Meanwhile at the Imperial Naval Academy, Tzism awoke from his sleep in the cadet barracks looking around to find the new recruits and training officers moving around as well as cleaning up and studying over new material. Tzism was curious to find out what they were doing but as well needed to focus on completing his training. Moments later he saw one of the training officers approach him. “You are crewman Tzism is that correct, I have new orders for you, please read over the data I have handed you and then follow me” the officer replied, then Tzism shortly after “looking over the data, my training is complete, it says I am assigned to a squadron within the Imperial Navy, that is good to know as well as a honor to show my skills upon assignment.” Tzism nodded then followed the officer through the barracks and into a hallway with other cadets. He saw them throw up there hats once to find out it was a congratulatory meeting for all those that had completed the naval academy, Tzism smiled and joined in the festivities for a bit before gathering with the officer he had spoken to head back to his barracks to collect his belongings. Rummaging through his bag, he took out his uniform and used a little cologne to make the smell more freshened.

After wards, Tzism proceeded out from his barracks and down towards the hangar bay which held many of the training vessels as well as outgoing vessels to destinations given by imperial naval command. He had received orders to proceed to meet with Jexxel Squadron, assigned to the ISD Adjudicator. Upon reading the information, the crewman took a moment to breath and acknowledge the new assignment. Shortly after, there was a new rank inside along with a award for his completion of the naval academy. Taking both, Tzism took off his old rank and applied his new rank with that of a Lead Crewman. As well as putting a ribbon on his uniform. Tzism felt proud that he attained a feat that had not happened in his family nor any close family to him, but needed to conform himself before superiors, he took a moment to recall his accomplishments then made his way toward the one of the vessels draw bridge to approach the flight officer, handing him his credentials, the officer took only a few moments to go over the details, then nodded for Tzism to board.

It was from that point, the draw bridge of the vessel closed behind him, and Tzism took a seat with the other personnel for a flight to his assignment. Orders had been shown on the documents Tzism had read while in flight specifically mentioning that he was with the Jexxel Reserves until a time they would apply his abilities. After the shuttle left the imperial naval academy, it then proceeded to hyper speed. It flew with amazing speed, causing the bulkhead of the shuttle to shuffle a little before remaining calm. Tzism closed his eyes, while seated and took a nap while the shuttle continued its approach towards his assignment area. It was from there, Tzism was in a dream state on the shuttle, thinking of both his family back home, and of the things he used to do for hobbies. One of the shuttle crew nudged Tzism's shoulder to wake him out of the nap he was in. “We are closing on our departure, time to wake up, be ready for anything.” Tzism nodded to the person next to him and watched through the viewport as the shuttle stopped its hyper space travel and went into impulse. As it came out the ISD Adjudicator remained in open space. There was a chime on the comm's, one of the communications officers was relaying for the shuttle to begin its arrival at the hangar bay. It was from there, Tzism could make out the shield closing for a brief second then chiming back on after its arrival onboard the Adjudicator.

The shuttle then lowered its landing gear, along with the draw bridge. An officer spoke to the crew before they left, “Crew you will all do great on your new assignment, make the Vast Empire proud and continue what we have taught you back at the academy, good luck to all of you” The officer replied then watched as the personnel walked out from the shuttle including Tzism. Looking behind him, Tzism watched the draw bridge and landing gear enter back into the shuttle as it made its departure out from the ISD Adjudicator, then finally to hyper once again. Suddenly an officer from the side approached the newly seasoned crewman. “Attention, Attention, single file, and create a formation, I want all your orders after I review them I will assign you places aboard the Adjudicator.” the crewman nodded to the officers reply, then watched as he analyzed each piece of credentials before letting the remaining crew proceed to there areas. Looking at Tzism, he then replied, “Okay crewman, if you will proceed towards your quarters, the squadron will contact us upon receiving news of your arrival, until then practice what they have taught you as well as head towards the training simulator areas to brush up on some battle tactics before you are on your first assignment. You have your orders, now move out!” Tzism nodded to the officer then made his way through the ship, towards his quarters, tapping the door, he dropped his gear in one of the lockers, as well as got himself cleaned, afterwards it was time for some sleep. The next day he would test his skills out at the training simulator until Jexxel was ready for his arrival with the squad.

OOC:

Word Count: 963

AAR: Tzism completes his Imperial Navy Academy Training, proceeds to the Adjudicator, is assigned to naval reserves, has some practice on training simulators before meeting up with Jexxel Squadron

The fighting was intense. Neither of the two squadrons were gaining the upper hand, and both had sustained minor damage. As Edge had put it, the New Republic squadron had “scratched the paintwork”. Grent surmised that he, and the rest of the squadron, including the two men and one woman under his direct command, were going to need something dramatic to gain the upper hand. Unconventional warfare.

{#2: Didn’t we come through a minefield to get here?}
“That …. is an excellent point.”
{#1: And you thought we were just here for decoration.}
“Well, I was wondering …”

Grent checked his HUD, and looked at the positioning of his flight in comparison to the nearest mines. This might just work. He opened up the Cresh comm channel.

“How do you guys feel about blowing stuff up?” he asked.
{#1: You know how we feel about it, why are you …}
{#2: It was a rhetorical question.}
{#1: Oh … yeah …} The man with the voices sighed. It was all Grent could do to stop himself slapping his palm to the brow of his helmet.
“Depends how you want to blow stuff up,” replied Edge.
“And what you want to make explode,” said Tinker.
“Two words people,” said Grent, pausing to perform a barrel roll and dodge incoming laser fire, “Mine. Field.”
{#2: Isn’t that one word?}
“Isn’t that one word?” asked Tinker.
{#2: Told you so.}
“Whatever,” replied Grent, to both Tinker and number 2, “You guys get what I mean.”
“You want us to lure them into the minefield, shoot said mines, then get the hell out of dodge in the hope that they blow up, and we don’t,” came Lady’s voice over the comm, speaking in a very matter-of-fact like manner.
“Pretty much,” said Grent.
“Just one question: why?” said Tinker.
This time it was Lady who answered, “We do what we need to do to win. Tail chasing on their terms isn’t going so well for us, so we have chosen a new rule book. Sound about right, Tops?”
“Sounds good to me,” replied Grent, “So make your way to the party balloons, and take as many of those chakaare with you.”
“Roger that, Top,” said the three other pilots.

It was a very dangerous, and very daring, manoeuvre that Gur had elected to perform. The problem with the mines, was that they were unpredictable. Strill had the astrogation charts, which included the projected drift patterns of the mines, but if their opponents also had them, then there was a good chance that the plan was worthless. It was all down to skill, and chance. It was, however, a new playing field, where Strill would have the upper hand, due to their unique training programs. Joamer had made sure that they played about in asteroid belts, and simulated mine fields, which most other squadrons in the galaxy avoided like the plague. If the other squadron didn’t have that training, which was likely, then there were two possible outcomes: 1. The New Republic squadron backed off, or, more likely, 2. They followed Strill in due to pride. If they could make it look like a full retreat as well …. Grent opened comms to Joamer, and explained his plan.

“It’s risky, Gur. Very risky.”
“Aye, but it’s our only chance.”
Grent could hear Joamer breathing, as the Squadron Commander mulled over the options. “Alright Gur, you take your flight into the field, and have some fun. But the first sign that things are going badly, you get yourself back here.”
“Understood, Boss.”

Cresh worked as one to draw as many X-wings as possible from the fray. They gave the impression of giving up, and flew away from the fight. At the start, it looked as though his plan had failed, because not one of the X-wings followed. Just as Gur was opening his mouth to turn his flight around, four X-wings broke off from the main pack, and soared after Cresh. Grent led his pilots not directly towards the minefield at first, but made a big show of changing direction and heading into the minefield, as though they were trying to shake off their pursuers. Naturally, the New Republic pilots wouldn’t let their prey get away that easily, and sped up to try to catch some of the Vast Empire’s unconventional elites.

The X-wings entered the field in a tight formation, and slowed right down. Cresh was no where in sight. Then, between a few of the mines, they saw the faint black outlines of two TIE Hunters. That got their attention, and they immediately increased speed a little, unknowingly passing by the two other Hunters, which were lurking behind some of the mines…

In their cockpits, Grent and Lady got the all clear from Edge and Tinker, who had been playing decoy, that the flight sent after them had entered the mine field, and were now in pursuit of the decoys. The two pilots silently, and slowly, nudged the mines they were hiding behind into position behind the enemy flight. Once at the correct place, Grent opened comms.

“On my mark. Three … two … one … NOW!”

Grent and Lady broke cover, and launched a volley at the NR X-wings, who broke formation to counter attack their new aggressors. The pair switched their wings from attack position, to flight, and sped as fast as they could away. At the same time, Edge and Tinker revealed themselves, and fired a missile each at the relocated mines, which were now directly below the X-wings …

The resulting explosion flashed brightly in the rear viewports of Grent and Lady, enveloping their pursuers. The mines had been placed at the point where the other mines were the furthest apart, so as not to cause a chain reaction. It did, however, cause the two Strill pilots to lose visual contact with Edge and Tinker. Then, a shape began to emerge from the explosion … and X-wing! One had survived, and was bearing down on them. Suddenly, a torrent of green laser fire appeared from the rapidly disappearing explosion, slicing off one of the wings of the X-wing, sending it into and uncontrollable spiral into a nearby mine, causing yet another explosion. Fortunately, this one did not set off a chain reaction either. Grent and Lady both cheered when they saw the two TIE Hunters approach them, apparently unscathed.

“Well how about that:” said Grent, “You two are alive after all.”
“Top,” replied Edge, “Next time, you can be the decoy, and I’ll be the one flying away.”
Grent chuckled, “You got yourself a deal, Edge. I’m going to make sure that all of you get a medal for this. Now let’s get back to the fight.”
“With pleasure, Tops.”
{#2: I told you it would work.}

The young Mandalorian just smiled, and led his flight back into the main fighting. They now outnumbered the other squadron, and he was prepared to use that advantage to the maximum that he could.

OOC:

WC: 1170

AAR: Don't play with mines, folks.

OOC:

For newer members of the Navy (or even you Army folks, if you read through), there’s a lot of overview of Drac’s history (tied into the history of the Navy) in the latter half of this post. Take an opportunity to read up a little bit on some of the major actions of the past four or five real life years in the Navy. If you’re interested in the stories that are mentioned, I’d recommend checking out the Naval Timeline wiki page and reading the following missions: Nazgul: The Ties that Bind, Phoenix Wing: Smoke & Mirrors, VEN: Into the Invisible, and Halcyon Warrior: Punitive Measures. Feel free to check out these and any of the other archived missions whenever you want. There’s some really good stuff in there from all aspects of the Navy.

Brevet Ensign Thrist Gaian trod wearily back toward his quarters. The alert to join the crew of the Halcyon Warrior had come late in the day, at least according to the Academy’s schedule.  In fact, Thrist had been asleep for less than an hour when the alarm woke him. After what had amounted to only a brief nap after a full day’s training, the subsequent hours of franticly paced duty had taxed the young man rather heavily. The Captain had noticed his weariness and, upon eliciting an explanation, had ordered all of the former Academy students to their bunks as soon as the ship made for the rendezvous with Admiral Krazanr’s taskforce. They were to get what sleep they could before the ship arrived at the battle, and would be given half a standard hour’s warning before the ship reverted to realspace in the Absit system.

“There you are! Where’ve you been, man?”

Thrist blinked and lifted his head to see Kor’stadu coming toward him down the corridor. The rutian Twi’lek was followed by the other two cadets they’d shared a room with. “Um, what? Sorry, Korst, I’m pretty wiped out.”

Korst nodded, slapping a friendly hand down on Thrist’s shoulder, “That’s understandable. But where have you been, man? None of your stuff’s in our quarters and no one’s seen you anywhere in the gunnery section. So what’s up? You fall asleep under a table somewhere?”

The young human shifted uncomfortably. This probably wasn’t going to go over all that well considering the fierce competition the Academy fostered in its gunnery officers-in-training, “No, nothing like that.”

But Korst had barreled right along, not really listening for an answer, “Anyway- did you hear about the Chief Weapons Officer? Ensign Gaian? You got an older brother you never told me about, man?”

Thrist tried to chuckle along with the others, but didn’t do a great job of brushing off the jovial question. Korst quirked an eyebrow at him (or where an eyebrow would have been had the Twi’lek been human), his tone becoming irritated, “Gaian, what’s up with you? You’re acting strangely- and don’t just tell me you’re tired. We’re all tired.”

The young man sighed and was tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, a habit he’d learned from his father. This was exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. The chance that someone would react out of jealousy and competitiveness was relatively high- it was the nature of things. But this wasn’t the Academy and they couldn’t afford for efforts to be sabotaged out of petty jealousy. He’d have to be careful- and tactful. Not the easiest thing to do, as tired as he was.

“Okay. Look, man- remember when the TO pulled me out after the briefing?”

“Yeah. What’d he tell you?”

“Well, that’s why my stuff isn’t in our quarters here- I got assigned to a different position.”

“Okaay…” The rutian twi’lek twirled a finger, indicating he should continue.

Thrist sighed again, “Look, let me say first that I didn’t want this and didn’t ask for it. I still don’t want it. Ensign Gaian is me…except that it’s Brevet-Ensign. They didn’t have a Chief Weapons Officer available to serve… so they pulled me for it.”

One of the others, a dark skinned human everyone called Prieger snorted, “Really. That kriffing figures. Whose butt did you kiss to get that, Gaian? Don’t feed us that bantha poodoo that you don’t want that post. Everyone does.” Prieger turned with one last sneer and stalked off down the corridor.

Their fourth roommate, a rodian called Deesh, gave him a black look and followed Prieger after a moment. This time Thrist did pinch the bridge of his nose out of fatigue and frustration. After a moment he sighed again, then turned a weary but pained look on Korst, “Well? You going too?”

The red-skinned alien was frowning at him, but stayed silent for a moment. His braintails, normally a good gauge of his mood, were totally still. When he finally spoke, they waved in the twi’leki version of a shrug, “Not bad, Gaian. Not bad. Don’t mind those two- they’re just green with jealousy. Well…Deesh is green anyway, but you get the point.” A grin broke out across the twi’lek’s face, “Don’t worry, my friend. You deserve this opportunity- especially given how many times you’ve dusted my sorry butt in the simulators.”

Thrist let his breath out in a whoosh of relief, “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

His friend laughed, “Again, no worries. Green isn’t a good color for me. It’d clash horribly.”

“Haha, yeah.” Thrist chuckled along with his friend, but sobered his expression again after a moment, “Can you talk to the others for me? This battle we’re going into…it’s going to be a big one. And this ship and its crew are all pretty questionable right now- we’ve got no idea how well we can perform or even if we’ll be effective in battle. If I have to deal with angry gunnery officers it’s going to undermine our coordination and performance. It’ll get people killed- it even has the potential to get the ship killed in the wrong situation. There’s too much riding on all this for us to screw up because someone’s jealous.”

The twi’lek pursed his lips and nodded, “Yeah, I read you. They’re still not gonna be happy about it, but I think I can get the idea that they don’t want to kill themselves along with you and everyone else through their thick heads.”

“Thanks, man.” Thrist looked at his chrono and winced, “Hey, I’ll catch you later. I’ve got to hit the sack while I can- and you should too. We’ll all need some rest if we want to operate effectively when the time comes.”

~~~~~

Drac was also taking advantage of the brief opportunity to rest while the ship moved to rendezvous with Stormz and the rest of the taskforce. Given everything that needed doing, he wasn’t pleased with the necessity of sleep. But it was very much a necessity. His ship and crew would face problems enough in the coming hours without an exhausted, irritable commander. All things considered, he’d prefer not to make the wrong decision and get them all killed. And so, sleep.

Well. Sleep if he could get it. The amphibian tossed and turned for a while, but the comfort of the familiar chamber and bed couldn’t override the unease stirring inside him. He knew what the cause was, but knew also that there was nothing he could do about it. Like any longtime soldier, he’d collected his share of regrets, tragedies, and nightmares over the years. After the events of the recent months, they were all closer to the surface than ever.

But he’d never been one to run from his fear. Closing his eyes resolutely, Mihawk let the scenes roll across his mind’s eye unhindered.

First was Ator, of course. He and the rest of Nazgul Squadron had escorted his squadron commander and future Chief of Naval Operations, Geordi (then known as G’shlecc) Atrasin back to his home planet to attend the funeral of Atrasin’s father, who’d been assassinated. The assassins had struck out at Driver and the rest of the Nazguls soon after their arrival. When the dust settled, Nazgul was bloody and broken…but alive. In Driver’s words, “Over half of the flight would generously be called ‘walking wounded’ the other half would be categorized by most as ‘casualties’.” Physically, Drac had been toeing the line between the categories with a concussion, after-effects of a nerve agent, and several grazing blaster wounds. His innocence, however, was a definite casualty. He’d seen people killed and had killed some of them himself. His DC-15 blaster pistol had taken two lives at least before being sliced in half by a lightfoil wielded by G’shlecc’s traitorous uncle, and he’d made his first aerial kill in the final showdown at the edge of Ator’s mass shadow. The eager young pilot had left the corpse of his innocence in the rubble, trading it for the proverbial bloodstained hands he’d carried ever since.

Next came Lehon. Emperor’s Black Bones, Lehon. By that time he’d been well blooded, a veteran flight leader and a rising star in the starfighter corps. But Lehon…even in his own thoughts it was hard to express the horror and turmoil even just the name dredged up inside him. In truth, he didn’t remember much about that particular battle. Afterward, the docs had said his unconscious mind had blocked it out to avoid the trauma. He believed them. What he did remember was pure chaos and horror, a nightmarish and feverish struggle for survival. But where memory failed imagination was happy to fill in the blanks. Ships exploded. Friends died. And, for all intents and purposes, so did the most legendary starfighter units in the history of the Vast Empire. Phoenix Wing…Nazgul Squadron, Viper Squadron, and Kaph Squadron. They’d had their ups and downs through the years, but those three units had been the heart and soul of Starfighter Command. In the years since then he’d never seen squadrons to rival them. But for all intents and purposes they died there, in blood and fire, over a miserable little ball called Lehon.

Then the last time he’d returned from an absence…just in time for the Imperial Dominion’s despicable sneak attack on the Naval High Command. In moments’ time he went from being another returning pilot, albeit an elite one, to the totally green captain of a small warship. He’d treated the Cerulean like a big, clumsy fighter and pulled moves that were unconventional to say the least. All the same, the battle had been gory…and the scenes of agonizing death by poison that preceded it had been more so. More pain, fear, and regret. And some fool …well…Admiral Stormz… had decided his crazy tactics merited command of 2nd Fleet and a seat on the Naval High Command.

And then another…always another. But this one stood out, even amongst the others. There wasn’t a single action in his entire service career that Drac regretted like he did Escrutiod Eleven. What they’d done there had been necessary. It had also been cruel, ruthless…perhaps even evil. His Halcyon Warrior had sprung a surprise attack on the terrorist base, operating under explicit orders. Following those orders, and without the slightest regard for any innocents caught in the crossfire, he had overseen the death of a world. A small world, yes: in truth only a large asteroid. But that hadn’t mattered to the honest folks, no matter how few, who’d lived and worked there until the day he’d calmly, mercilessly given the order to murder them, their friends, and their families. His words that day mocked him now through the memory, “Slag the base and the planet. Slag the ships. Slag the fighters. No one gets out alive.” And that was exactly what they’d done. By the time he’d recalled his fighters and jumped back into hyperspace, Escrutiod Eleven was nothing but a slagged ball of twisted, tortured rock beyond all hope of habitability.

There were others less starkly etched into his memory, but these were the memories that scorched his conscience, that fueled the bitter regret down deep in his belly. These were the price he’d paid to serve the cause he’d chosen. The memories and nightmares were a part of him now, blurring the lines of his life as he’d slowly slid down the slippery slope from doing what’s right to doing what’s necessary. Could he climb back up? He didn’t know. If the coming hours and days played out as he expected, though, he’d be adding a few more nightmares to his nightly repertoire before he had a chance to find out.

Dracule Mihawk turned over and sighed. He started running through the list of logistics to be dealt with when he awoke, methodically using the mundane and routine to soothe himself to sleep.

OOC:

Word Count: 1,997

AAR: Thrist encounters some of the consequences that can come from sudden promotion above your peers and does his best to mitigate the enmity before heading to bed for a few hours’ rest. Drac rests also, while he can, but can’t stop himself from replaying scenes of pain and regret from the past. Eventually he manages to drop off to sleep, in hopes of being fresh when battle is joined. Is our (or at least my) favorite amphibian fleet officer suffering from a case of PTSD?

Einarr brought his interceptor once more into the hangar, the clamps locking onto the solar arrays central hub to secure and stabilize the craft as a group of techs swiftly moved over the craft to swap damaged components. He sat in the cockpit, the communications chatter slowly seeming to dwindle as the enemy forces took a beating. The ambush seemed to be going exceedingly well, the enemy fighters that entered the field of mines and debris falling swiftly to the guns of the defenders. His makeshift group circled the hangar guarding against hostiles as Einarr waited for repairs to be completed, the trio of Taloni in their outdated TIE's moving in tight formation, the lone survivor of Phoenix following close behind.

"Jexxel, repairs complete, back to the fight." the controllers voice seemed cheerier than the last one he had encountered, though whether that was due to the success of the battle going on outside, or some other reasoning, Einarr did not care to venture a guess. The clamps released their grip as Einarr throttled forward on the repulsorfield.

"Thanks control, I owe your techs a case later. Besh 2 launching now." The interceptor shot from the hangar like an explosive shell from a slug thrower as the remnants of Vagabond and the Phoenix pilot formed around him once more.

"Besh 2 to flight, lets see what trouble we can find."

"Blood and honor lead" The Warmaster's reply was cold as usual, anticipation of the fight not stirring the blood of the veteran warrior as he guided his trio.

"Lets get it done besh 2" the Phoenix pilot seemed resigned, Einarr wondered if the loss of his squadrons was effecting the man, the trauma could easily cause many pilots to shut down. This was a risk that could not be afforded at the moment. He needed his slap together group performing at their best, not weighed down by survivors guilt.

"You ready to do this Phoenix? We have got a battle to fight, then its home to the bar. If it flies a flag other than ours, knock it into dust. Honor those who fought beside you, you are now the Phoenix, and you fight for the honor of those who fell before you as well as your own!" Einarr was usually no good at inspiring speeches, but the mans flying became less erratic, hopefully he was focusing more on the task at hand.

The fighters moved swiftly through the debris, the rapidly spreading clouds of New Republic, Corellian, as well as a few of the local Absit fighters remains drifted among the far older debris of the wrecks and scrap left to drift. here and there the fading signals of a VE fighters distress beacon sounded out in the dark where a stray fighter had fallen to the foe. Einarr reached up to test the seal of his modified helmet to the makeshift collar connecting the partially grafted antiquated armor, then throttled forward towards a retreating group of blastboats broadcasting corellian tags. "targets ahead, don't let them leave the field."

"Confirmed lead" The trio of Taloni fighters streaked past Einarr on their own intercept pattern, the nimble craft weaving around debris as they streaked towards the fleeing targets. A series of bolts from one of the absit fighter's shattered the wing of one of the blastboats, the craft heaving to and drifting as its systems immolated themselves in a series of secondary explosions, a fuel line having been hit. The locals seemed to be avoiding direct kill shots, but the Taloni had no such compunction. 2 more blastboats went up like torches in the night as the lasers of Vagabonds remainder slashed through depleted shields to rupture cockpits, or shatter the tiny cargo holds on the freighters turned bombers. Einarr and the Phoenix followed the crisply moving Vagabond unit in, Einarr's lasers cutting holes in the lead blastboats armor to open the crew compartment to space and a relatively slow death, while Phoenix sent his lasers into the hub on the rear which allowed the wing section to rotate into position, the depleted shields and decimated armor not preventing the barrage from splitting the crew section from the propulsion on the rear. Einarr's target detonated in a secondary explosion, this allowed Einarr to witness the tight turn followed by a flurry of blasts which finished the Phoenix's target. The Taloni of Vagabond had finished the demise of the enemy pilot in their slowly drifting shell of durasteel debris.

Einarr worried about the human in his makeshift groups reaction to the cold blooded removal of a future threat, the mans flying had gone more erratic as the man seemed stunned.

"Phoenix, we are done here. Return to the hangar, the enemy should begin breaking and running shortly."

A tight beam transmission registered on the sensors of his fighter, and Einarr clicked the toggle to display it. The Taloni lead had requested permission to continue the hunt. "Vagabond, keep it tight, lets clean up the stragglers."

Einarr watched the Phoenix fighter turn for home as the remainder turned in formation with him. They began to sweep the forward section of Jexxel squadrons assigned zone for stragglers or incoming as Einarr sent out a rally beacon for any of the other Jexxel pilots who should have been in the area.

OOC:

Word count: 880

Commodore Wyl Trykon stared at the tactical hologram, as it continually updated to reflect the changing conditions of the battle still raging around and throughout the Nusiuu Docks facility.  The icons representing the various friendly and enemy capital ships and space stations and starfighters all shifted and moved, some changing colors, and the status symbols beside each abstracted image kept track of shield strength, power usage, and many other pieces of technical information.

There was a time, the Commodore reflected, as he watched the kaleidoscopic, three-dimensional display, when you thought of space battles as contests between machines.  Trykon’s lips twitched at the memory, though they never quite resolved themselves into a true smile.  He’d been ten years old.  A precocious, effete little boy, too bright for his own good, he’d looked up into the night sky on Kuat and fantasized about commanding a Star Destroyer and winning great victories at the head of an unstoppable fleet.  Anything to escape his miserable place at the bottom of the Kuati caste system, and the thoroughly unfair fate he had assumed that socio-economic position would ensure.  Wyl had known that just beyond his sight, above the planet’s clouds, in the massive orbital ring of shipyards which encircled his homeworld, awesome and terrible machines were being built.  And in his youth and naiveté, he thought that those machines were what would win battles, and bring glory.  Warfare seemed to be an equation, and the side with the biggest and best weapons seemed assured of triumph.

But as he continued to watch the display, seeing entire flights of fighters disappear in heroic self-sacrifice, and lone capital ships narrowly evade destruction, Trykon was reminded of the most important lesson he had learned, in all his years as a warrior: battles - whether on the ground or among the stars - were won or lost by people, not by machines.  Morale, discipline, and willpower were vastly more important than lasers, torpedoes, and shields.  And ultimately, warfare wasn’t an equation; warfare was a grueling game with gruesome consequences, wherein battlefield commanders pitched their strategies - and their people - against those of their opposing commander.

The Kuati fleet commander’s musings were cut short, then, as he finally saw what he’d been waiting for, near the far end of the tactical hologram: several New Republic frigates seemed to turn away from the battle, all at once, and they poured power into their engines.  Scores of enemy fighters followed suit, moments later.  And then just seconds after that, most of the few remaining Corellian ships all scrambled at randomized vectors, trying desperately to shake the dogged pursuit of Trykon’s own starfighter screen.

The bad guys were running.

The two-stage trap had been too much for the vaunted forces of the New Republic.  Indeed, it had been too much even for the storied sons and daughters of the Corell System.  The vicious surprise of the sleeper ships of Task Force Besh, and then the savage pincer attack from the rest of the Second and Fourtheenth Fleets, had broken more than just a few of the foe’s machines… the one-two punch had broken their will to fight.

Wyl finally smiled, then, before turning to face his Executive Officer.  “All forward tractor beam projectors are to lock on to that CC-9600 frigate, and detain it,” he ordered smoothly, pointing unnecessarily at the heavily-damaged Corellian flagship still trying bravely - but futilely - to harry the much larger and more powerful Adjudicator.  “Discretionary power to the engines; lay in a pursuit course for the Republic’s main body,” Trykon continued.  He paused, and then raised his voice so everyone on the bridge could hear: “And signal all commands: the Commodore promises a bottle of Corellian whiskey to every single crewmember aboard whichever ship manages to destroy that enemy Imp Star Deuce!  If a TIE squadron brings her down, a case to every pilot!”

A restrained cheer went up from the command staff, and at their collective bidding, the flagship of the Vast Imperial Second Fleet leaned in to the attack, ready to bring the Battle of the Nusiuu Docks to an end.

OOC:

697 words.  Let's finish this fight, folks.

After Action Report: Trykon watches the tactical hologram aboard the Adjudicator intently, waiting for the Corellians/New Republicans to prove a precept he's learned over his years as a warrior: battles are won or lost by the morale of the combatants, rather than by the sophistication of their weapons or the relative sizes of the opposing forces.  Sure enough, after all they've been through, the New Republic forces break - hard - turning away from the battle and trying to escape to the edge of the System, where they can jump to hyperspace.  Most of the Corellians follow suit.  Trykon orders the heavily-damaged but still-resisting Corellian flagship detained with tractor beams, and then spurs the entire Vast Imperial force on with a promise to reward any unit that can destroy the Consensus - the New Republic's Imperial II-class Star Destroyer flagship - before she can escape the battlefield.

The anger within the Wookiee Admiral eased slightly at the brilliant display of colors shown from the distraction of the Nebulon Frigate. It was a sight he'd long forgotten, yet never ceased to amaze him.

As he reminisced, slowly working himself into a day dream, the opposing forces had come in range of the Black Star, allowing them to unleash an onslaught on the star Destroyer.

[I want a consistent stream of reports flowing from you all. Send it to my holo pad for review.] Stormz grunted. It took merely a second for his holo pad to begin scrolling through the information that was consistently sent to him from the weapons, shields, comms, and maintenance officers located on his ship's bridge.

[i want the gravity well projectors to be lowered slightly. They're well within range now and our shields could use the added power.] he bellowed, [Navigation, get this behemoth moving at an 45 degree angle to our oncoming foes. This should alleviate some of the damage due to us being moving, no matter how big we are.]

The gunnery officer piped up, explaining that his port side weapons were at the ready if he wished to open them up. A slight nod, and the officer gave the command, setting primary as the Comsenus.

[Drop all fighters, they are to swarm the Consenus and destroy every last weapon they can.] barked the Wookiee to his Wing Commander.

"Sir, the battle is won. To do this at this stage would cause a number of friendly casualties," the WC rebuttals.

[At this stage, your casualties are but a number. A number which can be replaced and replenished, much like yourself if I don't see you getting your men and your ass out there and doing your job.] Drac had set Ph'rranix' tone with his daring, and questionable move, however his current Wing Commander had pushed the NCC over the edge. The commander realized his error, and gave a quick salute before promptly skirmishing off to collect his pilots.

Taking a moment to calm himself, the Wookiee bellowed for an update on his shields and power.

"Power holding steady at 97%, sir. Shields are slowly dwindling, we're are 91% but I expect that to drop to the 80's soon if we can't get some of the pummeling off us."

OOC:

WC- a scant 389, BUT it's better than nothing! We have the ships all in place, we have things going our way, we see that our leader CAN be mean (actually in character, my guy should be way more mean, but were good at this point. That'll be saved for you who fail me.) now, lets get this enemy ship popped and move on to the next one!

Einarr worked the yoke to bring his craft around as Cassius traced the source of the signals from the rest of Jexxel flight. The trio of Taloni pilots turned with him as he wove a path through the slowly drifting debris field making way to the source of the last transmission.

Contact came swiftly as the ragged shapes of a retreating flight of Uglies crossed his path, the flash of missiles leaping into the dark, an exchange of lasers, and a final pair of silent detonations in the void as two more enemy ships were reduced to scrap, the remaining ships hurried their flight instead of turning to engage.

"Vagabond's, make sure they do not return. Honor and blood."

"Honor and blood, until we meet again young one."

The Trio of TIE fighters turned in pursuit as Einarr continued his journey towards his fellow pilots, the last communication had been an order to maintain a defensive position, but that did not apply to his erstwhile comrades, thus he felt confident there would be no harm in releasing them to the hunt he was now barred from pursuing. He watched the radar as the Trio continued to harry the retreating flight clear of the field with pangs of regret that a piece of his past was leaving to fight without him. He quietly checked the toggles and snaps on his armor and helmet as he continued on, the beacons for Jexxel flights fighters having appeared on his scope.

"Besh 2 to Jexxel lead, permission to rejoin formation? my beacon relay must be malfunctioning I lost you for a bit." Einarr reduced speed as he approached the flight, Cassius processing a silent subroutine as the AI attempted to track down the malfunctioning circuit or component that was interfering with the relay. It would not do to have fought so hard and come so close to rejoining his comrades, just to be reduced to debris and vapor by someone with a twitchy trigger finger. He kept his speed down to give the flight maximum time to confirm his identity as he awaited a reply. A twitch of the yoke here, a touch of the rudder pedal there guided him around the mass of debris in his path as the smaller pieces sparked a trail of ionizing metal against his ships shields before being rebounded back into the dark. Einarr quietly considered the events of the battle and wondered if meeting his former masters old comrade was more than dumb luck, the malfunctioning relay causing him to part from the rest of his flight, the sudden appearance of so skilled a group of pilots on this battlefield, it could not have been pure coincidence could it?

He gave over control to Cassius, trusting the AI to keep his fighter from being damaged in its slow stroll towards being reunited with Jexxel squadron as he allowed his mind to slowly sink into the software built into his cybernetic body, his minds eye replaying and processing the events leading up to the battle as well as the battle itself up to this point in accelerated time.

OOC:

Word count: 519 AAR: Short post to reunite Norse with the rest of Jexxel, also added in a bit of CD to keep the word count from getting to low.

Now
The Tower was quiet, some might say as quiet as the grave - but now and again you'd hear the whisper of the doors, the sound of boots against the floor, even the hushed words of two agents speaking as they moved. For the most part, the silence was due to the sound-proofed walls and doors, the thick windows few and far between. It was an ominous structure, designed with intimidation in mind. Noteworthy perhaps was the fact that before being the VENI Headquarters, it was rumored to be a house of pain - home to many of the Galactic Empire's most terrible crimes of torture. Suffice to say it was a place suited for VENI, a high tech fortress.

"Sir?" A senior agent approached the broad-shouldered man, pausing a few steps behind him and waiting in relative silence, save for the tapping on the datapad he held in his hands. Nervous, Grey thought to himself. The icy blue eyes of VENI's second in command did not shift from the display that was relayed live from a VENI uplink through multiple different ships of the Vast Empire's Navy. His gaze swept from left to right, looking over the carnage and violence that the holo-footage relayed. An idle flick of his hand over the screen saw it shift to a tactical readout, the inquisitive eyes of the Ensign traversing the holographic screen.

"Divided we fall," Grey murmured absentmindedly, finally turning and fixating the younger agent with a querulous stare, "well?"

"There was a garbled transmission from one of the fighter squadrons to our point-man aboard the Adjudicator," the agent spoke candidly; there was no risk of being overheard in the Tower.. Not by anyone who didn't already know, anyway, "with the addition of the Halcyon Warrior and her task force to the battle, Hub recommends immediate activation of sleeper units."

Grey nodded slowly, "how many?"

At this, the other agent paused, clearing his throat before he continued, "All of them, sir."

"All of them?" Having been about to turn away, the Ensign stymied the movement in favor of raising his eyebrows as he watched the agent expectantly.

"All of them, sir. He says that-"

"-That will be all," Grey interrupted sharply. The Ensign Grey was usually a calm, polite, well-spoken man - that he had interrupted someone showed that he was uncharacteristically uncomfortable with the turn of events.

"Very good sir," the agent had enough intelligence to see that now was a bad time to broach the subject of his pay increase and so opted to leave instead, as requested.

Grey watched him leave, only turning away from the door when it had sealed with the satisfying, twisted hiss of pressurization. A well-manicured hand rose to key in a few buttons on the gauntlet of his left, the beeps indicating the connection of a holo-transmission emanating through the spartan office. His bare hand pulled the glove from his left, revealing an intricate array of cybernetic replacements - no, cybernetic enhancements - that glowed dimly as they powered up. A green light flashed twice and Grey faced his palm upward, just in time for a flicker of blue to appear.

"Sir," he intoned. Yes, a flicker of blue - but nothing else. It was an indistinguishable shape, more like a floating ball of electricity than a man.

"Ensign," the automated voice of his commander came back. Some people found it disconcerting, others still found it terrifying. Personally, Grey found it comforting - there was something about it, a steely surety that the quavering voices of sentient species did not, could not possess.

"There's been a recommendation from Hub to reactivate the NSUs. All of them," Ensign Grey informed his commanding officer, using the colloquial term for VENI's Navy Sleeper Units, "I don't think-"

"I know."

"Sir?" The lesser Grey queried hesitantly,

"I know."

"You. . . approve of this course of action?" The ensign ventured after an unbroken silence, very much aware that questioning the commander of VENI was not a day-to-day occurrence.

"Is that disapproval I detect in your tone, Ensign?" The monotonous machine voice came back. Ensign Grey cursed himself for being human, or at least for not having a voice distorter so his inflections and tone changes could not be detected, but although Captain Grey's voice was completely neutral, the ensign could sense his disapproval just through the wording of the question.

"No sir, I just-"

"-disapprove of this course of action," the Captain finished simply. Ensign Grey swallowed and gritted his teeth, waiting a moment before replying.

"Yes sir," he admitted finally, "I just think the flow from the current NSUs is more than adequate. There's no need to police every ship."

"Noted," Captain Grey responded calmly. Then again, with the distortion it was hard to tell if Grey was ever not calm.

"Sir, I don't think-"

"-That will be all, Ensign." It was almost eerie how his superior used the exact same phrase that he had used just minutes ago. It was small mannerisms like that that ensured Grey retained his omniscient reputation, simple phrases or the way he worded things that made him positively larger than life.

"Sir," the Ensign acknowledged respectfully. Without any other warning, the line was cut and Ensign Grey was on his own again. He replaced the glove on his left hand, curling it into a relaxed fist as he turned back to the holographic readouts. The division between the New Republic forces and the Correllians was all too obvious, all too easily exploited. His bare hand drifted to his pocket and pulled out a basic comlink that had a link to the main network. The blue-eyed Grey keyed the activator and spoke, "Hub."

"Sir."

"I have a job for you.."

Then
The silence of space was an interesting thing, if you thought about it. So much happened out there in the vast abyss of stars and the myriad of colors, so many colossal happenings that made not a sound. The explosion of a ship as its reactor collapsed, a small supernova in its own right as all that power revert to pure energy and blossomed outward in a kaleidoscopic rendition of unnatural destruction, yet it was absolutely silent. Perhaps the roaring of flame inside the sealed parts of the hull would be heard, but only by those who were doomed to die when their section too vented atmosphere. Somewhere in that riveting silence sat a single individual with a thousand sets of eyes, as silent as the void around him while he watched, while he waited. Some might have whispered that there was dissent amongst the feared intelligence agency of the Vast Imperial Navy given the fact that they seemed almost non-existent, but those who were VENI or had been part of the secretive branch of the Navy would know that there was never any dissent in VENI. Quite simply, VENI agents knew the price of dissent, the cost of an ill-timed whisper.. the only whispering was that of the almost inaudible doors in The Tower.

Through the silence of space, there was a small buzz. It might have been some sort of insect, annoyingly zipping around an impatient officer's head, might have been a comm unit vibrating as it received a transmission.. Although the latter was not far off from the truth, it was not entirely there. It was a comm unit, but it wasn't vibrating, rather, it was buzzing with interference.

Whether artificial interference to conceal the caller's identity or interference caused by patches of electro-magnetic pulse that had been deployed for weaponry purposes, or as a result of an overloaded power core - it mattered not, the interference was there. "Sir," the receiver answered the call. He needed no introduction to know who was calling.

"Report," the single word spoken echoed from the receiver's transmission device in a growling robotic tone, interrupted by the brief annoyance of static.

"Losses on both sides, but I think-"

"I do not ask for either what you think or a report on the battle, because both of those things I already know," Grey's artificial voice cut in neutrally, the statement implying he had other agents whispering to him - or indeed that he was there in the flesh, if Grey was made of flesh, "report."

"I.." The receiver was briefly speechless, but no-one in VENI was speechless for long, "I apologise, sir. We've received a reactivation signal from one of our sleeper agents, Herf Wesk."

For a moment there was nothing but the hissing of static and the receiver feared the signal had been lost. The concerns eased as the artificially distorted voice spoke again, "Dorn Mern," the voice mused in its metallic tone.

"It can only be him," the man on the other end nodded, though soon after felt rather stupid given that Grey couldn't see him through the comm unit. Then again, the mysterious commander of VENI had spies everywhere - it was not fey to assume that the receiver was being watched, whether by spies or by surveillance equipment. After a period of extended silence, the man ventured a few more words, "how should I respond, sir?"

"With silence," Grey stated simply.

"Sir?" The receiver queried, not entirely sure of the order. It was queried in vain, however, as the line was already severed. There was no more static, no more buzzing or hissing.

Just silence.

OOC:

WC: 1590

After Action Report: Captain Mihawk's appearance in the midst of battle prompts Captain Grey to order the activation of VENI Sleeper Agents strewn out across the fleet. Ensign Grey, his faithful second in command, has some doubts about the action and means to act on his own initiative in addition to his orders..

Gunners Mate Ruterra “Gorog” Vigil couldn’t believe his eyes.  The Halcyon Warrior had come out of no where and was pummeling the Consensus with the ferocity of a Corellian Sand Panther.  However he was surprised to see only about half of the turbo lasers actually firing. 

“Hey Gorog, we have new orders. Captain Zail says that we have to forget about the Consensus and focus on the Wistenfall instead. “ Said Chief Gunner Kol Yandeer who was looking at his battle display computer.

“Gotcha Chief.”  Ruterra replied as he felt the ship accelerate towards the Wistenfall.  It was truly amazing how Captain Zail was able to leave a target like to Consensus to another captain to finish off. Ruterra began to punch in the targeting coordinates that Kol Yandeer was calling out.  They targeted the shield generators first with the ion cannons for maximum effectiveness. 

“Coordinates locked in Chief.” He said when he sent the data to the gunners on the gun decks. 

“Good, your improving your time Gorog, you might become as good as me one day.”  He shot back.

As they approached the Republic Ship, Ruterra was able to make out the features of the enemy vessel.  It was shaped like some odd fish with two massive tail fins in the rear.  His mind raced as he recalled starship facts from his childhood.  I remember reading about the Dreadnought Heavy Cruisers by Rendili StarDrive, but this thing looks ridiculous.  All they did to make the Mk.1 Assault Frigate was just modify the Dreadnought to have more engines and weapons.  Hell, most of the ship is exposed to space since it uses mostly droids to run the ship.  Those turbo lasers have a very short range and low rate of fire since it eats up the power supply so fast.  Also those modifications forced them to remove the internal docking bays so they should have limited fighter coverage.  It just makes it a perfect target for this Star Destroyer to attack at long range… 

“Hey Gorog are you paying attention?”  Asked Yandeer who noticed Ruterra was staring off into space again.

“Oh yes sir I am.  I am ready to order the gunners to fire.” Crap, Ruterra get your act together, stop focusing on the ship’s specs and focus on Yandeer’s orders.

“Very well, our ion cannons are just about with in range. Send the command to fire.”

“Yes sir.”  With that Ruterra ordered the ion gunners to fire on the Wistenfall.  Eight bright streaks of blue ion blasts streaked from the ion turrets and headed for the Wistenfall.  The beams hit directly where they were aimed: the forward deflector shield emitters.  With their forward shields damaged, the turbo lasers could begin to attack the area of the ship that housed the living personal and stop the ship in its tracks by destroying the bridge.  The lasers began firing on the Wistenfall while the ion cannons charged up for another shot.  Yandeer gave another set of coordinates for the gunners.  Streaks of red tubrolaser bolts were hurled towards the Assault Frigate.  Their shields held up though.  Damn those shields are tough. 

“Gorog order the ion cannons to fire another volley at the new coordinates, we have to take down those shields.  If they get too close they will be able to do some serious damage with those high power turbolasers.”

“Command sent sir.”

Another volley of ion cannon fire hit the shields again but still their shields held strong. I guess those modifications are actually pretty good.  They sacrificed fighter cover and range for speed and shields, what a perfect close quarters offensive weapon…one that will be firing on you!!!, Ruterra said to himself. 

The ship shook as the first tubrolaser bolts from the Wistenfall hit the ship. 

“Forward shields down to 34%!” Came a distinctly panicked cry of warning from one of the bridge officers of the VSD Brilliant.

What? Already, how much more of this could we take?

“Gunners stand ready!  We’ll come up behind it and hit its engines.  When she slows, throw shield power to starboard and come alongside for a full turbolaser barrage at close range!”  Yelled Captain Zail as he formulated his plans.

“Yes Captain!” Replied Yandeer. “Gorog, input these new coordinates and tell me how long until we will be ready to fire.”

Ruterra quickly punched in the numbers as fast as he could.  His fingers flowed over the input panel with duals and buttons.  He entered the Brilliant's course, speed, angle and distance from the target.  “Sir we will be within range in 20 seconds.”

“Weapons range in twenty seconds!” Came the announcement from Zail’s calm and controlled Weapons Chief, Kol Yandeer.

To the bridge crew of the Brilliant the 20 seconds felt like 20 hours.  Each second dragged on as the ship moved into position.  The Rebel Assault Frigate had by this time begun to change its course as it fled like a injured womb rat.  However the captain of the Wistenfall had miscalculated his move and now left his engines exposed.  Perfect.  By the tiem the captain of the Wistenfall noticed his error it was too late.  A barrage of ion cannons disrupted his weakened rear deflector shield.  The turbo lasers burned through the shield and wreaked havoc on the engines. Wistenfall's ion engines exploded in a massive fireball.  The explosion violently shook the Brilliant and caused it to take a 5° list to port.  Wow, there is no way that they can run now.

Brilliant began to right itself as the Brilliant began to slow down.  The Frigates guns ceased to fire and the Frigate’s speed dropped rapidly.

“Captain, sensors indicate that the rest of the Republic Fleet is about to make the jump to light speed.  We’ve done it sir.”  Said the new sensors mate Connie Keithel.   

“We did it Gorog! Well done.” Exclaimed Yandeer

It seemed as if the battle would soon be over and everyone could get a well-deserved rest.  Ruterra looked over at Connie who gave him thumbs up.  “Nice shooting you Correlian pirate.” 

“Thanks Connie.” Is she taking an interest in me? He though as he leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. 

Maybe we have a chance of actually liberating my homeworld (Corellia) after all.

OOC:

Word count: 1048

Leading Crewman Ruterra "Gorog" Vigil and his superior Chief Gunner Kol Yandeer follow Captain Zail "Serpent's orders and successfully take out the engines of the fleeing Republic Assault Frigate Wistenfall.  Ruterra also notices Connie Keithel (NPC girl from the same academy class as him) is taking interest in him.

With the enemy in full retreat, Commodore Wyl Trykon stepped back from the tactical hologram, ready to resume his habitual position and posture: standing at the forward viewports, staring out at the stars.  The Battle of the Nusiuu Docks would end in a victory for the Vast Empire - there was no longer any doubt - and Trykon could afford to relax a bit, and look to the future.  With the Corellian Third Fleet all but wiped out, and the Third Battle Group of the New Republic Defense Fleet removed from the strategic equation as well, the Vast Empire’s coming campaign against the Corellian League was far more likely to succeed.  And success would change the galactic balance of power forever.

Trykon nodded to himself, and began walking down the command walkway toward the forward area of the bridge.  The Vast Empire as a whole isn’t the only beneficiary of today’s victory, he thought to himself with a pang of guilty realization.  You stand to gain a lot personally after this battle, too.  It was true.  Besides serving the Vast Empire, Trykon served himself, and presiding over such a spectacularly one-sided victory would add to his personal mystique and reputation for invulnerability, among the Imperial public and also among his fellow officers of the Navy.  Promotion would almost certainly follow, despite his already meteoric rise through the ranks.

Suddenly, Wyl’s reverie was interrupted by a sense that something was wrong.  The usual low hum of ambient conversation on the bridge had quieted, and the crewers to his left and right in the lowered crew pits were staring behind their captain and fleet commander, at someone else.  Wyl fed on the sudden spike of anxiety that ripped through his body, and reached out behind himself with the Force, seeking the identity of the person who had approached him so silently.

It was the Headmaster of the Imperial Jedi Order.

Wyl turned to face Raziel, the movement made jerky by his mounting nervousness.  He silently cursed himself: it was unwise to show weakness in front of a member of the Dark Council.

As the black-robed man approached the final two paces, Trykon bent into an abbreviated bow.  He hoped the gesture would be accepted as a sufficient show of respect, but he did not dare appear too subservient, when in front of his own bridge crew.  Trykon’s rank and prestige in the Imperial Navy had lent him an importance to the Imperial Jedi Order which far outstripped his meager talents with the Force.  Wyl desperately wanted to preserve that position of importance (and the relative safety from his darksider peers that came with it), which meant he had to preserve the loyalty and respect of his crew.

Then again, if Raziel decided to take offense, it would hardly matter what anyone in the Navy thought of Wyl Trykon… the Kuati would simply disappear from history.  Expunged.

Trykon swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, and straightened from his bow to find the Dark Jedi Primarch staring at him, his expression thoughtful.  “Master Raziel,” Trykon breathed, only barely resisting the temptation to bow again, and more deeply.

The shorter, healthier-looking man in the black robes regarded Trykon in his duty uniform for a moment, before asking: “How goes the battle?”

“Everything is in hand,” Wyl responded quietly, still painfully aware of the attention of his crew.

Raziel stared back, as if he could look directly into Trykon’s thoughts.  Which, Wyl realized with another jolt of fear, was not totally impossible.  After what felt like an eternity, the de facto leader of the Imperial Jedi Order nodded.  “You’ve done well,” he said simply.

But the man’s words were heavy with meaning, and suddenly the memory of using an illusion through the Force to redirect attacking fighters came back to Wyl, unbidden.  And he knew that Raziel knew what he’d done.

Wyl frowned.  He debated his response for a moment, but settled on a simple, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it then, Commodore,” Raziel said.  “I merely wanted to convey the compliments of the Council, and remind you that Joint Forces Command expects a briefing at your earliest convenience.”  And with that, the deadly little assassin turned around and left.

Wyl stared after the man a beat too long, before remembering the many sets of eyes still watching.  He made himself harumph casually, exaggerating the sigh so it could be seen from across the bridge, and then turned to continue his walk to the viewports.  Hopefully, his crew would interpret the exchange to have been a routine conversation between the Fleet Commander of the Vast Empire’s assault force and the civilian liaison official attached to the Vast Empire’s Joint Forces Command, which was operating temporarily from the Adjudicator.

But Trykon had selected these beings personally, and he knew they were a smart group.  The fact that a civilian was allowed on the bridge was unusual, to say the least.  And the fact that both the black-robed man and Trykon himself were wearing lightsabers clipped to their belts… well, perhaps there wasn’t really any hope that the crew would think the conversation had been “routine.”

But they would do their jobs and win the battle, whatever their suspicions.  And as he turned back to face the starscape, lit up by flickering bursts of laser fire and the occasional explosion as the battle raged on to its inevitable conclusion, Trykon’s thoughts turned again.  Perhaps Raziel’s visit had been calculated to implant those very suspicions among the crew?  The Order was set to contribute much more openly, during the Corellian campaign… maybe Raziel wanted to begin associating the Navy’s victories - and Trykon’s own successes - with the Imperial Jedi Order.  Maybe he was starting to build up good will within the armed forces, to grease the wheels in anticipation of joint operations involving crewers and Jedi.

A brief tremor in the deck plating called Wyl’s attention back to the present, as the Adjudicator absorbed the immense energies of an enemy broadside.  There’s still fighting to be done, he thought soberly.

Another ship exploded, off the port bow.  And through all the noise of the bridge, Trykon thought he could almost hear the door hiss shut behind Raziel as the Headmaster exited.

There’s still fighting to be done.

OOC:

1,068 words.  A little more set-up for one of the most exciting OOC aspects of Chapter 9: greater cooperation between divisions!

AAR: As the battle devolved into mopping up operations, Trykon allows himself a moment to consider the future.  For the Vast Empire, the victory at the Nusiuu Docks will be very important, for the coming campaign against the Corellians.  Two enemy fleets will have been removed, before the "main fight" gets started.  For Trykon personally, the battle will also be beneficial, probably leading to another promotion, which will leave him more secure vis a vis the more powerful Dark Jedi of the Imperial Jedi Order, who he fears.

As if summoned by Trykon's thoughts, Raziel appears, to deliver a simple message: the Dark Council is watching, they approve of Trykon's uses of the Force during the battle, and they want a report when the battle is complete.  Then the Headmaster leaves.

Wyl wonders: did Raziel come in person to deliver the message for a reason?  Is the acting leader of the Imperial Jedi Order trying to publicly link Trykon with the Dark Jedi?  Is he trying to associate Trykon's victories, which had been considered Navy successes, with the Imperial Jedi Order too?

Wyl refocuses on finishing the battle, but he reflects: there is more fighting ahead, even after the Nusiuu Docks are secure.

It had been a while since the Mandalorian had faced a blaster at point blank range. It was leveled at the centre of the T-visor, the equivalent of between the centre of the eyes. There was no regret in Tinker’s eyes: just pure malice. He had seen the Vast Empire swoop forwards. They had played their hand. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before the VE made a move on the Corellian system. If anything, Grent pitied the turncoat, and respected his decision. If the decision was made to make a move against a Mandalorian world, not that was ever going to be likely, then Grent would kill everyone who so much as pointed at his vode. Fighting them on the battlefield was different, of course, as they had each chosen their own sides, but an all out attack on his home? No, he would have done the same as Tinker. The only difference between them, was that Grent would have left much sooner.

“You better shoot me, Tiberius,” said Grent, using Tinker’s real name as opposed to his call sign. Tinker belonged to the Vast Empire, and this man with a blaster pointed at him was not of the Empire.
“No. I’m going to use you to lure the rest of Strill in,” said Tiberius Dekam.
“And what about the Marines? The ten of you going to stand up to ten squads of elite troops?” questioned Grent.
“Ha! Ten squads? You’ve got two shuttles inbound. You’ve got two squads. Three at a push,” said one of the inflitrators, laughing.
“Yeah, besides: there are twenty others waiting on the bridge …” started another.
“Quiet, you idiot. You’re giving him our numbers!” snapped Dekam, turning his head to look at the offender.

At the distraction, Grent brought up his hands, batting away Dekam’s weapon. As the traitor began to react, Grent ejected his gauntlet blade and drove it into the man once known as Tinker’s jugular. Tiberius gasped for air, as he fell down, hands at his throat trying to stop the torrent of blood. Seeing the former Strill pilot go down, the other ten men raised their weapons and fired. Immediately, Grent dived forwards, under the torrent of laser fire, and drew his swords, slicing at the group. Several men fell down screaming, clasping at the gaps where legs used to be. The rest, six in all, dropped their rifles and extended their snap batons. Both sides eyed each other up, before launching into a frenzy of attacks. Grent ducked and weaved, blocking and parrying his assailants, trying to prevent them from surrounding him. He lunged forwards, stabbing one of his swords through the heart of one man, but before he could pull it loose he was subject to more attacks. Now down to only one sword, the Mandalorian backed himself into one of the smaller corridors, so that the five men had to come at him single file. They continued to push, however, and no matter how hard he tried, Grent could not force them back. Suddenly, a moment of brilliance struck the Qiiluran man. Feigning tiredness, he lured the closest man forwards, then without warning, he activated his helmet’s full beam spotlights, temporarily stunning the man and causing him to stagger backwards into his fellows. Simultaneously, Grent attached two grenades to the staggering man and leapt away. The following explosion caused Gurlanin’s ears to ring, even with the sound dampeners in his helmet. Body parts were strewn around, and there was a bloody mess amidst scorch marks a few metres away.

Grent walked back into the turret control room, calmly drawing a sidearm and shooting the last survivor without looking. Looking around, he noticed a cowering figure under the access panel, which had, amazingly, remained undamaged.

“Come out here. I’m not going to kill you,” promised Grent.
“I … I … I don’t b .. b .. believe you ….” stuttered the slicer.
“I can kill you if you like,” offered the Mandalorian.
“No! I’m coming out!” The slicer crawled out from underneath the panel housing, arms clasped around his datapad.
Grent pointed to the turret controls, “Are those turrets still offline?”
“I don’t know …” the man suddenly stopped, as he stared at the imposing black clad figure with the glowing T-visor, “... but I can check …”
“Right answer.”
A few moments later, the slicer, now having calmed down a bit, spoke, “They’re offline, as promised. Look, I’m just the hired help, I had no idea there would be this much,” the man gulped, “blood.”
“Go down this corridor to the hangar,” said Grent, pointing down the corridor that led to the hangar Cresh flight had arrived in, “I’ll tell them not to shoot you. Maybe we can find some use for you.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!” grovelled the man, turning and running down the corridor.
Grent opened comms to his flight again, “I’m sending a prisoner down to you. Slicer. Nervous bloke. Try not to blast him.”
“Roger that, Top,” came Edge’s reply, “How’s Tinker holding up?”
The question caused Grent’s throat to tighten, as he looked at the slumped corpse at his feet, the blue eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the blonde hair stained with dried blood. The man looked away from the body, and just spoke without emotion, “Dead.”
“What? Ho-..”
Grent switched channels to the Marine’s, “MAR Niner Niner, this is Cresh Lead. You are clear, over.”
“We noticed. Much appreciated, Cresh Lead. Unloading now,” replied the Marine at the comm.
“If you can spare a squad to keep the hangar secure, I need my two up here ASAP.”
“Roger that.”

Less than a minute passed before Edge and Lady arrived, followed by a squad or two of Marines. Their commander stepped forwards, glancing at the pile of bodies Grent and tidied up, and extended his hand.

“Name’s Sully and these are my boys. Where do you need us?” he said in a gruff voice, as Grent shook his hand.
“We’ve got twenty hostiles on the bridge. Unknown how many are armed, or if there are any others on the ship. I doubt it though. We’ve taken out two squads in total, and they couldn’t have brought many more without detection.”
“I guess going in subtly is out of the question?”
“I didn’t know you Marine lads could do ‘subtle’.”
Sully chuckled, “Alright, you heard the man. Hitting the bridge hard and loud.”
“We’ll cover your six, Sully,” said Grent. He noticed Edge and Lady glancing around, looking for Tinker most probably. He switched back to the private helmet-to-helmet channel, “I’ll tell you about it later. Focus now.”
“No, we’ve got orders from your CO. He wants you back in your fighters A-SAP.”
“We’ve got a man down. Any chance you have got fighter clamps on your shuttles that we could borrow?”
“Sure do. Feel free to just leave it back at the Adj. We’ll get someone else to pilot it back.”
“Appreciate it.”

The Marines jogged off towards the bridge, as Grent, Edge, and Lady made their way back to the hangar, after Grent retrieved his sword and Tinker’s armour. Silently, they attached Tinker’s and Grent’s fighters to clamps on the shuttle, using the hangar’s cranes to help. Grent climbed into the cockpit of the shuttle, the restrained slicer secured well away from him, but close enough that he could still be seen. Edge was the first to take off, followed by Lady. When they gave the all clear, Grent also left the hangar. He reported into Joamer and told him everything that had happened, and that he was taking Tinker’s fighter back with him. It was going to be a long flight.

OOC:

WC: 1292

AAR: The second half of my two part finale. Grent defeats the squad detaining him and killing Tinker, then waits for the Marines to arrive. After collecting Tinker's armour and any remaining belongings, the three surviving Cresh members attach Tinker and Grent's fighters to one of the shuttles, using the fighter clamps. Edge and Lady escort Grent back to the Adjudicator.

Einarr guided his fighter into formation, the Interceptor gliding into its proper space alongside its fellows. Einarr tight beamed an updated scan log to the flight lead as Cassius adjusted the feed levels to the ion engines main chamber.

"Besh 2 to Lead, I spotted a few possible contacts in the field on the way over, Transports, looked like they were venting atmo but they may just be playing dead. Request permission to go for a look? Wouldn't do to leave a pair of mammal infested ships where they could take our forces in the rear or escape to fight another day."

"Besh 1 to Besh 2, Granted, pop a virtual beacon and we will go for a look."

Cassius scanned the map against Einarr's memories to compile a approximate location, then updated the flights map file with a virtual beacon on the coordinates. The fighters of Jexxel minus one of the newer pilots who for unknown reasons headed for the Adjudicator instead, formed up and began a slow cruise towards the beacon, their sensors scanning wide ahead in their arcs as the approached the location.

A pair of Blastboats floated, their hulls marred by laser burns, a gentle whisp of atmosphere venting from the scars to crystalize and float away in patterns of delicate flash frozen ice. The form of a blocky droid was slowly working its way from the airlock hatch along the hull to the penetration signalling the likely hood of survivors aboard the damaged vessels attempting repairs to either escape or wreak havoc in the defenders lines from behind.

"Looks like you were right on the cred chip Besh 2, we got a pair of disabled here people. Do we want to do the humane thing and tractor them in as prisoners, or the smart thing and burn them?" The voice of the flight leader sounded strained to Einarr's ears, as if the decision was a difficult one. Einarr replied with the only answer that made sense to him.

"I say we burn them and get back to our patrol. We didn't ask for them to invade this place, besides they were trying to do the same to us." Einarrs voice strained with the memories of being held in the camp on Dantooine, the humans mercenaries who manned the camp showing such disdain for the men below them in the wire enclosed camp. He remembered the good men and women lost as they fought their way clear of the camp and into the stars and freedom. His mind was torn between grief at the memory of the men and women, friends for the 2 years he remained in captivity, who did not make it out, and the Rage the thought of the mammals disdain for the mistreated and malnourished prisoners were subjected to. Sure there were a few of the less rodent like races Trandoshans, Cathar, and even a few Barabels among them. But the bulk had been subjected to the misfortune of being born to the mammalian species.

The voice of the flight lead returned, the hostility in the Twi'Lek females voice seemed not only directed at Einarr, but somehow also at some unheard voice mute to the rest of the flight members. "We can't do that yet, if their reactors come back up before the retrieval ships come to take charge we burn them, if not they can serve their time the rest of the war in their own cells. Understood Besh 2?"

"Confirmed lead, but first sign of activity I am going to light them up. Don't expect me to feel sympathy for the enemy either."

"Besh 2, report to medbay for a workup when we get back. Aggression in a pilot is good, to much can get us killed beside you."

The thought of losing his new squadmates as he had lost his fellows in the fighting retreat from Dantooine was like a Bulk Transport load of ice cold water on the flames of his anger, not quenching it to the point of extinguishing it, but dampening it into a cold thing, sitting in a corner of his mind like a Krakana lurking in the depths to drag him under once more. "Affirmative Lead" Einarr settled in to observe the blastboats, his scanners pinging the craft actively as his fingers rested tensely on the trigger.

OOC:

word count: 716
AAC: A bit of character development, showing Einarr's mental state as he wrestles with the memories of his all to recent past in the NR mercenary run prison camp for POW's.

Names and numbers scrolled across the holographic screen quickly, so quickly that any ordinary person might have been dazzled by the very sight. Ensign Grey, however, was not an ordinary person. Some people assumed that he was not even a person at all, but rather a human replica droid specifically programmed to follow the Chief of Naval Intelligence. His blinks were few and far between, perfectly manicured lashes brushing against his cheeks once every ten minutes or so. The names were a minority, a small percentile of the Vast Empire's Naval roster.. a very small one. Not so small as to be insignificant, though - to Grey, nothing was insignificant. Addresses, family trees, bank accounts. They were all accessed - nothing left to chance. Surely the list could go on for hours, but even so Ensign Grey would stand there watching it. He had a personal reason for it. Finally, after what seemed like hours to the young second in command, a soft beep announced that the compilation of names and similar was complete. Judging by the fact there were no alarms going off, nobody had noticed him doing it either.

This is for a good cause, he reminded himself as he saw the sheer number of names. They weren't just VE personnel, though - no, these names came from an outside source. There were thousands of them, men and women of all ages from youth to old age. There were over a dozen different species with locations on more than 38 worlds. The majority of the names came back as being fairly close together, though, gathered on one world.. Yes, there were thousands and Ensign Grey meant to hunt down as many of them as was possible.

---

Not too far away, Ensign Grey's New Republic equivalent was giving a briefing to local Corellian officials. Nobody of particular importance, but men and women who had a stake in the planet whether by being a police chief, Corellian Military Analyst or high level CEO who had bribed his way into the good books of the Corellian military.

Ajax Wun was a middle-aged career soldier with a penchant for knowing things; some people had their fetishes, their kinks - Ajax was unremarkable in that all he sought was knowledge. Knowledge beyond everyone else, yes, here was a man who liked to know more than anyone in the room. While that desire to know more than anyone in the room may have sounded arrogant, in all truth Ajax was good at it. He had dedicated his life to learning and fighting, as he believed they were two sides of the same coin. "You all know who I am," he began, scanning the few faces that inhabited the small, secure room in which he would give his briefing. "You know who I work for and what I do. You know my name, my rank, but you do not know me."

A chubby-faced man in a uniform looked to another sitting next to him with a snort. Ajax did not flinch, continuing, "allow me to introduce myself. I am a man who knows more than you. I pride myself on knowledge and before you splutter at my arrogance, I know your boss. Chances are I know him better than you, in fact come to think of it, I probably know you better than you know yourselves. Knowledge is my game. Allow me to play it and you will reap the rewards." After that, a hush fell upon the group. Even the overweight man who had snorted before was silent now, almost as red as a man who had spent weeks underneath the Tatooine sun. Ajax allowed his short speech to sink in before he went on, waving a hand over the console before him. The image of an unremarkable looking young man popped up behind him in stunning detail, from the light power-armor he wore to the thoughtful expression on his face. Even the counter on his blaster was visible.. Ajax did have some of the best techs in the galaxy working for him, after all. "This, my friends, is a man who knows almost as much as I do. Study this image and study it well, for as surely as two suns will rise on Tatooine, this man is the man we will go head to head with even before our forces engage those of the Vast Empire."

He waved a hand and the images panned through a slide show at a relaxed pace, each different image showing different shots of a masked or disguised figure. There were more than two dozen of the holo-images. "Each of these images was taken at a different place, different time. The only thing they share is the fact that each and every one of these was taken before, during or after a terrorist kidnapping." He paused it on an image of two black-clad figures dragging a man between them, "this is the most recent sighting we've had of him."

Apart from the men in the image, there were traces of flame in the background, a city in chaos. "Where was this?" A quiet, pale female parked in the corner of the room queried.

"Tilsecara, during the Vast Empire's invasion of the Imperial Dominion. The Governor General was assassinated by a small team of VENI agents who got in and out before reinforcements - Imperial Dominion or otherwise - arrived."

"So these two were part of the assassination?" She asked skeptically.

"No," Ajax answered, not offering any explanation as his brooding brown eyes watched the slim figure in the corner expectantly.

"Then they were running some sort of operation at the same time as the more important assassination attempt?" The woman ventured thoughtfully. Ajax tilted his head as he regarded her.

"Correct," his eyes lingered on the woman for a few more moments with what might have been respect, before they turned to the rest of the room, "we can only assume that, given this man's location at the time of several high-profile kidnappings, this was another."

"I thought you knew everything," the woman spoke up again, though no hint of humor was on her face. Ajax felt his jaw tense and turned slowly to fix her with a cool stare.

"No, not everything," a strained smile curled his lips, "just more than you." He chose to ignore further japes from the insightful young woman - thinking back on the dossiers he had read for the briefing, Ajax realised she was some form of Corellian Intelligence. Perhaps he had underestimated them. No, not them, he corrected himself, just her. "What he was doing there, or even the fact he was there is relatively unimportant to us. Their involvement saw the ultimate downfall of an Imperial Regime and that is something no-one should be unhappy about. What is important is this man's M.O. His Method of Operation*. Kidnapping, hostage retrieval, sabotage. You name it, this guy could probably outdo a squad of the New Republic's best Special Forces. . . alone. He is the guy VENI calls when frak ups are unacceptable and mercy is a deadweight; put simply, he is very bad news."

"And who exactly is 'he'?" The chubby man in the uniform spoke up. He was a high level official with the Coronet City Police.

"Before VENI? Even I have no idea. Probably a former shock trooper or marine. Now, though, we know what he does and his callsign: Ensign Grey." All of the people in the room looked to other people they knew and inwardly, Ajax smiled. He was watching the subliminal conversations, visualising the web that crisscrossed the room defining the relationships that each of these individuals held with the other. He also noticed that no-one looked to the female. . . and that no-one seemed to recognise the name. Why should they? They weren't intel, after all and if they were, they were a poor excuse for it.

"The reason he is important to us, ladies and gentlemen," he began again to gain their attention, "stems from an activation signal passing from outside Corellian space to the center of Coronet City. It was received by a smuggler who has associated with VENI in the past. Anyone who plays at being a provocateur knows that the opposite side will always pay double for their secrets, so this smuggler came to us three days ago in secret. VENI means to infiltrate your world in roughly a week's time."

"For what purpose?" The chubby police official queried. At least he didn't ask stupid questions, Ajax was thankful for that at least.

"From the information the smuggler gave us, it's to incite sedition. They're going to need a catalyst for that, however, and we know they'll be sending Ensign Grey. With that in mind.. A high level kidnapping, maybe an assassination. Kidnapping would be more like him, but his  methods have become more," he paused to think of the word, "bloody. That's not his way, so I can only guess about this.. but with a decent amount of certainty, I'll assume Captain Grey is behind his changed tactics."

"Wait, wait, wait," the chubby man raised a hand, pudgy finger gesturing at the screen, "I thought he was Grey. Are they family or something?"

"As I said before, Ensign Grey is just a callsign. Captain Grey is too." He explained tiredly.

"the Captain Grey?" The female asked quietly, eyes widening slightly.

"As far as we know, there is only one." Ajax nodded at her. She knew more than she let on..

"Who is this 'Captain Grey'?" The bigger man insisted, looking between the two in annoyance. "Is there a General Grey too?"

"Ca-"

"Captain Grey is believed to be the head of the Vast Empire's Navy Intelligence," the female Corellian cut off Ajax before he could speak. He shot her a glare, but she didn't seem to notice as she went on in a somber tone, "every agent in an effective intelligence service knows how to take the initiative, to operate independently for long periods of time. Ensign Grey for example," she nodded at the image up on screen, "is possibly the most terrifying counter-intelligence threat we've ever gone up against. Yet every independent agent has strings, no matter how subtle. Captain Grey is the one who holds his. If Ensign Grey is bad news, Chief Rollon, Captain Grey is the frakking apocalypse." A glance was given apologetically to Ajax, but he found his anger had faded to be replaced by curiosity. She said she had gone head to head with Ensign Grey?

"How do we stop them?" Chief Rollon asked, looking between the two and not seeming to get it yet.

"One does not simply 'stop' VENI, Chief Rollon," Ajax said quietly, "but the best chance we have to foil this plot is through the smuggler. Ensign Grey will come personally with a team of anywhere between four to a dozen. He'll send someone to make contact with the smuggler, we track the contact back to Ensign Grey and observe, figure out the best way to take them down. I will personally be overs-"

"I'm sorry, Agent Wun was it?" The female interrupted him, stepping forward. He nodded cautiously, and she approached. A small device appeared in the palm of her hand, said hand extending to connect the device to the console. "Is this your smuggler?"

"What-" Wun turned to look at the image and felt his heart drop.

Yes, that was his smuggler. The one lying facing down in a pool of blood, "how-"

"He was found two days ago. Fell down a flight of stairs at a cantina after drinking copiously.." She snorted unsympathetically, "talk about a literal take on the saying 'dead drunk'."

"He's here," Ajax said quietly, feeling an unfamiliar sensation within him. "Ensign Grey is already here."

That unfamiliar, sick feeling was the feeling of not knowing - the feeling of fear. He glanced over his shoulder to check the briefing room was still secure. "I need a team, Chief Rollon," he murmured, "and I need it now."

OOC:

WC: 2031

AAR: What are the Greys playing at? You'll have to wait until Chapter 9 to find out
*Modus Operandi is what the abbreviation 'M.O.' stands for, meaning roughly 'method of operation'.