Jump to content

Sgt. Slaughter

Members
  • Posts

    364
  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    21

Sgt. Slaughter last won the day on September 2 2022

Sgt. Slaughter had the most liked content!

Reputation

42 Excellent

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. The duel between the great guns continued, with neither side really accomplishing much of significance. True, a couple of the ground-side batteries were no longer firing, but the missiles were succeeding in keeping the Galactic Alliance fleet from descending further to execute a more lethal bombardment. The mere presence of all those batteries threatened to utterly maul the supporting ships in the squadron. It wouldn’t be until the Talons succeeded in knocking out a few of the anti-orbitals that they could risk anything heavier than starfighters… A green blip appeared on his tactical display at the same moment as an officer called out from the command pits. “Signals from Wurm Squadron. First attack run in motion, Talons landing.” “Very well. Guns, belay those fire orders. Shift targets to… two through twelve.” That would shift Fidelity’s turbolasers from the Valley of the Dark Lords to several of the batteries that were protecting Dreshdae’s spaceports. “Let’s give our ground-pounders a chance to do their work. Move in the secondary strike package.” Slaughter’s fingers rapped impatiently on the sides of his wheelchairs. A vein was beginning to pop out in his forehead. A part of his heart that forever belonged to the infantry badly wanted to move up his own timetable… but until a few more of the anti-orbitals were brought out of action, it would be a lethal environment for his ships. They wouldn’t be entirely without support. In addition to the first wave of bombs delivered by Wurm Squadron, the Y-Wings of Basilisk Squadron and the X-Wings of Hawkbat and Vrelt Squadrons would soon be on station to respond to calls for air support.
  2. “As expected.” Slaughter glanced downwards towards a chronometer at the base of his tactical pit, beneath the holographic overlay that depicted the orbit of his fleet above Korriban. Orange specks bloomed on the holographic surface of the planet as sensors detected ground fires–anti-orbitals of some sort. “Reinforce shields to starboard, loosen up the formation and begin evasive maneuvers–” “Incoming missiles! Launches from locations eight through eighteen!” Came a shout from the crewpits. Slaughter gave the orders, but his voice was utterly superfluous and necessary for beginning a maneuver that he drilled obsessively into every unit that he commanded. The formation began to loosen up, the six supporting corvettes drifting a hundred meters away from Fidelity and Benediction to form an intercepting screen between the capital ships and any attacks that might be launched from Korriban. Their laser cannons opened up at the approach of the incoming missiles, projecting a web of crimson fire in the hopes of detonating the missiles before they reached their targets. But there was a slight variation on that maneuver: the spread of the intercepting fire was just a little bit looser than the standard pattern for starfighter-launched warheads. “Target locations nine through twelve. Open fire, turbolasers and ions only. Signal Geist squadron to observe for effect.” Slaughter eyed the vectors that traced the projected flight of the incoming missiles with some concern. Ground-launched missiles were a rare anti-orbital weapon--most militaries favored turbolasers, rather than deal with the necessary cost of storing the weapons and wasting fuel on defeating gravity.. However, the weapons could be much more sophisticated than a turbolaser cannon or a starfighter-launched missile. There was every possibility that the weapons were equipped with break-off decoys or cluster warheads--or delayed-fuse warheads than the simple impact fuses that starfighters typically used. They also tended to reach much higher velocities than their miniaturized counterparts… Even as the turbolasers aboard Fidelity began to rain down crimson fire upon four of the anti-orbital batteries, Slaughter silently fretted and watched as the missiles approached the point-defense fire from his squadron. His hands went to the handles of his wheelchair and idly pushed himself back and forth a few inches. It was an utterly unsatisfactory way to fret.
  3. After a final hyperspace jump to realign the fleet with its re-entry vector and to tighten up its formation, the Third Fleet of the Galactic Alliance appeared above the Sith fortress-world of Korriban. Though the planet was little more than a brown pearl at the range that the MC90 cruiser Fidelity and Nebula-class Star Destroyer Benediction appeared at, every planetary sensor had to be screaming at the sudden arrival of the hostile fleet and dozens of starfighters. The fleet’s A-Wings, as usual, led the advance towards the planet, streaking downwards and relying on their prodigious speed and sensor jammers to reconnoiter hostile positions. They would begin an irritating operation of harassing potential Sith positions, approaching just close enough to risk provoking a response from interceptors and ground batteries–only to retreat to the safety of the fleet’s fighter screen. All the meanwhile, the fleet lumbered forward in a steady orbit that would eventually place it in a position to bombard the Valley of the Dark Lords. On the bridge of Fidelity, Admiral Slaughter quietly watched the progression of his task force at his tactical pit and fretted. He had actually begun to bite his fingernails out of nerves, a substitution for his habit of pacing and stalking about the tactical holographs. He knew that his task force could withstand a pounding from the batteries that his intelligence had identified–Fidelity’s reputation for toughness was legendary throughout the fleet and Benediction was little more than a hulk that had been gutted for hangar space–but the success of his attack depended wholly on a couple hundred brave volunteers whose survival was contingent on him being a very attractive target. “Comms, get me an open channel. I want everyone in system to hear this.” Slaughter grimaced and sent his voice into a lower register, the war-weathered growl that was his image. “Lords of Korriban,” his growl rasped in the back of his throat.. “Your attack on Nar Shaddaa has failed. The allied coalition lives. Your fleet was dealt a mortal blow. No help is coming. Systems across the galaxy are declaring for the Galactic Alliance. No help is coming. “The Galactic Alliance gives you this chance to end your war. You are to surrender your positions and disable your arms. We will take that as indication that you wish to save yourselves. If you fail to do so, then your outcome is inevitable.” Slaughter sighed and downed a canteen of water the moment that the transmission was cut off. That had been as much a performance as it had been a declaration of intent. Being the bloody-handed officer whose arrival promised violence was an essential part of the plan. With any luck, the Korriban garrisons would soon launch their first fires, and the conquest of the Sith homeworld would begin.
  4. Just like the space around it, the bridge of any warship was a scene of organized chaos during the last few minutes of preparing to depart for battle. Fleet tenders were detaching from airlocks and uncoupling their fueling lines; late-arriving shuttles were hurrying to offload munitions and men; starfighters were being launched as combat air patrol; armorers and deckhands and hundreds of other crew were finalizing their checks of turbolasers and missile launchers and starfighters and all manner of equipment. Most of this activity visited the bridge at some point, usually in a relayed report from a communications officer or a sheet of paperwork for the Admiral to sign. Slaughter would normally be a moving target during this frenzy, pacing along the perimeter of the bridge to be intercepted by these runners. He was now stationary, contemplating a holograph of Korriban at his tactical pit and occasionally glancing at one of those routine messages. Still stationary… because of the unrepaired damage to his spine and paralysis in his legs. He really needed to make the time for the prosthetic implants. Aequitas might have heard a dangerous growl in the back of the Admiral’s throat as he approached. It was an ominous sound, but it was directed more at random chance and an anonymous Sith gunnery director. He actually smiled at the sight of the Jedi Knight upon turning, a expression that seemed to require muscles in his face that hadn’t been exercised in months. “Knight Aequitas. Good. You’ll be familiar with Captain Bryce. She’ll be joining you in the transports down to Korriban. Looks like the rest of the assault team has just arrived. Slightly ahead of schedule…” “Jedi Knight? Pleasure.” The red-haired woman nodded towards the Admiral and walked away. As the two departed, it became clear that Johanna really did stand as though she was constantly wearing the plastoid armor and belt-spat of her uniform. A heavy jetpack unit was built into its back; her ramrod posture was necessary for bearing its weight comfortably. “Good luck Admiral. Mister Aequitas, my lads have been looking forward to taking this fight to the Sith for a long time. I think they will be very happy to be working with you on this mission. I only hope you’ll be as pleased with their performance.” As the two made their way to the assault transports, it seemed as though the shock trooper was incapable of silence. She was nearly bouncing on her heels with nervous energy, even taking in a deep breath of anticipation when the alarm klaxons sounded to indicate that the fleet was about to enter hyperspace.
  5. “An acceptable complication. Our goal is minimal disruption of civilian infrastructure. Our squadron lacks the firepower to conduct an effective bombardment.” Slaughter allowed a grin to slowly spread across his face, a grim sight that provoked a warning glare from the Jedi Grandmaster. Pragmatic politics hadn’t been one of the motivations that the Admiral had anticipated from her. He would have expected some absurd wish to preserve archaeological sites within the Valley or minimizing damage to Dreshdae spaceport. Avoiding an unnecessary engagement with a distant third partywould be comparatively simple. “Fleet departure will be in…” Slaughter glanced at a chronometer. At this point, the fleet’s tenders should be just about finished transferring fuel. “Two hours. Goes without saying that you have access to the fleet’s armories. Dismissed.” Salutes followed, and the Admiral wheeled himself away. He refused to allow himself to be pushed or to be overtaken by the captain of his fleet’s marines as they passed through the military base and refugee camps. The effort and muggy sweat that beaded on his brow as he made his way to the troop transports was a distraction from the impossible logistics challenge that the Galactic Alliance would be facing in the near future: the necessary task of relocating the millions of refugees to their homes or a tolerable star system to rebuild their lives. That was only one world: there were dozens of star systems that hosted camps as large as the ones on Ylesia. Returning the galaxy to something resembling normalcy would be an impossible task… but one that was necessary for establishing the new government’s legitimacy. In comparison, trying to integrate decades of outdated starfighters and other materiel into the fleet was a simple task. There were only two mixes of fuel that had been used by the majority of starfighters since the Battle of Yavin… and dozens of atmospheric mixes that were considered “optimal” by at least one sapient species. Reflecting on the comparative simplicity of fleet logistics left him unguarded for the site that greeted him on the deck of Fidelity’s starboard hangar. A mixed squadron of X-Wings and Y-Wings was being crawled over by a small army of technicians. The skull-piercing whine of repulsorlifts filled the air. None of the Y-Wings had any armor on their chassis. Wiring and sensors and various unidentifiable electronics were exposed on the underlying structure of those bombers. The armor plates that should have been protecting the structure of the starfighters was nowhere to be seen–as though they had never been installed in the first place. His face starting to break out in ugly patches of red, Slaughter determinedly wheeled over to a starfighter that was being inspected by his deck chief, a striking red-skinned Twi’lek woman. “Chief, what the hell is all this? Or lack of all this.” Slaughter pointed up towards an unprotected engine nacelle as though his fingers were laser cannons. “Admiral! Yeah-ah, funny thing about that.” Veth straightened and her voice deepened to a more professional tone at the sight of a vein that was beginning to twitch in the Admiral’s forehead. “Apparently standard practice during the days of the Rebel Alliance was to remove the armor plates on the engine nacelles. They ran their fighters pretty hard during the old days and needed to furnish a lot of nonstandard jury-rigs. My guess is that they figured if they got pounced by an interdictor during their hit-and-run attacks, they had bigger problems than some missing armor. There’s probably a warehouse out there filled with nothing but old Y-Wing armor plates and bolts. Sir.” Slaughter stared at the organized madness of cables that was visible on the fuselage of the fighter-bomber before him. Of course some lunatic in Besh-Ord would have hoarded all of the removed armor and squirrelled them away into a warehouse on some distant Outer Rim world.. only for them to be forever forgotten due to a hiccup in some tracking software or misfiled paperwork. He started to giggle–and then devolved into full belly laughs at the familiar, ever-present moronicity that plagued military bureaucracies of all nations. “Carry on, Commander. Heh heh.” Still chuckling, Slaughter wheeled away and made for the bridge of his flagship. In just a little less than an hour, the fleet would be departing for hyperspace.
  6. (( @Talyn Orin , @MSA , @TerrorBot)) “I see,” Slaughter grunted irritably. “The Jedi Order has always had strange operational standards. Possible that their Grandmaster is personally briefing that Jedi Knight, probably has her own agenda for Korriban. Agent, I’d appreciate a hand… yeah, that has it… pfasking hells.” Slaughter growled in frustration as he attempted to haul his body back into the wheelchair, eventually discarding his pride and asking for a helping hand. “We’ll take the briefing to them.” Wheels squeaking obnoxiously every few revolutions, Slaughter barrelled forth, followed by a staffer jogging after him with his calculations and a tall marine whose posture was so ramrod straight that she seemed perpetually clad in armor. “Glad to have you, Bryce. Briefing of the approach will be yours--you scouted it, might as well brief ‘em on it.” The amazonian marine just flashed a cheerful grin as they entered the briefing room. “Admiral on deck!” she cried out, a call that was almost certain to be acknowledged only with a nod or perhaps a bow from one of the Jedi. The Jedi Grandmaster stiffened visibly and assumed a stiff posture that was almost worthy of a unit inspection, before remembering herself and folding her arms across her back. At that moment, the holoprojectors finally came online and displayed a three-dimensional image of a topographical map. Crags in the field twisted and rose and fell with the daunting slopes of a wind-swept series of ravines. Beyond it lay a relatively flat region with crude holoprojections of buildings and a starport, red formations indicating likely positions of hostile fortifications. The assault team would soon become very familiar with this terrain. Those twisting ravines and cracked badlands were the terrain of the Valley of the Dark Lords. “Gentlebeings,” The marine began. She stood even taller than RUIN, was powerfully muscled, and stood stiffly upright as though to accentuate the belt-spat that hung from her waist. “I am Captain Bryce, Talons Brigade aboard the Third Fleet. You will be familiar that our objective is Korriban. Long-term stronghold of the Sith Empire, profound cultural importance to the Dark Lords, occasional capital… hopefully to be no more. We’ve spent significant effort in preparing for this assault, topographical surveys by the Jedi Order and infiltration by the Rebel Alliance. “All data suggests that the Sith Order has heavily fortified the Valley and Dreshdae spaceport. Magnify sector eight, please. In the past, we may have risked a prolonged bombardment and siege, but those resources are not available. We will need to rely on the element of surprise.” On the holoprojector, a tiny fleet emerged from hyperspace. A pair of capital ships were visible--a Star Destroyer and a Mon Cal--along with a smattering of frigates, corvettes, and a slew of heavy freighters, but it was a pathetically tiny fleet for the mission of capturing the enemy’s cultural capital. A series of blue pinpricks deviated from that formation and descended towards the planet on an oblique path towards the Sith city. “The assault team and the Y-Wings of Wurm Squadron will arrive seven minutes prior to the remainder of the fleet and make an unpowered descent into atmosphere. Our fleet will meanwhile put on a demonstration. That should allow us to escape detection. Seismic scans revealed several paths through the outskirts of the Valley that can be safely navigated by assault shuttles and starfighters. We will make a ground-hugging approach through those valleys until we have line-of-sight with the valley, at which point our starfighters will strike their first targets and provide air support while we hit ours. Top priorities are their anti-orbital missile launchers and point-defense cannons. “Knocking out a few of those will allow our fleet to move in with starfighters and corvettes. They will provide air support and close-range bombardments to assist in defeating the local garrison. Admiral–” “Yes. Multiple complications exist." Slaughter growled from his wheelchair, barely half the height of his marine commander. "There are a number of civilians of great interest. Alliance sympathizers, likely held in this quote ‘rehabilitation facility’ unquote here. Several others have managed to remain at liberty, locations are being divulged to other ground units as part of their mission packages. These people will need to be located and secured ASAP. They may be useful in forming a transition government. “The second is the presence of the Sith–the, uh, species, I mean. Their numbers within the Valley and Dreshdae are minimal, but they may form the core of an insurrection in the future. Now, Agent Orin? What else have you to add?”
  7. For a few hours, it seemed as though Admiral Slaughter had dropped off the face of the galaxy. Even the Barabel Jedi Healer who had been assigned to shadow the Admiral and ensure that he didn’t overexert himself into an early retirement somehow managed to lose track of her ward. Everywhere Master Zal searched, he found a small army of cooperative noncoms and lower-echelon officers who were pretty sure that they had seen Admiral Slaughter meeting with Viceroy Longfang, or visiting with wounded soldiers in the medical ward, or practicing at the small arms range… or really, anything that seemed realistic for the middle-aged soldier. One Captain who had known Slaughter since their days in the Republic Talons completely lost her head and claimed he was on a conditioning run. “A conditioning run.” “Yessir, Master Jedi, sir.” Captain Johanna Bryce of the Talons piped up cheerfully. “He’s rather anal about pesh-trill. Kinda maddening.” “The man has lost the use of his legs, soldier. What kind of fool do you take me for?” The Barabel fixed the tall woman with a cold-blooded glower. “Someone who needs to re-assigned to the front, Master Jedi. He’ll be fine. He’s probably holed himself in a room and is yelling his head off at Fondor or Corellia or summat. Having a wonderful time. He’ll be fine.” Captain Bryce’s prediction proved to be correct. At that moment, Slaughter had sealed himself into one of the compartmented rooms within the Alliance complex and driven out all but a few officers on his personal staff. The Admiral had pulled himself out of his wheelchair and sat cross-legged on the cold concrete, surrounded by a madman’s network of holograms, paperwork, spreadsheets, three comlinks, and a half-eaten ration. His ire had already been visited on Fondor and would soon be inflicted on the Corellian Engineering Corporation. A third irate conversation would soon visit the Chief Engineers who had been tasked with breaking old starfighters out of mothballs. He rubbed a hand across a day’s worth of stubble and contemplated the calculated insanity that lay around him. The infantry forces stationed on Korriban were not a significant concern. It was highly unlikely that those forces hadn’t already been removed to more important planets–probably Onderon, or Kamino, or even Umbara. The real concern were the anti-orbital assets. Ground-based turbolasers were murderous on the light ships and frigates that comprised the vast majority of his task force. Fidelity lacked sufficient firepower to duel with a garrison’s worth of turbolaser batteries. Local point-defenses ruled out the possibility of a frontal assault. The Alliance couldn’t afford the time and ships required for a blockade… But in those limitations, Slaughter saw his strategy. The Admiral was familiar with his reputation as a fighting-Admiral. His history was that of a mixture of aggression and relentlessness. His previous attacks on Sullust, Onderon, and other planets had been slow, grinding affairs that slowly built up pressure on hostile defenses. His formations were typically dense, mutually-supporting squadrons of cruisers and corvettes that were meticulously designed for a combination of firepower and area denial. He was somewhat attached to a single ship, that old MC90 cruiser Fidelity. He was excessively reliant on vulnerable corvettes to support his starfighter squadrons. He did not shy from confrontation. For the first time in several days, Bruce actually smiled. He would present the Sith with exactly what they expected–a competent, but somewhat conventional Admiral of the Galactic Alliance. Then he would destroy them with the lessons he had learned from the Rebellion. _____ Thousands of kilometers above Ylesia, what would have been a skeleton of a task force in the days of the Rebel Alliance began to take form. Fidelity, an old, battle-tested MC90 cruiser that hadn’t even had a chance to paint over the scars of Nar Shaddaa, would form the nucleus of that squadron. Approximately its same size but considerably newer, Benediction, a Nebula-class Star Destroyer from Fondor kept station only a few kilometers away. The unfortunate Star Destroyer seemed cursed to forever be rushed prematurely into service: the vast majority of her weapons had yet to be installed and she had only been given a coat of bone-white primer, and internal compartments had been gutted for additional hangar space. A dozen-odd corvettes and other light ships moved about the task force on picket duty. About half of them were old Raider II-class corvettes and “Hammerhead”-corvettes from the early days of the Rebel Alliance, but there were a few newer ships: Imperial Vigil-class corvettes and Naboo designed Senth-class corvettes. Those latter ships resembled enormous flying wings and were studded with a frightening array of quad laser turrets, each effectively a no-fly zone for hostile starfighters. Those flying wings were so small in profile that they sometimes disappeared from sensor sweeps–and their crews had reported that the handling of those ships resembled that of an enormous starfighter. Several other ships served as tenders and escort carriers. Those were almost entirely heavy freighters with only a few crew members, barely enough to service a few starfighters. Still, in this time where the Galactic Alliance was desperate for every weapons platform, even a refitted cargo ship was a valuable resource.
  8. “I need more,” Slaughter nodded gravely. The concern was etched in the lines of his face as vividly as the fresh scars around his left eye. “You two know as well as I do that our fleet sustained severe losses at Nar Shaddaa. That necessarily alters our strategy. We can’t afford a massed assault or planetary bombardment against any target, least of all one as strongly defended as Korriban. Slaughter held out a small holoprojector. Tapping it to life, from it shone a map of the Valley of the Dark Lords and the badlands surrounding the Dreshdae. Significant elevation changes were marked in crisp lines–with some regions as a hazy blur, and one notable sector that was almost completely flat. That was a region that hadn’t been penetrated by seismic pulses and had been mapped only by orbital sensor sweeps. “I can devote significant starfighter assets to this attack. Fortunately, a recon op with the Jedi supplied us with excellent topographical data. Starfighter Command has argued that Trench Run Disease–I, uh, I mean low-altitude bombing runs–isn’t merely possible, but the best approach. I’m inclined to believe them. What they need is composition and approximate positions of local defenses: ground-based anti-orbitals, point defense, local starfighter garrisons, army barracks, the like.” He tossed a steely stylus towards Talyn Orin so he could begin marking approximate locations. “I have to emphasize, surprise is critical for a successful first run. “The second issue is these local leaders. The current Sith government needs to be decapitated. Don’t particularly care whether they’re captured alive, or…” His voice trailed off, making it perfectly clear what followed or. “We need names, faces, places of residence and work. Same for the Alliance sympathizers. We will need to smash local resistance and their government in a matter of hours.”
  9. The following twenty-four hours were marked by constant activity, so much that Slaughter eventually allowed the Jedi Healer to begin pushing him from briefing to briefing. There were countless necessary details that needed to be tended to for the operations of a fleet: ammunition, fuel, rations, starfighters, medical support… those details were frequently attended to by a swarm of staff officers whose sole purpose was to keep his mind focused on planning fires and maneuvers, and as far away as possible from… for example, cajoling the Secretary-General of Fondor’s shipyards into prematurely launching a dozen frigates and smaller vessels, and sacrificing an repaired Star Destroyer from its defensive fleet. Of course, half of those staff officers were now dead or wounded even more severely than him. It would be a few days before his staff would be replenished by officers from the Outer Rim. That was emblematic of the entire bloodbath at Nar Shaddaa. The Admiral had spoken fiercely about the supposed victory that the Rebel Alliance had won at Nar Shaddaa, but it was their civilians who had been murdered by orbital bombardment. It was their shipyard that had been deorbited during the battle. It was now their task to retake a war-weary galaxy from an empire that had become brittle and cracked, and every hull lost, every life lost was another resource that would be sorely needed in the next few weeks. While the Sith were congratulating themselves over a glorious slaughter, the people of the galaxy would be tasked to rebuild their worlds. By the end of that second day, however, Slaughter had accumulated enough of a fleet that he could confidently launch a single major attack, and begin a major encroachment into the Galactic Core. The latter would depend on the former--if that infiltration was detected, thousands of critical fighting men would be wasted. “It’s time to rest, Admiral. You’re spinning your--I mean, blowing out your repulsors on nothing productive.” The Barabel Jedi Master who had been his silent companion during the entire day looked on balefully as Slaughter surrounded himself with an ever-growing stack of reports on a borrowed desk in a tiny office in a prefab building that belonged to fleet intelligence. “Not much of a rhetorical mind, but I know a bad metaphor when I hear one.” Slaughter growled and exchanged a glance that was as reptilian as the Jedi’s. “Nonetheless, you will sleep now. Otherwise, I shall place you in a recuperation trance and carry you to the nearest available cot. These are your choices. You must maintain… operational capacity.” The Barabel’s mouth opened slightly. Slaughter wondered if that was the reptiloid’s best approximation of a smile. “Point taken, Jedi. You win this round.” The middle-aged Admiral pushed himself away and allowed himself to be wheeled towards a nearby cot in an adjacent barracks. After a laborious process of hauling his paraplegic body into bed, the Jedi Master placed a clawed hand on his forehead. He was unconscious within seconds. ________ He learned of the political briefing concerning Korriban the next morning while dressing. A few staff officers ferried the news of the last four hours to him while dressing, an operation made somewhat less dignified by the fact that a Jedi Master still needed to guide his legs into his trousers and tie his boots. “You have five days. Burn the midnight oil, mainline caf, do what it takes. I can’t wait to be able to take a shit without the help of a kriffing Jedi.” He groused while being briefed on the progress of bringing the Galactic Alliance’s--ancient stockpiles of ground-attack starfighters out of deep storage. That task would require a week--degreasing, re-tuning, re-assembly and a number of steps that all began with “re.” Another officer briefed him on a number of new arrivals, including the Nebula-class Star Destroyer Benediction, a number of support frigates and corvettes, and thirty-odd escort carriers--essentially, minimally-armed freighters whose cargo holds had been renovated with fueling lines and magcon generators. “That will happen when you submit yourself to further surgery.” The Barabel hissed at his patient. “Whatever. Now, get me to that briefing.” Allowing the Jedi Master to wheel him towards the intelligence briefing, Slaughter took the several minutes in transit to devour a hearty, balanced breakfast consisting of ration bars and fleet-strength caf. The quiet squeaking of the chair warned of his approach, but he just quietly listened to @Talyn Orin and @Qessax Jal Toddaand thought. There might be a possibility in this room, an opportunity to distract the Sith Empire and mislead them towards the intentions of the Rebel Alliance. The question, however, was how many resources--ships, munitions, people--could be spent on a diversion attack.
  10. For the first time in many years, Slaughter was forced to ride a Lambda-class shuttle. There was no way to conveniently lift a wheelchair into his favored LAAT/i. He closed his eyes during the descent to Ylesia, trying to feel… anything. Not in his legs–those were completely numb–but some vibration in the deckplates, turbulence from the notoriously foul Ylesian weather, some reassurance that he was actually in a military transport designed for speed and maneuver, rather than a passenger on a flying pillow. Nothing. He hated the damned shuttle. He had a suspicion that the pilots were deliberately trying to avoid discomforting their passenger with turbulence by taking a circuitous route towards the groundside landing pads. Slaughter tried to not dwell on that unintended slight. There were too many other matters that needed his attention: how to seize the initiative from the Sith Empire after their disastrous “victory” over Nar Shaddaa, this new self-described viceroy of a new self-proclaimed Galactic Alliance, the dwindling survivors of the republic that he had sworn to defend. The shuttle finally gave a light jostle. A muffled whirr of servos and clank of the boarding ramp against duracrete identified that minor jolt as the shuttle settling on the ground. He held a hand up when Master Healer Zal moved to wheel him away; he would show up to this war council on his own power, even if he was late and red-faced and sweaty from the effort. ___________ He was not late. Admiral Slaughter’s reputation for punctuality and dignity remained untarnished–which was to say that he wheeled in almost exactly the moment that the council began, red-faced, and moist from a mixture of a scattered mist and his own sweat. His appearance, rolling in at roughly the level of the waist of most of the attendees, was exactly as shocking as he had hoped. He recognized one of the bodyguards despite the shadows of the warehouse; the man, a former Republic Talon, gave only the slightest hint of reaction with the widening of his eyes. Slaughter’s hazel eyes drifted away from his old comrade and towards the other commanders who had been summoned to this unlikely warehouse. Of all of them, the only one that he might have known was Admiral Pilon–or perhaps that was another one of the Imperials, from the state dinner at that restaurant in the Upper Levels. Force, even thinking about that made him feel old. He couldn’t even remember the name of the place. It was almost certainly rubble at this point. Slaughter saluted in the Republican fashion, palm facing outwards, and listened. And listened. And tried to ignore the eyes from the unfamiliar Kaleesh. “Very well. Viceroy.” A speech threatened to bubble up to his lips, he managed to hold the temptation until, at last, the former Moff became silent. “Trying to remember the word for what the Sith accomplished at Nar Shaddaa.” His rhetorical abilities left something to be desired. Those were the benefits of an education focused almost entirely on the practical rather than anything approaching the classics. “In order to claim victory in their campaign, they needed to destroy the ability of the Rebel Alliance to make war–decapitate its leadership, inflict irreplaceable losses. They accomplished neither. We’re proof of that. What the galaxy saw when the Sith raped Nar Shaddaa was that we fought them to a standstill–that they wasted the best of their forces on a moon of secondary importance–that they surrendered the space to us.” Slaughter leaned forward, forgetting that his newly-formed abdominal muscles and lifeless legs weren’t quite to the task of keeping him upright. A hand from the Jedi Healer at his side pushed gently against the Admiral’s sternum to force him back into his wheelchair. “The phrase is pyrrhic victory, Admiral.” The Barabel Jedi Master whispered–snarled, really–into his ear. “Pyrrhic victory! Yes." Slaughter's heavy fist slammed the surface of the table. "This is a time for aggression if there ever was one. If we declare our survival to the galaxy–our ascension–the Sith will have significant difficulty maintaining their hold on the population centers of the galaxy. Even more so when our ships enter their systems. At this moment, their empire is wounded and brittle.”
  11. Thirty minutes later, a Barabel Jedi arrived in the medical ward of Fidelity. Dressed in cream-colored robes with an ornate, textured pattern more suited for one of the Old Republic’s librarians than the embedded warriors of the present day, the reptile merely held up her lightsaber to the security guards that flanked the portal to Admiral Slaughter’s suite, who responded with a murmured thanks and opening the sealed blast door. Just within, the surgeon Captain Kozim was not pleased with the presence of the Jedi. Something of a biological supremacist, it had not occurred to the Bith that his own assistant droids could have displayed the creativity and independence to forge medical orders in his own name. “What in the blazes is going on? The Jedi were not summoned–and not required.” The translator unit dangling from the Bith’s chin buzzed irritably. “Undoubtedly. But the galaxy requires that this man returns to service as quickly as possible. A Jedi Healer will be of significant assistance in this man’s recovery. I must be allowed to help.” Despite the fact that Master Zal’s smile was lined with dozens of scalpel-sharp teeth that could exsanguinate a sapient within seconds, the Bith surgeon found himself nodding agreeably with the Jedi Healer’s proposal of collaboration. The Barabel was so reasonable in her request–her supplication, even–to offer assistance, that it was impossible to not offer the stooped reptile a space at the head of the bacta tank. “Yes, you must be allowed to help.” The translator unit buzzed obediently as Bith’s enormous eyes took on a glassy appearance. “You may find this a novel experience. Collaboration between Jedi Healers… uh… uh… medicals as brilliant as yourself is unusual. You should probably check the cams in this studio, the recording may be valuable in the future.” Again, the Bith found himself nodding agreeably with this suggestion and proceeded to double-check the many sensors within the bacta tank that were reporting on the Admiral’s vitals, and the holocams throughout the room. There were very few medicos who could boast that they had worked with a Jedi Healer–those recordings would almost certainly yield valuable data. “I–yes, of course. I’d… welcome the… opportunity to work with a Jedi Healer. But this is my patient., If I ask you to do something, you do it.” Master Zal didn’t even respond audibly. The little nod that lowered her face wasn’t for the surgeon, it was for the Healer’s private little ritual as she prepared herself to administer to yet another patient who had been critically wounded at Nar Shaddaa. She opened her arms to place her clawed hands on either side of Admiral Slaughter’s face. The middle-aged soldier’s lines were tense and creased with exhaustion lines–as though he was still managing to grind his teeth despite the fact that he was in a coma induced by hypovolemia and traumatic injury. Admiral Slaughter, wake up. The Republic needs you. ____ With a gasp that became a cloud of bubbles and a low groan of barely-suppressed pain, Admiral Slaughter woke up. His first thought was that he probably wasn’t dead. He figured that if he was dead, he’d probably be in a clean uniform, or in the company of his deceased wife… instead, he was surrounded by a pink, translucent fluid, wearing shorts that barely covered his anatomy, with cords and sensors placed on his chest, tubes that went into his arms, and a breath mask over his mouth. Reincarnation was probably not a possibility… It was only a few seconds after staring at his own waist that he realize exactly what had changed–his anatomy. His abdomen wasn’t a mess of bloodied dressings, shredded flesh and gore that was being pressed upon by three medics in an attempt to stop his bleeding–it was now smooth, unscarred… and extremely tender flesh. The untested muscles were groaning merely at the effort of breathing. He definitely wasn’t dead, then. “Admiral, your breath mask is fitted with a comms unit,” came the buzz of an artificial voice, distorted by the bacta fluid. “We can hear you outside the bacta tank.” “Mwhere,” a cloud of bubbles issued around his face as he forcibly exhaled bacta fluid that can crept into his nostrils. His abdominal muscles burned at that effort. “”Mwhere ah I?” “Ylesia. Specifically, you’re in the medical ward of Fidelity.” “Mwhy Yle–eea?” “Rendezvous point for the fleet after Nar Shaddaa. Things were very chaotic after the battle. You’ve missed quite a bit. Moff Vangar Longfang of the Imperial Remnant has declared a new Galactic Alliance–” “‘oo? Mwha? Eh’ ee ow uh dis dang, eh’ ee a unibormmm.” “Admiral, you still have another session ahead of you–and two surgeries for a spinal implant, and physical therapy–” “Ih gan mwaid. ‘Ads amn orher.” ____ Ten minutes later, he was pulled out of the tank, hosed down and vacuumed of the few stray rivulets of precious bacta that clung to his body. Listening in silence as he was placed in an old-fashioned wheelchair–not even equipped with repulsors, but one outfitted with wheels that required muscle input for locomotion–a pair of medical aides guided his paralyzed legs into a fresh uniform, tightened combat boots around his numb feet, and helped the Admiral don the tunic of an active-duty uniform with a fractal camouflage pattern. The aides even parked his chair in front of a mirror so he could shave. His face was pale from anemia and scarred near his left eye, and his shaking hands inflicted a small nick under his chin, but he would at least be presentable for the politicians and command structure of the... Galactic Alliance, or whatever the coalition was now calling itself. “Now, inform Viceroy @Vangar Longfang that I have returned to duty. I will be on my way groundside to meet him as soon as possible–I can wheel myself, thank you, Master Jedi.” The Admiral placed his hands on either side of the wheelchair and braced himself for an hour of pain and exertion. As he wheeled himself towards Fidelity’s keel hangar, he thought he heard cheering…
  12. Captain Kozim, Bith surgeon on attached duty from the medical frigate Merciful Touch, had scarcely left the side of the bacta tank in which Admiral Slaughter was suspended over the last two days. Though his expression was imperturbable to any but a select few of his species that served in the Rebel Alliance (and perhaps a few species that could see further into the infrared), it was becoming clear to the support staff within Fidelity’s medical ward that the toil of the back-to-back surgeries was taking its toll on the surgeon. Hisreports of the Admiral’s condition grew more terse and the estimations of when Slaughter would regain consciousness were pushed further back. At the next change of the foggy, blood-contaminated slurry within the tank for fresh, translucent bacta, the surgeon actually lifted his hands in impatience and blatted a rubbery sound that was akin to a human blowing a raspberry. After two days of watching the surgery attend to this patient without uttering a single nonprofessional word, that brief gesture of irritation caught the assisting droids in a state of silent alarm. One of the droids paused, quietly considered all possible courses of action, and decided to embark on the option that seemed most likely to result in its patient’s speedy recovery and return to duty. It decided to strain its programming to the utmost limits of its capabilities for discretion and contact the Jedi Order’s Circle of Healers. ____ The bulk of the message was a professional, terse summary of the patient’s present physical condition, injuries sustained, treatment, prognosis… in summary, an abbreviated medical record of the last few days. Unusually for a communique authored by a medical droid, it was prefaced by a diplomatic plea for assistance… authored falsely using the name of a sapient being. After the pleasantries, holographic watermarks, encryption keys and various minutiae of official communication between the military and the Jedi Order, the message finally contained its plea for assistance. The reputation of the Circle of Jedi Healers is that of the finest medical professionals in the known galaxy. They are renowned for their ability to accomplish acts that appear as miraculous to many sapients, to heal those expected to perish and to make a full recovery with astonishing rapidity. Admiral Bruce Slaughter (service number attached, medical summary attached) sustained critical wounds during the defense of Nar Shaddaa. His vital signs have stabilized and he is expected to recover with time and therapy, but the restoration of a just government will require his speedy return to duty. The medical corps of the Rebel Alliance thus requests the assistance of the Circle in restoring Admiral Slaughter to health and service. @Leena Kil
  13. The remainder of the battle was mop-up action for Fidelity. One by one, she and the two Victory-class Star Destroyers at her flank pounded the remainder of Black Scarab’s escorts into submission; the three capital ships operated with a sort of ruthless efficiency that was born out of mixture of battle-tested experience and cold fury at having been forced to watch the battle from a distance. The ships pounded at the squadron that had bombarded Nar Shaddaa, reducing the daggers on Fidelity’s left flank to hulks, and then the right flank. There was a single desperate moment when both sides of the MC90 cruiser were aflame and she was still badly outnumbered, but L’Ouverture and Gerrera maneuvered to place their weakened shields in the path of fire until their command ship could effect some damage control. One individual barely even noticed the battle. That was the Bith surgeon D’ruppo Kozim, operating in a sterile surgical suite so soundproofed and insulated from the remainder of the ship that he barely noticed a single erstwhile vibration. Robotic arms twisted and stitched and cut within the bacta tank that contained Admiral Slaughter’s broken body like an obscene orchestra, closing hemorrhages and removing organs that could not be saved. The Bith blinked his enormous black eyes with exhaustion: one kidney might be saved by the bacta, but the other had been shredded; nearly a meter of intestines needed to be bypassed; his left lung had collapsed and would need to be monitored for weeks; and the damage to his spine was quite irreparable. He would walk only with the aid of implants. But he would live. For the moment, steady vitals would be sufficient. Returning the Admiral to service would take time and patience. ____ As operations died down to retrieving escape pods and rescuing ejected pilots, Captain Tal’dira of the Fidelity finally allowed himself to sit at the command pit of his bridge. Though a hulking brute of a Twi’lek warrior, he felt utterly spent at the conclusion of this battle. Even if the Rebel Alliance had survived this siege, the losses had been so enormous that it was impossible for him to feel anything other than weariness. Even after receiving a positive report from the medicals operating within the deepest bowels of the cruiser, the green-skinned Twi’lek merely sighed and hailed Moff @Vangar's flagship, the Ancillary Justice. Fortunately, the report had been summarized for the benefit of the military officer and even he was able to deliver a satisfactory explanation as he read. “Moff; Fidelity Actual. The doctors have reported back. Admiral Slaughter will survive. No signs of brain damage. He’ll be confined to bacta for…” There were no estimates for how long that period of time would be. “They’ve rigged up a comms system so he will be able to communicate once he comes out of anesthesia.”
  14. The next few minutes were like a fever dream that passed in and out of Slaughter’s consciousness, to be remembered only upon waking in the indecent hours of the morning. He vaguely remembered clutching at the elbow of one of the medics and snarling something combative--and then he caught a glimpse of himself through a chance reflection in the medic’s spectacles. His body looked… broken. His abdomen had been torn open by transparisteel shards, one of which were glinting out of the viscera as a polished spear. A pool of blood surrounded his body despite the best efforts to stop the bleeding. A heavy impact and another jolt of pain pierced through the cloud of painkillers. He glanced around and saw the familiar boxy interior of his command shuttle--and a portable bacta tank, bubbling ominously with a translucent ooze. Slaughter raised a hand in a vain attempt to protest--he couldn’t breathe. A ghastly, gurgling noise escaped from his throat. Curses responded all around him. One set of hands placed a mask and an irritating trail of plastic tubing down his throat. Two more lifted his body from the stretcher and shoved him into that sinister pink fluid. A warm prickling sensation went up his arm-- --and then he was out. The LAAT/i transport raced from the hangar, into the chaos surrounding Black Scarab and her escorts. The airspace was so cluttered with escape pods and starfighters and munitions that the unescorted shuttle went unnoticed even after it cleared the debris field. Only a pair of passing TIE Defenders on a strafing run managed to catch its transmissions through the interference and broke from their attack to form up on its sides. Though an awkward, unmaneuverable craft, the LAAT/i boasted an impressive top speed and it raced through the blackness, chugging urgently towards Fidelity. Upon breaking the magcon field of Slaughter’s flagship, the TIE Defenders broke upwards to rejoin the fight. An entire team of medics and droids were awaiting the Admiral once the transport settled. One of them spoke urgently into a comlink as the bacta tank was carted away towards the medical bay. “We have the Admiral, sir. They got him into bacta, but we don’t know enough yet. Crazy son of a… He actually kept command with those wounds.” ((@Beck Pilon))
  15. A moon and its surface-spanning city burning below them. The Sith fleet above them. A star dreadnought in the middle of their formation–or, what was left of it. Far in the distance, a stardock that was being strafed by Sith starfighters. And all around them, scattered wreckage and escape pods, each a pinprick of light that was blotted out by the conflagration of the moon that they had attempted to defend. The Sith were not accepting surrender. Even escape pods had become targets of opportunity in this infamous butchery. At this point, every member of Admiral Slaughter’s task force who was near a sensor readout, from starship captain to gunnery crew to starfighter pilot, understood that they had found themselves in the sort of scenarios throughout the galaxy celebrated with solemnity. This had become one of those days of doomed heroism, when a small band of determined defenders were besieged by an overwhelming force. All of those days ended the same way. They were all going to die. Throughout that overmatched task force, a peculiar breakdown of discipline began to unfold. Not a single sapient shirked their duty. There were no calls to abandoned doomed vessels. Crewmen chose to ignore closing blast doors and alarms of hull breaches, rather than escape and save their lives. Even pilots had begun going down with their stricken starfighters, trying to guide their exploding vessels into a nearby hostile or fire away a few more cannon blasts, rather than trigger their ejection seats. That was exactly the problem. Nobody was leaving their posts. For example, when Piorun was struck by an entire octuplet of turbolaser batteries and was set afire from stem to stern, not a single escape pod alighted from the hull of that doomed Corellian Gunship. She continued to race along the keel of Black Scarab, a burning missile in search of its target. Waggling madly as its helmsman struggled to keep the ship on course despite the fact that one of its engines was burning and another was flickering with unsteady thrust, she eventually found it: the keel hangar of the star dreadnought. The DP20 frigate set its entire reactor output into thrust, trusting that a hundred meter-long corvette crashing into a chamber filled with fuel lines and warheads and replacement starfighters would cause far more damage than its remaining weapons. On the opposite side of the star dreadnought, Vigilant, a Carrack-class cruiser whose memory stretched back to the Open Circle Fleet that had bested Grievous at Coruscant, continued to orbit the command superstructure of Black Scarab. The blocky vessel continued to spit its meager allotment of turbolasers by aid of the Mark-One Eyeball alone–its sensors had been knocked out about a minute ago–in an attempt to score a lucky hit that would disable a shield generator. This was an impossible scenario for a light cruiser, and it soon lost its engines, and then the remainder of its armament and any sign of power on board. L’Ouverture and Gerrera continued their scissors assault on the surrounded dreadnought, heedless of the smaller ships that had turned to target them. The two Victory-class Star Destroyers bobbed in and out behind the cover of Fidelity, relying on the bulk of the disabled MC90 cruiser to protect it from Black Scarab and a few of the Victory-classes. That tough old battle-wagon had had armor blasted off all over its hull from the attempts of the Sith to obliterate the smaller ships… but… then an errant volley was repelled from its hull with a flash of azure light rather than an incandescent spray of molten alloy. A few batteries blasted crimson towards Black Scarab and her entire hull shuddered as a single engine cluster flared haltingly. Gradually and painfully, Slaughter’s flagship was coming back to life. As for Kalidor, when the one-winged eagle was struck by yet another turbolaser volley, several batteries were hit and set on fire with jets of burning charges. Rather than screaming for medics and abandoning the doomed positions, the wounded gunners, some of them clutching grievous wounds in an attempt to stop loss of blood or organs, jumped back into the burning hulks of the great guns. They fired shot after shot at point-blank range until either their guns or their bodies gave way to the fire. The cruiser managed to complete its traverse of the Black Scarab’s keel, only to come to a stop directly under one of its engine clusters so closely that she resembled a parasite clinging to a host. _______ Yeoman Chambers stood by Admiral Slaughter’s side, hands shaking with adrenaline as she held a wired comlink to the Admiral’s mouth. His voice was guttural and strained as he spoke, and his shortness of breath was forcing him to pause every few seconds. “Initiate self-destruct sequence, confirmation code Besh-Senth-Cresh…” a long series of numbers and military phonetic letters followed. Getting the sequence of words correct and in order actually wasn’t important. There were precise contingency codes that Slaughter could recite that would cause him to get locked out of Kalidor’s computers, or dispatching a silent distress signal, but for initializing a standard self-destruct sequence, it was the voice recognition that served as his authorization. This assumed that his voice wasn’t so altered by his groans of pain that his voice wasn’t unrecognizable to the bridge computers. Slaughter cursed again when another direct hit from Black Scarab caused the deckplates to jump under his feet, jostling the transparisteel plate in his chest. That was followed by another curse from the medics at side; blood began to ooze from his abdomen again. “Self-destruct confirmed, counting down five minutes,” came the serene, androgynous reply from the speakers. When that countdown terminated, the reactors aboard Kalidor would detonate with a quantity of force best used to describe stellar collisions. It would cause the hull to fragment like an enormous hand grenade and would spray debris all over the keel of Black Scarab, centering on its wounded engines. “Good. Get me to the helm. Signal…” Slaughter took a deep breath. “Signal abandon ship. Someone’s gotta keep… her steady.” Knowing that he had approximately five minutes remaining in his life did not provide Slaughter with any self-aware moments of clarity. He did not reflect on the fact that he was about to die while refusing to leave his station, in much the same fashion as his deceased wife. He did not think on a life of decades of service to a republic that made him, pulled him out of a Coruscanti slum and put weapons and schooling in his hands. He just stared into the sensor overlay at his command post, glaring at the imposing shadow of Black Scarab as though he could kill it through sheer force of will. It was more than the fact that the Rebel Alliance needed to defeat the Sith flagship, as it was a critical resource that could defeat entire fleets unsupported. He needed to see that ship dead, to have its shade wiped from his memory. Only… the stretcher was not being pushed towards the helm. He was being pulled away–towards the portal of the bridge, towards his shuttle bay. “Sorry, Admiral. Can’t let you do that.” “Besides, she has foot pedals!” chimed in the Twi’lek helmsman, most helpfully. “You won’t be able to operate the controls in your state.” “What! Damn you, let me do this!” Slaughter coughed on something and had to take a deep breath. The medics were now trying to shove something fiendish and plastic over his mouth and into his throat. He pushed it away even as he was being carted towards his shuttle. “Do not–let me take the helm–do not take this from me!”
×
×
  • Create New...