[Location: Belgaroth, 2nd Fleet HQ]

Everyone was assembled, uniformed officers and noncoms seated in order of rank down the length of the dark grey conference table. Sitting at the head of the table, Drac keyed a few strokes into the holoprojector terminal before him, then turned around and stood from his chair. Moments later a larger holoprojector produced a starmap in the air, turning slowly, which he approached. The Mon Cal held a stylus in one hand and used it to define a cube of space in the map. The galaxy disappeared as the map zoomed in on the coreward frontier of Vast Imperial space, with Belgaroth blinking up in the top right corner to indicate their current position.

Drac looked the starmap over for a moment, then pointed the stylus at one of the stars. It lit up and information on the system flooded the holoprojector terminals set before each person assembled. Without pausing to allow them to read, the Commander turned and began to speak, “Our target is the Montitia system- in particular, the planet that gave the system its name. Montitia was an agro world decades ago, but was abandoned shortly before the Clone Wars began. It was all but forgotten during that conflict, so information is sketchy from that point forward.

Drac turned to face the assembled warriors, “What do know –or, rather, have gathered from our intelligence sources- is this: there is currently a large pirate group operating out of the system. We don’t know much about them, since they’re surprisingly good at keeping their location secret. What we’ve discovered, through interrogation of a captured pilot, is that this is due in large part to the fact that Montitia itself offers entertainment enough to keep the pirates there during their time off. It seems that a small city has built up over time to support the pirates’ activities, which are centered around the single spaceport the planet boasted before being abandoned. Our prisoner confirmed that they’ve made the old spaceport their base, but insisted that the groups there were in an alliance of convenience, nothing else. Either he was an extremely good liar, or was too low in the organization to know better.”

A hand raised, that of Captain Bacredi, the new captain of the Monarch, “So we’re going in with most of the taskforce just to smash some pirates?” His voice was skeptical.

Nodding, Drac answered, “For the first hour or however long it takes to do so, yes. After that our mission changes. It has been decided that Montitia will make a good anchor for the Belgaroth Corridor and taking it will improve our grip on the region. So, in keeping with that, once we’ve driven off or killed the pirates, we’ll be landing troops dirtside and securing the city. After that we’ll deploy the garrison base carried by the Halcyon Warrior and set up a permanent outpost on the planet.”

The normally upbeat Mon Cal’s voice grew dark, expressing his disgust as his words turned toward the enemies they’d soon be facing, “Make no mistake, gentlebeings. Many, if not most, of the people living on this rock are criminals: pirates, smugglers, and scum of a dozen other types. We’re going to cleanse the place of such filth. We’re not savages like the Rebels or some imperials of old- any criminal we capture will be given a trial and, upon conviction, sent to a Vast Imperial Corrections facility.” He allowed himself a disdainful smile, “But any who resist or attempt to flee we will execute. Trial is the only allowance we will make for criminals. If the scum refuses that allowance, they sign their own death warrants…on the other hand, innocents are not to be harmed. Again, anyone who fires on our people will get what they deserve, but I want no random strafing, no untargeted bombardments, no looting, and nothing else of the sort. The city and its people, however unsavory, will be essential in maintaining our garrison on the planet and must not be harmed any more than absolutely necessary.”

The briefing continued for another hour as they covered various details and plotted areas of responsibility. The final roster of ships going on the mission included the Halcyon Warrior, Monarch, Chrome Fox, Cerulean, Onyx, and four other light cruisers for escort, as well as the full fighter complements and other troops associated with the larger vessels.

-----

[Location: Montitia system]

Twelve hours had passed when the small fleet dropped out of hyperspace in the Montitia system. Shields came up quickly on all the ships and the light cruisers began to edge out ahead as pickets as Nightshrike and most of the other squadrons aboard the capital ships lifted off. Some squadrons accelerated away in flights or wing-pairs to scout the area, while others whirled about in a screen between the planet and the fleet.

Comms signals had pinged the fleet as soon as they entered the system, and though they were just random bounced signals not intended for the ships, the quantity was still far too high for a supposedly abandoned system. Within a minute of the Imperials’ entrance, comms picked up considerably as agitated signals swelled in number. As instructed, Drac’s Comms Officer, Jash Warnock, triangulated the signals with the help of the Monarch’s Comms Officer and pinpointed the source for most of them. Sensor scans of the area confirmed the existence of an outdated spaceport and a small city built up around it. The fertile land filling the rest of the valley in which the city sat was all tilled and cultivated, though the sensors registered the fields only as a patchwork of lined squares on the terrain.

Some of the comms signals changed position, coming up from the surface, and sensors registered scattered groups of ships and starfighters lifting off. Some, mostly the starfighters, headed straight up toward the fleet. Most of the larger craft angled off in an attempt to get clear of the planet and run to hyperspace. They varied in size and purpose, from almost two dozen small freighters to a couple of large bulk freighters and even a few ships actually built for combat.

Drac scanned the soon to be battlefield for a moment, then spoke into the comlink that would carry his words to each ship’s captain, “This is the Warrior . Monarch, take a squadron along and pursue those attempting to flee the planet. Any ships matching known pirate or smuggler craft are to be destroyed on sight. Force as many of the rest back to the ground as you can and destroy all you can of those who insist on running. Chrome Fox, join the Warrior in vaping the fools before us, then send your starfighters into the atmosphere to clear the airspace over that city.”

Captain Bacredi’s affirmative came immediately, and the Monarch accelerated after the fleeing craft. The Chrome Fox and Halcyon Warrior moved together, accelerating smoothly as their fighters boiled out before them.

Changing comms channels to a standard public Imperial frequency, the Mon Calamari Commander spoke again, this time to a new audience, “People of Montitia, this is Commander Mihawk of the Vast Empire Ship Halcyon Warrior. The Vast Empire now claims this system as part of its territory, with all the attendant rights, protections, and duties of such. No longer will it be a haven for pirates and smugglers and other miscreants. Law abiding citizens will come to no harm so long as you neither resist nor try to flee amongst the criminals. All criminals will be vaped if they resist or attempt escape, and remitted to Vast Imperial Corrections if they are captured. Think on it- and be easy on yourselves.”

Finished, Drac stepped back and observed the opening moves of the battle. As he watched he measured the storm of emotions within himself, ‘On the one hand, I can’t stand the scum we’re here to drive out. Pirates, smugglers, and the other criminals deserve no less for the predation and disorder they heap upon society. I’m happy to remove them from this place…

…on the other hand, though, I know that my actions and decisions in choosing this operation mean that dozens, if not hundreds, of innocent lives will be lost.’ He sighed, though too softly for any other to hear, ‘I know in my head that strengthening the corridor to Belgaroth is essential, and that the loss of innocent lives is inevitable during wartime, but that makes little headway against the strong current of my heart-knowledge that to take innocent life is an evil deed.’ As he solemnly considered the ramifications of his actions, the first verdant bolts of lethal energy began to trace their beautiful lines between the opposing forces.

-----

Nykos Tyrene rubbed his sweating palms against the rough material of his patched flightsuit, trying desperately to quell the nervousness that made his heart pound as if to escape his chest. At only sixteen he was a rarity in a fighter cockpit- even a cheap, unreliable Ugly starfighter like his. Still, though, the Kid was a natural flyer. When he’d demanded to go up and defend Krystad City against the oncoming Imperials, the leaders of the Smugglers’ Guild he was courting were reluctant to let him, even with his own ship. He’d insisted, though, and found himself part of their Ugly squadrons rising to drive off the Imps. He’d been with Old Wren at the Guild when the Imps came and he ran to help. Wren, his mentor since his parents’ deaths, had just shrugged, mumbled an encouraging phrase, and waved as he took off. The old Gran wasn’t much for imposing on others decisions.

Now the Kid test fired the lasers on his starfighter- the body of an old Y-wing married to the wings of a junked Headhunter starfighter. He had three lasers and an ion cannon which, though faulty, made his ship one of the more impressive of the Uglies assembled.

A deep, smooth voice came over the comms, “Kid, cut that out. You should already know if your guns work.”

Blushing, Nykos pulled his finger from the trigger and replied, “Sorry, Doc. Just nervous, I guess.”

“Understandable, Kid. But conserve your power- you’ll need it.”

“Will do.”

“Right, then. We know what we have to do, boys: These Vast Empire Imps are squeamish about casualties unlike normal Imps. If we cause enough casualties, they’ll leave us be. So be ready to hit them hard in about a minute. Shoot to kill.”

The Kid flexed his hands, noting the new sheen of sweat with displeasure, and settled into his seat. They’d be on the enemy in moments. And though he might not be an adult yet, brave and bold like the smugglers he so admired, Nykos was determined to protect his home and his friends, no matter what.  Yeah, he’d heard the pompous bantha-spit the Imp officer had spouted over the public channels a moment ago, but he figured they were lies like anything else the governments put out. He’d rather die fighting these arrogant bullies than cower and hide until a Stormie put a bolt through his chest for the fun of it.

OOC:

Word Count: 1,865

And so we begin our first real battle to take some dirt from our enemies, rather than just fighting over durasteel. Let’s concentrate on the space battle for a bit but, considering the comparison of our forces to theirs, it won’t take too long. Once it’s over we’ll move into some ground-support operations ranging from TIE flybys to the occasionally turbolaser blast dropping from the sky to turn holdouts into crispy critters. We might conclude with some groundside firefights if things move along well and everyone’s up for it.

I’ll be doing my level best to include NPC portions in each post I make in this story, as a personal challenge. I highly encourage the other members of TF Aurek to do the same but, beyond that, I encourage those in TF Besh and even 1st Fleet to explore some NPC writing in this story. There are a lot of different perspectives you can choose to cover here- a lot of stories to tell. It’ll be good practice for the next mission in the Belgaroth Campaign.

Assignments:
Monarch: Hit the fleeing baddies. There should be some starfighters, a bunch of freighters of various sizes, and a couple bigger ships. Say, a couple amped up Gozantis and maybe a CR-90 or something of the same tonnage.
Nightshrike: Deep, you can choose either to go with Bacredi or stick with the main battle, then join the ground support portion no matter which you choose.
Warrior: My group’ll be facing several CR-90s or equivalents (the main delivery/combat craft for the pirates operating out of the city) as well as freighters and fighters of our own.

Anyone may introduce enemy craft- just don’t go overboard in regard to the type/strength of such ships or the number of them. This isn’t supposed to be an equal battle. Far from it.

[Location: Halcyon Warrior, in orbit over Montitia]

Frowning, Drac watched as an enemy freighter glowed briefly in the radiance of one of his ship’s turbolaser salvos. Then its sharp lines softened and began to flow and, when the blasts faded moments later, little remained but a scattered cloud of molten durasteel slowly collecting into bright spheres under its own gravity. The unfortunate freighter had earned itself a full salvo by spewing a slew of concussion missiles out to slam into the shields of his ship. The surprise attack had knocked the port shields down to 20% and forced him to draw power from other areas to refill the deficit.

It was not that minor inconvenience that bothered the Mon Calamari, however. Instead the problem was Drac’s own conscience. He knew most of these enemies truly were smugglers and pirates and had committed crimes deserving of the deaths they were being given. Even that knowledge combined with his own distaste for people of that sort was not enough to make the battle, if you could call it that, seem like it was anything close to fair. That freighter, like most all of the opposing ships, had no real chance of victory. Like the rest, it could only charge hopelessly into the inevitable. ‘I hope no holorecorders watch our actions here today…justified as these deaths might be, the Reshie propaganda possibilities would be extensive if video of such a powerful force annihilating such a meager enemy were distributed. Once again it would be the despotic, heavy-handed Imperials using overwhelming force to get our way, no matter the consequences for those we shove aside…We shall have to be careful with the waves we create here, that none splash on our neighbors and incite anger.’

-----

[Location: Ugly starfighter, Montitia orbit]

Nykos rolled his ship far over onto its starboard side as he banked into the sharp loop his wingman was executing. Farcha, the Duros pilot he was assigned to, was an okay pilot, though Nykos often outflew him in practice. Still, the Duros was experienced and a good friend, so the Kid felt good about flying on his wing.

The pair completed their loop and found themselves coming up on a pair of Interceptors. They angled in at the Imps’ sterns, trusting in the solar panels to keep their enemies from noticing them. Farsha tapped his brakes and backed off a bit, saying, “Take the lead, Kid. Let’s see what you’ve got in a real scrap.”

Grinning, Nykos accelerated after the Interceptors. The enemy ships were after prey of their own and were slowly, almost casually, working their way into the aft arc of two old Cutlass-9s. The old patrol fighters were doing their best to dodge the TIEs, but the Imps’ craft were too fast and maneuverable to be outmaneuvered easily.

Nykos came into range, aimed carefully, and let fly with three triple bursts from his lasers. The first trio of verdant bolts missed, but the second and third sets impacted on the port solar panel. Expecting them to shear through and pop the TIE’s cockpit like a ripe fruit, the Kid was shocked to see shields flare as the Interceptor rolled out quickly. Its partner followed and the two Imperial starfighters began to circle back hard, ignoring the Cutlass’s in favor of playing with more aggressive prey.

Ignoring Farsha’s cursing over the comms with an effort, the Kid focused on finding an advantage. The TIEs would be behind them in moments if they didn’t find a way out. For a moment he thought it was hopeless, even as he spun his fighter around hard to starboard. Then he saw it: a line of freighters and the small cruisers the local pirate gangs favored, moving in tandem as they angled toward the rear of the big ImpStar Deuce. “Farsha, follow me. We’ve got to shake those guys.”

“Give it up, Kid. They’ve got kriffing shields! Faster, stronger, tougher…we’re dead already.”

Angry at the Duros’ negativity, Nykos snapped back, “Only if you keep that up, Redeye! Come on or I’m leaving you!”

“Fine.” The Duros’ tone rang with resignation, but he got in formation behind the young pilot. Turning to the freighters, the Kid accelerated as hard as he could. Trusting in the upgrades he’d made to the engines over the last year, the young Human threw his ship into a series of weaves. Up, port, down, down, port, starboard, up, starboard…he dodged around ship after ship, wading through waves of turbolaser blasts as he tried to lose the TIEs.

He wasn’t sure when he lost Farsha, but knew his friend hadn’t been good enough to navigate the maze when he heard the Duros yell, “I can’t make that turn! Going out and around! I’ll meet you at the…” A roar sounded through the comms before Farsha finished his sentence and Nykos used a precious split second to look back. His wingman had become an expanding cloud of debris, the two TIEs flashing through it. One gave a jaunty waggle, a mocking salute to the dead pilot.

Roaring in rage, Nykos aborted his run through the freighters and came about hard. ‘I’m going to use everything I’ve got. I bet they’re not expecting the ion cannon. That’ll take care of their fracking shields real quick!’

Finishing his turn, Nykos put what little shielding his craft had to the front and charged his weapons. Moments later the Interceptors appeared around the side of a Barloz freighter and quickly zeroed in on him. The Kid started firing his lasers immediately, stitching his opponents with a few bolts each. He wondered why they weren’t firing back, not realizing they were waiting for a better shot at close range. Shrugging that off, he judged the distance again and grinned as he triggered the ion cannon.

Energy built up in the ion cannon’s capacitor, then moved down the line through a transformer that changed the energy into the chaotic blue lightning that had played over so many ships. Then it continued on, moving toward the barrel and flux aperture that would fire it out. But when it got there, the way was blocked. An old wire had come apart, grounding the cannon and breaching the flux aperture’s feedback control. When the charge hit it, the ion bolt instantly sizzled on down through the Ugly.

Nykos gasped as his control panel blasted sparks out and his shields, lasers, and engines died. He felt his hair raise as excess energy from the faulty canon fed electricity through his ship’s body. That and the fear were the last things he felt as he looked out at the verdant green bolts plunging toward him from the Interceptors. The first bolt plunged through the canopy and young Nykos Tyrene burst apart, the violent energy boiling every tissue in his body.

OOC:

Word Count: 1,137

Probably the most graphic scene I’ve ever done in the VE. Not sure how I feel about it, lol.

The Monarch

Bacredi put his cigar out, rubbing the tip of it into his ashtray and dropping the rest of it into the tray. “Let’s wipe these pieces of shit off the map, weapons ready! Launch Horax Squadron, action stations everyone!” all of the lights in the bridge went dark and came back red, all of the bridge officers’ chairs moved down and then fell back, the same with their computers. Bacredi stood up and walked through a tunnel in the front of the bridge to the pilot’s station, where he met the new Lieutenants—Williamson and Atrani—with a “Hello!”

“Captain, we’re three kilometers away from the first target.” Said Williamson, who was typing in a few commands into one of his computers.

“Weapons” Bacredi said into his com; he received a ping back. “Fire at the first target on my mark.” The weapons officer turned off his access to the channel. “Communications, contact the ship. Give them thirty seconds.” Thirty seconds went by as the freighter, which was not labeled as a pirate vessel in the naval databases, idled on the communications channel. “Weapons, fire at will.”

The first ship, a light freighter with only one turbolaser that didn’t seem to be active, was quickly opened up as Horax Squadron—a group of TIE Interceptors—swept in for the kill. The Monarch’s second squadron, the Airsquids, had been deployed previously and were already battering the ship.

“Shields are down on Tango 1. Confirm,” Atrani sent a message to the bridge and was returned with an affirmative. Bacredi had since taken a seat in his captain-style chair behind the two pilots, directly in between them.

“Horax Squadron, confirm your casualty list of zero. Airsquids, confirm the same.” The communications officer of the Monarch said for some useless reason.

“Horax Leader confirms.”

“Airquid Leader confirms.”

“Jack, ready boarding craft for two of these larger craft that are not marked for pirate activity.”

Horax Leader

Horax Leader swooped forward toward a pirate marked freighter, followed by his entire flight and all of third flight. Their TIE Interceptors “cut” through space as quickly as possible, and soon they were onto the ship’s defences. Two single turrets marked their resistance actually coming from the ship, while three Zebra Starfighters marked their resistance from other pirates.

“Flight three, move into pattern zulu…flight one, get behind me.” The leader, Ensign Cammerackson, expertly flew his Interceptor straight towards the sluggish Zebra starfighters.

“Horax 2 correct yourself,” said Horax Leadre, checking his radar as Horax 2 began to swerve off of Leader’s path.

“Incoming!” yelled Horax 4 and 3 at the exact same time. A Zebra Starfighter pulled onto leader’s left, while another on his right. Horax 2 and the fighter that had went on his left collided, with the starfighter and 2 both being taken down in one massive fireball.

“Pull back around, 3 move into 2’s position, 4 you as well!” Cammerackson twisted his joystick to the right and up, his head was tilted back as he zipped around the turn. On the turn, the Zebra and the Interceptor met paths, but the Interceptor came out alive.

“Horax Squadron, cover Airsquid Squadron while they move in over the target marked Tango 8.”

Boarding Craft of the Monarch

The pilot of the boarding craft was able to steer the ship right towards Tango 8, which he was told would offer little to no resistance to him coming in. Mainly because he had a TIE Interceptor escort. The boarding craft fired forth three missiles at the ship, destroying the blast door that they were set to enter. The boarding dock area was then clamped onto, and of the soldiers behind him readied their weapons.

The Monarch

Bacredi was back on the bridge, and he was able to command more fully from that location. Very few people were talking while the ship clamped on to Tango 8.

“They’re…in!” said the radar operator.

“Do they have their life support units on?” asked Bacredi, he got an affirmative back. “Good, keep them in our rearview and watch Tango 9 and 4. Don’t fire t Tango 8 until they give the order.”

Yet again laser bolts were erupting from his Interceptor's cannons, yet again taking out an enemy fighter that had been unlucky enough to face the Onderonian pilot. Although his kill count steadily continued to rise Seth felt no sense of pride thanks to this. Most enemy fighters were outdated, some truly antiquated even. Many of them were unshielded and quite a few needed to have their guns calibrated by the looks of things.

All these factors of course mattered - that much was an indisputable fact. Still, what Seth realized fairly early on was that the opponents lacked skill, tactics and coordination. Flying in formation was something they had no problem with by the looks of things. Breaking off, outflanking, catching their enemies in pincer maneuvers however - Seth witnessed minor or major flaws in every one of those scenarios. Now maybe he was just lucky as usual, but something told the Master Chief that the rest of the pirate group was equally disorganized.

It made sense in a way as what could they have possibly robbed in either this or any of the adjacent systems? Lone freighters? Lightly armed merchant convoys? Maybe the occasional mercenary escort? Fighting against such targets wouldn't be that difficult. Fighting against military grade crafts piloted by individuals who received proper military training however - now that was a whole different story. Seth could only assume that the enemy morale was taking quite a hit because of this. This could have even been the cause for some of their mistakes. Of course those mistakes would quickly become exploited by Vast Empire pilots, which would further worsen morale and cause even more and worse screw-ups. It was a vicious cycle that the pirates had little choice of breaking...

Regular pirates would've made a run for it long ago rather than choosing to stay and fight a hopeless battle. What then are these fellows protecting? Just whom exactly are they buying time for anyway?

---------------

The trip to the spaceport, although brief, was more than enough to show how the small community had literally been thrown into chaos. People were either running around scared and desperate or were on the contrary shutting themselves indoors, barricading doors, windows and any other points of entry. Silus had revealed shortly after leaving the house that an invading Imperial fleet was on its way there and that it no doubt planned on taking over, obliterating any sense of freedom and instead replacing it with tyranny or as the thick skulls liked to call it "law and discipline". Silus knew too well what this "law and discipline" was like having been born on an Imperial controlled planet himself. Heck, part of the reason he turned to a life of crime was because the alternative simply disgusted him.

"Don't worry love, Jax is waiting for us at the spaceport. We'll use his ship to get away and settle down elsewhere. It'll be just how we always planned... just sooner."

The man tried sounding confident in order to reassure his wife and kids but the truth was that he was just as insecure and scared as everyone else. About the only thing that he was certain of was his fate should he just choose to stop, stay put and wait for the Imperials to arrive. He knew those bastards would either execute him outright or if really unlucky they'd force him to live in some hellhole and there suffer for the rest of his days, which likely wouldn't be too many anyway.

Oh no, if he was going to face death one way or the other then at least he could do it on his own terms. At least his alternative also had a silver lining to it...

So hoping Silus quickened his pace, taking himself and his loved ones closer to their means of escape, their chance to a new life someplace else.

It'll be alright... It has to be alright...

“Commander Mihawk! Explosion in the main hangar!”

Drac whipped his head around and paced quickly over so he could stand behind the Damage Control Officer who’d shouted, “Details, man. Give me details.”

“One moment, sir…” the man fell silent as he furiously cycled through holocam snapshots and on-site reports as they came in. A moment later he began to speak, continuing his work even as he did, “It appears that there was a delay while servicing one of our TIE Interceptor craft. The pilot attempted to take off, not knowing the fuel umbilical was still attached.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, the Mon Calamari nodded slightly, “Very well. Damage resulting?”

“Let’s see…the Interceptor in question foundered when the fuel umbilical detonated. It fell to the main hangar deck and promptly detonated as well. Fire crews are containing both blazes already. We were lucky: the fuel umbilical was connected to one of our mobile refueling droids, not the main reservoir. The refueling droid and Interceptor are complete losses, and four other Interceptors appear to be damaged to various degrees. The unlucky pilot was killed, as was a mechanic who apparently ran to the craft in an attempt to warn him. Reports indicate three other mechanics were injured but are expected to survive.”

A new report scrolled across the screen, blurry to Drac’s alien vision. The Damage Control Officer stiffened, then spoke again, “Sir, the Chief Mechanic is reporting that the droid’s detonation sent shrapnel into several of the hydraulic lines used to dock our starfighter complement. Until those lines are repaired we can only hold…four squadrons in the racks.”

Stifling a curse, Drac nodded, “Very well. Keep me informed of the status of repairs.” The Mon Calamari Commander walked back across the deck to the newly installed command chair. It stood at the center of the Captain’s Walk, above the crew pits. He’d had it installed after the Battle of Belgaroth, having found it inconvenient to go from station to station to check on different issues. His species also saw a slightly different range of light than humans, so the holoscreens and projectors installed into his command chair had been specially modified for easier viewing. He could not afford to miss a faint or subtle bit of information that might turn the course of battle.

Drac seated himself and began to rotate through a series of displays, checking Communications, Shields, Weapons, and several other functions in turn. As he did so, he flicked a switch with his other hand and spoke into the comms, “Tuk’ata Leader, Stormfront Leader, this is Halcyon Warrior Actual. Our main hangar has sustained damage and now has limited capacity. If by some mischance we must retreat, your squadrons are to exfiltrate on your own. Understood?”

“Copy, sir.” and “Roger that.” came back in reply as the commanders of the two TIE Avenger squadrons onboard the Halcyon Warrior acknowledged the order.

The Commander shut off the comms channel and returned to checking his forces’ status. He pulled up several of the exterior holocam views and studied them for a moment. A wall of Vast Imperial warships moved steadily forward, forcing the ragtag and widely varied defenders down toward the planet itself. Fighters boiled back and forth before the wall, swerving through the defending ships still remaining. In the distance Drac noted Captain Bacredi’s Monarch and her fellows as they dueled the largest grouping of ships attempting to escape the system. They wouldn’t prevent all of them from getting through, or even most of them, but they were making progress all the same.

Broken, darkened hulks drifted throughout the battlefield, hulls and viewports shattered. Some were freighters, their light armor peeled back and warped by the powerful weapons with which they’d been struck. More of the dead craft were the shattered remains of various starfighters that had risen up from the planet. A few, though not many, of the hulks were Imperial craft. The Vast Empire would not take the planet without losses, but the sacrifices made would be but a drop in the bucket compared to the sum of Drac’s forces.

Studying the battlefield, the dark-skinned alien noted something: Several groups of ships that had been fighting to defend the planet were now attempting escape, while others stood fast and continued to face the onslaught. Those who remained seemed determined to fight on till the end. Drac thought about it for a moment, trying to see from the defenders’ perspective, ‘Those who’ve begun to run are almost certainly criminals. They know now that they can’t drive us off, so they’re bugging out. After all, they can write off the losses and set up shop somewhere else. Those who’re staying, however, must have a deeper motivation than profit. There may be criminals among them, but I’d bet most of them are good, honest people…very well, then.’

Drac toggled the comms on again, this time to a 2nd Fleet-wide channel, “This is Halcyon Warrior Actual. New rules of engagement: Destroy any and all craft attempting to escape the system. Offer surrender to those still fighting. Disable all who refuse and force those who comply down to the surface. Remember to minimize surface casualties as much as possible if you get close.  Call any points of surface resistance in to the Warrior. Halcyon Warrior Actual out.”

Then, switching over to a public channel, he spoke again, “Citizens of Montitia. Vast Imperial forces will soon be landing. Stay in your homes and offer no resistance and we will not harm you. Your wives and children will not be touched and your men will not be conscripted. Any who attempt to flee the planet will be destroyed. But offer no threat to us and we will offer none to you.”

Closing that channel as well, Drac waved an aide over, “Bring the commander of our landing forces to me.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The man returned a few minutes later, followed by an Imperial Marine in full armor. The Marine’s insignia showed his rank as an Infantry Captain. He saluted, then spoke, “Captain Fulmer reporting. You wished to speak with me, Commander Mihawk?”

Returning the salute, Drac nodded, “I wished to speak of rules of engagement. We’re taking this system to keep, so civility is of utmost importance. Don’t endanger your men, but any soldier who is found plundering, murdering civilians, assaulting the innocent in any other way, or otherwise committing crimes against these people will be tried and executed for his crimes…they wouldn’t believe it just yet, but we do indeed want the goodwill of the citizens of this planet. Do you understand?”

The man frowned a bit, but nodded, “I do, sir. We’ll be gentle. However, what if we run into pockets of resistance unsuited to capture by infantry?”

Drac gestured toward a nearby aide, “Request ten laser painting devices from Petty Officer Yarlin, there. They may be used to call down orbital fire from the Warrior…but have a care about how you employ them. They’re for hard targets only and you’d damned well better get civilians out of the way first. If you need a more surgical strike we can detail a few flights of Interceptors to make runs for the ground forces.”

The Captain nodded, then saluted, “Very well, sir. We’ll get the job done.”

OOC:

Word Count: 1,216

Alright, you starfighter pilots can enter atmosphere now if you like. Most of the combat is still in space, however. We’ll get to the ground portion of the Op before too long, then we can all have some practice strafing, eh? Let’s see some posts about the new rules of engagement, and especially something from our SCAPs over there fighting the runners.

No NPC section this time, sorry. Didn’t have time to write as long a post as I wanted.

The Monarch
Command Deck

“Sir, we’re being hailed by a freighter, the frequency reads that it’s named Final Freeze.” said Williamson as he tapped away at his datapad.

“Open up a line with them, get me our diplomatic officer on this line as well. Williamson, Pilter, feel free to join in as well.” Bacredi picked up his headset and pressed a button on his captain’s chair, a ping came into his ear and then he spoke into it: “Who’s on this line?”

“Here, sorry, Petrev,” said the ship’s political officer, Josef Petrev. Bacredi had never been fond of the diplomatic relations officer who was destined to do well in the navy due to his father’s influences on Abrae and Cepany. Bacredi got a thumbs up from Pilter—the communications officer—and Williamson.

“Okay, Pilter, patch us through with a strong line.” The ship’s old communications system had been failing recently, and they had “strong” and “weak” lines with the power on the ship. Two other pings went into his ear and he spoke quite bluntly. “This is Captain Bacredi of the Monarch, and plain and simple, with a practical war going on around us, what the hell could you possibly be communicating us about right now?”

“This is Mikal Peter, commanding officer of the Final Freeze, and we request diplomatic immunity and no prosecution against us if we hand over our ship and all information with it.”

“Why would we even consider the idea? Your ship isn’t on our roster for pirate registered vessels.” Williamson chimed in.

“We’re carrying over thirteen crates packed to the brim with, well we don’t know what it’s packed with, but we were forced to load them—not even with a price…”

“One second, Pilter, cut the line for a second.” Bacredi ordered, another ping signaled that it was on hold. “Petrev, what is the VEN’s policy on freighters that have been forced to hold something?”

“Umm, let me check.” Petrev said, “Well, we don’t have a policy on it. I just strip searched, we should have free reign to do whatever the hell we want.”

“Put me back onto the line in sixty seconds,” Bacredi put his headset around his neck, “weapons, fire two warning shots over the Final Freeze’s bridge. Put me back on, Pilter. Captain? Hey, now, power down your engines, weapons, and prepare for boarding,” Bacredi put his finger over his mic, “Hey, officer Slatterly, prepare two boarding craft. Okay, so, captain, we are going to board you with enough manpower to wipe out half of Nar Shaddaa, deal?”

“Umm, okay, we’ll power down immediately, oh what the fuck was that!? I mean, really?!”

“That was just to make sure you realize that if you blink, we will unleash the might of this Vast Empire Naval vessel and her counterparts and you will be, as we Corellians call it, royally fucked.”

The Final Freeze
The Bridge

“Okay, engine 1 is…down!” said the engine control officer.

“Engine two as well,” said his co-worker.

“Three is now down. We’re idle now.” The engine control officer reported.

Mikal Peter was quickly overrun with a sense of urgency as he tuned of his weapons, engines, and protective shields for the three boarding airlocks. “Sir, we have a knocking at the door to the bridge,” reported the only guard stationed on the ship.

“Open it, probably just an engine crewman whose com went out.” Mikal ordered the guard to unlock the door, and he did. Two men armed with rifles charged into the room, raising them and firing in large bursts. Peter drew his own pistol, which he had never actually fired, and pulled the trigger. The blaster cells were completely out, and he was completely unable to stop the barrage of blaster fire that overtook him.

The Victorious XIV

One of the main boarding craft of the Monarch, the Victorious XIV, was escorted by four TIE Interceptors right towards the Final Freeze. There were thirteen foot marines, three space marines, six technicians who held weapons, and their commander, all assisted by seven storm troopers and two field commanders from the core of engineers.

“We’re docking now,” said the pilot of the ship through a loudspeaker. The pilots were both positioned strategically far away from the massive screen of the ship.

“What the hell…” muttered the other pilot “…they’re powering up their weapons,” he pulled down the mic from the ceiling “Monarch their weapons are lighting up what the hell is going on?”

“Uh, we don’t exactly know, we’re going to have to fire on them. We’ll give you a minute and a half, but if you can’t board them in that time then get on out of there.”

“GO, GO, GO!” shouted the pilot into the loudspeaker, the bottom of the ship had connected with the docking station and a set of stairs led into the station, almost everyone emptied. The pilots were both watching the timer they had set go from 00:00 to 00:30 to 01:00, and as the last stormtrooper emptied it struck 01:30. “Pull out!” they pressed the emergency button and it pulled the ship out of the airlock and closed the gaping hole in the ship.

Green bolts of pure energy spewed from the laser cannons mounted directly under his cockpit. The desperate pirate was trying in vain to outmaneuver Fyston, who was easily matching the desperate fighter's moves. The pursuing Zabrak spun his craft to the left and down, just managing to cut off the pirate and get inside of his turn. More green bolts sprayed into space, yet only one volley managed to hit the shields of the craft before he rolled to the side. Fyston readjusted his heading and shot straight up only seconds after the enemy pirate did the same. He fired again, sending the bolt through the weakened deflector shields and into the cockpit, causing the fighter to float dead in space, it's pilot dead.

Fyston was about to engage another pirate that was trying to out maneuver another interceptor when he noticed an explosion shooting out of one of the Halcyon Warrior's hangar bays. He squinted his eyes to avoid looking at the extremely bright fireball only to have the massive fire extinguished in the vacuum of space. He wondered what could have gone wrong, though snapped back to reality when he noticed a fighter gunning right at him.

The Zabrak spun his agile craft in a feint to the left, only to roll right. The pirate was thrown only for a few seconds before closing back in on Fyston's tail. Fyston felt himself being pulled by the number of G's that he pulled as he slammed on the brakes, pulled into a straight dive, and spun his fighter around. Fyston waited a few fractions of a second before applying the inertial dampeners and pulling out of the dive. He applied all power to the sublight engines in an attempt to shake the bandit. With most shield power focused on his rear quadrant, Fyston was an open target to a passing fighter who fired a number of volleys. Although four volleys were fired, only two hit due to the twisting and turning of Fyston's fighter. The shields failed after the first hit, sending a volley straight into his left wing. The solar panels and metal fused and sparks shot out of the wing. A small corner of his wing broke apart and flew off uselessly into space.

"Kriff me! My frickin wing is hit. I'm flying fine, though, so I'm not out. A little help over here? I've got one on my tail that seems to like me."

He heard someone reply, though didn't care too much who it was at this point. However, when his savior came in the form of a fellow 'Shrike by the name of Echelon, Fyston knew he would never live this down. He remembered growing up and proving to others at an early age his hatred for help. He grit his teeth and felt like a small infant who couldn't eat or move without the help of others. The Zabrak knew that he probably would have died were it not for the intervention of his fellow Nightshrike and tried to push the selfish thoughts from his mind, though only partially succeeded. Fyston wasn't raised to be impolite and muttered his thanks through gritted teeth and a scowl.

"Thanks, Ech."

"No problem, but you better save my ass when I need it."

"Oh, yeah? Make that quick, I don't like owing people."

Awfully rude of me, but even if it's just a few credits I hate that feeling of someone having power over me. Eh, back to the battle then.

Fyston managed to spot the pirate who had fired on him through his cockpit viewport, only to spot the pirate maneuvering like a madman to stay out of another pilot's crosshairs. Not only did he manage to stay out of the crosshairs of the pilot, he fell back and fired freely on the now vulnerable pilot. Fyston shot ahead but was too late and flew through some of the debris. He heard the ring of a missile lockon and was about to fire when he heard a new set of orders. He opened up a channel to the targeted fighter.

"Stand down! This is your only chance of surrender. I've got a missile lock on you and I've had a bit of a bad day. You've damaged my wing slightly and if you don't surrender, I may just happen to lose my fine motor control."

"Wait, why are you giving me the chance to surrender?"

"Orders. If you don't surrender, I'm supposed to disable you. Of course, I may just forget to switch to non lethal methods if you don't. Catch my drift?"

"Uhh, yeah. Where do you want me to go?!"

"Land on the surface and get out of your craft. Someone with a rifle will be coming soon to do whatever they do. Go home to your family, mate, and don't put up a fight."

Fyston escorted the fighter down into the atmosphere, flying side by side with the pirate. He broke off soon after entry and watched as the small fighter descended. After a few seconds, however, he shot back into space and shot after the fleeing pirates.

I figured something was up. I know that I'd put up a huge fight if my family was threatened, and only half of them did so.

OOC:

It's finished for now, though I plan to add more in the way of an NPC segment or another space battle. WC to come later, having a bit of trouble with my laptop.

Corporal Tyro Gannt checked his weapons one last time as the dropship detached from the Halcyon Warrior with a jolt. Satisfied that he had everything, he leaned back against the seat and smiled to himself. ‘Finally, we’re getting some action. Time to take the fight to these pukes directly! And forget those fragging womanish rules of engagement the Commander set for us. Once we’re down there I’ll shoot whatever aliens I damn well please. Who’ll know the difference? They’re subhuman anyway.’

Still grinning, the soldier glanced out of one of the few windows the dropship sported. Fighters flashed by outside, spewing verdant bolts in their deadly game of tag. He tracked one Interceptor closing in on an old Headhunter, eagerly anticipating the coming explosion. Then the blast shield came down over the window. Cursing his luck, the tall, bald trooper sat back in his seat and settled in to ride out reentry.

Minutes later Sergeant Plo’kruff, his squad leader, stood and belted out the expected orders, “Get your gear on. We’re slapping dirt in three. We’re landing at the spaceport. First objective is to secure it.” Two minutes later the breaks engaged and their weight settled as the inertial dampers didn’t quite cancel it all. Tyro could hear the Anti-Personnel guns firing as they came down, clearing the area. Then the ship jolted and the rear hatch dropped. The Duros Sergeant waved them out, “Go, go go. Get your carcasses off this ship!” Gritting his teeth at being given orders by a subhuman, Tyro jogged out onto the hot pavement and dashed for cover. He promised himself he’d take care of that problem.

The fight wasn’t too hard, as they’d expected. The resistance could be tenacious, but almost all of them were not well trained. Tyro and his squad were working their way through a district of small repair shops and shipping firms, clearing the buildings one by one. He’d just stepped out of the most recently secured structure when an explosion rent the air half a klick to the west. He ducked and quickly scanned around for enemies. Seeing a Gran dash out of the next building and flee down the street, he snapped his rifle up and fired. Three shots stitched across the alien’s back and it fell, clothes smoldering, and moved no more. Gannt chuckled to himself. Man that kriffing felt good. A building away, Plo’kruff and the platoon commander, a human Lieutenant named Ryde Venal, glared at the soldier. Venal spoke quietly, “Keep an eye on him, my friend. We’ll need to arrest him before this day is over. He’ll pay for that.”

Behind them the platoon Communications expert spoke up, “Lieutenant! That explosion was a tank firing on one of our squads. Reports say there’re at least four tanks and maybe two dozen infantry holed up in that reinforced warehouse across the landing strip. They’re asking for support.”

Lieutenant Venal nodded, “Are there any civilians in the area?”

The reply came twenty seconds later, “No, sir. The adjacent buildings are all empty except for our troops.”

“Tell them to pull back to the backside of those buildings. Support will be coming.” Twisting his own comlink’s setting, he spoke into it as he reached for one of his combat harness’s utility pockets.

-----

“Commander! Ground support fire request coming in from Company Kresh, in the spaceport.”

Standing up from his command chair, the Mon Cal joined the weapons officer, looking over his shoulder, “Opposition? Civilians?”

“A reinforced structure housing some armor and at least two dozen enemy combatants. No civilians in the area.”

“Very well. Is the target painted?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Venal gave us solid coordinates and is standing by to direct fire.”

“Dial it in.” Drac watched as the crosshairs graphic representing the aim point for a single turbolaser turret traversed across the screen. It stopped, the weapons officer double checked the location, then looked up and nodded. Drac stared at the screen for another half second, “Fire.”

-----

Word had filtered through the squad that the big guns would be firing on that hard target across the strip. They held position and Tyro, like the others, kept one eye on the perimeter and one on the warehouse. They waited, tense.

Less than a minute later a pair of large bolts flashed down from orbit, howling as they tore through the atmosphere. They pierced the center of the target building’s roof and, for a moment, the windows glowed with bright red light. Then they blew out and fire jetted from every door and window in the structure. The roof caved in as a huge, roiling ball of smoke and fire surged upwards. Debris flew every which way, spinning and arcing through the air with a strange grace. Then the light dimmed and the fireball began to drift way. They all stood in silence for a moment, awed by the absolute destructive power they’d beheld. Then, with the groan of damaged and overstressed support beams, the walls of the warehouse sagged and collapsed inward. Smoke and dust blew out everywhere, slowly clearing to reveal the pile of slagged rubble.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway, then Sergeant Plo’kruff stepped through, “Shut your yaps and get moving! We’ve got a spaceport to clear.”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth fire erupted, bolts burning divots into walls and window sills. Everyone turned to return fire as the Sergeant darted forward for cover. Time seemed to slow for Tyro as he watched the Sergeant approaching the stream of fire coming through one of the windows. He saw his opportunity to be rid of the pompous alien, and took it with pleasure. His rifle lifted, two shots rang out, and he completed his turn and began returning fire on what looked to be a group of desperate pirates.

Behind Corporal Gannt Sergeant Plo’kruff’s body hit the floor with a thud. Two blackened holes marred his chest and his sightless eyes looked blankly at the wall, frozen in their final expression of surprise. No one saw him fall.

OOC:

Word Count: 1004

Landing Unit 12-B1, Vast Empire Navy
12 Miles East of Krystad City

“Sir, we’re coming into a patchy spot, turbulence expected.” Said the lead pilot of Landing Unit 12-B1, which had launched from the Monarch minutes earlier; the ship was rocking 2,000 feet off of the rural surface that was part of Montitia. The landing craft was told that resitance—what was described as “small pockets of resistance”—would be met only 5 miles or so out of the city and onwards.

“Bugger, we’re being painted!” said the other pilot, who also operated the two forward and single rear turrets.

“Sound the alarm, I’ll bring us down. Aren’t we out of the fracking radius right now? Way to go Intel.” The lead pilot pulled a lever out of the dash and the landing craft immediately dropped its spare fuel canister, which would obviously not be needed—a return trip was unlikely as the pilot glanced at his radar. “Three starfighters incoming, what’s the time until impact at our current course?”

“Fifty seconds, we have time.”

“I highly doubt that- this is the slowest ship in the entire navy. It’s basically a piece of scrap metal with an engine, I’m putting us down, they’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

Willoth River

Two huts were perched on the Willoth River, another was perched inside the river, having been put there by a storm that had passed through years before. Around the huts, which had a clear view of Krystad City—something the residents detested—six men gathered, all wearing fashionable attire from 100 BBY.

“Look up in the dammed sky, you pillock, that is an armada, someone needs to go check on the farm. They could be all over it for all we know. Communication is out so we can’t just call them!” said the leader of the group, Kole Printlander of Farstrider’s Hollow, which was the “farm” that they were referencing. Over 200 years ago, the family of Farstrider and his close associates were tossed out of Krystad City for one reason or another, and they settled on a huge 4,000 acre plot of farmable land that became Farstrider’s Hollow.

“Fine, Kouyo, come with me.” Kouyo Madea and Pedro Chavez both got into a convertible speeder and immediately hit the gas, shooting up dust in everyone else’s faces. Chavez had grown up in the larger metropolises, but his family had brought him back to the Hollow. He longed for home once again, and he hated isolation.

Five minutes passed, and the road was the same as it always had been.

“Mayday, mayday, this is the Vast Empire Naval—” a voice was cut short, and they both looked overhead as they saw a large, sluggish vessel burning to its core. It hit the field about three thousand feet from the two, and closer to Farstrider’s Hollow than Chavez was.

Willoth River

What in the kriffing world, thought Koyou Madea, as he heard the words ‘Vast Empire Naval’ and saw the vessel crashing into the field .

Pedro Chavez and his uncle Madea gave each other quick glances of concerns. “What was-“  Chavez began.

“Never mind that now,” Madea said to his cousin. “We have to go see what kind of damage these idiots have done to the Hollow. Come on!” Madea turned his speeder back on and hit the gas, leaving Chavez breathing dust.

“You vaping old man,” muttered Chavez, spitting dust out of his mouth. He had half a mind to turn around and leave his uncle to deal with this “Vast Empire” or whatever the kriff they were called. But he knew his uncle needed him. Besides, he hated working this farm. Maybe whoever these people were could help him get away from here…

He turned his speeder back on and had the speeder going as fast as it could. He quickly passed his uncle, who, as Chavez flew past him, seemed to be in shock. Apparently Madea thought he wasn’t going to accompany him.

Chavez arrived at the fields. He could see a fire burning. Luckily, it had not spread very far. He continued with caution, though. He had no idea if this was another group of pirates or a group of bounty hunters. He did not expect them to be bounty hunters, but with as much vermin and filth that was here, anything was possible.

He had finally arrived at the ‘Vast Empire’ vessel. He stopped in front of it and just stared. The destruction was massive. He was looking into what seemed to be the cockpit. The transparisteel windows looked to be shattered. This was his chance.
He had not heard Madea arrive and completely ignored him as he began to sprint towards the shattered transparisteel.

Chavez had to climb a few meters to get into the cockpit. Piece of cake, he thought to himself. As he expected, it took him no time at all to get up there. He momentarily took in the view. Both pilots seemed to be unconscious. One of them, though, looked to be much worse off than the other. He had a piece of transparisteel sticking out of his chest.

“Poor old fool,” Chavez muttered. There was no use in trying to save him. He looked at the other pilot. He was in much better shape. It looked like he needed a few bandages on his head and arms. He proceeded to tear his own shirt to make makeshift bandages.

He wrapped the pilot up and went back to the front of the ship. He could still see Madea. “Uncle! There’s an injured pilot up here! I’m bringing him down. Be ready!” Without waiting for a response, he ran back to the pilot and grabbed him, slinging him over his shoulders. He jumped off the ship.

“Come on, old man, race you back.” He jumped on his speeder, situating the wounded pilot on the speeder and hit the gas.

OOC:

Word Count: 510

I know this is a bit short, but, as I'm new I felt I should work from the NPC viewpoint. As I'm sure you know, I built up Bacredi's NPCs and storyline (Hope you don't mind). So I'll try some more soon. Longer, too.

OOC:

Warning: This one got away from me a little. What was planned as a 1000 word post kinda took on a life of its own and ended up around 2000 words. Still, if it’s close to as fun to read as it was to write it’ll be worth your time. Wrap-up details are in an OOC box at the end, as per usual. Great work, everyone!

---Six Galactic Standard Hours later---

The gun, in space and on the planet, had fallen silent.

Commander Mihawk still sat in his command chair on the bridge of the Halcyon Warrior, a scowl etched into his amphibian features as his bulbous eyes scanned the data scrolling across his screens. The command crew glanced at him over their shoulders in quick, nervous peeps. Even those who’d been with him since the Cerulean were uneasy, having never seen the Mon Calamari this cold and silent. Five minutes passed in total silence. Captain Ongol considered prompting his superior for orders, but just as he began to step forward, Drac stirred. The human XO subsided, relieved.

“Status?” Drac said, in an almost conversational tone. The words meant nothing, however, and he didn’t bother to listen as Ongol began rattling off reports he’d already read three times or more. No, this was simply to put the crew at ease, to show them he was still there and in control. In truth, he was watching the parade of reports scroll past in his mind, and considering the implications of each.

The final ships to escape into hyperspace had done so within forty five minutes of the assault commencing.

The final ships to oppose his forces had been destroyed or disabled after an hour and a half.

Troops landed within the first thirty minutes had captured the spaceport within an hour of their landing.

Two hours after his Taskforce’s arrival they’d taken over what few municipal buildings the planet boasted.

After four hours all of the major outlying pirate and smuggler bases had been cratered.

Five hours into the invasion the city had fallen silent, its defenders dead or captured. Now only Vast Imperial soldiers walked the silent streets.

Just minutes ago the final pocket of resistance had fallen. One last group of pirates had holed up in a cave some thirty kilometers from the city and refused all demands of surrender. A wing-pair of Avengers from Stormfront Squadron had made a run, each firing a pair of concussion missiles down the throat of the cave. Preliminary estimates pegged the resulting cave-in and collapse at one hundred meters deep at the very minimum.

The battle was over, Montitia was conquered. Even now the Vast Imperial flag was flying over Krystad City.

Ongol finished his report, then stood poised with his datapad, “Orders, Commander?”

Drac’s reply was crisp, but those who knew him well would have recognized that the response was automatic, unthinking. Drac’s mind was still on the results of the invasion. It wasn’t his fault, or his mens’ fault, that poor infrastructure had caused fires, explosions, and other collateral damage to the city. But it still hurt, just the same. He’d told these people that he and his soldiers would not harm them, but of course he had been unable to keep that promise to the letter. That ate at him.

“Ensure we have enough ground troops deployed to keep the city policed. Once that’s done, send down all non-critical medical teams to provide disaster relief. Any extra personnel on the ground are to assist the local populace in putting out fires and mitigating any other damage possible. Determine any other needs the populace has and meet them to whatever degree we can, from the resources and stores of the fleet.”

Ongol’s eyebrows had risen almost to his hairline, “No offense, sir, but is that wise? After all, we just finished shooting each other.”

Drac’s smile was small, but it was there, “They were a third party, my friend. Neutral, at least until we barged in on their relatively unnoticed existence. That’s quite a bit different from, say, loyal citizens of the New Republic. And, besides, this will profit us in the long term. By showing them we mean what we say when we tell them we bear them no ill-will, we can gain their loyalty. That loyalty will keep the planet under our control much more effectively than our troops ever could.”

“As you say, sir.” Ongol frowned, paused, then continued, “About our rogue, Mr. Tyro Gannt. What are your orders in regard to him?”

Drac’s expression soured, mixing disgust with fury and disappointment, “Imprison him on-planet for one week, where the public can see him but neither can harm the other. Charges are gross insubordination, treason, murder of a superior officer, murder of innocent civilians, and dereliction of duty. Punishment is one week of public incarceration, then public execution by firing squad.” The Mon Cal paused for a moment, then nodded to himself, “And, of course, pay a blood price to the surviving family of those he murdered. Get me their names so I can send them my personal apologies as well.”

“It will be done. Also, I have an update on the status of the main hangar.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Fortunately, almost our entire fighter contingent had already launched. Only a handful of fighters were damaged, as you know, one of which was unrecoverable- aside from the craft that exploded of course. There was one additional fatality for a total of three dead, four wounded. The hydraulic lines are undergoing emergency repair and we can expect to recover full operating capacity within two hours.”

“Excellent. Rotate the re-docking and resupply of our squadrons so all six are refreshed. Now, casualties from the assault?”

“Out of seventy two fighter craft we’ve lost six, eight counting the Interceptors in the hangar. In addition to the three casualties aboard the Warrior, five of the pilots whose craft were lost in combat died. The other was recovered and is now aboard undergoing a bacta treatment. Casualties were also minimal on the ground, and the percentages are pretty similar across the fleet for the most part.” Ongol shrugged, “We knew coming into this that it would be an easy fight, sir.”

“Easy is relative, Captain.” Drac sighed. “Get the relief and goodwill projects moving. I’ll be visiting the city a standard hour after its next sunrise to inspect the ground fight and meet with local leaders. Inform the rest of the fleet that we expect to stay here five days to a week rendering assistance and awaiting a starfighter contingent for the planetary garrison- which needs to begin deployment as soon as possible. After the fighter contingent arrives the bulk of the fleet will head back to Belgaroth.”

“Aye, Captain.”

------

---One Week later, in a public square in Krystad City---

Varsha Tyrene stood in the light rain, watching the events unfolding with eyes still red with grief. She watched the dark, foreboding figure of the nearly black Mon Calamari officer as he addressed the crowd briefly. A halfhearted hatred stirred in her old heart. Here was the man ultimately responsible for her grandson’s death. She considered leaving, but after a moment decided to stay and hear what this cruel man had to say.

“…promised you all when we arrived, that you would be well treated by our soldiers. I and my men have done our best to do exactly that, but here today we gather to see justice done upon one who ignored the common bond of decency and respect that ties all sapient life together.” The dark blue alien turned, gesturing toward a human bound to a nearby post on the stage. Five soldiers stood nearby with blaster rifles. “This man, Tyro Gannt, ignored a direct order to protect the citizens of Krystad City. Instead he chose to murder innocents as well as one of his own superiors. He has been imprisoned before you all for a week now. Today his true punishment shall be dealt.

“The charges against Tyro Gannt are thus: gross insubordination, treason, murder of a superior officer, murder of innocent civilians, and dereliction of duty. The sentence to be carried out is death by firing squad.” As one, the soldiers readied themselves and took aim at the human. Varsha watched coldly, as unimpressed as many around her.

Then, rather than give the order to end the prisoner’s life, the Mon Calamari spoke clearly, “Squad, at ease. About face. March.”

Varsha and those around her saw the surprise on the soldiers’ faces as they turned and left the stage, the prisoner still alive upon it. First murmurs, then cries of outrage and anger rang out in the crowd as she narrowed a contemptuous glare at the alien officer and spat in his direction.

Drac held up a hand for silence. Getting it, he turned toward Gannt and spoke, “The order you defied came directly from me…so will the promised punishment. For your, for your crimes, there is no appeal and no final words.” Varsha’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Without another word, she watched this Commander Mihawk deliberately draw a combat knife from his sleeve. Methodically, he sliced all Vast Imperial and military insignia from the prisoner’s clothes. Then he sheathed the weapon. Finally, looking straight into the hate-filled eyes of the immobilized human, the Mon Calamari drew his blaster pistol with a single smooth and deliberate motion. He took slightly less than a second to train it on the man’s heart, gave him another second to realize its presence, then fired twice. He held the position for another second as Tyro Gannt jerked one final time, then holstered the pistol and turned back to the podium.

Silence rained for fifteen seconds. Then the Imperial officer spoke again, his voice heavy, “When I promised you safety in the name of the Vast Empire, I promised it personally. Tyro Gannt defied that and broke with the honor of the Vast Empire and with my honor when he did so. Therefore his punishment could only come from me and me alone. I make no promises that I am not willing to personally see carried out. Each of you has seen that for yourselves here today. So, please, believe me when I promise you this: Neither I nor the Vast Empire seek to harm you or your families. We mourn with you for every innocent death and stand beside you in honoring those who died to defend their families. Though we have come here as conquerors, we pledge our protection and our aid to Montitia and its people. Be faithful to the Vast Empire and we will be faithful to you. Thank you.” Finished, the officer saluted the crowd crisply, then turned away. Soldiers came and cut down the corpse, carrying it off to be disposed off.

Varsha Tyrene stood amidst the crowd, as silent as those around her, still shocked at what had taken place just moments before. Given the reputation Imperial officers had in general, the last thing she had expected was a personal apology and personal application of punishment. As she turned away and began to slowly retrace the familiar streets back to her small, terribly empty house, she found her emotions changed. The budding hatred wasn’t gone, but it had been reduced to only a small, bitter dreg. For her, at least, there was mostly sadness, a melancholy wondering about how things might have been…if only. If only.

------

---Two hours later, onboard the Halcyon Warrior.---

Captain Ongol glanced pensively at his commander, noting the squarer shoulders and happier, if still somewhat grim, stance. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Of course, Lance.”

“It’s just…you really shouldn’t take these things so personally, sir. It’s a distraction for you, and it pulls you away from more important duties.”

A series of thoughts and images flashed through Drac’s head. Home. His family. Nazgul Squadron. Lehon. A cold, metallic hand squeezing his throat. The crew of the Cerulean a second before that final impact. Kora. Tyro Gannt’s empty eyes as the dead man’s head fell forward.

He shook his head. “Thank you for the input, Lance, but you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean, Drac?”

“People are the most important duty, Lance.” The Mon Cal waved a hand to indicate everything, “All of this. It’s about people. It’s about building a better life for people. You can’t forget that in the midst of things. If you do, you risk becoming…well, something less than alive. If you no longer care about people, life ceases to be worth living.”

Ongol frowned, then spoke after a moment, “I see your point, but…” Their discussion continued and, minutes later, Taskforce Aurek of the 2nd Vast Imperial Fleet entered hyperspace, bound for its base above the planet Belgaroth.

OOC:

Word Count: 2068

Feel free to write out your own wrap-up posts, so long as you keep Stakes your top writing priority. Excellent work on this story, everyone! Expect shinies, etc to come out very soon.