Adrun Ferran, reporting for duty sir(s)!


Aaaaaannnnddd....smilie abuse!

SHAZAM!

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Name: Adrun Ferran
Callsign: Ferran
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 20
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 173 lbs
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Skin Color: White, tan
Distinguishing features: none

Physical Description:
Walks erect most of the time, shoulders back. Some criticize him for this, calling him pretentious or overbearing. His eyes and smile are considered attractive by more than a few women, though he hasn’t smiled in quite a while. His demeanor, despite his physical bearing, can best be described as dejected, an unfortunate effect of his first Naval Academy experience.

Personality:
He’s a by-the-book sort of man, who doesn’t take much lightly. Another unfortunate effect of his Academy experience. He used to have quite the sarcastic wit back in the day, but fear of being kicked out of the Academy a second time has led him to take all events and jokes a little to seriously for him to be ‘good company’. Some have described him as having too much starch in his breeches.



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Realities folded. Universes collapsed. Dimensions beyond imagination came into existence and winked out with blinding rapidity, a million-million dying in the blink of an eye. The fabric of reality tore, splitting on itself, feeding its ever widening maw. Out of this tear shot a silver dagger, a mere speck at first but quickly resolving into something much larger, much grander. It shot into realspace, faster than the eye could follow, before coming to an impossible halt. Or what, at least, appeared to be a halt.

The ISD Leviathan blazed through the void, sublight engines on full. The twinkling of the ship’s lights combined with the reflected light of the planet underneath made its silver hull almost seem to glow. With practiced speed, each of the sixty turbolaser emplacements swiveled into combat readiness and charged their capacitors toward full. Not three minutes passed when suddenly the reality of space tore open once again to let in five more ships.

The Warmaker and the Undying, both Victory-class Star Destroyers rivaling the size of the Leviathan, pulled up alongside their larger relative. With them were three escorts, CR-90 corvettes all, which pulled in behind the Capitol ships. All six ships were pointed at the world ahead. An attack line. The Imperial Navy had finally come for Ansultar.

Completely oblivious in the bowels of the Leviathan, Adrun Ferran didn’t see any of this take place. The only thing he noticed was the fact that the ship had fallen out of hyperspace, as indicated by the shuddering jerk the bulwarks around him gave, and the familiar hum of the sublight engines powering up. Huddled over his desk, hands cramped from too many weeks of fiddling with minute electronics, Ferran scarcely gave it notice anymore. They’d been planet-hopping for two weeks now, and his work was too time-consuming to keep track of where they were going and why.

Engineering Bay A-7 was a large recess of electronics, desks, wiring, and poor lighting, located just underneath the main flight deck of the same name.  It was here, and in rooms just like it scattered about the ship, handled the vast amounts of errors that could and did go wrong with TIE fighters.. Bathed in deep crimson light, the outlines of discarded electronics, spare parts, pipes, and other assorted flotsam and jetsam that accompanied such a job, could be made out, crowding the walls and empty floor space. Over four dozen engineers and technicians worked and labored there, providing much needed maintenance to the Leviathan’s ever-working squadrons. Unlike their larger, more noticeable operation that occupied directly out of the hangar itself, Engineering Bay A-7 worked more on smaller, electronic problems with the fighters. It was a more delicate, time-consuming type of engineering, and it wore Ferran out.

With a grunt, Ferran flung the chip he’d been working on across the desk. Some unlucky pilot wasn’t going to have an auxiliary sensor array for his next flight. Too bad.

Ferran sat up, stretching his fingers and rubbing his aching back. Nineteen and in fairly good physical fitness, his broad shoulders and muscled form often earned him an odd look when amongst his fellow pilots. He had deep, brown eyes, and a certain smile that had one him more than one woman back on his home planet of Relus, of the Vannul sector, a small tract of space on the northern fringe of Vast Imperial space. He hadn’t smiled since leaving the planet.

As he stood up, his joints creaked painfully, but he didn’t care. At least they were still feeling pain. He’d heard of some of the techs going nerve-dead, after all the time spent in the bay, and he could believe it. With a dull sense of listlessness, he looked about the cabin. The other engineers were busy over their own desks, working at the same, monotonous pace as they had been for every single one of the seven weeks since Ferran had arrived there. No one looked up when Ferran, grumbling under his breath, stood up and left the room.

Come and see the galaxy! they’d said. Visit exotic planets! Fly on daring missions! Serve your Empire! His parents had been correct. He never should’ve even picked up the recruitment flyer. A whole bunch of rubbish, that was. So far, in the seven weeks since he’d passed through engineering training, the only thing he’d seen was the cramped interior of the engineering bay.

It’s not like he’d wanted to become a Navy technician. He’d originally been in the Vannul Sector Naval Academy, just a little over a year ago. At twenty-standard, had been the cream of the crop, enjoying all the rigors and benefits of Academy life. But then there’d been the Republic plot to assassinate the Base Commander, a big pointing of finger and bam, here he was working a dead-end job on a fleet out in the middle of nowhere. His immediate training officer, Lieutenant Grizen, had assured him that he was a lucky one. He’d only been mentioned as accomplice to some minor parts in the plot, and wouldn’t be executed like the thirty or so who were actually involved. The next day he’d been on a shuttle on it’s way to the moored Leviathan, hanging in orbit.

Oh yeah, really lucky, Ferran thought, stalking through the halls. His back tightened uncomfortably with each step, and his legs kept wanting to fall asleep on him again. He gritted his teeth and continued on.

Two doors out of the bay, the lighting changed from subdued crimson to an intense, white glare. Ferran squinted, eyes watering, and cursed himself for walking out so quickly. Exiting the bay was something that needed to be done delicately, for, after spending so many hours in the dark, bright objects tended to destroy eyes. Partially blind and still in a lot of pain, he sat down next to the door and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The flight deck was dark. More than the dark that the hangars experienced during the ship’s night routine; it was completely dark. The only light was the dim glow of starlight, cascading in from the partially opened hangar doors, and the occasional glowstick, floating like a phantom in the gloom, its holder practically invisible.

Despite the darkness, the hangar was unusually busy. Crewmen scurried amidst the assorted craft, checking gauges, plugging wires, unhooking fuel tubes. They all spoke in hushed tones, though, as if the enemy could hear them out across the void of space. Generally there was an air of subdued excitement in the large chamber, the sense that something grand was about to happen, and happen soon.

It was in this environment that Lannerd Esks, pilot ace, strode with confidence. The darkness could hide all his features except for his flashing blue eyes, which glowed from under his wrinkled brow. He was only thirty-seven, but he’d been flying for thirty of those years, making him the longest-lived pilot in the whole fleet. He just also happened to be the best.

With forty-five confirmed kills, and over fifty unconfirmed, he was a god amongst the other pilots, most of whom were fresh out of academy. They smiled and bowed obsequiously to him as he passed, even though he was of neither rank nor position to even merit so much as a salute from them. He smiled, soaking in their praise and admiration. He wrinkled his nose at the few who didn’t see him, illuminated only by his small handheld light, but he noted tha tit was, in fact, pretty dark. He let them go. This time.

In reality, it’d been over two years since Esks had been in combat, and two and a half since his last kill. He had grown lax in his time off, used to everyone deferring to him, admiring him, jumping to him at his beck and call. Even some of the higher ups answered to him. That’s how he’d gotten his own personal suite on the ship, along with all the furnishings. He got the best meals in the mess hall, first use of all the ships facilities, nearly unlimited access to otherwise restricted areas of the ship. He was, as some ventured to call him, corrupt. Not in his face of course, but behind his back, when they thought he wasn’t listening. But he was always listening. One didn’t arrive at such a seat of power unprepared to defend it.

Their time would come. For now, there was the battle at hand.

One of his crewmen came rushing up to him, datapad in hand. Drakus? Dranus? It didn’t matter. A pilot didn’t need to know all his crewmen’s names to make use of them. He nodded slightly to the man as he approached. It elicited a big smile from him; a nod was a big thing, coming from Esks, normally known for his cold indifference towards menials.

“Ship’s ready t’go, sir!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing. Some of his crewmen were a little overeager, Esks noticed from time to time. They worked quickly and efficiently, but damned if they weren’t annoying. He snatched the datapad out of the man’s hand and skimmed over it.

“There was some trouble with the controls?” he asked, noticing the event flagged under incident reports. The crewman’s smile slipped just a bit, but not for long.

“Yessir, just slight, nothing big. Gotta’ bit gummed up is all, but all worked out now. Tested it me’self!”

“I’m sure you did,” Esks muttered. He took a last look at the pad before thrusting back into the crewman’s chest. He grunted with the pain, and the corners of his eyes tightened, but, otherwise, the crewman’s enthusiasm didn’t drop in the slightest. Esks pushed past him and toward his ship.

It was dimly outlined against the backdrop of stars seen through the gap in the hangar doors. Sleek. Refined. Deadly. It was the perfect killer, fast and fatal. It was an extension of Esks, and he an extension of it. It was where he felt most comfortable. He slipped on his helmet and adjusted the last straps on his jumpsuit before climbing up and into his magnificent craft. With a sigh of relaxation, he sank into the familiar cushioned chair. His hands immediately found their way into their familiar places, wrapped around the yoke. Yes, yes, this was nice. With a few switches, he powered the cockpit interior, and then began to warm up the engines. Even though the ships were on extreme communications and light silence, one starfighter wouldn’t possibly be seen. Plus, they were close anyway.

Behind him, the other pilots began to power up their craft and soon, the whole hangar was filled with the screech of engines. Vector Squadron was waking up. With a groan, the hangar doors began to open fully, spilling more starlight into the hangar, mixed with a bit of planetlight shining off Ansultar down below.  Most of the planet was in shadow

“Comm, check, comm check, this is Vector Leader to Vector squadron, do you read?” One by one, the pilots in his squadron sounded off. Rimwald, Greene, Darthun. The last name hit a particular sore spot with Esks. He’d been having an affair with his flight leader’s wife for almost a year and a half now. Esks suspected that Darthun knew, or thought he knew at least. In anycase, the man had been one of the main people arguing Esks’ corruption behind the scenes. Esks might just have to make sure something happened to him during the fight.

“Command, this is Vector Squadron, good to go,” Esks said once they were done sounding off.

“Vector Squadron, this is command. You are clear for launch.” Esks grinned greedily and rubbed his gloves together.

“Alright boys, this is it! Let’s go kick some Empire arse!”

As one, sixteen T-65 X-wings rose and shot out of the Mon Calamari cruiser’s hangar and into space.

* * *

The bridge of the Leviathan was in chaos.

“Multiple targets, inbound!” a sensor technician yelled.

“They’re launching fighters!” another screamed.

A communications tech wheeled his chair around to face the ship’s commanding officer. “Sir, I’ve got hails from both the Undying and the Warmaker. They’re asking for orders.”

“Orders, sir?”

“Your orders, sir?”

“Silence!” the Captain Gage roared. The bridge quieted, all eyes on him. He stood at the back of the room, broad-shouldered  and commanding, gray uniform pressed to perfection, his raven black hair gleaming in the sterile white light. It seemed odd that the bridge had ever not been focused entirely on him. “What are we looking at here? Where are they coming from? How did they get here?”

“There’s two Mon Calarmari cruisers and a few corvettes. A few Ansultarian Royal Navy ships, it seems, as well. They were hiding in the shadow of the planet. Powered down, of course, with comm silence, sir... like they were waiting for us.”

“It’ll still take them a while to charge up their weapons,” the commander thought aloud. “What’s the ETA on those fighters?”

“Four minutes, sir.” The commander sat back in his chair, eyes closed, fingers on his temple.

“Move the Leviathan in.  We need to hit them before their weapons can come online. Tell all pilots to make ready for immediate launch.”

* * *

Sirens blared down the length of the hall, startling Ferran out of his nap. Had he really fallen asleep? Come to think of it, he hadn’t really gone to sleep in a while. Time passed differently in the engineering bay. The nap had helped, though. His back felt--sirens.

There were sirens! With a start, he jumped up. Sirens were bad. Sirens meant battle. The engineers would be gathering in the hangar to see the pilots out. They’d be closing off parts of the ship. He had to get down there! Curse those engineers for not waking him up! He took off, racing down the halls. It was times like these that he was glad for his personal fitness.

Thirteen long seconds later, he was at the hangar. He turned the corner, smiling that he had gotten there so quickly, expecting to see the small army of engineers busy prepping TIEs for launch. What he didn’t expect to see where the charred remains of those engineers melted into the ground, limbs splayed in the same deathless state of agony they’d been in when they were cut down. He didn’t expect to see sections of the hangar torn apart, flames licking the walls, or pieces of TIE fighters strewn across the ground. He didn’t expect it, but it was what he found when he turned that corner.

His steps faltered and then ceased altogether. His head swam, and his vision moved in and out of focus. He doubled over, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall for support. Even so, he could still smell it. The smell, the smell! It mixed burnt meat with spoiled grease, rotting oil, stagnant blood. It was the smell of battle, the smell of death, and it was utterly unfamiliar to Ferran, who’d grown up his entire life far from such trivialities. He retched, violently, and leaned his head feebly against the wall. He wanted to die, to cease his existence in a universe that’d just been turned on its head, and go anywhere, anywhere else as long as it was away from this. It wasn’t real, he told himself, it was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare, he’d wake up soon, or find himself standing naked in front of his commanding officer, or flying a TIE fighter: the usual dream stuff. Deep down inside, though he refused to admit it, Ferran knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t dreaming; this was entirely real.

After a few moments and a brief bout of hyperventilation, Ferran had regained some of his senses. The smell wasn’t so acrid anymore; the edge that had initially flayed the insides of his nose had blunted to a slow burn. When he felt confident enough, which was after several more moments, Ferran opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. The sight of the crippled bodies of men he’d once known nearly made him double over again, but he controlled himself, and pushed the bile back down into his throat. He was an Imperial, dammit, and he’d behave like one even in the most dire circumstances.

That gave him some measure of comfort.  If he could detach himself, his fear, his disgust, his shock, everything, then he could think rationally. Like a true Imperial would.  He calmed himself, reigned in his breathing, and looked around. The hangar was just as destroyed as when he had first seen it, all except...the shuttle. In the center. Just...sitting there. It had some minor burns on it, blaster scorches, but looked wholly undamaged, and considerably out of place amidst the destruction.

And then Ferran noticed that there were New Republic insignia on the sides. Without thinking, hardly pausing to take a breath, Ferran began running, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the hangar. Someone must’ve noticed him then, because a cry went up, and Ferran saw a blaster bolt streak overhead. He ran faster. Fear gave wings to his feet, and the halls all became one blur as he shot through them with reckless abandon. He ran and ran until he could run no more. Out of breath, he stumbled wearily along until his feet finally gave out, and he fell to the ground, a battered, exhausted heap.

Panting for breath, he looked down to see what had tripped him up. It was a body. An Imperial TIE pilot’s body, to be precise, with a blaster hole straight though its neck. Ferran scrambled backwards, away from the corpse, until he was pressed up against the wall. It filled him with a fear, a deep, primordial urge to run away again. Death had always been an abstraction, something that happened to people far away. In space, as a pilot, it happened quickly, civilly, in a flash and explosion of debris. Ferran had never expected it to be so close, so...real.

The ship wasn’t safe. He realized that now. If New Republic troops had taken one hangar, they’d probably taken them all, and secured, at least, the outer boards of the ship. But, no, that didn’t make much sense. There was no way that a few small shuttles of New Republic troops could do more than hold the hangars, and even that was a limited goal. In two hours, they’d all be dead, overwhelmed by the nine thousand or so stormtroopers that the Leviathan toted. No, they had something else in mind.

If they were trying to take the ship, they’d move their capital ships alongside for a boarding maneuveur. That’d leave them open to a broadside from both the Leviathan and one of the Victory star destroyers, which would render the plan useless. Which meant that they were going to try and cripple the ship, from the inside. Which meant that, if the bomb wasn’t already aboard, then it was on its way.

Either way, it meant that Ferran had to get off the ship. His eyes strayed to the body of the pilot on the floor, and a plan began to develop in his mind.

Ten minutes later he was staring out at the blankness of space from behind the octagonal crash webbing of the TIE fighter cockpit, and, beyond that, the lenses of his salvaged TIE pilot helmet.

He felt giddy, elated. This was his dream realized. He was flying, actually flying! He’d almost not made it out of the hangar, the blaster scorches on his wing attesting to that, but here he was, in the vacuum of space, flying.

At the same time, he was very, very scared. It took all his concentration to keep the ship from smashing into debris, or running into the side of the star destroyer that loomed above him. Every twitch of his fingers sent the craft skidding off in that direction, making the stars outside the cramped cockpit spin, and aggravating Ferran’s already nauseous stomach. Even if that wasn’t hard enough, he still had to scan space for this hypothetical bomb carrying transport heading for the Leviathan.

Another TIE streaked overhead, trailing smoke and bits of metal. Ferran’s heart went into his throat as he forcefully reminded of why he’d snuck out into space with the TIE in the first place. There was a war going on.

Ferran banked hard, bringing his ship around to the right. He overshot where he was aiming for, but at least he went in the right direction. He was getting better at this. Flying wasn’t that bad, you just had to... the ship shuddered at multiple impacts, and Ferran suddenly knew he was in trouble. Blaster bolts streaked overhead, their light illuminating the insides of the cockpit as they passed by the viewport. Two grazed Ferran’s starboard wing, rocking the cockpit violently and sending the craft spinning off course.

Ferran cursed his stupidity. That had been a rookie mistake: never  fly in a straight line unless you want to get killed. With only the distant memory of training simulations as his guide, he’d thought that he could fly a ship out in the middle of a pitched battle and actually do something. Now he was going to die out here, nameless, unremembered. No one would probably know he was dead. Certainly no one knew that he, a lowly tech, had stolen a TIE fighter and piloted it out into the void. He’d be on the list of MIA’s for the battle, a name read only by some bureaucratic lackey, only to be forgotten a second later when he typed in the next name.

A trio of shots went wide, breaking Ferran out of his self-pitying state.

“Kriffing ship!” Ferran yelled, using the well-practiced profanity from his homeworld. He jerked his ship into a lateral spin. The bulk of the star destroyer rushed up to meet him, the details becoming clearer and clearer on the hull. Specks of light, tubing, hangars, turbolasers, the windows themselves. Ferran fancied he saw a person or two before he pushed the ship into a nosedive, past the side of the Leviathan. For a brief second, the gunmetal gray sides of the ship flashed by and then Ferran was in open space.

The sensors showed no immediate ships in his vicinity. He’d lost them. Ferran breathed a sigh of relief, and then did a once over of the battle. Maybe he could salvage something from his stupidity.

* * *

Esks cursed, slamming his fist against the X-Wing’s dashboard. He’d lost him. Blasted star destroyer, blasted slow X-wings. Blasted TIE pilot. He’d nearly collided with the Star Destroyer following that TIE in his death-dive, and now he’d lost him.

“Sir?” the comm crackled. It was Darthun, the last voice Esks’ wanted to hear at the moment. Esks remained silent, pulling his green x-wing in another loop, looking towards his scanners for any sign of that TIE.

“Sir, are you going to rejoin the squadron?” Esks looked around, away from his sensors, and noticed that he was, indeed, far out from the squadron. But he wasn’t giving up now. He pushed the throttle up and shot his ship forward, away from the squadron.

“Sir? Sir!? Where hell are you going? We have to maintain the fighter screen! Too many TIEs are getting past!” Darthun cried indignantly over the comm, trying to keep some measure of civility in his voice. Even so, he, and the rest of the squadron, had no choice but to follow their silent leader.

Esks was intent on his sensors once more. Subconsciously, his hands danced with the control yoke, twisting his X-wing into a series of complicated rolls, followed by a few feinted dives. Never stay still: that got you killed. Well, most of the time, as that TIE pilot had shown Esks.

His screen started beeping, and soon a wire-frame image of that very same TIE Interceptor appeared on the screen, along side ship statistics, trajectory, and location. Silent as ever, Esks tucked his ship up and dived, straight for the Interceptor. He noted how the sluggishness of the stick, but paid it no mind. He was focused on the kill ahead of him. No one escaped Esks twice.

As he dove, Esks’ ship scrambled to get a lock on the Imperial craft below, which had now evidently seen Esks. It was flying erratically, as if dodging invisble blaster bolts. Esks laughed. He was still far out of range to be taking any shots at it yet. The Interceptor pilot must’ve had the same thought, because it skittered back, forth once more, did a roll, and then came for Esks straight on.

So that’s how he wanted it, Esks thought. He flicked his guns live and waited for the shot. One thousand meters. His missile lock finally chimed, but they were heading toward each other too quickly for that to be a viable option. Seven-hundred meters. Esks fingers twitched on the stick. Six hundred meters, six-fifty, five hundred.  Esks opened up, spraying red bolts as he zoomed down.

Except the Interceptor was gone.

Esks cursed fluently, in at least three different languages, and opened a comm back to his squadron. He needed a visual on that Interceptor.

“All...over us! Too many...can’t...them...Greene down...dropping out of the..” The comm died, leaving Esks alone in the uncomfortable silence of his cockpit.

Terror began to embrace Esks. It was an unfamiliar feeling, alien almost, a sour knot in his chest that chilled his whole body. He flicked on all his scanners and twisted around in the cockpit, trying to find out where the cryptic message had come from. If it were possible, Esks’ spirits sank just a bit lower when he finally found out.

Up until Esks’ mad hunt for the TIE fighter, his squadron had been providing a screen around the Star Destroyers, shooting TIEs as they left their ships. Since they’d strayed off course, however, the number of Imperial craft in space had risen sharply. Esks squadron was embroiled in a skirmish with at least two such TIE squadrons, and more ships were joining in at each passing second. The TIE pilots might not have been the best fliers, but they had overwhelming numbers. Even as he watched, an X-wing dropped below the zone of the battle, trailing debris. A shot ignited the ship’s fuel stores, and soon it was nothing but a hazy after image in Esks vision and pieces of floating scrap.

That’s when he saw Darthun, his red X-Wing limping along on its two last wings, engines sputtering and sparking, with a lazy trail of ripped metal spinning behind it. The two TIEs that had so ripped apart the craft were turning in a wide arc, coming around for another run.

“Esks! Esks!” Darthun shrieked over his comlink as his ship floated past. Esks saw bits of blood on the interior of the cockpit window. “Esks! You’ve got to help me! Esks! Esks!” Esks was already moving past.

“Not this time Darthun. Too long have you been a thorn in my side. I’ll give your wife the news, don’t you fear.”

“Esks, you bastard! Come back here! Esks! Es—“ There was a flash, and the light next to Darthun’s name on Esks comlink-board died away.

With a few self-reassurances, Esks pushed down his fear. No, not his fear...his apprehension. He wasn’t really afraid anymore. He knew what he had to do. That TIE pilot had started this. Now Esks had to finish it.

Esks whipped his ship around, shooting one of Darthun’s killers out of the sky as he went, and sped off away from his squadron. It was their fight now. He had a score to settle.

* * *

That’d been a bit too close. If he hadn’t pulled out of his run for that blasted green X-wing, he’d be dead, Ferran knew. It was hunting him now, he could tell. He’d gotten away twice already. Ferran wasn’t sure about a third time.

The only consolation was that there were lots more TIEs flying about now. More of them were making it from the hangars without being blasted apart. The downside was now it was hard to spot enemy ships in the multitude. Overcoming his initial joy at flying, at the adrenaline rush from his two brief skirmishes with the elusive green X-wing, Ferran was now focusing wholly on the task he’d set out to do. He had to find this bomb before that green X-wing found him.

He was sure there was a bomb now. It made sense. The X-wing squadrons ran cover, picking off the TIEs as they struggled out of the hangars, while the Republic marines wrecked havoc inside and prepared a space to set up the device.

He had his scanners working nonstop, searching for any unfriendly ships larger than an X-wing.  When they finally chimed in with a lock, it nearly made Ferran jump out of his seat. The chime was eerily similar to the missile lock chime, and that would’ve meant that he’d picked up the green X-wing again. But no, the scanners had found his hypothetical shuttle. It was en route for the Leviathan, still about two minutes out. Just barely enough time to reach it, Ferran thought; it would be a close run thing. But since when had anything in space so far not been?

He sped off toward the shuttle, ducking, weaving, dodging and dancing through battle raging around him. It seemed odd at first that no one noticed him and his single rogue TIE zipping through the battle, but then, most of the TIEs he saw were in mismatched groups retaining little to no coherency, and he only ever saw one squadron flying in formation. It was a messy, desperate affair, very far removed from the glorious battles depicted in the propaganda posters. There was no glory here, no heroic charges, no clear-cut lines between forces. It was a desperate fight for survival, on everyone’s part. Ferran saw fighters collide with each other, saw helpless pilots eject from their burning craft only to suffocate in the cold, hard vacuum, or be torn in half as other fighters impacted their flailing bodies. It was horrible.

Ferran was within thirty seconds of the shuttle when his sensors started ringing again. The ship was locking onto the shuttle for a...second time? That didn’t make any sense. And then he noticed the missile lock lights flashing. Without thinking, Ferran jerked his yoke far to the left. His ship responded immediately, jerking off towards the left in a spin the TIE wasn’t designed to withstand. Blackness crept into the edges of Ferran’s vision, and, for a second, he thought he was about to black out. Finally he managed to get enough control of himself to halt his spin, and turn around. Something green flashed overhead, and Ferran’s heart went into his throat. This was the last thing he needed right now.

He banked his craft, turning toward the shuttle. It was right, there, so close. If he could reach it in time, he could possibly destroy it and—he spun off as the green X-wing scored a trio of hits on his right stabilizer. Ferran wouldn’t be able to make it. Not with that on his tail. Resignedly, Ferran spun his ship to face his attacker, painfully aware of how close the shuttle was getting to the Star Destroyer.

But he’d made up his mind, and now the green X-wing was his only concern. He barrell-rolled, avoiding the ship’s initial shots and peeled off to the right, hoping to get behind the other craft. It followed him, unceasing in its fire. So they went, Ferran spinning and diving, and the X-wing keeping right up with him.

Ferran was flying for his life now. Sweat poured down his brow, and his breathing grew short. He was hanging on by his proverbial fingernails. It was all a matter of who broke first.

* * *

He was good, Esks thought begrudgingly. No one had ever been able to outfly him back in his hay-day. Now though...he was out of practice. And he was losing for it. Esks could feel it. He was pushing his ship, his skills, himself, all to the edge.

He was sweating profusely, and the suit around his neck was soaked. Every time he thought he had the TIE in his sights, he jumped out again. It soon became obvious, to Esks, at least, that the pilot was following a routine. The pilot himself probably didn’t realize it, but he would twist around for a few rolls, dive, come up bank left, twist, and repeat. Over and over. After about the third time of noticing this, Esks began to anticipate his moves. Each time, he got closer and closer to a clear shot. He grazed a wing here, left a pockmark on the stabilizer there. The pilot began a dive, and Esks saw his opportunity. He dropped down, expecting to end up right behind the TIE.

But the TIE hadn’t dived. It had climbed. Ferran looked up just in time to see the TIE bearing down on his. He had barely enough time to cry out before the shots peppered his hull. He opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them in the first place. The windows were fogged over, but not enough that Esks couldn’t see the shuttle swelling in his front viewport. He was on a collision course.

Desperately, he tugged on the stick. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder, hitting it a few times with his fist, but it was a futile gesture. Damn that tech! He should’ve properly fixed the control stick. He would have that man executed for this when he got back. If he got back. He tried reversing the thrusters with his feet. Maybe, if he lost enough speed, the shuttle would fly harmlessly underneath him. But, with a growing horror, he realized he couldn’t even feel his feet.

He looked down, and his face contorted into a mask of shock and horror. A dark splotch of liquid was quickly widening over his abdomen, leaking onto the seats and consoles, rapidly evacuating the wounds that multiple shrapnel punctures had created. Where Esks had had legs, he now sported two charred stumps, leaking blackened, foul-smelling fluid onto the floor and into the blaster holes.

“Oh shi—” Esks collided with the shuttle at full speed, fully over a thousand kilometers per hour. The X-wing punched right through the shuttle’s armored shell, crushing the bomb within. There was a split second, a mere moment, where everything seemed to slow. The hole in the shuttle, leaking gas. The X-wing, tearing itself apart as it went through the shuttle. Debris, fire, wreckage. And then the bomb exploded. The shrapnel from the blast knocked two dozen birds out of the sky and crippled many, many more. The Leviathan’s shields barely noticed it.

* * *

Ferran shifted his feet uncomfortably. He’d never been farther than the hangars on the ship, and certainly not as far up as the command spire of the Leviathan. Involuntarily, he glanced out the window for the umpteenth time. You could see down the entire length of the Star Destroyer from there. It made Ferran feel...powerful.

Except that he wasn’t. He was being painfully reminded of how just much he wasn’t at that very moment. He resumed staring at his boots, withering under the intense gaze of the ship’s commander. He’d never even seen the captain until a few minutes ago. He sat, hands steepled, behind his desk and regarded Ferran with his deep brown eyes. Ferran still had his stolen flight suit on. His hair was tangled and he sported a fine growth of stubble on his jaw, testament to the four days he’d spent in the brig.

“What you did,” the captain began slowly, letting his words hang in the air. His voice was deep, wise almost. It commanded respect. “..was foolish. It was stupid, and it could’ve resulted in not only your death, but the death of my pilots. Not only that, but stealing Imperial property is an offense punishable by execution.”

Ferran gulped, and didn’t look up.

“On the other hand,” the captain began again. “You might very well have saved my ship, and the lives of the people on it. For that, I am in your debt.” There was a thud as something heavy hit the glass desk, and Ferran raised his head for the first time since entering the room. There was a datapad on the desk. The captain stared at Ferran levelly, and casually indicated towards the pad with his hand.

“Your new orders. I think you’ll find them...acceptable.” And with that, he gestured towards the guards. “Don’t make me regret this.” The captain said, just before Ferran was moved out into the hall. The guards took up their place on either side of the door, their white helmets giving away nothing. Ferran might as well have been alone.

He thought he should wait until he got back to his bunk before switching on the datapad, but curiosity got the best of him halfway there. He flipped it on.

//=====//
To: Engineer, Second Class Adrun Ferran
From: Naval Admissions Offices
Subject: You Acceptance into the Naval Academy

Dear Adrun Ferran,

We are pleased to announce we have considered your application for enrollment in the Abrae Naval Academy, and respect your wishes to further a career in the field of TIE Fighter Piloting and Maintenance. Commander Gage’s recommendation spoke highly of you, and we would be honored to have you amongst our ranks. We look forward to your arrival, and the start of a glorious Naval career.

Service. Fealty. Fidelity.


-Naval Board of Admissions
//======//




Chapter II

The barrel roll is a maneuver that takes your ship in a spin along the axis of the flight path. It’s basic use is to bleed speed, slowing the craft down. It can work either offensively or defensively, in roughly the same situations, depending on which end of the gun your ship happens to be on. Offensively, it can be used to slow the craft and prevent yourself from overshooting the target and entering their ‘gun envelope’, the area that they can effectively fire upon you in. Defensively, it’s used to bleed enough speed to cause the attacker to overshoot past you. It has to be timed perfectly. Too early, and the attacker has time to react and follow. Too late, and you leave yourself vulnerable to attack.

The vertical reverse is a maneuveur where you reverse. Vertically. It ends other maneuvers (any maneuver that ends in a vertical climb). You climb until you reach very low speeds and then turn around and dive back in. It’s used to disengage or reposition for an attack in the middle of a skirmish. It requires very good low-speed controllability of the craft.



Chapter III

Ferran’s Report
October 15, 2008

Activity: I joined the Navy. They gave me a free bumper sticker. And took away my life insurance, but nothing’s perfect.

Plans: Continue being in the Navy.

Suggestions/Questions: N/A

[Your ID line could be here! 555-555-5536]

(UPDATED (Now with a real ID line!!!): TRN/CRW Ferran/Sting/1/?/?/VEN/VE

Completed and sent as requested. Please be impressed.