- OOC:
- This is a one-off story that will deal with a new bit of the Battle of Belgaroth. However, this is a rather melancholy story for me. Recently, Stewart-Power messaged me explaining that he is done with his character, though he does plan to someday return to the Vast Empire with a new one. He requested that his character be killed off, but asked that SP go out in a blaze of glory. Read on as I grant that request.
A side-note: I’ve got Stewart as Nightshrike Five in this story to honor his time of service as SXO. The Nightshrike roster changed so much over the course of the mission that it’s as valid as any other spot by the final assault of the battle.
“Is everyone ready?” DeepSix’s voice came over the comms, sounding cool and confident as ever, as the remaining fighters of Nightshrike formed up around him. They’d lost people, and now the squadron was consolidated down into two flights of four.
Stewart gave his fighter’s condition a quick once-over and consulted with his wingmen before replying, “This is Five. We’re good to go.”
Moments later the call came over the comms, “All space-superiority squadrons, begin assault on your assigned vectors on my mark…mark!” Stewart smiled grimly and twitched his barbells as he accelerated smoothly along with the rest of the Interceptor squadron. They followed DeepSix in his purloined TIE Defender as Nightshrike and the other remaining Interceptors and Avengers of 2nd Fleet shot out ahead of the capital ships in what looked like it might be the last major portion of the battle.
’That’s good,’ Stewart thought to himself,
’Just one more furball, then we’ll be done for a while. This battle has been a long one.’ He felt weariness and the numbed emotional state that always followed battle beginning to drag at him, threatening to slow and deaden his decisions and reactions.
They fighters were almost in range of the Imperial Remnant forces by the time the surprised enemy managed to disengage any significant portion of their fighter screen from their fight with the
Iron Duke and her escorts. And as it was, the defending fighters came at the Vast Imperials piecemeal, one and two at a time. Solid formations would have presented quite a threat to the fatigued pilots, but these smaller groups were more likely to find themselves on the wrong end of an entire flight’s guns than they were to find themselves finishing off damaged VE fighters.
Stewart and his flight rolled as they came in, rotating their formation to make themselves harder targets. A pair of Interceptors approached, screaming toward him head on. He activated his flight’s comms, “Eight, you and I have the starboard target. Ten, Eleven, you two take the port target.”
Confirmation came a moment later as he sighted in and fired, the other three Interceptors firing with him. From experience, Stewart knew the enemy was likely to try and roll out to opposite sides when fired upon, so he shot to the starboard of his target. The Interceptor attempted to roll out a moment later, dodging Eight’s shots, and flew straight into a quad of bolts from Stewart’s Interceptor. The angle and rotation interacted strangely, so that all four bolts were in nearly a diagonal line across the face of the Interceptor as they hit. Each tore into the craft in its place, and fire bisected its cockpit. A moment later its Inertial Damper failed and the gee forces ripped the hull in two along the line drawn by the impacts, sending two ragged halves of the ship spinning away. Half a second later a bright explosion gave evidence that the Interceptor’s wingman had met the same fate.
And then they were through the ramshackle defensive fighter screen and the fighters of Nightshrike began to dance and weave between enemy ships. Stewart and his wingman split off from the other two in their flight and fell into the familiar dance. His fighter twisted and turned through the battle, skimming over a hull here, flashing through a gap in turbolaser fire there.
It wasn’t much longer, perhaps a minute or three, before the capital ships of 2nd Fleet plunged into the enemy formation as well. Stewart glanced up as he came over the top of an enemy Dreadnought and saw the
Halcyon Warrior charging in. The ImpStar Deuce was blackened, it’s white hull charred in innumerable places, and flames guttered in half a dozen debris-strewn craters left from earlier actions. But her shields were strong again and the massive ship cruised forward as a predator, confident of its kill, even as its shields flared with the impacts of enemy munitions. Its massive turbolasers fired in disciplined volleys while smaller point-defense guns strobed out to stave off most missiles coming from one of the remaining Victory-class Star Destroyers.
The Mon Calamari watched as the Dreadnought he’d just passed took salvo after salvo of fire from the ImpStar Deuce and saw its shields fail and its hull begin to buckle and blacken. Then he was too far past and found himself arcing around to come back into the main portion of the battle.
Stewart made another run through to near where the
Iron Duke dueled an enemy ImpStar Deuce and looped back to face the
Warrior once again. He was coming up behind the Dreadnought again, dodging and weaving to keep an Interceptor from getting a good shot, when he noticed that the Remnant ship was turning to orient her mauled bow on the
Warrior and his sensors registered a buildup of power-flow to her engines.
’They’re going to ram our ship!’ he realized with a spike of concern.
He immediately opened up a comms channel to the
Warrior, “Control, this is Nightshrike Five. Come in!”
There was an abnormal pause before a voice replied, “Nightshrike Six, Control is over-capacity at the moment. This is Petty Officer Zail. Over.”
Stewart growled in irritation, “Whatever. That’s not important. You guys need to know: that Dreadnought at your one o’clock is preparing to ram…” Before he could finish there was a massive bang and the scream of stressed metal as the ships and stars before him began to whirl chaotically. Realization came to the Mon Cal as a cold lump of fear in his belly,
’I let my focus wander too much. That Interceptor got me!’Frantically, he tried technique after technique to regain control of his fighter. Then a diagnostic popped up…the attitude control flaps that let the twin ion engines direct the ion stream had been warped and melted into place. Without them working, he couldn’t steer his craft. “Kriff. I’m done. I can’t recover!”
Stewart could dimly hear other voices in the background, his comrades shouting advice or telling him to punch out. But he knew better. This roll was too hard, too chaotic. If he punched out, he’d die. Plain and simple. And suddenly he felt very calm. Before him, now dominating his wildly twisting view as his engines continued to propel his ship forward, were the bright lights of the Dreadnought’s engines. He felt so very tired. A quick check showed that he still had four missiles remaining. He switched his reticule to fire missiles in dual-fire mode and waited as he approached the enemy vessel. When he was too close to miss, he fired twice. Four missiles arced out in pairs of two, little flares riding glowing contrails as they shot forward to escort him in.
He saw them hit, saw the roiling explosions as the cruiser’s failed shields could not hold them back from its vulnerable engines. Stewart Power smiled, took his hands from the controls, and closed his eyes as he relaxed into his seat. It seemed like he’d spent a lifetime of this, a lifetime in the cockpit fighting the good fight against implacable enemies. He was so tired. The light of the Dreadnought’s engines grew, shining through his viewport and his eyelids. Then there was peace.
-----
On the bridge of the
Halcyon Warrior, Dracule “Drac” Mihawk glanced curiously at the Dreadnought as it immolated itself in chain explosions. He wondered, briefly, what had caused its engines to detonate, then moved on as the demands of commanding the fleet drew his attention to the ships that still presented a threat.
-----
Pherik “Serpent” Zail slammed a fist against his console. Again. It had happened again. The pilot, Nightshrike Five, had come on the line with important news. Then he’d heard the Interceptor get hit, heard the pilot’s panicked cry…heard as the pilot fired everything he had into the Dreadnought’s engines…and heard static take over the comms line. He looked up as other crewmembers cheered the Dreadnought’s death around him, as he heard their relief at the removal of a threat. And on some level he understood. He thought of the nameless, faceless pilot he’d never known, and thanked him for his sacrifice, acknowledged the peace he’d sought in those final moments.
-----
Captain Dracule “Drac” Mihawk sighed and ran a hand over his mouth and barbells as he sat in his office on the
Halcyon Warrior. Two days had passed since the battle, and his ship was currently undergoing major repairs in the shipyards it had fought so hard to defend. That should have brought him some relief, perhaps even some happiness, but it couldn’t compare to the grim duty he was carrying out.
With a shake of his head, he continued to review the casualty list. There were far too many, and this just for the
Warrior and her accompanying pilots. He’d managed to work his way through most of the list, flagging those who’d reported directly to him so that he could write the letters to their families personally. Now he was down to the starfighter casualties. The fatality rates among the pilots were horrible, something it would take months to come back from. But they’d died doing their jobs, and their sacrifices deserved to be recognized.
He’d come to Nightshrike, the squadron he used to command. It was good to see that DeepSix was still alive, though a note appended to the record added that the man was under house-arrest for commandeering Drac’s Defender. Mihawk allowed himself a grim smirk. He’d give the man a freebie there. There were more important things to get upset over.
Then he felt his stomach drop, wrenching horribly. He read the next name again, reassuring himself that it was there: Warrant Officer 2nd Class Stewart-Power, Killed in Action. Stewart was dead? It couldn’t be…everything they’d gone through together…the dogfights…the assault on the pirate asteroid base…so many more. They’d been wingmen. Friends. And now Stewart was dead.
Drac’s new Executive Officer walked in and saluted, then paused when he noticed the Captain’s stricken expression. “Sir? What’s wrong?”
The Mon Calamari closed his eyes, “The casualty, list, Mr. Zail. An old friend of mine died during the battle. My old wingman.”
Pherik nodded solemnly, “My condolences, sir. Where was he stationed?”
“Nightshrike squadron. He was the squadron XO, Nightshrike Five.”
“Oh!” The human gasped.
Drac looked up at him, frowning, “What is it?”
Serpent looked troubled, “Sir. I was on the comms line with him when he died. He was trying to inform us of a Dreadnought’s intent to ram the
Warrior when he got hit. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but before he died he fired his missile into its engines. Then I think his ship hit the engines too.”
Drac was silent for a long moment, remembering his oh-so-brief attention to the death of the Dreadnought with a sharp stab of guilt. Then he replied, his voice quiet, “I see. Thank you, Mr. Zail. He had a good death.”
Serpent nodded, picking up the datacards he’d come to collect before pausing awkwardly, “He did…will that be all, sir?”
Mihawk nodded, “Yes. Thank you.”
Pherik left the room and Drac was silent for a few moments more. Then he called up a program on his holoscreen and began a message:
TO: THE FAMILY OF WARRANT OFFICER 2ND CLASS THEL, CALLSIGN STEWART-POWER
FROM: CAPTAIN DRACULE MIHAWK, CHIEF OF NAVAL WARFARE, VAST EMPIRE NAVY
RE: MY CONDOLENCES
IT IS MY SAD DUTY TO REPORT TO YOU THE DEATH OF YOUR SON AND MY FRIEND…- OOC:
- Goodbye, Stewart. Best of luck in Real Life. I hope you liked the send-off. Come back to us sometime, eh? We’ll still be here.
