The Defiance had exited the Imperial Dominion system along with everyone else, with only minor hull injuries that were quickly repaired. For his actions in communication, Petty Officer Robert Dixon had been given a commendation, as well as a field promotion to Petty Officer 1st Class. But that was the end of the excitement. Around the ship, there was silence, with only the occasional clang of metal pans from the galley, or footsteps as CO Ensign Mike Flynn paced about the bridge, waiting for the order to jump to hyperspace. Even after it came, and they were more than halfway back to the Sollamens, Flynn sill wasn’t sure what to make of the underhanded tactics of the Imperial Dominion. Sure, it had worked. But it had to rely on something that the Dominion had that the Vast Empire didn’t. But what was it? Before the skipper could ponder anymore, a shout broke the silence, announcing the imminent arrival at the second battle.

Initially, it went well for the small crew aboard the CR90 corvette. With comms, sensors, and targeting systems all online, the gunners made light work of the enemy starfighters and bombers, keeping them from swarming over the larger capital ships. The Defiance was given barely a scratch by the opposition, with the only major problem being a hull breach from the previous encounter being opened up again by a chance shot from an enemy frigate. However, once the pulsar went back into its active phase, things started to break down: but the disruption was only minor. This time, they were prepared. This time, they were ready. This time, they would win.

“RO, anything on the infrared?”
“No, sir, just a …” Petty Officer Dixon stopped, and listened as new orders came over the flash code, “Sir! An enemy corvette is giving the Adj some grief. We’ve been asked to assist.”
“Thank you, RO. XO! Did you hear that?”
“Aye, sir,” came the reply from the XO, CWO Kate McGregor, who was standing at the other end of the bridge, co-ordinating the lookouts. She turned to them now, “Alright you lot, listen up! Where’s the Adj?”
“There, XO,” pointed one of the lookouts.
“Nav?” asked Flynn, referring to his navigator, Petty Officer Nikki Caetano.
“Got it, sir. Helm: come port 10 degrees.”
“Port, 10 degrees, aye,” replied the helmsman.

The corvette banked slowly, and angled towards the Adjudicator, her flank being pounded by a slightly larger corvette than the Defiance. Flynn ordered that the ship be taken in slowly, so as not to give away its intentions. Meanwhile, he sent a message, via runner, to Senior Crewman Josh Holliday, who was in charge of missile control, and ordered that he fire concussion missiles as soon as they were in range. The same message was given to the gunners.

Less than a minute later, four missiles streamed from their firing tubes, and flew through space towards the enemy vessel. Seconds later, they were followed by turbolaser fire from one of the dorsal turrets. Explosions rocked the Imperial Dominion craft, as the missiles momentarily disabled the shields, overloading them. The turbolaser fire then raked the hull, tearing chunks out of the armour, before the shields regenerated, absorbing the fire. Slowly, the Defiance lured the vessel out from behind the Adjudicator, and drew its fire, allowing Captain Trykon’s ship to extract her revenge, heavy turbolaser turrets scoring a direct hit on the Imperial Dominion corvette’s bridge, putting it out of action.

Now, the Defiance was ordered, via the flash code, to proceed to Gwadd LK Nale, and assist the forces stationed there. It would take at least ten minutes to arrive at the asteroid. Even as the marines checked over their kit, and the dorsal turrets swivelled in their sockets, CO Mike Flynn knew that in ten minutes, anything could change ...

OOC:

WC: 639. Much shorter than I'd have liked, but I ran out of things to say ...

AAR: Defiance assists the Adjudicator in blowing up an unnamed ID corvette. It then proceeds to head towards Gwadd LK Nale, to assist. However, the estimated travel time is 10 mins, and in battle, anything can change in less time.

OOC:

Post #1, of 3.  Trykon/VE POV.

Captain Wyl Trykon stood toward the back of the command bridge of his flagship, the Imperial II-class Star Destroyer Adjudicator, and watched the tactical hologram intently.  The shimmering constellation of glowing, ever so slightly moving lights hovered over the deck, abstracting the vast three-dimensional battlefield of the Sollamens Asteroids into an easy-to-understand, color-coded facsimile.  And with Commander Zhar Bacredi coordinating the Adjudicator’s weapons crews from up toward the bow, Trykon could focus on directing the other ships of the Second Vast Imperial Fleet.

“Champion shouldn’t be that far forward,” Trykon murmured, half to himself, and behind him a communications technician raised one hand to indicate to his teammates that he’d heard Trykon’s statement and was taking responsibility for relaying whatever order was about to come.  Trykon nodded absently, and turned to the tech: “Tell Captain Dezeray to slow down, and order Marvelous and Superb forward for support,” he said, and the young Human male excused himself to go transmit the message to the three warships his Kuati captain had named.  Instantly, a Gran Petty Officer moved forward to take the vacant place behind Trykon.

The Kuati couldn’t help but admire his crew’s efficiency, as the Gran stood patiently, waiting for the Chief of Naval Warfare to give another order.  But even as he felt pride swell in his chest, Trykon felt a stab of self-recrimination: for as well as the Second Fleet was performing, he couldn’t help but remember how badly they had been beaten just a few hours before.

With an effort, the thirty year old veteran pushed his rising emotions back down.  There would be time to process his feelings – and objectively analyze the first engagement – later.  At the moment, it was more important that he win the second engagement, which was still playing out before his eyes.

So far, so good, Trykon thought to himself, as he watched another Imperial Dominion icon vanish from the tactical holo, indicating another destroyed enemy ship.  The Dominion fleet was trapped between the advancing VE forces and the bulk of the huge asteroid, Gwodd LK nale, where their landing ships were attempting to secure a landing zone for their counterinvasion.  They had to hold position and protect their landing, forcing the two sides into a head-to-head slugging match.

And while both fleets were comprised of roughly the same number of ships, the balance of power was clearly in the Vast Empire’s favor.  Despite the loss of the Dreadnaught-class Peremptory and several support craft in the earlier ambush, the Second Fleet still outgunned the enemy, and they were outperforming them too: as Trykon watched, dozens of Dominion starfighters blinked out of existence, and yet another Dominion light cruiser was forced to fall back under withering fire.  The ID forces were a mismatched mélange of aging weapons systems, and their crews were nowhere near as experienced as the battle-hardened Vast Imperial veterans.  In a straight fight like the one they now faced, the Dominion reservists could do little more than die, by the thousands.

Still, the earlier action had reminded Wyl Trykon not to take anything for granted.  He knew that once the Sollamens Pulsar entered another period of increased radiation output, the combat effectiveness of his people – especially the combat effectiveness of his starfighter pilots – would drop dramatically.  And he knew that his counterpart in the Dominion Navy was anything but stupid.  The battle was going well, true enough, but nothing was certain.

But I know something else, too, Trykon thought to himself as a grin spread across his features, unbidden.  I know that this time, we’re ready for the blackout.

“Initiate new communications and targeting protocols, now,” Trykon said loudly, without warning.  The Gran spread the word, and the Adjudicator quickly readied herself to be able to see and hear and talk, despite being about to become blind and deaf and mute.  The tactical hologram was turned off, and the low-tech battle board was set-up.  Three times as many communications techs as usual swarmed into the comms foyer, and they all logged in to various terminals, ready to coordinate the coming mass of signals, both along the ship’s internal wiring, and across space via straight-line point-to-point infrared flash code.  Throughout the ship, spotters assumed their stations at hundreds of viewports, ready to report enemy positions to the bridge.

The switch took a little over a minute to complete.  Then, ten seconds after the ship was fully changed over, the pulsar flashed, and the few technicians still monitoring standard communications channels ripped off their headsets, grimacing at the sudden loud burst of static.  But in the eerily bright light that shone in from the pulsar, the Adjudicator’s bridge crew could see Trykon, smiling: he looked positively predatory.  Other grins broke out, all around.  “Just like we planned, gentlebeings,” Trykon said, almost merrily.  “Reminder to all ships, our first target will be the Virulent!”

OOC:

811 words.  As noted above, I plan on doing another 2 posts covering these moments in time and a little after, only from other perspectives.

AAR: Trykon orders the Adjudicator to switch over to the new communications and targeting protocols before the pulsar starts acting up again.  Then when it does, he seems sure of victory, and his confidence bolsters the morale of the bridge crew.

The first target after the pulsar goes active: the Dominion ISD Virulent.  My next post will specify exactly what "target" means, in this context.

There had been a time when Thatcher had been ordered to go on a mission that he had a terrible feeling about. He hadn’t been the only one either. Most of the members of the Chimera unit had said that the mission was an absolute suicide. Yet, they had been given no choice but to carry out their orders. And they had paid dearly for it.

At the time, he had made it look as if he agreed with their pirate overlord, but in reality, he had an inkling that no one was going to come back alive. Makenna had thought him crazy to have played his cards that way, and he imagined she would hate him if she knew what his true thoughts were. But sometimes sacrifices had to be made. And sometimes vengeance was too tempting, even for him.

And now, sitting inside his TIE Interceptor, Thatcher could feel that same sense of doom preceding him. Sure, the first battle on Gwodd LK Nale had felt chaotic and disastrous, but this second battle felt somehow worse. Even with news that the Second Fleet had come back, he could not make himself feel safe. First, it was war. Second, they hadn’t won yet. Third... he couldn’t explain the third.

“Sturmwind!” the comms had decayed into static just in time for his call to his squadron mate to be cut off. Thatcher cursed. He was blind again, and if he was blind, so was everyone else. The pulsar must be active. Of course we couldn’t expect them to attack when we could win easily. He diverted energy to weapons and broke off formation to engage the fighter behind Sturm who wasn’t breaking formation. No doubt the ID fighter had aligned himself just in time with the pulsar’s active phase. However, Thatcher could play that game too. When Strill had battled them last time, it became obvious that the ID fighters didn’t have any way around the static from the pulsar. That meant they were at just as much of a disadvantage even if they had trained more than the VEN pilots.

Once he had a lock on, Thatcher began firing. The ID TIE took one hit before realizing it was being followed. It swerved off to the left and began firing at Sturm at the same time, causing the Strill pilot to start into evasive maneuvers. Oh here we go. Thatcher thought as Sturm pulled away and the ID pilot chased after him with Thatcher in hot pursuit. The three fighters took their battle away from the strafing Strill pilots. At least he’s smart enough to get us out of the hot spot.

Just then the ID pilot spun off to the side and began to decelerate. Thatcher cursed, trying to figure the best way out of the situation. Just as the ID TIE was beginning to settle in behind him, Thatcher began turning, hoping the fighter would follow on the outside. Then he braked and rolled, coming up behind the TIE, but he wasn’t about to fall for Thatcher’s maneuver. Instead he descended towards the asteroid, letting the change in elevation affect his speed. Thatcher wouldn’t let him get away with it though and just as he exited the roll, he descended after the TIE, all the while hovering over the buttons for his quad cannons.

Just as he got a lock on, he began to fire. None of the shots hit though as the ID fighter suddenly veered off to the right. You just don’t want to be pinned by the Strill do you? he thought as he followed after it.

That was a mistake. Thatcher realized all too late that he had been led awfully close to the ground at the same level that the Strill pilots had been strafing. Not only that but the ID TIE had fallen in behind a formation of some other ID TIEs heading straight towards the flight of Interceptors. And as Thatcher saw the entire trap laid out for him, he also saw that he didn’t have enough time to react.

The Strill pilots began firing. The ID fighters were either destroyed or broke off formation. Thatcher made the best use of his situation by ganging up on the TIE in front of him which couldn’t take the pressure and finally broke apart. However, Thatcher was still in the midst of the ID formation, and, to Strill, he would look like the enemy.

Sure enough, as he tried to pull away, the Strill pilots ganged up on him. First his shields failed, then his wing was hit. In the chaos of the situation, they weren’t paying attention to the fact that he was a slightly different color than the others. But he had to do something or else he was going to die by the hands of his squadron mates. His mind raced but he could think of nothing to do except to fire at nothing, so he did.

Whether the Strill pilots were still following him or some ID fighters were now on his tail, it didn’t matter. His fighter couldn’t handle the pressure much longer. At this low altitude, ejecting would probably be suicide. The only option he had besides getting hit and crash landing was to land right then and there. Thatcher sucked in a breath as he looked around. He found a patch of ground he could land on and pushed his fighter towards it, all the while aware that someone was still shooting at him from behind.

He braked suddenly as he reached his destination. The fighter from behind him sailed past just as he landed. However, it was coming around fast, probably intending to make sure the fighter would never take to the air again. Thatcher quickly shut everything down and opened the cockpit. If he was near the fighter when it blew...

But a man was no match for the speed of a TIE. As Thatcher jumped out of the cockpit, the ID TIE came in and blasted it to hell.

OOC:

WC: 1,007

AAR: Thatcher chases the ID TIE on Sturm's tail but the ID fighter is not keen on being Thatcher's prey. As the first attempt at getting behind Thatcher fails, the TIE brings him into a trap. Consequently, some of the Strill pilots confuse Thatcher as the enemy and try to shoot him down. Thatcher manages to get away and lands, only to jump out of the cockpit in time for his fighter to be blown to pieces.

Following the Interceptor through a slow port turn designed to get the general feel of the battle he reached up and keyed the inertial dampeners down another notch. He was sure by now the pilot in front of him was the enemy. He also knew that pilot did not know who he really was.

Some time ago he had found himself in the middle of an enemy squadron and going against his better judgment decided to join them. Their maneuvers seemed complex till you began to understand their thinking. He doubted many of them had been together for long. A bit longer than Strill but with less experienced leaders. The pilot in front of him acted like he was at least a flight lead or someone who had been in the cockpit for a long time.

“Well, time to blow my cover.” He said to the silent communications system. Bringing back his throttle slowly he dropped in behind the enemy craft and gently squeezed the dual triggers. His cannons set on stutter fire, a modification this Interceptor remarkably had, traced the outline of the Interceptors shields before punching through the starboard solar wing. Tapping the port rudder he let the cannons rip through the cockpit before going into a steep dive.

He did not stay to watch the last moments of the Imperial Dominion pilot. He did let himself wonder for a moment if the pilot had a family back home. If they had someone waiting for them looking to the skies for a shuttle to deliver them home. He knew the information available for the Dominion was doctored in a way to make them seem like a truly evil force. Two years ago he would of cared. Right now though all he cared about was his squadron. The ones still in the black Interceptors had an edge.

The limited time they had worked together was a good thing right now. Most of them were still use to flying solo so it had saved them a high death count. Their ability to raise their kill count was questionable though. New tactics had to be thought up on the fly without communications or a wingman they knew would be there. Right now the only person you could count on was yourself.

He knew some of his squadron was working together. A few of them had found out a way to stick together and protect each other. However with his enemy Interceptor he was only a target for them now. With no communications and no friend or foe system active you had only your judgement to rely on. He had been shot at by more than one black Interceptor.

“Well new rule for my book. No pulsars with stupid abilities. However number one is still no space stations. Between zombies, flesh eating bacteria that was resistant to most everything and ate through armor, some type of airborne contagion that could cause random mutations, and then to top it lupine wavelength haemovariforms. I am done with space stations.” He muttered to the open empty comm link.


Cursing to himself he felt his fighter shudder as his rear shields took a hit. Pulling hard on the stick he dropped his throttle to nothing. Flipping his fighter over he shot at an Interceptor behind him but stopped, rocked his wings and dove away. The craft was pure black with all lights off. Hopefully they would get the message and not follow him again. A few moments later he saw quad-laser bolts fly past his fighter.

“Seriously?” Joamer shouted to one of his pilots. “Fine then, let’s see you keep up.” Diving his craft he went to full throttle and shot straight toward the ground of Gwodd LK Nale. A single laser bolt answered his earlier question as the black Interceptor caught up. “Someone remind me to not train you fekkiks such stupid tactics!”

“Well, if you are as fahrbot as me you’ll fall for this one.” He said as he watched the ground rapidly approach. “I really hope the last technician tuned you up.” He said to his Interceptor. Glancing at the indicator showing his height he cursed.

“This is a stupid idea.” Bringing his throttle to nothing he keyed his repulsorlifts for full upward thrust as he pushed his yoke all the way forward. The old pilot in him screamed for what he was doing to his craft. He could hear stress points snapping as the Interceptor flipped upside down and then begun fighting inertia as the repulsorlifts tried to keep the top of her solar-wings from digging into the ground. “Come on you fraking piece of space junk! Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.” He shouted as he watched the ground move past inches from his top hatch. He felt the repulsorlifts beat inertia finally as he begun to gain atmosphere.

Flipping his fighter over he scanned the skies for his wayward pilot. Then scanned the area around him for a downed fighter. Looking over he cursed as the black Interceptor settled in beside him in formation. The pilot rocked their wings briefly before breaking to starboard and away from Joamer.

“Yeap, I’m getting way too old for this.” He said as he checked his instruments and edged his fighter around towards the main battle.

OOC:

WC-877. Joamer talks to himself about his fear of space stations and now pulsars with stupid abilities. He also decided to use a very stupid tactic to get rid of one of his own squadron that was actively trying to kill him. Also, we just tied.

Explosions still raged here and there; faint rumbling thunder reminiscent of the battles he had experienced as  he was a young adult - though Hades realised now that he had been a child. He breathed the night air in.. crisp, cool oxygen touching his lungs. Twin green eyes gazed out at the fires that raged throughout Tilsecara Prime; the main city was alight in too many places to count. Sure enough, Karstok's death was the turning point and forced his armies into a crushing surrender, one that saved the rebellion a lot of men.. not that he cared. The light of the fires flickered in the now semi-destroyed mansion, casting shadows that seemed all too alive, sending the darkness shivering this way and that as the temperature of the once heated mansion now dropped, multiple holes in the windows and walls as well as the dismantled power source meaning it would not be warm for much longer. Hades didn't care about that, either.

"We're done here," Grey remarked coolly, "We're leaving."

"We are." The distinction was necessary.. Had he said 'I am', it would have suggested that he and his ulterior motives were finished with this forsaken hole of a world, one that so desperately wanted to be great, following in the footsteps of Coruscant, Taris, all those worlds that boasted of economic power and modern technology.. But this planet, home of the ID, would never be as great as those city-planets. Corrupted by poor rulers and officials, seeking personal wealth and glory, a return to the old ways of the Empire with their own 'smart' changes, this planet had not stood a chance. It was sad; it would have been nice to see it before it had been corrupted. The Ensign turned from the window, following Grey out.. The rest of the VENI team was up ahead.

"Bring up the rear," Grey barked. They didn't care who was installed as the next leader. They didn't care that the trio of rebel leaders would more like than not dissolve into a multitude of varying disputes and bickering. They had been sent to kill Karstok by whatever means necessary.. a goal that had been too readily accomplished. Hades acknowledged Grey's order by slowing his pace somewhat, falling some 20 paces behind the equally ranked but more important VENI agent. It was too easy. There were stairs to descend, corners and twists to go through before the team had transport again.. but it was almost as soon as they descended the palace steps that he slunk into the shadows. True enough, he had been lying to Grey. He could not trust her. He could not trust Captain Grey either. He couldn't trust anyone but himself.. at least not with what he was about to do. What the other VENI agents hadn't noticed when routing through Karstok's chambers for valuable information was that Hades himself had found some information - a communique between Karstok and the hated nemesis of Tuk'ata.. Okyr Vrail.

Karstok and Vrail had been plotting to leave Tilsecara if they received news of a fleet-wide loss. Now that Karstok was dead and Vrail knew it, the latter would attempt to carry out plans they had made for a less dire circumstance. The one thing neither of them had counted on was Hades.. Vrail needed to die. Vrail would die. "Hades!" Grey's voice barked over the comm, "Sitrep-" She dissolved into static as his gloved hand came down on the comm unit. He would kill Okyr Vrail and he would take his vengeance. It was remarkable, really.. he had managed to keep his calm, to keep a cool eye focused on the death of Vrail throughout his short sojourn on the capital, a prime example of.. well, multi-tasking. Now it was time. It took him around half an hour to locate Vrail's temporary headquarters, another ten minutes to determine how long ago he had left and in which direction.. From there it was too easy for one of his talents.

He was careful to avoid joyous rebel bands, slipping into dark alley-ways and onto the rooftops to keep out of their way. He had found that civilians with guns and a fire of rebellion in their heart to be as volatile a mix as fuel and fire. It seemed there was one point that had remained largely untouched by the fighting, a strange fact considering that it was a landing pad and thus it was the prime target for a first-strike.. at least to  Hades. Funnily enough, the rebel forces had ignored it until now. As Hades drew ever closer to his violent purpose, the sounds of blasterfire grew louder. A boom here and there indicated there were still one or two loyal tank-operators in the city, said tank-operators holding to line at the outskirts of this landing zone. It wouldn't be long now until they too burned in the fires that consumed the rest of Tilsecara's former ruling party. Hades didn't care about that either. World changing events, political landscapes shifting, oscillating as if the very tendrils and webs cast by politicians and faction leaders themselves were living, breathing, manipulating entities... yet Hades disregarded them completely. He had one purpose in his mind and while coolly composed about his deadly purpose, his composure was single-minded.

Over the rooftops he went until he reached the very edge of the landing zone. It was as close as he could get; from here the young VENI agent would have to find his own way, a trail-blazing event so-to-speak. The turn of phrase quirked Hades' fine black brow as his eyes alighted on the  line of flammable fuel tanks close - almost too close - to a hungry fire at the edge of the landing zone. A grin crossed the green-eyed human's features, predatory gaze flickering between the perimeter guards and the tanks. One shot..

He dropped into a crouch, sighted the nearest container and with a light amount of pressure squeezed the trigger on his re-purposed sniper rifle. Of course, being Hades, it had to be silenced. The silencer too had been re-purposed - meaning it was not his. A small smile spread across the VENI agent's features as the former grin faded. "Boom," he whispered as he watched the fireworks. The perimeter guards all headed for the one explosion.. Sloppy. He sighted the nearest guard with an intake of breath. Thwap. He fell, red splatter complimenting Hades' accuracy. Thwap, thwap thwap. Three more casualties. They hadn't realised yet how their comrades were dying. When they did, it'd be too late. They turned, realisation on their petty faces. A disgusted expression graced Hades' own face. Meat for the grinder, he thought, almost sad at the waste of human resources. Not that he cared for that either.

A few more shots saw the last of the guards downed, the tanks defending the LZ from impending rebel assault completely oblivious for the next few minutes while they were pounded by rebel forces. Hades slid down a drainpipe and made his way across open ground cautiously; he'd beaten Vrail here, it seemed.  A lambda shuttle lay in the middle of the field, grey paint unmarked by the conflict. It was a stark contrast with the damage done to the city and the dead guards nearby. They had fallen out of sight, though.. as per his design. Up the ramp he went and not a moment too soon. As he ducked behind some boxes in the hold, the sound of boots and voices alike told him there were others coming. His skin went colder than before, his eyes hardening from the amused gems into twin emerald fires. Vrail, he recognised the voice.

Listening carefully,  Hades heard three separate voices and three pairs of boots. Easy. The ramp closed with a hiss.. "..frakking Karstok lost his mind." Vrail told one of the other voices.

"As did half the city, mind you. The rebels didn't start all by themselves." It sounded weathered, grizzled.  A veteran, most likely, perhaps even Vrail's second in command on the ground.

"No, they did."  Vrail murmured in return, "It was VENI who stirred the fire, though."

"I told you to kill that agent."

"We don't know that he was here." Vrail responded, ever the logical one,

"Cut the crap. You got a  hunch and I got a hunch. He's here, or I'm just old." Vrail obviously did not get the joke, as the voice felt the need to explain. "Old people hunch."

A moment of silence. "Well, get up to the cockpit Lieutenant," Vrail told someone who was probably the pilot. "We need to leave soon." One set of boots faded.

"He was here, next time you come across him, you kill him for good!" the voice snapped,

"Let me remind you of your place, Captain.." The man was obviously a Captain in the ground forces rank chart, otherwise he w ould have outranked Commander Vrail. "You are my advisor on all matters pertaining to ground warfare.. not superstition, or who I should and should not kill."

"See, this is what VENI wants. It wants people like us to fight. United we stand-"

"-and divided you fall." Hades remarked icily as he appeared out of the shadows, silenced blaster raised. His green eyes regarded the two men, "Nice to see you again, Commander."

"What did I tell you-" The Captain was cut off mid sentence as Hades jerked his aim from Vrail to the other man, firing a single shot before steadying his aim back on Vrail.

"He did warn you." Hades ceded the now dead man. Vrail just looked from the smoking barrel to the blood on the floor, stunned by the events. It was then the pilot took off, the whine of repulsorlifts Hades' only warning as he was shifted slightly off balance... but it was enough. Vrail moved like lightning, a testament to special-forces training Hades had not known he possessed. The blaster went scattering as a lance of pain shot through Hades' back as it impacted the shuttle wall. Another shift of gravity saw the fight turn in his favour, falling on top of Vrail as the other man hit the cold hard floor. A fist that Hades didn't recognise as his own pounded into Vrail's helmetless face, blood coming from his jaw as teeth were knocked loose.

Vrail retaliated with a wide swing from below, easily blocked by raised elbows. Hades pulled the man up slightly, slamming him back down on the metal floor once, twice, three times, disorienting Vrail and hurting him - a lot. Still he did not give up. A lucky blow toppled Hades from his superior position and both men struggled to get up. Through the moving shuttle, both men managed to get to their feet, circling like gladiators. "I knew I'd get to kill you," Vrail laughed, blood dripping from his mouth as the stoic Hades merely glared in response. "Cat got your tongu-?" The question was cut off by a razor-sharp, high speed attack from Hades, right fist zooming forward in a jab, deflected only by a late block. The follow up blow slammed through the block, cracking cartilage as it impacted Vrail's nose. The officer howled in pain, blue eyes blazing as blood now poured from his nose, stumbling back and tripping over a smaller crate strewn across the floor by their fight.

Hades backed away, seemingly discouraged by the man's fall. But nothing was as it seemed in this game of deception, and Hades' retreat quickly came to fruition as his boot bumped against the dropped blaster. He scooped it up with ease and leveled it at Vrail, the latter still getting back to his feet. Okyr let out a short sharp laugh, "You won't kill me. You're too much of a goody two-shoes. A cookie-cutter example of the VEN's officer corps. How would murder look on your record?"

"I don't know. How did it look on yours?" Demetrius queried apathetically. Vrail seemed suitably chastened, falling silent as his baleful eyes regarded the man who now held the gun - literally and metaphorically.

"You going to talk me to death?"

"Tempting." Hades remarked, a sly smile crossing his features.. a sick smile? Reading the sign above where Vrail now stood, Hades continued, "Please stand clear," He read.

"Wha-" Hades fired into the ramp control and the hydraulic contraption sprung open, Vrail losing his foothold and slipping away into the atmosphere. Cold air rushed in as Vrail rushed out, the upper reaches of the atmosphere telling him he was too close to space to try that again. He quickly moved to the cockpit, the pilot, obviously expecting Vrail, let out a short stutter before he too was silenced by a shot. Hades guided the shuttle back into the atmosphere.

He had memorised the coordinates, and they served him well. Soon enough he found the hole in the ground where VENI had stashed its shuttle. He landed a few hundred meters away, enough to mask the sound of his repulsors. Once a touch down was clear, he overloaded the power core of the old Lambda and loped away from the doomed shuttle, finding his way carefully and cautiously down the slope. The VENI shuttle was still there, unchanged, unmoved and unlit. The explosion of the other shuttle lit up the nearby sky, probably serving as a beacon to anyone willing to do him harm. Another thing he did not care about. Satisfied that the shuttle was unoccupied, Hades descended to its level, green eyes always wary. He was unsurprised when Grin and Grim emerged from the shadows of the shuttle, blasters raised. He was lucky it was them, though, because they trusted him. Once they had recognised him as being him, blasters were lowered and Hades entered the shuttle. The other agents were inside, Grey pottering over some datapads or other until she saw him. He thought he could see her brow twitch with rage, but it was probably his imagination. Opening her mouth to speak, she was cut off.

"Scenic tours, ma'am. Worth the money." Her mouth closed and he nodded, dead-pan, as he moved into the next compartment.

OOC:

Wordcount: 2,380. Some things have to be finished.

AAR: Hades goes rogue for a spell to cut the loose ends away. His actions see him becoming more and more unscrupulous.. perhaps even mad? Vrail is dead and the VENI team is leaving Tilsec Prime

OOC:

Post #2 of 3.  Raizo/ID POV.

Captain Ramius Raizo stood at the forward viewports of the command bridge of his flagship, the Imperial I-class Star Destroyer Reactionary, and listened to the subdued, professional chatter of his crew behind him as he watched the battle unfold beyond the transparisteel.  The members of Raizo’s bridge crew were mostly green young men, but under his brief stint as commander in chief of the Dominion Navy, he knew they’d gained experience beyond their years.  He could hear the competence in their voices, as well as the war weariness.  But he also fancied he could hear a note of stubborn hope, in their speech.

I wonder if it matters, he thought to himself, as he watched the asteroids of the Sollamens system spin through space, while turbolaser fire shot back and forth, and brief explosions lit up the scene.  They’ve come so far, and they believe so strongly… I wonder if it matters.

Raizo’s hearing was better than that of most Humans naturally, and was made even more impressive by a tiny enhancer unit he wore in his right ear.  And the snippets of conversation that he was overhearing from back in the communications foyer were not encouraging.  The battle was not going well.

But then, he had never expected this second meeting with the Vast Empire’s Navy to go well, at least at first.  The plan is good, Raizo told himself yet again, trying to hold on to some small sense of optimism.  Or, at least, it’s the best plan possible, under the circumstances.

The plan, of course, was to continue using the Sollamens pulsar to help overcome the disparity in size, strength, and experience between the Dominion fleet and their Vast Imperial opponents.  The rhythm of the pulsar was odd, but ultimately followed a pattern; Raizo’s techs had managed to discern that pattern, and the captive insectoid Verpine ensured that the regular bursts of radiation didn’t hamper the Dominion’s efforts at fleet coordination too much.  So, every time the pulsar went active, the Dominion would edge out the Vast Empire in efficiency.  Or so the theory went.

And the theory had been proven true during the previous engagement, sure enough, but the dying Dominion captain was unable to take much solace in that fact… because the hard truth was that the advantage the pulsar had given him and his people had not been nearly decisive enough, for Raizo’s taste.

“I’ve gambled it all on this,” he mumbled to himself, as another bright light flashed across the rocks and distant ships, showing the death of another capital ship.  “And it’s no good winning the bet, if the payout is too low.”  He frowned, as he recalled the scorecard from the first clash with the VE, hours before: three enemy capital ships destroyed – even when one was a Heavy Cruiser – would not be enough to stop the Vast Imperials and their deviant commanding officer, Wyl Trykon.

Even worse than his fleet’s inability to destroy more of the enemy capital ships when they had the chance, though, was the overwhelming number of their own losses, on the starfighter side of the equation.  Too many pilots and TIEs had been lost to the VE’s aces, and they were all losses Raizo could not replace.  He’d been arguing for years to increase the Dominion’s strategic reserves of men and matieriel, but his warnings had fallen on deaf ears… Karstok’s “special” weapons division had taken over more and more budget share, until the regular Navy was barely able to maintain the fleet it had, let alone grow.

“Which leaves us here,” he muttered.  Raizo had been monitoring the battle aurally, and so he knew exactly how many warships were left of his small fleet, the last armada of the Imperial Dominion’s once-mighty Navy: a grand total of fifteen capital ships, and a fighter screen that was at barely half strength for a force of that size.  It was pathetic, he knew, and nowhere near where he’d planned to be, at this stage of the game.  But that was the reality, and ever since his diagnosis, Ramius Raizo had become intimately acquainted with unpleasant realities.

A tone sounded in the port crew pit, indicating the pulsar was about to enter another one of its active phases, and Raizo exhaled, forcing his pessimism to leak out of him along with the breath.  Maybe this time the results would be favorable.  After all, he had successfully set and sprung his trap: he held the home field advantage, by his own design.  If they could just hit the Vast Imperials hard enough in the coming moments, a negotiated settlement might still be possible.  The Dominion could yet survive, and that was all Ramius Raizo really wanted.  Even if they had to pay reparations and cede some territory, the ailing captain knew that if he could only prevent total collapse – if he could just avoid unconditional surrender – then the Dominion could still win the war.  For Governor-General Karstok would hold his grudge against the Vast Empire all the way to his grave, Raizo knew.  If he could just force a truce, then eventually Karstok would find an opportunity to avenge all the losses they had suffered so far.  There was a time when he might have blanched at Karstok’s vengeance, and the means he might use to get it, but the dying captain found he no longer cared about the details.  Forcing peace now meant revenge later, and that would be Ramius Raizo’s final contribution to the Imperial Dominion, and to Galactic History.

And with that thought, the pulsar went active.  Captain Raizo had to shield his eyes from the bright flash of light, but when it faded, he was smiling.  The night belongs to me, he thought as his heart rate began to climb, and he turned around to begin directing the battle personally.

OOC:

975 words.  There will be one more post in this series, detailing the moment when the Pulsar goes active again (and the time right after that) from one other perspective...

AAR: Captain Ramius Raizo of the Imperial Dominion takes stock.  He wrestles with doubts and recounts successes and failures, but by the time the pulsar goes active, he's resolves to hit the VE hard enough that he can force a truce and a negotiated peace settlement.  He knows that if he can just do that, eventually Karstok will find a way to make the VE pay for all they've done.  He may die, but the faction he serves can survive, if he just sticks to his plan, and hits the VE hard.

I mentioned in my last post that Second Fleet's first target after the pulsar goes active is the Dominion ISD Virulent...  In my next post I'll specify exactly what "target" means, in this context.  And we'll wrap up this Verpine allies subplot. 

Taltos felt the high g-forces – a mere fraction of what he would have felt with the inertial compensators all the way off - strain his body against the TIE Interceptor's flight seat as he pulled through yet another tight banking turn, his Imperial Dominion opponent only meters behind.

Can't keep this up. My shields are nearly gone. One more good pass and I could be 'vaped.

He'd tried every move the flight instructors had taught him – and even a good few from his days as a smuggler – but his enemy counterpart had doggedly followed him through each maneuver in turn. Now only meters from the asteroid, Taltos hugged the terrain, allowing its rolling hills and wide craters to force his pursuer to change angle and altitude, keeping him out of an ideal cone of fire.
The ten remaining ID Interceptors circled above, but as he looked up and scanned the dogfight a sharp flash marked the detonation of one fighter, and a new ally appeared.

Good to have backup of my own. Time to break out of this.

Skimming past another wide and rocky hill, T made his defensive bank as usual, but as soon as he judged that his opponent had lost line-of-sight, he changed tactics. Hugging the control yoke toward his breastbone, he pulled the interceptor vertical, spun ninety degrees and leveled out inverted. He lowered the throttle to its one-quarter mark and looked out his topside viewports. Looking forward towards the hill he had so recently skirted, he saw the enemy pass around the outermost ridge and immediately spot his change of tactics.
The pale-grey Interceptor pulled up hard, but overshot in a mere instant; Taltos jammed the throttle to full and pushed his fighter's nose toward space.

Particularly, the patch of curiously empty space where his opponent should have been.

A horrible shudder wracked his snubfighter, and the starfield blurred and spun before Taltos could react. He gasped for air, fighting for clarity over the waves of fight-or-flight neurotransmitters and fear. Grasping the yoke, he pulled the Interceptor out of its lateral spin - choosing an unpredictable new vector – and allowed his pilot's instincts to take in information.

The kriffing sithspawn LOOPED back on me! Blew off his velocity where I couldn't see and knew I'd leap after him. Shields gone. Waste heat dissipation... sixty two percent. Weapon power at twenty seven percent...

His mind continued the litany of malfunctions, but he knew what it meant. The attack had ripped through his starboard quadranium panel. At least one gun was physically gone, but the loss of power meant that even with all four cannons, he'd barely have enough power flow to fire more than one shot every second. Not nearly enough to hit an agile opponent reliably, much less take them down. Since his TIE had been rapidly pressed into action, he also had no missiles.

Using his craft's injury as an aide, he dropped engine power and maxed the repulsorlift output, flipping the squint on its side and dropping its speed as the one intact panel pushed against the asteroid's light gravity. His attacker screamed past again, but it wouldn't take long for him to make another pass, and that pass would surely be a killing blow.
His hand hovered over the ejection handle.
He watched his enemy rise.
He watched his enemy turn.
He watched his enemy burst into flames.
The shadowed bulk of a Corellian Corvette marked in VE colors slid into place above the raging battle and threw spears of green fire into the enemy starfighter contingent, decimating their numbers and forcing the survivors to flee.
A wide and uncontrollable grin spread across Taltos' flat face, and he urged his crippled interceptor upward into the lee of the friendly corvette. He wished desperately that comms would come back up so he could holler in joy at their timely arrival and make promises of alcohol. He leaned back against the pilot's seat, stretching himself in joy of survival.
That's when he saw the bombers.

A quartet of TIE/sa bombers were coasting down toward the corvette, hidden from sensors by the effects of the pulsar and hidden from human eyes – even through a variable-opacity starfighter canopy - by the brilliance of the sun; but the wide ribbon-slit eyes of a Duros could make out the contrast.
The bombers released their payload: proton bombs, two each, enough to overload the shields of a small capital ship and knock it out of the battle at the very least. Letting the unguided bombs drift toward the unsuspecting ship, the bombers turned to flee.
Taltos had only seconds to consider his options.
He could attack the bombers, letting them destroy his crippled fighter for a chance at revenge another would surely take before the battle was over.
He could fire on the bombs, detonating them and destroying his own unshielded ship in the process. Little better.
He searched for a third way.

Even as the idea hit, he was easing the throttle upwards, gently aiming the black interceptor into the path of the incoming bombs. He ran mental calculations; integral equations, rate-of-change, relative velocities, and paused to double-check his work. He might just survive this.
He closed his eyes and searched for a suitable last gesture in case he didn't. Nothing came to him.
With a shrug, he set the throttle and pulled the ejection handle beneath his thigh. The ball cockpit was filled with sparks as explosive bolts blew the upper hatch away, and an instant later his seat rocketed upward out of the half-destroyed interceptor.
Counting his breaths to gauge the timing, he saw the fighter grow smaller as the ejection unit's considerable delta-v carried him away.

His chair spun gently, and from this vantage he could see the brilliant blue bombs – They radiated such energy from the annihilation of only a fraction of the magnetically contained antiprotons within as the higher-energy particles were buoyed too close to the containment field and crossed paths with a cosmic ray.
His doomed fighter collided with them two point four seconds – as per his calculations – after he rotated away, but even unable to see the explosion he could feel it. He felt the outermost material of his flight suit buckle and pull as the radiated heat cooked it, then a piece of shrapnel lodged itself into the back of his chair and the universe began to spin; too fast to count revolutions. Training kicked in and he held every muscle tight, huffing and trying to fight the massive g-forces the spin was generating, but it was a losing battle.

His vision tunneled and faded.

OOC:

Word Count: 1112.
Taltos evades his enemy until the Corvette arrives - helped immensely by Gurlanin's arrival and occupation of the enemy fighters. In the duel, his Interceptor is crippled, losing most of a wing. He sees enemy bombers approaching from where the sun hides them against human eyes, and sets his fighter to intercept their bombs as he ejects.
The resulting chain-reaction takes out all of the bombs, preventing the destruction of the Defiance, although I'll leave the actual damage up to G.
Taltos is unconscious and battered, suffering radiation burns even through his flight suit that will take a good few days to heal, but should be picked up after the battle and make a full recovery.

OOC:

Post #3 of 3.  Trykon/VE POV.

“Just like we planned, gentlebeings,” Wyl Trykon said to his bridge crew.  “Reminder to all ships: our first target will be the Virulent.”  The Kuati Chief of Naval Warfare swung one arm around in a dramatic flourish, and pointed at the hulking Imperial I-class Star Destroyer, which was anchoring the Imperial Dominion’s formation on the near side.  The massive white warship was clearly visible, surrounded by the smaller ships of the much-diminished – but still very dangerous – enemy fleet.

Trykon’s crew went to work immediately, and the other captains of the Vast Imperial Second Fleet didn’t need the reminder: their ships were already moving into Trick’s pre-arranged choreography, before the flash code message had even been relayed.

All up and down the Vast Imperial line of battle, the warships of Second Fleet suddenly – and very visibly – lost cohesion.  The bigger capital ships seemed to slowly scatter, each on a slightly different heading, and their supporting corvettes wandered out of escort formation.  And at the same time, the precise, disciplined, withering fire control the fleet had displayed while the pulsar had been inactive disappeared; once again, every weapons battery on every ship seemed to operate independently of every other, with every gunnery crew reduced to line-of-sight targeting from their own individual positions.  It was a perfect recreation of the confused chaos which had beset the VEN forces during the First Battle of the Pulsar…

…only this time, the chaotic confusion was being faked.  Even as the VE ships moved apart, they kept up constant communications using the infrared flash system, and they all kept a very close watch on the big enemy Star Destroyer, Virulent.  Because the seemingly random movements of the Second Fleet were actually an artfully disguised version of a very simple maneuver, that almost never worked in practice, in capital ship combat: a basic feint and backstab combination.  Trykon watched intently from the bow viewports, his grey-green eyes squinting to discern the slightest movement from the big enemy star destroyer... and then he saw it: the big behemoth sprang forward, her captain no doubt eager to press his apparent advantage and gain glory by attacking the Adjudicator directly.  Trykon smiled, and turned to call back to the communications foyer: “Bring us about!  Turn our stern to the Virulent, and put on some speed!  And remember, it has to look panicked and disorderly!”

The order was followed quite competently, but of course, the reality was anything but.  The Adjudicator “retreated” for almost two full minutes, until the Virulent’s headlong charge had left her somewhat far from the rest of her fleet, almost entirely surrounded by Vast Imperial warships, still diffusing their attack strengths in disarray.  With the VE ships seemingly unable to concentrate their fire on any one target, and since they definitely didn’t seem capable of coordinating their attacks with each other, Trykon had no doubt the Virulent’s captain was feeling confident.  “Okay, that’s enough,” he said almost sadly, as he thought of the thousands of crew aboard the enemy vessel.  “Order to all ships: NOW!” he yelled.  Before he’d even finished the command, the Adjudicator lurched as the helm was turned hard over, too abruptly for the inertial dampeners and artificial gravity systems to keep up with, and the deck seemed to list for a second as the big ship began to swing back around to face the pursuing enemy star destroyer.  There was a slight delay, as Trykon’s order was relayed to the various ship captains of the Second Fleet and they reoriented their ships in response.  Then, after tense moments, the Trandoshan chief gunner of the Adjudicator let out a little growl as he keyed a command into his console.  Suddenly, every single weapons emplacement on the mile-long flagship of the Second Vast Imperial Fleet erupted, with turbolaser shots, blaster bolts, ion barrages, and missile salvos all aimed directly at the star destroyer Virulent.  A half-second later, the combined firepower of the rest of the Second Vast Imperial Fleet opened up as well, all firing at the same target.

The results were immediate, and quite spectacular.

First, the Adjudicator’s volley slammed into the Virulent’s forward shields.  The Dominion captain, perhaps sensing that something was wrong when the Adjudicator had turned to fight, must have put all power to his forward shields, because despite the onslaught, they held.  The front of the ship glowed a bright blue as the concave energy shield absorbed the massed fire, and a series of impossibly bright explosions marked the places where the warheads of proton torpedoes had detonated, largely without effect.

But then the other volleys of the other VE ships hit, from many different angles, and the Virulent ran out of reserve power for her overtaxed shields.  From every side, blue ion bolts and green laser blasts and fiery explosions rained down, and in a matter of seconds, the shields failed.  The details were somewhat obscured, from Trykon’s vantage point on the bridge of the Adjudicator, but he could almost feel the enemy ship die, as he watched.  A truly massive explosion some seconds later confirmed it: the Virulent’s main reactor had been fatally damaged in the surprise attack.  The resulting explosion was one of the more spectacular that Wyl had seen, in all his long years of war and death among the stars.

A cheer went up across the bridge, but Trykon was already giving more orders: “Right, next target!” he called out, and he moved to the battle board to choose the Second Fleet’s next victim.  He doubted the others would fall as quickly as the Virulent had, now that the Dominion knew the VE was capable of coordination, but with the enemy’s strength effectively halved, and their morale undoubtedly shaken, Wyl Trykon was certain that the rest of the enemy fleet would be destroyed.  It was only a matter of how quickly the Second Fleet could get it done.

Let’s see how well you react after a nasty shock, shall we? Trykon thought, his grey-green eyes glancing to the viewports once more to take in one last view of the enemy star destroyer, still burning in space.

OOC:

1,020 words.  That concludes the trio of posts detailing our turning-the-tables-on-the-Dominion maneuver. 

AAR: When the pulsar goes active, Second Fleet feigns the same problems they had during the First Battle: they seemingly can't coordinate their own firepower, let alone work together with the other ships of the fleet.  The disarray is designed to tempt one of the Dominion ships - the big Star Destroyer Virulent - into attacking, and it does.  The Adjudicator, seemingly unable to mount much of a defense with the interference from the pulsar, turns and "runs."  But the retreat is a ruse, and with the Virulent drawn out away from her fleet, the Second Fleet drops the pretense and focuses all their firepower on the single ID ship.  The attack is too much, and a lucky shot penetrates all the way to the Virulent's main reactor.  The ship explodes, drastically altering the balance of power for the engagement, and tanking ID morale.  With the trap sprung and the surprise revealed, Trykon orders the final assault to begin.

One moment, everything seemed to be going well for the Imperial Dominion fleet.  The next moment, Captain Ramius Raizo was facing an unqualified disaster.

At first, it looked like the Vast Imperials had been taken by surprise again, blinded by the pulsar’s sudden surge of radiation and electromagnetic interference just like they had been before.  The few capital ships that remained of the Imperial Dominion’s Navy all surged forward, their battered, frustrated, desperate crews eager to go on the offensive again.  And the initial reports, relayed by the Dominion’s Verpine captives, were universally promising: the enemy’s corvettes were no longer fighting effectively, as wolfpacks; a Victory II-class Star Destroyer was being boarded; the enemy flagship had been forced to fall back!  Raizo sent up a silent prayer of thanks, and let himself imagine: We might just be able to pull this off.

But then, somehow, it all went wrong.

A huge explosion, visible to the naked eye even across the vast distances involved in naval combat, was the harbinger of doom.  Ironically, Raizo and his crew initially cheered at the sight, until a horrified communications technician broke the news: “Shh, shh, no!  Shush!  Sir!  Sir, that was the Virulent!”

A stunned silence greeted the pronouncement, and Raizo felt like he’d been punched in the gut.  “What?!”

“Confirmed, sir.  We lost all contact with the Virulent at the time of the blast, and several of our ships saw it happen: they confirm it was the Virulent that blew.”  The young man’s face had gone pale.  Imperial I-class Star Destroyers carried crews that numbered in the tens of thousands.

The unexpected deaths of so many thousands was so shocking that it took several seconds for Raizo to spring back into action.  “What happened?” he finally managed to ask.

The comms tech threw up his hands, obviously stressed beyond normal military protocol.  “Checking now, sir.  We’re not getting detailed information from that area of the battle.”

“Well, get some!” Raizo demanded.  As he yelled, he saw one of the Verpine flinch at the noise, in his peripheral vision.

More reports came in, relayed by the other Verpine scattered through the fleet.  The Dominion ships in the area of the explosion confirmed that it had been the Virulent that exploded, but they couldn’t give any more details on what had caused the explosion.  By all reports, it seemed the VE was still neutered by the pulsar’s radiation.  Some of Raizo’s captains were suggesting sabotage as a possible explanation.

Somewhere in Ramius Raizo’s mind, warning bells went off.  And as frightening as the idea of hidden saboteurs was, he didn’t think it was fear that was unsettling his thoughts.  No, something just wasn’t adding up…

Another report came in, this time from the Ravisher’s captain, Commander Ilusan: he confirmed that the enemy ship Brilliant was all but secured.  It should have been cause for celebration, but Raizo’s sense of foreboding was still building...

“Emperor’s black bones,” a technician cursed.

“What now?” Raizo asked, his thoughts racing to unravel the conspiracy which his intuition insisted was at work.

“The Ravisher,” the comms man said weakly.  “She’s… we’ve lost contact with Captain Ilusan, sir.  Our other ships in the area report the Ravisher has been completely destroyed.”

The fear on the bridge was almost palpable.  Had the Vast Empire somehow managed to insert saboteurs on every ship in the fleet?

Raizo replayed the events of the past minutes in his head, at great speed.  “Our other ships in the area report…” was a phrase that had been repeated, over and over again.  Somehow, he knew that little detail was the key to unraveling the mystery.

And then, abruptly, he understood.

Without warning, Raizo let out an angry roar, and drew his service pistol.  “You filthy fracking insects!” he yelled, running up to the two Verpine standing in one corner of the communications foyer, guarded by two stormtrooper guards.  He pointed the blaster pistol at one of the sentients, and fired.  The bug-like alien crumpled to the deck, one antenna twitching spastically.

The other Verpine flinched again, but only slightly.  It kept its large, compound eyes focused on the human commander-in-chief of the Dominion Navy, and it stared.

“Why?” Raizo demanded.  “Don’t you understand?  You’ll die, for this.  We’ll kill your queen.  We’ll wipe out your entire fracking nest!”

The Verpine’s mouth pieces drew back into an intimidating, half-open position that looked almost like a snarl.  “We will prevail,” the alien said defiantly, before Raizo fired another shot.

The crashing noise of the blaster shot seemed to echo long after the dull thud of the body hitting the floor.

The double execution completed, Raizo breathed heavily for long moments.  His chest ached, and he had pain radiating from under his armpits… the sites of his largest tumors.  “What’s… what’s the situation?” he asked softly, to no one in particular.

His chief of communications was the one to answer: “Sir, without the Verpine we have no way of contacting the rest of the fleet, but I have teams visually scanning, all over the ship.  It looks like the bugs were lying to us for many minutes before you uncovered their deception.  Our forces have been scattered across the asteroid belt, and the Vast Imperials look highly organized.  From the reports I’m getting, it seems they can concentrate their firepower, both individually and collectively.  They’ve overcome the pulsar’s radiation, sir.”

Raizo sighed.  He felt impossibly ancient, old beyond the lifespan any human should have to endure.

“Find a way to get a message to the enemy flagship,” Raizo muttered.  “Signal our surrender.”

“Sir?” the comms chief asked incredulously.

“I said, tell ‘em we surrender!” Raizo growled.  “Our ships are out of position, and the damned bugs are still feeding the other captains fake orders and reports!  It’s over.  Signal our surrender.”

The younger man swallowed.  “Aye sir.”

“Unconditional,” Raizo whispered.  “Make it an unconditional surrender.”  And then, without another word, he walked out.

He left the communications foyer and the command deck behind, and made his way to his quarters, the blaster pistol still in his hand.  Guilt and shame and anger and fear all rose and fell within him, competing for dominance as he walked alone through the corridors of his final command.  But when the doors to his private rooms closed behind him, Captain Ramius Raizo put an end to the conflict once and for all, by completing his last act as the Dominion Navy’s commander-in-chief: he put the blaster’s barrel in his mouth, and fired.

OOC:

1,088 words.  So passes Ramius Raizo, the last commander-in-chief of the Dominion Navy.

AAR: The Verpine see the Second Fleet coordinate their attack on the Virulent, and they take that ship's destruction as a sign the VE will win the battle.  They therefore instantly switch sides, trying to help the VE as much as they can before their deception is discovered.  They give partial reports to Raizo, that confirm what his lookouts might be able to see (ships are blowing up), but lie about the details.  They simultaneously encourage the individual ships of the Dominion armada to scatter, by giving false orders and reports to the various Dominion ship captains.  By the time Raizo figures out what has happened, it's too late: the Second Fleet is in formation, kicking butt, while his forces are scattered all over the place, and the ID ships are now not only cut off from each other, but are being fed false information by the Verpine.  In a rage, he executes the two Verpine he was holding on his ship, but he knows he can't make good on his threats to wipe them all out.  Not before the Vast Imperials kill his ship and all the others of his fleet.  He orders an unconditional surrender, and then leaves the bridge.  In his quarters, unable to face the post-Dominion Galaxy and possibly worried about facing criminal charges for his dual murder of the Verpine, he commits suicide.

Aboard the ISD-II Adjudicator
Medbays

As he finished looking over the readouts for his patient’s vitals, the Petty Officer noted that it was time for another round of activated charcoal; it seemed as if the first wasn’t entirely enough to purge the glitterstim from the patient’s system. He prepared a slurry-like solution of activated charcoal in water. After the slurry had been mixed well enough, he inserted the solution into a bag, which would be attached to the percutaneous endoscopic gastronomy tube and then slowly fed into the patient’s stomach. The previous surgery to insert the tube had gone fairly well, without any signs of internal bleeding, as was common.

The Mon Calamari then proceeded to check the level of the anesthetics applied to his patient; it was enough to leave him in the coma while the charcoal worked on purging the glitterstim. It was not wise to wake him while still under the effects of any drug, especially a hallucinogen. He then proceeded to update the man’s medical charts when his holopad beeped. It was a message from the Chief Medical Officer:

OOC:

From: Chief Medical Officer Hortaw Habend
To: Petty Officer Tosth Aaaiser
Subject: Mandatory Meeting

Petty Officer,
Your presence is required at a forthcoming meeting.

Location: Main Dining Hall
Time: Zhellday, 1800 hours

Graciously,
CMO Hortaw Habend

That is very odd… Why would there be a mandatory meeting? He wasn’t even officially part of the medical team yet.

No matter. I will deal with that shortly. He finished updating the medical charts and went on to treat his other patients.

6 hours later

It appeared as if he had finally recovered from the glitterstim. His vitals had greatly stabilized now that the glitterstim had been expulsed from his system. He could now be brought out of his coma safely. But the Mon Calamari decided to wait until the tubes had been extracted. He started by taking off the catheter. Simple enough. The next tube would be a bit trickier, as it had been stitched into the body and there for a few days, so the incision had time to begin to heal. He reopened the incision and very carefully cut the stitches away with the laser scalpel. The tube came out easily and was set to the side; he then went to gather a couple materials to help with the next step, which would be to seal up the wound in the gastrointestinal muscle and lining as well as closing the skin. He needed a syringe of bacta, a camera, and a micro-needle and thread. There was no need for a numbing agent as his patient was still in the coma. The wounds sealed up nicely. To quicken the healing process, he was also given a small injection of bacta, along with a bacta patch over the wound.

After he finished cleaning the tools from the previous operation, he made sure the human was properly restrained for when he turned off the supply of anesthetic. This could very well be a violent awakening, and his stomach could not take very much strain at the moment.

With the supply of anesthetic gone, the patient slowly began to regain consciousness. After about half an hour he woke and entered into an anxiety attack. He began screaming and trying to convulse. With the proper restraints, this did not invoke any sorts of problems. The Mon Calamari began trying to calm the man down by talking with him.

“Sir, I’ve just pulled you back from a coma. I need you to relax, if you can. You will come to less harm if you can manage it.”

“Where- where am I?” The human gasped out in apparent pain and terror.

“Sir. Focus on relaxing-"

“Where the kriff am I?”

“Sir. You are in the medbay of the Adjudicator. I am treating you for spice overdosing-“

“What the kriff are you talking about?”

“I found you in your crew quarters close to death. We have traced the source back to a glitterstim overdose. You have been in a coma for the past few days while we purged the spice from your system.”

“Spice overdose? I have no idea what you’re going on about. What are you going on about?”

“Sir, command aboard this ship knows that you were taking spice during a major enemy engagement. There is no use refuting this fact.”

“What?”

This was bad. It seemed as if he was suffering from amnesia from the coma. That would require psychological therapy as well. “Sir, it is apparent you are suffering from a case of amnesia. I am authorizing special psychological sessions to help you regain your mental faculties.”

“Are you calling me crazy, you ugly squid?”

This man had finally pushed the Petty Officer past the limit. “What did you just say?” The Mon Calamari replied, in a very hushed tone.

“You’re deaf, as well as an ugly squid? You have no use among us. Go back to swimming with you other fish.”

The Mon Calamari did not reply. He simply picked up one of the syringes he had prepared specifically for this situation (a mixture of sedatives and hypnotics, to induce sleep and reduce the manic level of his patient) and injected him in the arm. The concentration of drugs caused an immediate slowing of his patient and a very quick loss of consciousness.

With his patient subdued, he went to submit his full report.

Aboard the ISD-II Adjudicator
Medical Offices

“Sir, I have the report on the spice victim.”

The Ithorian slowly began to stand up. “Good, good. I trust he wasn’t too much trouble?”

“He has lost many mental faculties, including a major case of amnesia, and he seems to have fallen into a mania. I noticed when he began directly insulting my kind. A simple solution was implemented and I subdued him. I personally recommend psychological sessions to work out the amnesia and to evaluate his sanity after the coma.”

“Agreed. I would like you to proctor these sessions with him.”

“Sir? With all due respect, I am not sure that is wise. I am still holding a slight grudge about his dereliction of duty and, now, he has directly insulted myself and my kind.”

“Noted, Petty Officer. I will have another surgeon handle those sessions, then.”

“Sir, if I could make a request?”

“Proceed.”

“When I reported to the XO, I was ordered to investigate the possible presence of a spice ring aboard the ship. If it is at all possible, can I receive a transcript of the forthcoming psychological reports to begin the investigation?”

“Affirmative, Petty Officer. Dismissed. And Mr. Aaaiser, do not forget about the meeting tomorrow night.”

“Yes, sir.”

OOC:

WC: 1,115 Should be able to squeeze out one final post tomorrow.

AAR: Fishhead receives an assignment to work on treating the spice victim. He does so, and when the patient regains consciousness, he has amnesia and has possibly gone insane. Tosth sedates him when he begins insulting him.

Fishhead then submits his report to the CMO and works his way out of administering the psychological sessions for the spice patient.

Space. Silent, empty … dark …

Transitioning from the high speed, adrenaline pumping starfighter tailchases, to the slow, lumbering shuttle filled with casualties, made Grent realize just how tired he was. Sitting behind the controls in the cockpit, the man slumped, his chest throbbing painfully, eyes threatening to close on him there and then. He was fortunate that the fighting appeared to have stopped, for now. He didn’t know what was going on. At first, soon after he had passed the Defiance, an Imperial Dominion starfighter had swooped down behind them. Grent had hollered back towards the main cabin where there were about 15 patients, and 5 medical staff.

“Somebody get on that turret, and shoot that di’kut!”
“We can’t leave the patients! Some of them might die if we do!” came the reply.
“And all of us will die, if you don’t. Now get on that turret, point the long end at the starfighter, and pull the trigger!”

If Grent had been fighting fit, and not got passengers that were seriously ill, he would have pulled some serious evasive manoeuvres. As it was, he could barely cope with one or two Gs, and he knew his passengers would be coping even worse. Therefore, his only option was to bank slowly, and try to take cover behind some of the asteroids. Fortunately for the injured pilot, and his precious cargo, the medic that had taken the turret was a former gunner. As such, the Dominion fighter was soon forced to abandon its pursuit, leaving the shuttle to carry on its journey.

That was then end of the excitement, and once Grent was in clear space, he left the controls in the hands of one of the junior medics, who needed a rest as much as anyone.

“Just keep her pointing towards the Adj. Any problems, then give us a shout.”
“Are you sure you should be wondering about, Crewman?”
“Don’t worry about me. I just want to see who has the privilege of flying Notimo Space Tours today.”

Using the walls for support, Grent made his way into the passenger area, and found men and women just lying everywhere, hooked up to IV drips. Some were on the floor, some were on the seats, some where even in the luggage area. Every available space had been used to carry someone or life support equipment. It was only as Grent looked at the individuals, he noticed a familiar looking armour covering the legs belonging to a familiar face. It was Thatcher, one of Grent’s squadron mates. His eyes were closed, and his bare chest was exposed, wires hooking him up to some sort of machine. The man in charge of the medics on this trip saw Grent looking at him.

“Know him?” he asked.
“He’s from my squadron,” Grent replied weakly, “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, and has slipped into a coma.”
“Lost a lot of blood from where …”

Then Grent saw. Whilst he had been looking, a female medic had been kneeling beside the comatose pilot, blocking the view of Thatcher’s right arm. Now, when she moved, Grent could clearly see the blood stained bandages wrapped around his arm. Part of his arm was just not there.

Grent felt sick, and took back control of the shuttle to take his mind off what he’d just seen. How could a pilot fly with only half an arm? Sure, there were prosthetics, but how many others would need them after this battle? How long would he have to wait? Thatcher was just one of a number aboard the shuttle alone that had lost part of, or sometimes a whole, limb. Grent would stay by his side, until told otherwise. It was important for him to have someone familiar close by, even if that was someone he’d only met a few days earlier.

They were coming into land now, wings folding back up. The Adjudicator had obviously seen their Vast Empire markings, and not blown them out of the sky. Her guns were quiet, however, Grent noticed as he piloted the craft towards one of the hangars. Was the battle truly over, then?

The shuttle touched down inside the hanger, and was met by a number of Marines, who were pointing their guns at the loading ramp. They slowly boarded, and, upon seeing that there was nothing sinister aboard, but just a bunch of injured men and women, they soon got a triage team aboard. Casualties were being carried from the shuttle, as Grent started slipping in and out of consciousness. He too, then, was carried from the craft, and helped to his feet. He saw Thatcher lying on a hoverbed close by, and signalled to the man supporting him that that’s where he wanted to go. Once there, he took Thatcher’s left hand, making sure not to look at his right arm, or what was left of it, and squeezed it.

“You’ll be alright, mate. It’s all ok. The rest of the squadron will be here soon. Joamer will want to know you’re alright. Avalar too, I’d imagine …”

A couple of the Adj’s medical crew pushed Thatcher away, and took him to the operating theatre. He was going to be alright. He was tough. “‘Tis but a scratch” Grent could hear the other man say in his mind.

And he might have imagined it, but he was sure Thatcher’s hand had tightened around Grent’s at the mention of Avalar …

OOC:

WC: 915

AAR: Nothing that important. Shuttle has a virtually unexciting flight, and lands in the Adj's hangar unscathed. Grent does think, however, that Thatcher did squeeze Grent's hand upon the mention of Strill's beloved XO ...

“That’s it, sir!  They’ve surrendered!”

Wyl Trykon allowed himself the luxury of a sigh, as his Twi’lek Sensors Chief confirmed that the enemy ships were powering down their shields and weapons, but he didn’t join in when a cheer swept across the Adjudicator’s bridge.

“Well done, everyone,” he said with a tight-lipped smile as the noise died down, “but we still have work to do.  Mister Zark?”

“Yesss sssir?” replied Trykon’s Trandoshan Chief Gunner.

“We need to secure those ships.  I want boarding parties dispatched to every Dominion vessel in-system, and I want Interceptor flights arranged to escort their shuttles.  We’re not taking any chances until we have complete control of every command bridge and every reactor, on every single capital ship in this asteroid field.  Understood?”

“Aye sssir.”

“Mr. Notra,” Trykon said next, half-turning to look at his sensors chief directly.

“Yes sir?” the Twi’lek replied.

“I want another sensor sweep of the area, and I want you to organize a scanning crew to head down to the asteroid.  We still need to find Admiral Krazanr.”  Kath Notra nodded his agreement, and got to work.  The pulsar’s radiation levels had fallen some minutes before; sensors were back.

And so were communications.  “Mister Norith, I want the fleet to deploy for mopping up operations.  Combat Aerospace Patrols, escorts for Zark’s boarding parties, and reinforcements for our people on Gwodd LK Nale.  But I don’t want any fighters or troops taken from the Star Destroyers, alright?  Champion is to form up alongside Adjudicator and prepare to jump to the Tilsec System with us.  Commander Zail aboard Brilliant will be in charge here.  Understood?”

“Aye sir, the Chief of Communications said, still typing furiously into his terminal.  “Champion and Adjudicator to make ready to raid the Dominion capital,” he paraphrased.  “Brilliant to coordinate clean up efforts here.”

“Excellent.  Let’s make it happen, people.”

Time passed, and Trykon’s orders were carried out.  He sent a few personal transmissions to settle some nerves throughout the Second Fleet, and then the word came that all was in readiness.

But as he turned to order the jump to lightspeed, Wyl Trykon realized with some uneasiness that he didn’t want to leave Gwodd LK Nale.  And he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.  There was still fighting to be done in the Sollamens, to be sure: pockets of resistance remained, both in space and in the tunnels of the asteroid.  But with the Dominion fleet standing down, Trykon knew his presence was no longer necessary on station, and he knew the Imperial Star Destroyers under his command would be of more use elsewhere.  So why does it feel so wrong, leaving this place? he thought, his fists balling up in frustration.

As he had the thought he looked out the bridge’s starboard side viewports, where the big rock the Verpine had named Gwodd LK Nale was still slowly spinning in space, cold and dark and uncaring, impervious to all the destruction and death which had been wrought within and around it.  Trykon knew, deep down, that there was something he was missing… something important, that he was leaving undone.

Are you down there, Admiral? he wondered.

But no answer came to his unvoiced question, and time was short.  Wherever the Naval Commander in Chief was, the Wookiee would have to wait.  Because the Dominion’s last combat fleet had just abruptly and unconditionally surrendered to him, and Trykon was reasonable certain that left their capital planet suddenly – and unexpectedly – vulnerable.  If two Vast Imperial Star Destroyers dropped out of hyperspace above Tilsec Prime, announcing the death of the Dominion Navy and threatening orbital bombardment, Governor-General Karstok would have no choice but to surrender peacefully.  Or so the theory goes, Trykon thought grimly as he nodded to his helmsman.

The stars stretched into lines of light, and the hastily-assembled task force of two Imperial II-class Star Destroyers jumped to hyperspace, leaving the Sollamens Asteroids behind.



The sounds of explosions echoed through the tunnels of Gwodd LK Nale.  Through both antennae, Vark’it Zrii could feel every blast, from the ground shaking booms of nearby proton bombs to the muffled thuds of blaster fire, far off.  The Verpine leader took care to stand absolutely still against one wall of the gruesome torture chamber, since the Dominion stormtoopers were still watching, but internally, Zrii rejoiced.  The din of battle was continuous, and that could only mean one thing: the Vast Empire’s ground forces had not been as easily defeated as the vile Colonel Mern had anticipated.

And that was very, very fortunate.  Zrii had been confident the other members of the Colony could easily make trouble for the Dominion fleet, but those of them – like Zrii – who were still on Gwodd LK Nale had been hampered by a problem: the Dominion special forces troopers had run cables through the tunnel network before the battle, allowing them to maintain a system of wired communications relays even during the pulsar’s active periods.  If the Verpine still on the asteroid had tried to lie to their captors, then their deception would have been quickly uncovered, so Zrii’s people had been forced to help the Dominion prepare for their surprise attack on the hangar, with no option to sabotage the effort.  And if the VE were to lose their presence on the hangar, Zrii knew Mern would make retaking the rock a bloody prospect for them, to say nothing of what he would do when he learned about the Colony’s betrayal and the loss of Raizo’s fleet.

But somehow, the Vast Imperials in the hangar had held, and as time continued to march on inexorably, the Dominion grew more desperate.  Still silent and motionless, Zrii kept up a running conversation with the other members of the Colony via telepathic connection, until word finally came: <<We have prevailed, Leader Zrii.  The Dominion fleet has surrendered to the Vast Empire.  Without condition.>>

Even as the report came, Vark’it heard the sounds of a running blaster battle, coming ever closer up the tunnel from the direction of the hangar.  The Verpine monarch watched impassively as one of the stormtroopers moved to the chamber’s doorway to assume a defensive posture, and nodded imperceptibly.  <<Good,>> Zrii told the other members of the Colony.  <<They are approaching the chamber.  I will act soon.>>

<<Please, Leader Vark’it,>> came the concerned plea of many voices, <<be careful.>>

<<We will prevail,>> Zrii promised, and focused two compound eyes on the Wookiee, still sprawled on the rack, his fur clotted with blood.  <<The battle is here, and I too must fight.  But whatever happens to me, the Colony WILL prevail.>>

At that moment the stormtrooper at the door opened fire, which drew the attention of the other white-armored human.  While they shot furiously at the VE forces Vark’it Zrii knew were pressing hard from just out of sight, Colonel Mern bent over the prostrate, half-dead Wookiee, no doubt intent that his victim would not survive long enough to be rescued.  Which meant that suddenly, nobody was watching Zrii.

The old Verpine rushed forward, grabbed a deactivated IT-O interrogation droid sitting on a stand by the table, lifted it above Mern’s head, and smashed it into the human’s skull.  Hot mammalian blood splashed over Zrii, along with a warm feeling of accomplishment.  Zrii dropped the caved-in sphere that had been a droid, pushed Mern’s lifeless corpse off the Wookiee, and keyed the sequence to release the electronically operated restraints.

But one of the stormtroopers at the door had heard all the noise, and turned around to look.  “Hey, what the… damned bugs!” he yelled, before raising his E-11b blaster rifle.  But then the armor on his chest melted, as a shot from the advancing VE troops burned through his body from the back.  As he died, though, the Dominion stormtrooper managed to fire a single shot.

Vark’it Zrii had lived a long life.  And even as the blaster bolt burrowed through carapace and flash-fried flesh, the leader of the Verpine colony of Gwodd LK Nale was content, proud to have thrown off the yoke of an oppressor, and happy to have saved the life of an ally.  Zrii managed to send out one final thought, before letting the darkness fall: <<The Vast Empire is a Colony worth joining.>>



The flight to the Tilsec System was short and uneventful, and the scene that awaited the crew of the Adjudicator on the other side of the journey was almost unbelievable.

As the Star Destroyers approached Tilsec Prime with weapons ready and shields raised, a group of Human men hailed the Adjudicator, identified themselves as the Tilsecara Transitional Government, and offered the Imperial Dominion’s immediate surrender.  Frowning the entire time, Captain Wyl Trykon accepted, on behalf of the government of the Vast Empire.

The war which had raged for years, and which had claimed hundreds of thousands of lives on both sides, was finally over.  There were many details left to work out, but in that moment, the course of Galactic History changed forever.  No more would the Vast Empire be one of a half-dozen minor factions scrabbling to carve out sovereignty for themselves on the edges of civilized space.  By defeating and absorbing the Imperial Dominion, the VE had become one of the most powerful states in the post-Plague Wars Galaxy.

And so, even as he set about dealing with the chaos that still gripped Tilsec Prime, Wyl Trykon knew that his work – and that of the Second Vast Imperial Fleet – was just getting started.

OOC:

1,589 words.  That's a wrap!

After Action Report: It takes a while for Captain Raizo's surrender order to be disseminated and put into practice, but once the Dominion ships stand down, Trykon and the Second Fleet get to work.  The Vast Imperials move to secure the Dominion ships, and mop up the last of the Dominion ground forces still fighting on Gwodd LK Nale.  Trykon leaves Serpent and Joamer in charge of those efforts, while he takes the Adjudicator and her sister ship the Champion to Tilsec Prime itself, hoping to force an immediate end to the war.

While they are in transit, VE troops near Colonel Mern's headquarters, deep in the asteroid.  Taking advantage of the light fight, the Verpine monarch Vark'it Zrii hits Mern over the head with an unused interrogation droid, killing him.  But even as the Verpine frees StOrMz (who has been very, very badly hurt), the last Dominion stormtrooper shoots him in the abdomen, even as the stormtrooper himself is shot by the advancing VE troops.  Everyone in the torture chamber dies, except for the grievously wounded StOrMz.  He's still lying their, near death, when the VE troops storm the room.

Meanwhile, the Adjudicator and Champion find a pleasant surprise waiting for them in the Tilsec System.  VENI has successfully overthrown and assassinated Governor-General Vasilov Karstok, and the so-called Tilsecara Transitional Government, speaking on behalf of the Imperial Dominion, formally surrenders.  Trykon accepts, on behalf of the Vast Empire.  And as he and the crew of the Star Destroyers get to work, quelling the civilian population of Tilsec Prime and doing the initial work of solidifying the annexation of the Dominion, Trykon has a thought: the VE isn't a small, out-of-the-way faction anymore.  With this victory, the Vast Empire is poised to change Galactic History forever.