newcomer, then began his approach. The Mon Calamari couldn’t help but admire the ship as he drew near: a Gozanti Cruiser. At over fifty meters long, it was sizeable. While the Gozanti would never be mistaken for a capital ship, its design evoked a sense of deadly purpose that fit it all too well. Its line was designed with two roles in mind: independent freighter and, more importantly, anti-piracy cruiser. This model was famous for being extremely easy to convert into a warship, as he had done with this one: Whaladon.

He settled into a private docking space without incident, nodding to the petty officer who ran up to assist him from his fighter. Gesturing to the E-wing’s cargo hold, Dracule spoke, “Please gather my personal effects from my fighter and place them into appropriate quarters.” The other Mon Cal nodded and began to step past, but was halted when Dracule laid a hand on his shoulder, “And, petty officer? I don’t mean that you should displace the captain. Any quarters of decent size will do.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you. Carry on.”

Dracule stepped through the hatch leading into the bowels of the cruiser, allowing himself the distraction of enjoying the ship’s interior as he approached the bridge. Whaladon might not be the biggest ship in his small fleet, but it was his favorite. None of his other ships could match it when it came to meshing function with form. That is, though he did have more powerful craft, they were ugly, blocky things. Whaladon, at least, possessed a predatory elegance all its own.

Stepping onto the bridge, Dracule returned the flurry of salutes as the duty officer shouted, “Admiral on deck!”

Approaching the Captain, he spoke evenly, “At ease. Commodore. It’s good to see you again.”

The other nodded, still seeming off balance at Dracule’s sudden decision to rejoin the fleet, “It’s good to see you as well, sir…but may I ask why you’re here?”

“I’ll explain everything soon, Commodore. For now, though, please inform the rest of the fleet to gather. Plot me a course to a position two light-years coreward of Dac and instruct the fleet to meet us there.”

------Several days later-----

Dracule gazed silently at his fleet, hands clasped behind him, examining each ship individually as if to spot the slightest damage or wear even from this distance. For a private fleet it was not inconsiderable. The Whaladon alone could have defeated most any pirate force they would likely face. The addition of two Imperial Customs Frigates, two HT-2200 freighters refitted to become carriers, two Ye-4 gunboats, a Gat-12h blastboat, and the various starfighters and shuttles attendant to them made this a force any number of planets would think twice of crossing.

Turning his back on the viewport he’d been looking out of, Dracule walked out of the antechamber and into the conference room he kept here on his flagship. It was a large room for its location, and well appointed in the soft blues and greens Mon Calamari tend to prefer. Its furniture possessed a flowing, organic feel and holoframes of past battles decorated the walls every so many yards. Stepping up beside his chair at the head of the long table, he returned the salutes of his captains before seating himself. He settled into his chair, eyes swiveling independently to regard each officer in turn before he spoke, “Gentlemen. Doubtless you’re wondering why I’ve assembled the fleet…and, for that matter, why I am here at all. To put it simply, I have resigned my position with the navy of the Vast Empire. My reasons for doing so, though quite valid, will remain private.

“More importantly, I have an assignment for us. I have spoken with the Shield Bearer recently and he has supplied information on a target: Delgra the Hutt. Delgra is a representative of the travesty known as Black Sun. He has been using his pirate forces to raid shipping lanes in the area, as well as using his smugglers to shop spice onto Dac. The local New Republic forces have thus far done a miserable job of cornering him or even causing much damage of any kind to his forces. As a result he has grown bold, striking more and larger targets and hitting more often.

“Most of the fleet is to scatter around the surrounding systems where attacks by Delgra have been reported. Scout around and gather intelligence on him, but do not engage. We do not want to tip our hand at this point. At the same time, Whaladon and Leviathin will remain together. The Whaladon will travel one of the more common trade routes in the area, posing as a broken down old hulk whose crew cannot afford to keep her up- Commodore, I’m afraid we’ll be painting some corrosion on your hull. Meanwhile, the Leviathin will remain a microjump away, ready to assist in case Gelgra takes the bait.

“I’m confident Delgra will be drawn to the Whaladon since, if refitted, even an old Gozanti could make an impressive pirate ship- an unfortunate trait of pirate hunting vessels. His recent boldness makes this more likely. When we do engage his forces, I want the two nearest ships to approach to a point just beyond sensor range in case we need backup. Everyone else will continue reconnaissance as before and await news.” Picking up the datapad lying before him on the table, Dracule typed out a line and activated the command, “Specific details about your respective ships’ assignments have just been sent to your personal datapad.” He placed it back on the table, looking at each captain again, “And let me be clear, gentlemen: This is a black op. You are to cut off all non-fleet communication and take appropriate security measures.”

Before the meeting adjourned Dracule requested a quick status report from each captain. They were excellent, for the most part, though he was not pleased to receive Captain Skynar’s report that two of the Keelkana’s heavy laser turrets were undergoing repairs after a small electrical fire.

OOC:

Word Count: 1085

Stay tuned for...

Estrangement 4: Ambush

Estrangement 5: Bounty

OOC:

Just a reminder: This story takes place directly after the Battle of Lehon, not in the current place in the timeline.

----Delgra’s the Hutt’s Compound, Location Unknown----

Delgra opened his bulbous eyes slowing, froth spilling down his chin as the wide chasm of his mouth opened in a yawn. Before him, as announced, stood the leader of his piracy division: Roka Venu. The scarred Twi’lek stood straight, with one lekku looped about his neck. The other hung by his chin, amputated at that point years before by a blaster bolt. He held a datacard in one hand and regarded the Hutt with a cool, confident look that would have gotten most any other being vaporized for insubordination.

Emitting a low, grumbling sigh, Delgra addressed his captain, [Roka, old friend…what news do you bring?]

“Lord Delgra, “the Twi’lek replied, sarcasm tinting the honorific ever so slightly, “I found the ambush site where Kirru was to intercept the Gozanti freighter. This datacard holds a recording of what happened- we managed to pull the data core from the remains of Kirru’s starfighter.” Bending over, the humanoid alien slotted it into a nearby holoprojector, “It holds proof of his failure.”

Delgra sat in stony silence, his rage building as the holoprojector re-played the encounter with the Gozanti…an encounter which should have all too easily ended in victory. Instead this impudent, cocky little fish had efficiently murdered his pirates and destroyed all of their equipment. This could not stand unpunished. When the recording ended Delgra slammed a fist down in rage, roaring, then tapped a command into the keypad on his hoversled, causing it to rewind and pause. When it paused, the dark, mottled face of the enemy commander was framed perfectly in the screen, [Roka. You will place a bounty on the head of this fish, this Admiral Mihawk! His impudence cannot go unpunished. Seventy five thousand credits should suffice- enough to see the troublemaker dead and an example to all others who might follow in his footsteps!]

Venu bowed his head for a moment, then growled, “It will be done, my Lord. And what of our forces? We have more than enough strength to crush this upstart ourselves.”

[Do it. Bring me the fish’s head and you will have a new flagship, Venu. He has already bested us once- do not let it happen again. Do not rest until he lies dead…or you do.] The old hutt, so corpulent he could no longer physically move himself, glared balefully at the Twi’lek for a moment, then directed his sled out of the throne room. He would choose a pair of slaves for a death fight- then have the victor for supper. That always helped him relax.

----Dracule’s Quarters, Whaladon----

A knock sounded. Dracule glanced at the security screen, then pressed the button to admit his visitor. The door hissed open, revealing the form of his cousin, Commodore Tekare Mihawk. Tekare stepped into the room, paused to ensure the door closed behind him, then approached and sat across from Dracule. He looked at the dark-skinned Mon Calamari for a moment, then spoke, “Dracule…cousin…I have been wondering and cannot help but ask: what is wrong?”

Still looking at the holoscreen showing ship positions, Drac cocked his head to one side and asked, “What is wrong? What do you mean?”

Irritated, the Commodore reached over and slapped a button to blank out the screen, “At least pay attention. I would not confront you with this if I did not think it important, cousin.”

Dracule swiveled in the chair, leveling both eyes at Tekare, his voice flat, “Fine. You have my attention. What do you want?”

“I want to know what’s wrong with you, that’s what. You have not been yourself ever since you re-joined the fleet. You are known for being cool, efficient under fire. You don’t take unnecessary risks. Yet just hours ago you deliberately challenged a pirate captain to a one-on-one duel a-“

“I knew he would not honor it.”

“That’s not the point! If anything, that just makes it worse! You knew the risk was unnecessary- why take it? Why risk the lives of our men? And why hunt these pirates so passionately now, all of a sudden?”

Dracule shrugged, “Why not? We were sure to win- there was little risk to our men. Remember that Styanax was just out of sensor range.”

Tekare made a cutting motion with his hand, “That’s not all! Abroke tells me of bloody blades- of fits of anger and dead thugs in the street. All victims of a fighter wielding a knife and a blaster- a fighter that cared not that he killed. Think for a moment, cousin!” Tekare stood in agitation, “This is not you! It does not sound like the Dracule I grew up with- the man to whom loyalty, honor, and peace were the highest ideals. Yet it is you! Why!?” Sitting down again, he continued, his volume lowering to normal, “For that matter, dear cousin, why did you resign from the Vast Empire? Is it not a great passion, a great loyalty of yours?”

Dracule was silent for several full minutes, simply staring at his cousin. Then he sighed and shook his head, “I don’t wish to discuss it, Tekare.” He reached out to turn the holoscreen back on.

“No!” Tekare’s hand flashed out and seized Dracule’s wrist, “You will discuss it- now. Or I will be forced to restrict you to quarters and keep you there until the Shield Bearer can evaluate you.”

Dracule’s glare was venom, “You can’t- you won’t, in any case.”

“Emperor’s Black Bones, I won’t! You’ve one foot in the psych ward already, cousin. I’d be criminally irresponsible not to.” Tekare’s stare was implacable.

Again the dark Mon Calamari fell silent for a time. Then he closed his eyes and nodded slowly, his hands falling to his lap, “Very well. We will discuss it.”

Sitting back in his chair, Dracule looked up at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he spoke, “have you heard any news of a battle fought at Lehon?”

Tekare nodded, “Some. It’s sketchy, but apparently several factions clashed and no one came out of it intact. What reports we got indicated it was one of the nastier fights in quite some time.”

“Too true, cousin. All too kriffing true.”

It was Tekare’s turn to be silent for a moment…then, ”You were there?”

“Oh, yes. I was Nazgul’s Executive Officer, you know. The battle was fought between our Vast Imperial forces, trying to stabilize and pacify the region, local security or rebels- I never figured out which, and New Republic troops.” For a moment Drac struggled with the gag order he’d been put under regarding the battle. Then he shrugged it off, thinking, Tekare will not tell, nor do I take orders from them now. “Nazgul wasn’t there for the beginning of the battle, but we came in later to assist our sister squadron, Viper.  It was a bloodbath. All three sides were slugging it out with no regard for collateral damage and no thought of accepting surrenders.

“I fought and I fought- I killed more pilots than I’d ever shot down in any two missions before. And still it wasn’t enough. I watched, unharmed, as my friends and companions died around me. Nazgul and Viper got out okay, really- through counting those shot down or wounded we still nearly hit 90% casualties. The other squadrons…they just…died. Time after time I’d hear a pilot scream, then it would cut off into static. I saw squadron commanders, men who’d been flying years before I ever stepped into a cockpit, die right alongside their rookies.

“Not even our wing commander escaped- he survived, but as half a man and that in more ways than one. His folly got his ship killed, most of its crew along with it. He himself left the bacta tanks weeks later with nearly half his body replaced with prosthetics. Not only that but it got his fiancée killed, and the ship that was his pride and joy half slagged.”

Tekare nodded, “Terrible things. But surely you’d seen such devastation before? Perhaps not on such a level, but…”

“Oh, yes. Sure, I’ve seen it happen before. But every other time, I was…I knew I’d done all I could, because I came out of it as wounded as everyone else. Do you understand? Physically, I mean. At Lehon…I walked away with no wounds- not even a bruise. My starfighter wasn’t even damaged. That means I could have done more, could have fought harder, could have saved some of them, could have-“

“Enough!” Tekare interrupted. “Enough, cousin. You are lying to yourself and you know it. You are not a man who gives anything less than his best effort. If you fought through that holocaust and came out unharmed, it just means you were good enough to survive it. Pushing yourself any harder would have been suicide.” Tekare reached over and laid a hand on Dracule’s shoulder, “I know how it feels, this survivor’s guilt. I’ve felt it too, though perhaps not so strongly. You must give it time- time, and perspective from friends who can judge those events from a neutral standpoint.”

Drac nodded, not trusting himself to speak as he could not keep his throat from tightening.

“Good. Even so, I know you. Survivor’s guilt, however severe, is not enough to cause your actions of late. What else happened?”

“After happened. That’s what. Life went on.”

“Explain, please.”

“The High Council decided to sweep Lehon under the rug, rather than let such a defeat –and a defeat it was- be publicized. Those of us who survived were promoted- bribed with promotions, really- and moved on to create new squadrons. Phoenix Wing was considered to have taken catastrophic damage- a total loss. It was quietly decommissioned, it’s pilots transferred.”

“None of this explains it either, cousin. What are you not speaking of?”

“Can you not guess? The dead, of course. The dead. For who should speak of the dead? They’re dead.” Dracule laughed bitterly. Seeing Tekare’s alarmed look at his rant, he continued, “What I mean is this: those who died at Lehon, who gave their lives for the Vast Empire, its leaders, its people, and its ideals. They were purposely forgotten. They got no recognition, no thanks, no memorial or monument. Their families received but a cold, formal letter announcing their deaths in combat- nothing more. They don’t know why their loved ones died- what they were fighting for, who they fought against. They’re just dead. Gone, unappreciated, and a blight upon the history of the nation they served.” Dracule’s laugh was dark now, bitter as the last dregs of caf, “Do you see now, Tekare? Do you understand my anger? My pain? The betrayal of it all…the awesome injustice?”

“I think I do, cousin. It is a hard thing to bear, indeed. You should have spoken of this sooner.” Tekare squeezed Dracule’s shoulder gently, “You know I would have helped, however I could. I cannot give you the time it will take to heal, but I can be the confidante, the friend to discuss it with.”

Before either Mon Calamari could speak again another knock came at the door. Tekare went to it and granted the crewman passage. The crewman simply handed him a datacard, reporting that the Cry of Defiance had sent it with the message that the Admiral see it as soon as possible. Tekare thanked the man, then closed the door and returned to his seat, “Shall we take a look, cousin? Or do you feel up to it?”

“Go ahead. I am feeling…somewhat better.”

The datacard was slotted into the holoscreen, and the screen reactivated. A single image sprang up, with four short lines of text beneath. Above, a grainy holoimage of Dracule, his scar and birthmark standing out distinctively. Below, the following words:

“’Admiral’ Mihawk
Wanted Dead or Alive
Bounty: 75,000 credits
Bring to Delgra the Hutt…”

The remainder of the last line provided coordinates. A file appended to the image proved to be from the Defiance’s captain, noting that the coordinates matched the location of a small, arid moon in a system just a parsec or so away.

Tekare frowned, appearing concerned, “A bounty. This is not good. All sorts of bounty hunters will be after such a prize.”

Dracule simply smiled, “Let them come, cousin. We can handle them and relieve local space of some riffraff while we prepare to head to those coordinates.”

“Why are we heading there, exactly?” came the skeptical reply.

“Because I’ve heard of that moon before, while serving in the Vast Empire. There’s an abandoned base there, and I’m betting Delgra’s set himself up in it. You see, that’s not just a bounty. It’s a challenge.”

“Impossible. Delgra would not be so foolish.”

“I don’t think it was him. Someone lower down in his organization, perhaps. Perhaps someone who stands to gain if Delgra were to die.”

Scowling, Tekare looked at the bounty poster again, “Perhaps so.”

OOC:

Word Count: 2158

Man it feels good to get a post up, especially on this story.

Next chapter...

Estrangement 6: Hunte(d/r)