OOC:

At 1,348 words, I'm pretty sure this post falls short of the length requirements for the Third Tier of the first Certification, so follow-up posts will be forthcoming.

Wyl Trykon gripped the control yoke of his TIE Defender and opened up the throttle, accelerating toward the distant squadron of Y-Wings entering the moon’s thin, violet-tinted atmosphere.  In moments, he was rocketing through the enemy formation with lasers and ion cannons blazing, jinking wildly to avoid the massed return fire, and then an instant later he was diving at speed for the relative protection of the rocky canyons crisscrossing the lunar surface far below.  Microseconds into the dive, though, sparks exploded all along his Defender’s port side, and both ion engines began to belch black smoke.  Trykon cut power to the engines by half, and his ship plummeted, seemingly out of control.  The New Republic pilots circled around to finish off the apparently wounded Imperial, but they had no way of knowing that beneath the covering halo of electrical discharges and thick smoke, within his TIE’s ball-shaped cockpit, hidden under his flight helmet, Wyl Trykon was smiling with predatory glee.

“That’s right,” Wyl muttered, manipulating the throttle as he stared intently at his pursuers’ signals on his rear sensors display.  “Come and get me.”  Everything was proceeding according to Trykon’s design: as he’d predicted, the Y-Wings had been loaded with bombs instead of proton torpedoes, so they were unable to destroy him at distance; his nimble, well-shielded Defender had been able to survive a single pass through the squadron of enemies; the sparklers and modified demonstration-flying smokers he’d had installed had been enough to convince the New Republic pilots that he’d been seriously hit during the brief exchange of fire; and those rebels, emboldened by their numerical superiority and eager to prove their worth by shooting down the Empire’s most advanced starfighter from the cockpit of a humble Y-Wing, had made the decision to pursue and destroy him.  They fell for the bait, Wyl thought.  Now we spring our trap.

The Kuati pilot waggled his Defender, cut his speed even more, and began bobbing as if fighting heavy turbulence.  He bled off more altitude and veered to port, aiming for the entrance to a narrow gorge carved into the rocky moon’s face.  Still leering beneath his helmet, Trykon watched as the numbers marking his distance to the nearest pursuer slowly decreased.  By the time the distance had shrunk to a single kilometer, all twelve Y-Wings had entered the trench, and the time for deception was over.  Fighting to contain his excitement, Wyl flipped the switch to disengage the sparks and smoke plumes, brought his engines back to full power, and began a lazy loop to double back on the doomed squadron of Y-Wings.

On his sensors board, back at the entrance to the gorge, three new signals winked to life: the other three members of the cruelly-named Mercy Flight had brought their engines online.  The Y-Wing pilots noticed the engine start-ups too, and for a moment they flew more or less straight and level, probably consulting with each other over the comm about the unexpected turn of events.

They didn’t have long to consult.  As Trykon completed his loop, his three comrades loosed a barrage of proton torpedoes from their Defenders’ multi-purpose launchers directly into the cluster of Y-Wings, and a moment later four of the New Republic craft exploded, one after another, the brilliant flashes visible through Trykon’s octagonal viewport.  The rebel pilots panicked, instinctively breaking in disparate directions, desperate to escape this vicious, surprising threat.

In the confusion, they seemed to forget about the Defender they’d been chasing, and when Wyl brought up his own torpedo targeting system, he got a solid tone indicating a strong lock almost immediately.  Exulting, Trykon launched a pair of torps, and watched as the projectiles streaked out and engulfed a Y-Wing in flames.  In mere seconds, the odds had changed from twelve-to-one, to seven-to-four.  And they’re about to change even more, Wyl thought, switching back to his lasers and setting up for a deflection shot on the nearest enemy.

But before Trykon could get the angle right, his rebel opponent got a bead on him with his turreted ion cannon, and cerulean lighting lanced out from the Y-Wing and struck the Defender’s forward shield.  The power drain was substantial, but not enough to collapse the shield entirely.  The Kuati pilot let out a choked sound that was half laugh, half snarl, and with a jerk on the yoke he tightened his roll enough to get the proper angle: four green blaster bolts shot out from his wingtip cannons, and converged with deadly precision in the center of the Y-Wing, just behind the offending ion turret.  The older fighter’s shields were much less resilient than the Defender’s, and when Trykon’s second volley hit, the quad blast hit the Y-Wing’s hull directly, and the craft disintegrated.  Shreds of shrapnel and large chunks of debris rained down to the ravine’s floor, and after he’d passed Wyl heard the sound of an explosion behind him as the rebel’s load of proton bombs detonated on impact with the ground.

Trykon glanced at his sensors display: the only two remaining enemies were now behind him, fleeing at their pathetically slow top speed, while the other three Mercies were just ahead of him, their Defenders reading as undamaged.  He banked hard to starboard, and brought up his torpedo targeting again.  “Mercy One to Mercy Flight,” Wyl said into the comm.  “Form up on me, and we’ll finish this.”

“As ordered, Lead,” Artur Phylas said, his voice strong and even.  He and the other two junior members of Mercy Flight leveled out and assumed escort positions to either side of Wyl’s personal craft, the black-painted Revenant.  “But, Leader, we’ve each got four this time around, and you only have two so far.  Seeing as how you planned this little operation, it seems only fair to let you have these last two.”  Wyl could imagine Art’s grin as the younger man continued: “We’re formed up on you, sir, and you'll finish this.”

The same solid tone was sounding in Trykon’s helmet, but despite the good torpedo lock, he hesitated.  The exhilaration he’d felt earlier and the pride he’d had in planning the mission were gone, replaced by a sick, sinking sensation in his gut.  He didn’t feel particularly valiant or clever anymore, not while locking onto a pair of beaten, retreating, largely defenseless fellow pilots – even if they were enemy pilots.

“Leader, this is Mercy Two.  You’re clear to take the shots,” Phylas said, his tone neutral.  But, even through the distortion on the comm channel, Wyl imagined he could detect a hint of impatience in the younger man’s voice.

Trykon clenched his jaw, and nodded.  “This is what you wanted,” he whispered to himself.  He launched his ordinance, and the two orbs of destructive energy sped out towards the New Republic ships.

Wyl watched as the ungainly fighter-bombers tried one last, hopeless evasive maneuver, crossing flight paths in a vain attempt to confuse the torpedoes’ guidance systems.  He winced when the gambit failed, and both Y-Wings – and their pilots – were vaporized.

Laughter and congratulations poured in over the comm, but Wyl Trykon didn’t join the celebratory banter.  Instead, he checked over the Revenant’s systems in silence, and busied himself with the astrogation computer.  When the coordinates were ready for the jump to hyperspace, he finally made contact with the rest of Mercy Flight: “Well done, Mercies,” he said, “but it’s time we were moving on.  This little ambush went as well as we dared hope, but we still need to make our way back to Vast Imperial space, and there’re a lot of bad guys between here and there.  I’m feeding you the numbers for our first jump now.”  He took a breath, inhaling the familiar odor of plastic and sweat that seemed to pervade his helmet on long missions, and blew it out.  “I’ll see you on the other side.”

The four TIE Defenders of Mercy Flight shuddered with pseudo-motion, and suddenly vanished into hyperspace, leaving the remnants of twelve Y-Wing starfighters strewn across the surface of a violet-hued minor satellite of a thoroughly unimportant world.

OOC:

Stay tuned for the (hopefully) thrilling conclusion to Mercy Flight's raid against New Republic forces, when "Defenders of the Empire" continues!

From Wyl Trykon’s perspective, he’d only just closed his eyes, but the alarm blaring in his TIE Defender’s cockpit was insistent – it was time for him to wake up again, and land on Cerea for refueling.  But as his eyelids fluttered open, Wyl saw that the hyperdrive’s built-in countdown still showed almost fifteen minutes before the scheduled reversion to realspace, and with a mounting sense of dread he realized that the sound he was hearing wasn’t the alarm he’d programmed to wake him up near the end of the hyperspace run: it was the alert klaxon which warned of an emergency cut-off of the hyperdrive system.

He snapped to full consciousness just as the Revenant and the other TIE Defenders of Mercy Flight burst through an incandescent white wall and reentered realspace in the far outer reaches of the Cerean System…

…and found themselves directly in the flight path of an Immobilizer 418 Interdictor-class Cruiser.

Trykon cursed softly in Kuati.  The big ship was a Sienar Fleet Systems design which echoed the dagger-like shape of KDY-built Imperial Star Destroyers, albeit on a smaller scale, but with the addition of four large, unsightly globes arranged along the triangular hull; these globes housed the vessel’s quartet of gravity well projectors, designed to pull ships from hyperspace and prevent them from escaping.

Just like they’ve done to us, Wyl reflected.

“Alright, Mercies, shields up, and power up your launchers,” Artur Phylas said over the comm.  “They’re not going to get us without a fight.”

Wyl shunted power to his forward shield and keyed his comm to give the attack order, but he hesitated when he noticed a slight muscle tremor in his right hand, and then saw some of the numbers displayed on his heads-up display.  I’ve been in combat for two weeks straight, for all intents and purposes, he thought, and so have the others.  We’re exhausted, and almost out of torpedoes, and critically low on fuel.  He shook his head, staring at the display.  Not exactly the best time for four starfighter pilots – even in TIE Defenders – to take on a hostile cruiser.

“Mercy Flight, this is Mercy One,” Wyl said.  “We’re not here to fight Moff Bairn’s people.”  He left his concerns about their combat readiness unspoken.  “But there are alternatives to fighting.  Execute a single Diamond Parade Formation on me, and follow my lead; let’s see if we can’t brazen our way out of this.”

“If we try that and it doesn’t work, we’re gonna be awful close to that ship – and its guns – when the shooting starts,” Phylas’s voice came back, even as his stock TIE Defender formed up on the starboard wing of Trykon’s personal craft, the black-painted Revenant.

“Then I guess we’d better hope it does work,” Wyl said dryly, and the other members of the flight slid into their positions behind and to the left of his fighter, completing the demonstration formation.

“Right,” Phylas said.

Mercy Flight streaked in towards the capital ship in perfect synchronization, and it was clear from their silence that Moff Bairn’s followers didn’t quite know what to make of the four starfighters.

Well, it’s time to suggest to them what they should make of us, Wyl grinned.  After all, we wouldn’t want them to be confused, now, would we?

The Kuat-born pilot squared his shoulders and raised his head, adopting an especially self-important tone of voice – the body language, attitude, cadence, and inflection of the Kuati aristocracy – as he hailed the Interdictor: “Imperial Naval Cruiser, you are interfering with an operation of the Kuati Loyalist Militia.  As a fellow warrior for the Empire, we are bemused by your honest mistake, but as the Master of the Kanu, we are most heartily displeased by this interruption.  Kindly power down your gravity well projectors so that we – and our companions – may continue on our errand.”

A silence followed.  The Kuati couldn’t decide if the duty communications crewer on the Interdictor wasn’t buying his act, or was just confused by his use of the majestic plural, but either way, the big ship’s anti-fighter gunners would have him and the other Mercies in range in another twenty seconds.  Stop worrying, Wyl told himself.  If they were going to fight they’d already have opened up with their turbolaser batteries.  Probably.

“Unidentified TIE Defender Flight,” the communications crewer finally responded, his youthful voice steady, but with an undeniable undercurrent of incredulousness, as if he couldn’t quite believe that four starfighters – no matter what particular model they might be, and no matter who was piloting them – would actually challenge a capital ship.  “You will alter course and proceed to the main hangar, where your identity will be confirmed and your purpose in Imperial space ascertained.  Stand by for tractor beam.”

Wyl cursed again under his breath.  There was no way he could comply with that order, and live – even if he’d thought he could fool Moff Cairn’s crewers face to face, in his personal TIE jumpsuit and with his well-documented past as a VIP in the Imperial regime on Kuat, all of the other Mercies were wearing VE-standard flight gear.  The second Moff Cairn’s people saw their rival faction’s uniforms, the game would be up.

The solution which occurred to him was simple, and Wyl smiled under his helmet as he activated the holo-communicator.  The image of a brown-haired young human bearing the insignia of an Ensign glowed to life in Wyl’s cockpit, just as his own image was beamed to the Interdictor’s bridge.

“There is no need for our person to come aboard your vessel, Ensign,” Wyl said acidly.  “Holo communications will be quite sufficient for any interview.”

The Ensign looked confused, and turned to face away from the holo camera for a moment, his expression questioning.  Abruptly, he nodded, turned back to face Wyl, and announced without preamble: “The Captain.”

A new form materialized in the holo image: a grey-haired, broad-chested man with a captain’s rank plate.  He was frowning.

“Who in the hell are you?” the captain of the Interdictor asked pointedly.

“We are Wyl Trykon, Master of the Kanu Family and Commodore of the Kuati Loyalist Militia,” Wyl said, laying a gloved hand over his heart in the genteel salute of the paramilitary organization he hadn’t actually worked for in over a year.  “We and our companions are completing a hyperspace navigation exercise.  An exercise,” he continued, injected a hint of impatience into his voice, “which you have interrupted.”

The captain’s holo image raised an eyebrow, and Wyl glanced out the viewport.  The Defenders had actually passed the cruiser’s line of flight.  If they could just maintain the charade for a minute longer, they’d be beyond the mass shadow and could hyper away, deeper into the system.

The captain’s response drew Wyl’s attention back into the cockpit.  “An ally should be more understanding,” the grey-haired man said carefully, his eyebrows furrowing in another frown.

Wyl released a snort of contempt.  “I understand that you are doing your duty for the Empire, captain,” he said dismissively.  “Now kindly let us do ours.  Surely your computer records have confirmed our identity by now?  We are Wyl Trykon,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child.  “As a Commodore we outrank you, and as Master of the Kanu we and our business are quite frankly beyond your pay grade.”  He shrugged, as if to add, “the truth hurts.”

It was clear from the captain’s expression that their databases had identified Trykon as a VIP in the Kuati government-in-exile, and clearer still that the old man would nonetheless like nothing more than to incinerate the arrogant little aristocrat on the spot.  His jaw muscles tightened, but all he said was, “Moff Bairn has always had the greatest respect for the Kuati patriot movement.  You and your flight may continue your exercise, Commodore.”  He did not salute.  “I would suggest, however, that you restrict your ‘operations’ in this sector in the future.  Some of us are actually fighting a war, and I can’t guarantee our own duties won’t cause you more… inconveniences.”  His eyes flashed with contempt, and the holo image dissolved.

Wyl exhaled heavily.  “Mercy Flight, prepare to re-enter hyperspace, refuel on Cerea, and get back home.”

“You heard the Commodore,” Artur Phylas said happily, and Wyl rolled his eyes.  The others double-clicked their comms in acknowledgement, and the four Vast Imperial TIE Defenders disappeared once again into hyperspace, their bamboozled enemies glowering impotently behind them.

OOC:

Okay.  This post's 1,412 words, and wraps up the story for the third tier of my first certification: Top Gun.  In total, the story was 3,929 words. 

Forgot about the rank bump.  I think everything's updated now.