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Nar Shaddaa


BLCKCLONE

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A very long time ago, an war and an entire lifetime ago, then-Captain Slaughter had been taken under the mentorship of an older, more experienced fleet-commander. Bruce had no exceptional background; he hailed from the street trash of Coruscant’s Undercity, with an educational record marked more by truancy than any degree of achievement. His abilities in mathematics were mediocre; his knowledge in the sciences was second-rate; his devotion to literature and the liberal arts was lackluster; his performance in rhetoric was raw, at best. What General Aegis had seen in that rough, bloody-minded junior officer… Admiral Slaughter had no idea.

 

The face of that middle-aged, slightly portly, neatly moustachioed officer came to mind especially now. Aegis had been dead for decades--killed at the Third Death Star, like so many of the Galactic Republic’s senior officers--Slaughter remembered his talent and relish for military engineering. Those technically a science, it simultaneously required meticulous attention to detail, an absolute mastery of higher-order mathematics… and some degree of violent self-expression. The latter of those qualities Slaughter could appreciate. The first two… while Slaughter had learned some competence in logistics, any successes came only after persistent bludgeoning of the problem rather than any elegant solutions.

 

And now, orbiting the moon of Nar Shaddaa on the Majestic-class Heavy Cruiser Kalidor, Admiral Slaughter was responsible for the ultimate defense for the last hope of the Republic. The defensive plan called for the deployment of literally millions of space mines and rigging thousands of pieces of debris into orbital traps. Hundreds of locations moonside had already been scouted for use of ammunition caches. Dozens of orbital coordinates had been calculated for staging points for the fleet’s escort carriers--small capital ships, barely more than heavy freighters, but still capable of supporting a squadron or two of starfighters. The entire plan called for an exhausting exercise in mathematics…

 

As the cruiser continued to push kilometers of vacuum and thousands of space mines behind it, Slaughter sat alone in his office, staring at a holograph of his task force’s positions, red-eyed, exhausted, and miserable. Hunting Arach’tar on Centerpoint Station had been less miserable than this duty. Waiting for droid miners to breach an Imperial garrison, choking on Sullustanian cave dust, had been less miserable than this duty. The last time he’d been this thoroughly unhappy had been…

 

“Sir, developments moonside.” That was Yeoman Chambers, one of the numerous officers newly assigned to this staff for this enormous defensive operation.

 

“Enter.” He growled unhappily.

 

The young human entered, saluted, and promptly lowered her voice. “You’ll want to turn on your privacy field, sir.”

 

He reached for the controls, then turned a frosty glare on the hapless junior officer. “Explain,” he growled grumpily.

 

“There’s been a meeting of high command officers moonside. Nasra, of course. Namari…  Queen of Naboo. Admiral Kolchak--formerly of the Imperial Navy.”

 

“On his way to retake Naboo and divert the Sith’s attention?”

 

“No sir. It was entirely concerning the political structure of the galaxy after… after all of this. Sir, they’re talking about an end to the Galactic Alliance in favor of a monarchy…”

 

It was not a dreadful chill that entered the room--Admiral Slaughter’s face turned blotchy and red-hot with building rage. His hands began to shake. Red began to fill his vision--his knees were locking--his peripheral vision began to darken. Words of concern began to echo in his ears--the young officer, visibly alarmed by the Admiral’s rage, reached across the table in search of one of his large hands.

 

Admiral, breathe. Try to unlock your knees, try to relax your hands.

 

The Jedi--where were they?

 

Not present, sir. Not a one of them.

 

Slaughter finally remembered to breathe. Vision began to return to him, the peripheries returned and the yeoman’s dark face was no longer the only thing that the Admiral could see. His hands felt clammy and cold. He couldn’t seem to unlock his fists--he needed to reach out, to do violence, to feel something bend and tear and break in his hands. With horrible slowness, the Admiral rose from his seat, pushing away his chair and gradually putting weight on legs that he didn’t fully trust. They held.

 

Now, violence.

 

Turning to his left, Slaughter raised his right first and swung it into his locker in a full-bodied haymaker. Something within broke--the door gave way slightly under the first blow. An inhuman sound tore itself from his throat--something between a growl and a curse and a moan and a scream--and he kept putting his fist into that door until lack of wind forced him to pause and breathe. He leaned against the wall of his office, just breathing and ignoring the blood dripping down his fingers, his closely-cropped head pressed against the cold plastoid of the locker.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Call a medic. Begin compiling a list of this task force’s crew of Imperial origins. Just you, and only when you are off of your duty shift. Not a word of this to anyone else, understood?”

 

Edited by ObliviousKnight
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“I don't care what he is doing, tell him I want to see him. And its kriffing urgent. Tell him I swore at you, threatened to kill you. Whatever you want. But I need to see Admiral Slaughter this damned instant.”

 

The ex senator from Outremer, erstwhile politician, gambler, and SACCOR (Supreme Allied Commander Corellia) when it had mattered most, turned his eyes to fiercely glare at the random and ill-informed officer who had greeted him in the hanger bay. Godfrey had been a senator for one of the most Monarchist factions in the galactic senate. In fact he had been generally hated for his heated disparagement of the Jedi Order on the senate floor. But they, he and Slaughter, were military men and all that survived the Galactic Alliance of Free Planets. 

 

But for now the commander of the Easternmost military garrison of the Rebel Alliance waited beside his shuttle. Wearing the pale blue uniform of Outremer’s naval command.

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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As it so happened, the shuttle of that LAAT/i gunship was a veteran of the Galactic Alliance, and the Coruscanti was no stranger to uppity Senators who would bully their way onto military transports for personal use. That said, the LAAT/i was a combat transport, almost entirely lacking in creature comforts–overhauling from its previous career in the Clone War made it only slightly more hospitable to Alliance marines and Talons than it had been to Phase One clone troopers. Commander Eribra Lars saluted smartly, her expression conveying that she was already numb inside and no diatribe or threat from a former Senator could possibly move her.

 

“Sure thing, Senator, your… uh… honor.” Her voice wavered on a knife’s edge between pilot-casual and insolence. She hopped up the uncomfortable gap between the transport’s passenger compartment and the deck. “Hop on board. Spiker, we’re taking off! Get Kalidor on comms, Vev-Isk-Krill on board for the Admiral. Mind you strap in, Senator…” Lars muttered, just a little too quietly to be clearly heard over the beastial roar of its supercharged engines as the pilot rushed through the preflight checklist.

 

The second after the engines chugged to life and caused the entire landing platform to swirl with a miniature dust-storm, it became evidently clear why the republican cadre of the Rebel Alliance clung to these relics of its past. With the knee-buckling lift and rib-rattling rush of its engines, the qualities that allowed it to survive were demonstrated–the gunship was fast, and could turn and climb almost like a starfighter.

 

Short of commandeering a two-seater starfighter, Outremer would have been hard-pressed to pick a speedier transport to the Admiral. He had also chosen one of the least comfortable rides in the fleet.

 

____

 

Slaughter had some time to think when the medic arrived and began bandaging his hand. His knuckles stung at the touch of disinfectant, and some instinctive part of his mind caused him to stiffen in pain when the Bothan manipulated the broken fingers into a cast, but the physical sensations felt… distant. Almost as though they were happening outside his body. It was almost like when Steadfast had fallen under the guns of the combined Black Sun and Sith fleets–he had felt the moment when that grand old lady’s heart had given out, even though the blow had been inflicted on an unliving starship.

 

There were so many questions that the Admiral needed to address, and all of them laid outside his capabilities. Was the entire republican contingent of the Rebel Alliance in danger of being purged? What of the Jedi? Were there any surviving political figures that could be trusted? How best to preserve the republican fleets even as they were expected to protect Nar Shaddaa against the brunt of the Sith fleet? And on a less critical but more immediate urgency, how best to explain Slaughter’s uncharacteristic injury–broken fingers that could significantly hamper his abilities in combat?

 

And even as he pondered these questions, hundreds of freighters were alighting from the Smuggler’s Moon in a miniature imitation of the similar evacuation that he had managed from Coruscant.

 

“It was a sparring accident, Graves,” The Admiral snapped. “Nothing serious. Just had an unfriendly exchange of knuckles in a friendly match, and I lost. That’s the story.”

 

“Yessir.” The irony dripped from the Bothan’s voice as he sprayed a hard-setting foam around the injured fingers. “A sparring accident. Never mind the fact that you’ve wrecked your office. And that you haven’t been seen in the ring for about a year.”

 

“Taking care of–”

 

A heavy knock pounded on his door, followed by the clang of a plastoid object hitting the deck. “Admiral, here to replace your–oh spast.”

 

“Sparring accident, 

 

“Admiral, here to replace your–oh, spast.”

 

“It was a sparring accident, Petty Officer. Even a friendly bout can go this way...”

 

“...Uh huh–”

 

Crowding the office even further, Lieutenant Chambers came racing up, the diminutive human practically hopping up on her tip-toes to make herself seen above a hulking Gotal and a ceiling-height plastoid screen. “Sir! You have an incoming transport, a Senator… duh-out-ream-er,” she spoke the name out slowly, unfamiliar with the phonetics and the Senator himself. “Wanting to see you. It sounded urgent.”

 

“Quicker than I’d expected.” Slaughter grumbled and pushed himself one-handed to his feet. It would be impossible to hide the cast–only a Wookiee would have worn a glove large enough to hide it–but he was otherwise presentable. No specks of blood around the uniform’s cuff. A touch of unpleasant body odor about him, perhaps. This was a meeting that the Admiral needed to accept.

 

The Admiral’s shuttle bay was only a short walk from his ready room, but such was the pilot’s haste that Slaughter arrived only just in time to watch the LAAT/i race into the hangar. At this point, its pilot had decided that she’d had enough fun with the Senator and landed at a speed that was almost comfortable… and besides, the short, thickset build of Admiral Slaughter was visible even from outside the magcon field. Bruce merely stood stationary, waiting to begin his performance with a crisp salute that would display the cast on his right hand.

 

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Godfrey held on as the gunship pilot decided to play some kind of prank on him. It was exceedingly unprofessional, especially for a high ranking member of the Rebel Alliance Military Command. He had saved Corellia for the forces sake and now this kid was playing all sorts of games with him. It was her right though, he had asked to get to the Admiral quickly, so he had no room to complain. He held onto the drop handle and did his best to keep a regal posture, even as they rocketed through turbulent atmosphere with little care for his aging knees. But that was the life he had chosen. And somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this would be his last war. And looking down to the approaching hanger, it was probably Slaughter’s last war as well. 

 

Old men had little use in the future, and they were both well past their prime, same with the shuttle of choice that he had been dispatched in. It spoke exceedingly more about the state of the Galactic Alliance Military in Exile than the aging senator and commander likely knew. He brushed his gloved hands down his crisp pale blue uniform, then stepped out of the LAAT/I gunship as it settled onto its landing gear. 

 

He tucked his cap under his arm and returned the Admiral’s injured salute with a crisp and well practiced one. Slaughter had not been in any direct action for some time, and the cast gave Godfrey a pause. But he was an Admiral, and Godfrey only a ranked commander. So he would not ask about it. 

 

“Admiral…” He looked about him, as if looking for spies. “I assume you have heard about the Imperial Meeting?” 

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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Frond smiled at Scorpio, his wooden face twisted comically. The young, always so full of ideas. He appreciated the young father’s resolve. To sever ties with the mortal world was a chore at best; a dying to self. It was a sacrifice which Frond had come to intimately understand as a Walker of The Mind. Giving himself over to the will of the force, in contrast to the innate mortal draws of his station, Frond appreciated what the warrior was willing to do. “Perhaps there is more,” he mused, his cracking deep voice trailing off into the warm air.

 

”Friends in the maelstrom are true,” he explained slowly, as he thought ahead to what was to come. “A strand of THREE cords . . .” The start of the ancient phrase rolled from his mouth into the air as the Neti fell into deep foreign thought. His mind, a plant, surging as every cell processed that which only the aged tree could see within his own thoughts. 
 

Turning, Frond tucked the items out of sight, and shuffled into the city without a word. He and Scorpio were bound in the force to this place. So long as they remained upon this world, Frond would stand with the once Jedi-Sith in the force’s will.

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There were few locations more difficult to spy within Kalidor than its commanding officer’s shuttle bay. Like any other hangar, it was constructed primarily of grey, featureless durasteel that was frequently heat-blasted by sublight engines and pounded by rough landings. Unlike the hangars housing the combat squadrons, there was almost no clutter, only neatly-coiled fuel lines and a few immaculately-maintained shuttlecraft. Rather than having swarms of maintenance crew, droids, and pilots rushing to and from their starfighters, every single hand who frequented this miniature hangar could be named on sight by the Admiral–including the deck officer who supervised its operations from an elevated command post at its entrance and oversaw its security through a number of prominent holocams.

 

It was fortunate for the Rebel Alliance that Admiral Slaughter that the man had never been assigned to a diplomatic mission. Or an intelligence-gather mission. Really, it was fortunate that his duties rarely required him to leave a warship or a military base, because it was virtually impossible for the man to exercise any degree of subtlety or tact. Even if the man had dared to hide his knowledge, his face inevitably broke out in ruddy blotches and twitching blood vessels when he was under stress. His knowledge was written on his face.

 

“I am aware that such a meeting has taken place.” Slaughter kept his voice even, though the vein twitching in his forehead belied his stress. “Rumors and unofficial channel always get the details wrong, without exception.”

 

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Godfrey took one look at the Admiral’s face and grimaced himself. The man exuded the feelings that were currently twisting themselves around in his stomach. A silent and ineffable rage that seemed to course its way through every blood vessel, streaming to devour every thought and word that proposed itself upon his lips. He could feel also the despair that followed every angry heartbeat. Was all that they had fought for for the last four years going to be for nothing? All those dead friends, beloved family, only to see that river of blood turn into the very beast that they were fighting to destroy? 

 

Or perhaps, like he had belittled those young jedi at Bothawui, there was something good in this new order. Gone forever would be the Senate on Coruscant. Gone too the mountains of bureaucracy, the inefficient military command, and the forced ignorance of the evils that took place in the outer rim. 

He leaned forward and shook his head. 

 

“I think it may be safe to say that Democracy is dead. At least on a galactic scale. There was even a Jedi present, the famous Wookiee one.”

 

He looked up as if the heavens would have an answer. 

 

“What can we do?”

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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“So it was said.” There was a strong temptation to ball up his fists and find something or someone–preferably Imperial–to vent his anger out on. The pressure exerted on his fingers by the plastform cast on his right hand was a firm reminder of his desire for self-destructive violence. The muscles in his jaw worked and ground his teeth.

 

But if there was any lesson that General Aegis had struggled to impart to the young Bruce Slaughter, it was that he would rarely be able to indulge in his own satisfaction–not if he had any interest in the wellbeing of the sapients fighting under his command. Blind rage was a luxury that was dangerous even for a front-line grunt–but for a fleet officer aiming a flotilla armed with hundreds of turbolasers, capable to glassing entire worlds, it was ruinous. Use the anger–rather than letting it use him–internalize the hate and fury and use it to focus his thoughts. Guide the storm that raged within him, rather than allow himself to be thrown about by its currents.

 

Slaughter turned to glance at the front of the hangar, where a Twi’lek was watching at the deck officer’s terminals with burgeoning interest, and made a decisive gesture across his throat with the blade of his hand. The deck officer responded with a nod and thumbed several controls on the security station, killing the hangar’s holocam recording. This would be as close to total privacy as a warship could provide.

 

“The republic isn’t dead,” Slaughter growled, stepping uncomfortably close to the Senator. “Not while we’re still alive. And there’s a lot of us still alive–and even more us who gave their…” he paused as his mind searched for something poetic to say, something inspirational. Nothing came. “Their everything. We have to survive for them. Gotta make it through this battle first. After that, I intend to send out a coded signal to the remaining units from the Galactic Alliance, warn them of the political changes and that they might be in danger.”

 

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The look on Slaughter’s face told him all that he needed to know about the man’s intentions. He could smell the rage on his breath, and the small veins that bulged from anger were even more apparent from as close as they were both standing. Slaughter was short, but at point blank range, the man carried himself with a grim dignity. History, if such a thing survived the war, Godfrey thought, would be kind to the short admiral whose long and storied career stretched back the decades.

 

But Godfrey himself was an old man now. He had spent the golden days of his thirties and forties in the senate. Gambling away the last days of peace with asinine propositions of trade and taxation. How many friends of the old alliance were now dead and buried? RIllian? Dead. Killed like Janhavi in the fall of Coruscant. What strength did the old Galactic Alliance survivors have? If this fight was going to happen it needed to be years ago. Not kriffing now.  

 

They had already spent far too much of their strength. One look out the viewport, or at the real time data displays that were prominent in the room would tell them the state of any Galactic Alliance centered secondary rebellion. How many of the starships in orbit with them were of Imperial make? How many of them were the diverse monarchist forces that the upstart Raven had brought into her cause? How many integrated GA units would actually turn blasters against their comrades in the name of democracy? Godfrey looked back at Slaughter and sighed. IT was time to do what he had always been very good at. His voice fell to a low growl. So only the Admiral could hear it. 

 

“Now I must say something that you may not want to hear. So forgive me for always playing the devil’s advocate, but I think I must do so again.” 

 

He absentmindedly straightened his jacket. Pulling futility at the starched pale blue fabric as if a better kept appearance would dull the knife he was about to proverbially stab into his comrade. 

 

“Who is left?” He made sure to catch the man’s gaze and hold it. “Tell me we have any allies waiting in the wings of this command room.” He pointed to the doorway, then to the Twi’lek assistant. “Tell me she is going to pull off a mask and it's going to be ShadowFett under there. Or Tenebris. Or Cadan. Or someone other than an idealistic young woman who doesn’t know she would be throwing her life away for a dream. No. Something less than a dream. A wisp of an idea. An Idea that died over Onderon then was buried in the rubble of Coruscant.”  

 

The ex-senator’s expression became pained. 

 

“If we had Gren Sairdonga, Cadio Sikaot, or even the much slandered Starlisk we might be able to bring something to the board other than prideful threats. But what forces can I bring to bear? The Bothans? My wife was a bothan if you remember. But the Bothans wouldn’t fight a war that could leave them diminished or even defeated. My own home planet’s prince has sworn undying loyalty to the Imperial Throne.”

 

Godfrey took a breath then stepped away, surrendering to a long string of painful coughs. Which left him winded and gasping. He recovered a minute later, his face flushed. 

 

“Admiral I do not mean to sound defeatist but even Mon Calamari upon its liberation is now under stewardship of an Imperial Admiral. The new MC90’s captured in the underwater berths fully crewed by an integrated crew of Imperials and GA. We have no leverage. Unless you have an entire Katana Fleet and a revived Jedi Order hiding up those resplendent sleeves of yours.”

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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Standing there, Scorpio watched as the Neti pierced the veil of the Force with his thoughts, his questions answered upon the currents of time as the Force flowed infinitely in all directions. And for one of his blood, of Miralukian heritage, sight pierced all. There was no forward, no back, no left, right, up nor down. It was simply everywhere at all times. It was existence, whether it existed in the past, future, this plane or another. It still existed. So as Frond's words creaked out, as cryptic as they may have seemed to onlookers and eavesdroppers, Scorpio understood. Their philosophy may differ, but not their realized truth. The truth will always remain the same.

 

Without a word, Scorpio followed Frond in his endeavor. Briefly he stopped down and handed his daughter to an elderly woman, her soft eyes and fearless gaze spoke of the hardships she had faced and the lessons she had learnt. His child would be safe with her and her kin. Handing over a homing beacon with directions to his ship, he stared at the departing Neti and sighed. Upon his hip, the blade called for blood and for life, forcing the Former Jedi to focus and control his breath. This was his calling. War would never leave him in peace.

 

With that done, Scorpio departed in a flash, his form dissipating like the fog as he caught up with the slower moving Neti. As he matched his pace with the being, he shifted his gaze toward the foliage. War was approaching and they may be the only ones who could truly stand against it's tyranny. And it didn't settle on his mind very well. But the Force wills what the Force wills, and Frond would not be rid of him so easily. They were now bound, at least for the remainder of Nar Shadaa.

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  • 2 weeks later...

If a Jedi had been present on Kalidor, they might have felt compelled to rush towards Docking Bay One-Besh, for the mixture of exhaustion and rage suddenly spiked with the urge to commit violence on another sapient being. The vein that had been stress-hammering under the skin of Slaughter’s forehead popped out, and something as hard and cold as tempered durasteel slammed down behind his hazel eyes.

 

“Been a while, but as I remember it we swore similar oaths to defend the republic and the Senate.” The man’s jaw might have been welded into one immovable piece as he growled. “Nearly started a shooting war with her imperial majesty down moonside when her lot seceded and showed up above Corrie with a Star Destroyer.

 

“Well, the Senate doesn’t exist no more. Our… heh, government–mostly moon-dust at this point. Same for the elections and constitution and everything that we swore on before Hesperidium went down.” Slaughter knew perfectly well, that as one of the senior fleet commanders of the Galactic Alliance during its last days, much of the planet’s defense was his responsibility–and to say that he had failed was understatement. “‘Sfar as I’m concerned, the last that remains of it are these people who’ve put their trust in us to keep them alive–or at least spend their lives for something that they believe in, not that imperial’s dreams of a throne. You must have a really low opinion of me if you think I’m going to waste them by starting a civil war in the Rebellion.”

 

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The soldier in him told him to get ready for a fight, but the long term senator told him something very different: It was time to back down from a confrontation. This wasn ot the time, and the other man was far too smart for such a thing. So he would do his best to deflect and dismantle a fight before there could be one. 

 

“To tell the truth I don’t know much about you Admiral, we never served with one another during the height of the Republic, and the resulting Galactic Alliance decided against us serving in any capacity with one another. My assessment was based on my own initial impressions, thoughts, and Idealism. I made a mistake on my assessment.” 

 

Godfrey ran a gloved hand through his graying beard. Giving the other man a look of apology the best he could without actually saying it. 

 

“We both lost nearly everything in the fall of Coruscant, I lost my wife and nearly everyone I ever called friend. I didn't mean to insult you or your intelligence. Or damn well anything you are fighting for. I was merely speaking in caution because I felt that I should. I see now that you were already steps ahead of myself. So now I must ask you Admiral, what can I do to be of assistance in your plans to preserve what little we can of the Republic?” 

 

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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  • 2 weeks later...

“I…” A strangled growl emanated from Slaughter’s throat. His instincts told him to escalate this controversy into an actual conflict that the fleet Admiral could grab and beat with his own fists, but even an amateurish analysis of the forces would tell him that he would lose any fight. Not unless… but the contingencies he would have to resort to would be utterly unthinkable. Even contemplating his current advantage in Nar Shaddaa’s orbit seemed to make him deflate a little. At least the vein in his forehead ceased pulsing.


“Senator, a lot of the men serving with me… we’ve been together since before the beginning, long before Onderon. A lot of people from Fidelity when we hit Dark Sun. We knew when we rescued Nasra that we were definitely going to have some disagreements with the Imps, but desperate times. We didn’t rescue her to trade a Sith Emperor for an Imperial. I–we owe it to them so when they finally get to go home, it’s to their homes. Force knows, the Galactic Alliance wasn’t perfect, I’ve cussed out the Senate on the news more’n a few times, but the people running their homes was home. My people, they find out that their homes are going to get taken over by another Empire…” Slaughter just shook his head.

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Now it was time for him to ask the probing question. The Same probing question the Bothans would have asked if their clan leaders were in this secure bay. 

 

“Then perhaps we can do it without a war. Bloodlessly, or at least bloodlessly as possible. For their sake” He scratched at his beard for a moment, his eyes tracing every feature of the Admiral’s. The haggard and tired lines, a man running as much on Caf as he was idealism. He looked him in the eye again, lowering his voice as he spoke. 

 

“Their entire little new empire is built around Nasra. She was the fresh new face of a young pretty girl that shook up the long string of tired old men that made up the empire we fought against all those years ago. The moffs thought they could contain her, but she purged them of anyone disloyal to her with grim efficiency right after the battle of Carida. The entire movement is her. Without her there would be no Empire.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow. It was time to make the Davidian suggestion. 

 

“So put your fleet element in the vanguard. And when the Scarab focuses on the Misericordia. Fall away. Withdraw and let that child die in the glorious death she deserves. It doesn’t need to be obvious. And the firepower of a Dreadnaught is enough to make any admiral pull his forces back. You never even have to fire a shot in rebellion. Sure a few Imperials die, but their dream of a united fascist government dies with her. Your men are safe, their planets are safe…”


 

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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Silence was Slaughter’s response. It wasn’t an ordinary, thoughtful silence that merely signaled that the Admiral was thinking of what to say or trying to get his Coruscanti undercity accent under control. It was a dangerous silence; the kind that indicated that he was so shocked by what the Senator had just said that there were no words to be thought of, that he didn’t want to believe what he had just heard. A slightly stout man, much given to belying his height through casual slouching, the Admiral managed to gain a few centimeters when his spine instinctively stiffened into parade formation at the suggestion of doing something he’d previously thought unthinkable.

 

“....What?” The tone of voice indicated that it wasn't a question. It was a reflex.

 

There were no intelligent words that he could think of. At that moment, the Admiral wasn’t sure if he wanted to order the shuttle pilot to seal her ship and give the two middle-aged men complete privacy; or whether he wanted to grab the Senator by his collar and physically throw him back into that shuttle’s passenger compartment.

 

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“Sometimes Admiral…” He let his voice slow down to a growl, reading the shock, surprise, and anger in Slaughter’s eyes. This was a risk, but Godfrey had taken his lumps many times. It was time for him to put it all out in front of them both. The Galactic Alliance had died a death as painful as any friends. But At least the Galactic  Alliance had been something. There was freedom there. And as if all the ghosts of Coruscant were behind him, he straightened into an equal parade ground posture to Slaughter’s.

 

“…we who have been given the power to change the galaxy have to make a choice. We have to sacrifice our own egos, our own lives, for the lives of trillions who would be condemned to live under the iron fist of facsim.”

 

He lifted his chin to look Slaughter in the eye. This was not about him, it was not about Slaughter. It was about freedom. It was about an entire generation of the galaxy being born under the yoke of tyranny. A tyranny with a smiling face, but tyranny nonetheless. 

 

“I do not think we could forgive ourselves if we sat on our hands and did nothing when we had the slightest chance to give the people freedom.”

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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The shadows of the shuttle bay shifted and Slaughter’s gaze turned distant to observe as the view outside the magcon field lifted. The inky starfield was soon replaced by the rust-and-gold orb of Nar Shaddaa’s night side. Swarms of sunlight engines, most of them leaving the moon, dotted the black orb–the numerous civilian ships that were evacuating the vicinity of the Red and Blacki. The Admiral nodded; that turn was one of the final maneuvers of the minelaying operation. With a single command, the minefields that lined the safer approaches to the Smuggler’s Moon would be armed, and ingress to the moon would become far more hazardous. It would not be impossible, but the designs of assault shuttles tended to emphasize speed over maneuverability, making them unsuitable for navigating the orbital debris fields.

 

Kalidor would soon return to drydock to refit, removing the towed minelaying arrays for her normal payload of concussion missiles. That was an operation that required no supervision.

 

The mental calculation completed, Slaughter returned his attention to the Senator. The shock had vanished from Bruce’s eyes. Whether it was the routine tactical assessment or something in Outremer’s speech, something had given him focus.

 

“The problem is… no single person is a monolith. Definitely wasn’t that for the Galactic Alliance, imagine it’s the same for the Imperials. I know that they’ve got a collection of Moffs and industrial leaders and minor nobles that have united behind Nasra… but what happens to them if she dies is even more important. Can’t have them withdrawing from the Rebel Alliance. We definitely can’t afford to have them splintering into warlord factions… like what happened when Palpatine was killed. Fact is, Senator, we need to keep those people in the Rebel Alliance, or we’re lost.”

 

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The mission to Coruscant had been a complete bust. Even reflecting on that miserable failure darkened Sophia Moriarty’s expression as she approached a dive bar within the vicinity of the Red and Black. Although, perhaps not a complete bust, as the chaos of the city-world’s evacuation had at least provided the historian with her new trade. That profession was evident by the scrapes on her knuckles and a grease stain under one of her fingers that defied all attempts at obliteration. Even if the galaxy wasn’t particularly interested in reading about history–understandable considering that every day was confronted by a new emergency–ferrying refugees at least provided Sophia with a reasonable amount of satisfaction… though not exactly a reasonable living.

 

A couple of weeks ago, on one of the many occasions that the government’s courier contracts took Sophia to the residential districts surrounding their military headquarters, Moriarty had inquired where the Alliance’s pilots tended to blow off steam after their duty ships. After uncounted short-range contracts of ferrying refugees from the Y’Toub system to literally anywhere else, Moriarty finally built up the nerve to try looking for a potential friend there.

 

But was Beth Andromina… actually a friend? After all, the two had known each other for only a couple of days–and one of those days was marked by Sophia repeatedly kicking herself in the mouth. Even if that wasn’t the case, the Imperial pilot was one of the few people in this crazy galaxy who might have cared whether Sophia was still alive. The thanks of flight after flight of refugees might have provided for some wonderful warm-and-fuzzies, but their gratitude was anonymous at best. That was all another day, another three contracts; return to Nar Shaddaa for a few hours of sleep and then yet another cycle of transporting the desperate throngs.

 

The Unnamed–at least, the Ithorian that Sophia had asked only knew its general location and its name-plate must have been stolen or blasted from the edifice by a resourceful drunk–was a dingy hole with loud music, cheap beer, and low lighting. Its great virtues, aside from being reasonably close to the Red and Black–that horrible old casino–were that it had loud music, cheap beer, and low lighting. All of those lent it to the appreciation of starfighter pilots, Sophia supposed, whose reputation tended to be that they were young and the danger of their profession caused them to adopt an attitude of “live fast, die young, and leave behind an adrenaline-giddy corpse.” Cleanliness and ambience tended to be secondary considerations. Still, this dingy Nar Shaddaa megablock had just enough charming grime to make Sophia feel just a little homesick for Coruscant.

 

The music could be felt thumping into Nar Shaddaa’s streets almost twenty meters from its entrance. Four pilots, two in old Galactic Alliance fatigues and the others in Imperial, didn’t even look up from their drinks as Sophia passed into the entrance of the dive. After her eyes adjusted to the low lighting and passed over numerous unit flags that hung from the walls and ceiling, she realized that exactly two sapients had glanced up at the space-weary pilot. One was a droid bartender, and the other a Sullustan who made a double-take and began staring at her with apparent dislike.

 

At least, Sophia guessed that it was dislike. Interest seemed unlikely. But it was always a bit difficult for her to read those enormous, inky eyes.

 

Sophia tried to ignore the Sullustan as she scanned through the shadows for a familiar face, then settled for snaking her way through the crowd of uniformed sapients and eventually sandwiched herself between a Shistavanen and a human speaking Caridan-accented Basic.

 

“Yeah, excuse… hi! Tihaar!” Sophia had to shout to make herself heard once the droid finally, and with some reluctance, turned his attention away from the cantina’s regulars.

 

“We do not serve tea.” The droid buzzed flatly. Again, it was one of those kinds of bars.

 

“Lomin-ale!” Credits and a modest tip were exchanged for a pint of brown ale. “I was looking for someone!”

 

“Ha. Ha.” The droid’s eyes flickered skeptically. “It is a bad time to be looking for a pilot. They’ve been on high alert for weeks now.”

 

“I know, I know. Thought I’d ask anyway. Beth Andromina, short, red-blond hair, kinda adorable in a ‘I can kill you with my thumb’ sort of way.”

 

The droid’s eyes flickered. “Imperial. Caridan. I have not detected that person within this day’s patronage.”

 

Sophia sighed. “Thanks. Long shot, had to ask.”

 

“This unit is forbidden to serve shots.”

 

The historian closed her eyes for a second, then opted to leave the bar, where the four pilots were enjoying their drinks in spite of the Imperial regime’s public consumption laws. That Sullustan’s glare was starting to seriously wear on her. Outside, she just leaned against the graffiti-riddled wall and watched the distant glow of sublight engine’s that flickered far above her. There was a corridor of meager lights–civilian traffic, freighters, starliners, and barges–that was departing the moon. Many of those would be the refugee ships evacuating millions of civilians from their hopes. That was where Sophia probably should have been, contributing to the war effort instead of selfishly seeking out one of the few people who might have cared that she was still alive.

 

Multiple bright glows, dim orbs that was still visible despite the daylight and distance. Those were capital ships, probably Imperial Deuces or Mon Cals–maybe even one of the Nebula-classes. Another set of sublights bloomed to life. A new capital ship from the shipyards, or maybe a refit. The shipyards were bound to be working overtime, trying to get hulls out into orbit.

 

The spacelanes were where Sophia should have been at this moment, not wasting time outside this dive. Sophia took a long sip from her pint glass. Then she pushed back her hair with a condensation-slick hand and sighed.

 

The galaxy was a terrible place to be alone.

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“Moriarty, right?” A raspy, electronic-assisted voice buzzed at Sophia’s side. The historian glanced over and then looked downward. It was that Sullustan who wouldn’t stop glaring at her. And yes, closer inspection confirmed that the mouse-faced alien’s jowls were practically quivering with rage and his hands were definitely balled into fists.

 

“That’s Doctor Moriarty, but you can call me Sophia.”

 

“I read your piece on Admiral Slaughter.”

 

Sophia’s stomach sank. The historian knew very well which article the Sullustan was referring to; it was a minor op-ed piece to an interstellar HoloNews journal, but the vicious denunciation of one of the Rebel Alliance’s more prominent republican officers had inspired a significant backlash. “Oh! So you’re the one! I never thought that article was going to have any circulation. I mean, it didn’t–”

 

The Sullustan pilot stepped forward. Despite the fact that the pilot barely stood to Sophia’s collarbone, she took a step backwards and began looking for someone to potentially intervene. “Oh, kriff you, desk jockey. The Admiral’s a kriffing hero. When the Imps occupied my home, no one else had the guts to kick them offworld. Kriffing masterpiece, that campaign was–”

 

“I don’t regret a word I wrote in that article. My every word was accurate to the best of my research. But I’m always happy to listen to an alternate perspective… if you’re willing to take the time for an int–hrrrk!”

 

The Sullustan’s meaty fist slammed into Sophia’s abdomen, just below her breastbone. The wind blew out of her lungs and she doubled over, falling to the ground onto her hands. The pint of lomin ale fell from her hands and bounced noisily on the permacrete, spilling the dark brown brew onto her hands. For the moment, that didn’t matter–Sophia could barely even see past the stars that were swimming in her vision, and she was just trying to suck air into her gasping lungs. The Sullustan was saying something in what was presumably a mocking tone of voice for his species. It was several seconds, however, before her mind asserted control again and by that time the drunken, mousey sapient had decided that beating up a scrawny scholar really wasn’t worth an Article 15.

 

The wheezing gave way to coughing. A pair of hands reached under Sophia’s armpits and hauled the historian to her feet, muttering in a feminine voice Up you get, it’s easier if you’re standing. Twi’lek, Sophia placed the accent as Kala’uun. Her vision cleared to view a green-skinned Twi’lek, still supporting the historian with an mixed expression of amusement and amusement.”

 

“Breathe. You do know that this is a pilot bar? Civilians don’t usually come here unless they’re looking for–” The suggestion was evident from a suppressed twitch of a lekku.

 

“A friend of mine. Name is… Beth Andromina, she’s in the–”

 

“--The Imperial Templars, I know them.” Indeed, their unit’s flag could have been seen hanging on one the walls within the bar. “Huh. Wouldn’t have thought… nevermind.” Again, that twitch of a lekku. “You’re going to have a real schutta of a time finding her, though. That squadron’s going to be held on alert status for–”

 

And the lekku practically shriveled. “I really shouldn’t have said that.”

 

Only having just recovered from her blush, Sophia offered a weak grin and allowed the supporting hands to fall from her shoulders. “Your secret is safe with me, Lieutenant.” She glanced towards the dominating dome of the Red and Black and sighed. The overwhelming quota of civilian transport contracts–nearly all of them departures–combined with the heightened security status surrounding their headquarters base, could mean only one thing.

 

The Rebel Alliance was expecting an invasion of Nar Shaddaa.  Even as she glanced at that horrible old casino, a GR-75 transport and an obsolete Hammerhead corvette lifted from the vast landing pads surrounding the military base. Even further in the distance, one of the Star Destroyer-sized star liners alighted from one of the civilian starports, undoubtedly stuffed way beyond its safe capacity with civilian traffic. It was a mass exodus of the entire moon, of millions–probably billions–of sapients attempting to flee to safety.

 

Or, at least a part of the moon that wasn’t guaranteed to be under threat of orbital bombardment in the imminent future.

 

“It was worth a shot. Thank you.”

 

It was a mistake to have even gone looking for Andromina. Sophia wasn’t even certain what she was looking for from meeting the pilot again–a friendly chat? A few drinks? A night of heedless debauchery?--and the entire moon and its billions of inhabitants were bracing for an invasion that was likely to result in the deaths of millions. Nearly everyone who knew that Sophia was still alive was frantically preparing to meet that invasion under the gaudy dome of the Red and Black. Chances were that Beth Andromina would be fighting for her life in the next few days. Same for Aidan Darkfire–and the entirety of the Imperial Knights and Jedi Order.

 

And here, Sophia was getting a pint.

 

She glanced down at her wrist. Despite having spilled half a pint onto the duracrete, her datapad had escaped a drowning. A few taps on its screen updated the vast and expanding list of transport contracts. Hundreds of thousands of desperate people were trying to escape off-world. Often, the destination to those contracts was Ylesia, literally the closest world on the Shag Pabol trade route. Hundreds of thousands of sapients… and at best, Sophia would be able to transport a few hundred. That was a drop in an ocean of desperation.

 

Sophia took on as many of those contracts as her ship would be able to handle. Then she made for her docking bay, pausing only to place an order for pizzas to the Red and Black.

 

And then she ran. Well, jogged, as her lack of training and the recent blow to her stomach still left her winded.

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The densely packed ‘fab housing looked like concrete mountains whose long slopes stretched out to the horizon. Here and there a splash of neon colour indicated a mall or shopping center, in the mass of refugee housing, but mostly the housing units were dark. Enforced dark zones by the imperial authorities in the event of a Sith Raid. Something that was becoming more likely by the minute.  

 

Her scopes blinked for a moment as another ship showed up on the long range sensor suite and Beth lightly pressed on the rudder pedal and pulled on the yoke to bring the starfighter in a long loop as she and her wingmate rounded on the Corellian Light Freighter headed towards the Red and Black.  

 

“Take a look at that registration ping Lieutenant.”

 

This Machine Kills Fascists

 

Now that was an insulting name if she had ever seen one, even though it brought a stifled laugh in her headset from her wingmate. Someone was playing a funny game on the imperial starfighter corps. She lifted a finger and depressed her comm interface, broadcasting to the freighter on the Guard Frequency. 

 

“Corellian Freighter Machine Kills Fascists, this is Templar One. Please transmit cargo and load data. You may need an inspection before heading to Red and Black Tower." 

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Andromina

Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Lieutenant

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The VCX-100 gave a notable wobble in its flight pattern, as though its pilot had been startled and was now frantically groping one-handed through an unfamiliar cockpit in search for unfamiliar controls. That was exactly what was happening, as Sophia’s right hand was swatting buttons blindly in the central console, which was where most of the communications equipment was located. Eventually, after having activated the internal speakers and uttering several curses to a flight that included two adorable Duros children, she managed to locate and flick the switch that returned the hail of the two very fast, and very well-armed X-Wings.

 

“Hi. Uh, transmitting manifest and flight plan now–shavit,” Sophia cursed the ergonomics of this freighter’s cockpit under her breath as she stretched for the relevant control. The VCX-100 was definitely intended for a crew of two. “Is something wrong? We’re bound for Ylesia, nineteen sapients and baggage on board.”

 

At that point, her conscious brain had finally released command of the freighter’s controls to partially-developed muscle memory and dared to recognize a familiar voice through comms interference. “Wait. Beth? Is that you?”

 

Sophia might have started laughing, but a strong tug on her sleeve tore her attention away from the canopy and the all-important artificial horizon. Standing at her shoulder–and not even rising up to the sitting pilot’s shoulder–was one of the two aforementioned adorably precocious Duros children. Wide-eyed with innocence and curiosity–at least, Sophia supposed that was the chronically wide-eyed humanoid’s expression–she loudly spoke to the pilot, more than sufficient to be picked up by her headset.

 

“Excuse me, Doctor Sophia,” she said in that deliberately-lipsy, ever-so-sweet tone of a child who knew they had gotten themselves into trouble and were trying to manipulate their way out of it. “Are you a Mandalorian?”

 

“What? No.” Her burrow furrowed as her glance repeatedly raced between the controls, Nar Shaddaa’s traffic, and that devious little child. “And I thought I locked my cabin.”

 

Edited by ObliviousKnight
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“She is their great uniter. If she dies their Empire dies. She is a popular figure, and who could take her place? A dried up old empire Moff? No, she is the last of them and their brightest face. We give them a promise. A promise of her legacy, a way to preserve what she died fighting for.” 

 

He shook his head. 

 

“A constitutional Monarchy. Something that maintains both of our desires but also keeps a strong republican background. The devil is in the details of course, Admiral. But…” 

 

He smiled widely and gave the man a bow that was more fitting to the courts of Outremer than a Republic ship. 

 

“I leave the matter in your capable hands. Thank you for your time.” 

 

And with that he saluted, then walked back to his shuttle. 

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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Hearing her own first name over her headset was such a bizarre thing for someone whose brain was so completely frazzled by months on end of mindless combat air patrol, that she physically jumped against her crash restraints. The intonation was familiar as well, like a ghost out of her dreams. Where had that familiar lilt come from? That tired and studious disposition?PLus the name of the ship could only come back with:

 

Sophia? 

 

With a little too much eagerness she rekeyed her comm, trying her best to keep her voice level and professional. 

 

“Receiving manifest now Moriarty.” 

 

She glanced at the data scrolling across her screen and she angled her fighter’s nose up a half degree by lightly pulling on the yoke. 

 

“You are clear for departure when you would like. Turn to Freq 403.33.” A shortwave frequency. 

 

She clicked her own comm over. 

 

“Sophia, I thought you died. Back from beyond the grave are we?”

Andromina

Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Lieutenant

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It was now Sophia’s turn to start grinning like an idiot. The spritely tone of recognition–to say nothing of the pilot-drawl that was just barely restrained by Imperial training–was unmistakable even in spite of the riotous comms interference that was ever-present on the overcrowded spacelanes of Nar Shaddaa. It hadn’t been since the beginning of the war that the two had seen each other face-to-face, with only intermittent messages and meal deliveries exchanged since. Whatever the two were, it was a joy to find that someone from Besh-Cresh (before Coruscant) was still alive.

 

Even, or especially, if she had gotten uproariously drunk with that woman and made a bit of a kath out of herself.

 

“Beth!” Sophia nearly cried out when she swapped her transmission to the semi-private frequency. “Yes, I’m not… dead yet. Just dead broke. …so fierfekkin’ broke,” The historian muttered under her breath.

 

“What’s fierfekkin?” That part of her mind that was currently doing an embarrassing happy-dance died at the voice of an unrepentantly mischievous Duros child.

 

“Dinsa, sweetie? How about we make a deal. You never repeat that word in front of your parents–and I tell your mother that I invited you up here to watch the jump to lightspeed.”

 

“....mmmmm… deal!”

 

“Good, now strap in.”

 

That entire exchange, even the metallic clicks as a six-year old’s hands fumbled with restraints that were intended for an adult humanoid, would have been clearly audible over the pilot’s headset.

 

“I take it you’ve been busy?”

 

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Nyrys’s personal battlefleet entered Nar Shaddaa’s orbit and quickly set up combat air patrols as they formed up for the assault. The intel had been correct, and the enemy was relying heavily on mines to fortify their hold on the world. Wasteful and outdated strategies for a people stuck in the past.

 

“It’s like they’re doing our job for us. Signal the Bewitching Lover and the other interdictors to use gravity wells to disperse the fields and rain down upon Nar Shaddaa with the terrorists’ own weapons.” 

 

It was unfortunate that the rebels always chose to nest amidst extremely concentrated population centers, but holding back would only let them know that their human shield tactics worked. The best path was to end the war quickly and decisively, so that this behavior would not be repeated on world after world.

 

“Once the mines are dispersed begin the assault, let the galaxy see that the rebellion cannot protect its own.”

 

The interdiction fields of the Sith ships began the task of clearing mines with their fields, dumping hundreds of kilometers worth of mines on the planet at a time. The fascists of the Empire and hypocritical Jedi would have their backs broken here, the levy for the sins of Kamino, Kuat, and Dark Sun Station.

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The Grand Admiral of the Court of Madness observed the swirling mass of enemy ships before him, protected by their millions of mines. How the devil they had remained able to get civilian ships in and out of the sector was beyond him. He stroked his peppered goatee with long, slender, sexy blue Chiss fingers. He flipped a single finger towards the viewscreen and he channeled an open commlink to the enemy.

 

“Greetings, Rebellion. Or Empire. Whatever you are. Fear not, stand down and stand by. We are here only to hunt Nar Shadaa’s famous Azov Battalion, and to rid you of the evils of fascism. Please disarm.”

 

His subordinate, Under-Admiral Pog’Champ, stared up at him with similar crimson Chiss eyes.

 

“Admiral Frawn, I believe it’s pronounced ‘Imperial Knights’

 

The Grand Admiral waved his had dismissively. He would suggest the Under-Admiral to throw himself out an airlock at some later time. His eyes caught several fleet elements within the Enemy ranks, of particular interest. He waved another hand indicating full fleet forward.

 

“Admiral… The Mines?”

 

A highly annoyed Chiss Admiral stamped his foot in dismissive rage.

 

“Damn the mines, there are Squibs to kill. Sheog would not want any of them to escape.”

 

The Grand Fleet lurched forward, losing countless ships to strike at the irritating creatures. Several Corevettes exploded almost immediately, whether it was the mines or just the will of the force, one would never know. No matter the losses, those Squibs would perish. Grand turbolasers lashed out towards The Rebels, and their beloved Squibs.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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After the long weeks of meticulous planning and calculation for ammunition and fuel expenditures, frustrating wargaming and recalculating hyperspace jumps and drilling until the mind grew numb, the hour that all of this preparation would come to its culmination had finally arrived. There was an intellectual part of Slaughter’s mind that quailed at the conscious knowledge of that scope of death that this battle would cause… but that battle-hardened grunt that guided his instincts was exhilarated--the old soldier wanted to find his executive officer, punch the enormous Twi’lek in the shoulder and roar let’s fracking go.

 

It was all that Slaughter could do, to force his heart rate down and take a deep breath. This battle would only be survived through exhausting coordination rather than a headlong charge into enemy turbolasers. And besides Tal’dira was several light-hours away, on the bridge of Fidelity, and waiting for the signal to converge Nar Shaddaa’s fleet elements on the Sith Empire.

 

On the bridge of Kalidor, Slaughter watched with dissatisfaction as dozens of explosions rippled on Nar Shaddaa’s surface--no, along the edge of its atmosphere--as waves and waves of space mines fell out of their orbital rings. The proximity-fused explosive mines were simply exploding upon contact with atmosphere; a minute change in ambient pressure, and the man-sized mines simply disintegrated in a puff of shrapnel and a spot of flickering flame against the glow of atmosphere. The larger mines--the easily identifiable unmanned batteries--were attempting to keep station, but there were streaks of flame that were descending into atmosphere that signalled that some of those were faltering.

 

The largest of those mines, those were the size of starfighters and composed of the larger debris that had accumulated over Nar Shaddaa through the course of millennia of illicit space travel. Those were far too large to be affected by an interdictor’s gravwell projectors--at least, not without several hours of focusing the projectors on those objects. In many cases, those mines were nothing more than chunks of disabled starships to which engineers had strapped crude guidance sensors and thrusters--only a close encounter with those obstacles would reveal their modification.

 

But this was all moving more quickly than Slaughter had feared. He was going to need to draw the full attention of the Sith away from their interdiction mission, with nothing more than a single Majestic-class Heavy Cruiser, a pair of antiquated Carrack-class Light Cruisers that had survived almost a century of service, and a smattering of tiny Corellian Gunships that were keeping station in the debris fields.

 

“Comms,” Slaughter squinted at the interdictors and their antistarfighter screen. “Signal the squadron, subspace channel Zerek: ‘The Republic confides that every sapient will perform his duty.’ Shields full forward, ahead forward and begin a starboard turn once we clear Debris Field Eight. The gunners may fire when they are ready.”

 

It would be several minutes before Fidelity and the survivors of the Galactic Alliance would receive the subspace signal and make their microjump. Even longer would be the time it would take for those ships and the Imperials to take their positions and bring the proverbial hammer down on the assault. Until those heavy guns and the hundreds of starfighters arrived, however, it would be left to his few ships and their disciplined, long-range fire to keep the Sith entertained. The first ranging shots caused the deck to tremble under his feet. Those were far outside the optimistic effective range of heavy turbolasers… and yet Slaughter saw something make contact and vanish from the tactical boards.

 

And even if his men could survive this battle, there was the small matter of somehow ensuring that Nasra would never pose a threat to the Republic.

 

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Travel had given him time. He had been quiet, brooding. Preparing himself for the battle, and for the death that awaited. This would be his moment of vengeance. His magnum opus of death. The murder of the False Empress. Where ever was left for him to go afterwards didn't matter to him anymore. As they drew closer, and klaxons began to blare aboard the Raven's Fury, He turned to Captain Ralos, the young woman who'd served under him since Jarvus's death. 

 

"Captain, once we arrive the fleet is yours, under some conditions. Save our first volley for when we locate the Misericordia. When you do, I want a full strike against her escorts. I'll be leaving with whenever you fire your second volley, use the missiles as a screen. Six hundred missiles, sensors will have a hard time picking up a half dozen transports. After we've departed the fleet is entirely under your command, though your priority shifts to anyone or anything that moves to intercept our craft. Work with the other Sith Lords and Masters, coordinate your efforts."

He approached the communication panel. His people were weary, and they knew that death likely awaited them. They would need words of strength.

 

"Warriors of the Sith Empire, today is our day. The Rebels cower behind minefields and independent forces, expecting the patchwork navy to protect them from our wrath. They did not break us at Kuat, they did not stop our advance at Trulalis or Aaris or Geonosis. They could not save the people of Naboo."

 

He let the name hang in the air, a grim memoire of what Darth Mavanger was capable.

 

"And they will not save the Empress on Nar Shaddaa. We shall claim the vengeance that is rightfully ours."

 

As he stepped away, Darth Mavanger's armada joined with Sheog the Mad's and the Dark Lady Nyrys's over Nar Shaddaa. The final fight had begun.

Edited by Mavanger
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Aboard the Constantine, Nikolai Kolchak, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Allied Fleet, inhaled sharply as the whole of space was suddenly interrupted by the coordinated arrival of Sith armadas. Hundreds of ships hived with their buzzing hornets.

 

Slowly Kolchak exhaled as the bridge of the Constantine erupted into a well-ordered chaos. Each man, woman, and why droid knew their place and their job. The Imperial war machine sat silent, prepped and ready for the onslaught, guns primed as scores of Twin Ion craft were belched forth in response. Some streaked towards the planet on intercept courses for the first few forays of enemy exploratory forces. If they desired the surface, the skilled veteran pilots in their assortment of interceptors would act to ensure that it was at a high price, if at all.

 

Suddenly the minefields about the world began to shift in places. Warnings erupting signaling enemy usage of gravitational weapons and fields. It was sooner than he hoped; but watching the smaller, immobile mines dot the atmosphere with flashes of fire, he chose to act. With a signal, the Constantine hummed with energy, it’s own gravitational fields erupting outwards to balance the field and attempt to hinder incoming attacks and inevitable retreats by their attackers. Across the Imperial fleet other interdictors began to spin up as well creating an overlapping net between the  attackers and their quarry below.

 

Holding fast the Imperial faction took moments to assess the enemy laid out before them, analyzing for weaknesses, chinks in the armor. Already the battle had commenced as the Court of Madness seemed to take a racially motivated interest in the diminutive squirrel fleet of salvaging pirates and their gravitationally based weapons. With rabid screams as some of their needler ships burst into blossoms of fire and death, the Squibs drove into the fray, tearing at their foes with tractor beams as they surged towards the offending turbo weapons. They hoped to crack apart their attackers like a nut to salvage the desirable bits within. The deaths of their brethren fueled their ravenously rabid counter assault. Moving in support of the screaming rodents, sleek Hapan cruisers  and Mon Cal warships unleashed volleys of colorful energy against the Mad press as fighters tore into the fray in practiced formations. Other independent factions, called into service by Kolchak, also began moving to engage the swarming maelstrom of the Lord of the Krath, the massive Hutt cannon firing energy-wrapped explosive salvos toward the most likely command ship.  Rockets, missiles, and blasts of energy filled the void of space.

 

Staring at the unfolding battlefield, a twitch tugged momentarily at the Admiral’s face. He recognized some of the craft before them. “Inform ze Empress, ze Lady Nyrys has arrived.” He growled as he turned to the third fleet. “Ze ravager iz ours. Shields up.”   Several Imperial destroys began to move forward on intercept paths, creating a screen between the Sith fleet and the world below, prepping broadside volleys in response to any aggression.

 

”Get those refugees out of here!” The order was shouted from somewhere on the bridge. The hulking Kuati capital ships and Corellian and Kesselian  smugglers and attack craft moved to try and create an opening in the press of Sith forces to allow for escape by the innocents and refugees from Nar Shaddaa. On to fixed points in the galaxy and then forward to their rendezvous points; at least those that survived.    
 

Meanwhile, the Bothan and Imperial spy craft began to fill the space waves with streams of code as they invisibly began to attempt their assault of the sensors, computers and electronics of the enemy fleets. Invisible attacks in an attempt to tip the scales before the battle was fully met.

 

In the middle of it all, from his command post on the bridge of the Constantine, Nikolai Kolchak took it all in. He chanced a glance to the planet below and the countless readouts that ran through his eye. They were why these men and women stood in the gap. It was not about power or prestige. Looking about the bridge of his command ship, Nikolai knew each one had done things, risked more than they would ever admit, and even now would lay it all in the line again. They would stand in the gap, a shield for the innocent, a shield of freedom and will.

Edited by Nikolai Kolchak
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On the bridge of the black painted Misericordia the Empress stood. Gloved hands clasped behind her, eyes looking at the red outlines of the battle maps. They were equally matched with the long line of blue that marked the edges of their own controlled space, but the sheer number of capital ships on the Sith side caused a trickle of doubt to crawl up her spine. Nesting itself in the base of her skull. She kept her face a statuesque picture of imperial dignity even as she mentally calculated the odds. 

 

A white gloved hand placed itself firmly on the back of her neck. The stress disappeared in an instant, and Raven gave her Imperial Knight escort a rueful smile. Then gestured to the flickering streams of turbolasers flashing back and forth. 

 

“No better way Cassandra. No better way to meet our fate.”

 

Cassandra shook her head. Her silver visor not betraying a sliver of her emotions. All Raven could feel from her was a sense of calm.

 

“Worry not my lady. The force guides us all, for good and ill.” 

 

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Pretender to the Galactic Throne

Leader of the Rebel Alliance

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