Prologue
Conference Room
Titan-class Battleship Nexus
Varnus System, 0900 Hours
Fleet Admiral Jann Percy looked around at his colleagues. “Gentlemen, we’re down to the wire here. Are we going to do this or not?”
Assembled around the conference table were the members of the NI War Cabinet not currently occupied elsewhere: CEO ‘Silverfox’ K’bail, Field Marshall Rodin Kaler, Fleet Admiral Arden Vonture, Admiral Aaron Melvar, and Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai. At the head of the table were Nexus Commodore Awel Kylar, Grand Master Xar Kerensky, and Zalaria. These days Kerensky seemed to identify more with the Altarin’Dakor present rather than the NI’s own command staff, Percy noted.
He glanced at the other members gathered, wondering how much longer they were going to debate putting Operation Spear into action. War Coordinator Dogar had already given the go-ahead; all that was left had been making necessary preparations to the NI’s stock of World Devastators, the cloaking devices, and the Altarin’Dakor support craft. Now everything was ready, and Percy was getting a little impatient at waiting for CEO/Admiral Walt Amason, who was in charge of the project, to show up.
Across the table from him, Field Marshal Kaler folded his hands over his belly and shook his head. “I still can’t say I’m comfortable with using all our Devastators in this way. It’s taken us a couple of years to spawn this many. Think of the production capacity they’re capable of. We need every factory we can get our hands on, now.”
A few officers nodded their agreement. Percy knew it was true; with the loss of Moro and now Sigma, the two highest-production worlds in the entire New Imperium had fallen to the enemy. Without them, there weren’t likely to be any new capital ships added to the NI Order of Battle anytime soon. In short, they weren’t getting any stronger, and more ships were being lost in every engagement. Meanwhile, the AD fleet still seemed to be at near full strength according to Intelligence estimates.
Sector Admiral Gaius still had a haunted look on his face. After losing Sigma, homeworld of the NI’s staunch Kaav’Klan allies and one of the most highly populated worlds in NI space, the commander of the First Fleet must be feeling a tremendous burden of responsibility on his shoulders. Percy felt sorry for him, and had no desire to vacate his spot as Logistics Officer and take the man’s place.
His thoughts were brought back to the present as Fleet Admiral Arden Vonture spoke up. “We are stretching our resources thin, for sure. But if Operation Spear is successful then it will be more than worth the cost. CEO Amason has assured us that…”
He was interrupted as the main doors to the conference room slid open and the man in question appeared. CEO/Admiral Walt Amason, only a couple of years Percy’s junior, strode into the room, looking crisp and ready.
“Ah, just the man we hoped to see,” Kaler spoke up, motioning for the man to sit in the one empty seat remaining.
Amason, instead, opted to stand, and quickly spoke up as he stopped beside the table. “My apologies for the delay, but there were some complications linking up the ships through the tow-cable systems. That issue has now been resolved.”
“Good news,” Percy spoke up, looking up at the CEO. “So we’re ready to go?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be.”
“And have you found a suitable target for Operation Spear?” asked Admiral Aaron Melvar, seated near Percy at the end of the table opposite the AD delegates.
Amason turned to look at him, then included everyone in a sweeping gaze. “We have found the perfect location and target for the strike,” he said. “However, for security reasons, I can’t reveal the location at this time. Suffice it to say it’s close enough, and we’ll find out within a couple of days whether or not this thing will work.”
“Very good, Walt,” Xar Kerensky spoke up from the table’s head. “I think I speak for all of us when we say ‘may the Force be with you’.”
“Thank you,” Amason nodded. “I…”
He was interrupted as the doors swooshed open again, this time admitting a dark-haired, dark-robed individual who came purposefully right up to the conference table. Several sets of eyes widened as they saw him, and Percy was surprised as well. It was Alyx Misnera, the Jedi Division’s other Grand Master and the head of NI Special Operations. They hadn’t heard much from him since he’d lost several Jedi in the Pax System on a special mission. He had looked really torn up about it, and that had been before the attack on Sigma, so no one had been able to spare any ships for rescue. Percy wondered what the man wanted to say now.
“Excuse me, everyone,” Misnera said as he came to a halt next to Amason. “I regret missing the full briefing, but I have been working on an operation I strongly believe we should consider running concurrently with Operation Spear.”
That elicited several raised eyebrows, and Percy watched the man with growing surprise. Another mission, at this short notice? He might be Head of Operations, but this was quite irregular.
“Please, allow me to speak before you render judgment,” Misnera said. He met the gaze of everyone in turn, lingering a moment longer on that of Master Xar Kerensky.
“As you know,” he continued, “the key to stopping the advance of Nimrod, and to ensure our survival here on Varnus, is the elimination or neutralization of his Titan battleships. While Operation Spear is taking place, I want to propose a mission to take out another Titan, at the same time. Only this one we don’t destroy – we’re going to capture it and turn it against the enemy.”
“That would be quite difficult,” the room’s only female occupant cut in. Percy glanced at Zalaria, feeling that somehow her words weighed more heavily in the air than anyone else who had spoken. He guessed everyone else felt the same way.
“A Titan is very self-sufficient and has many redundant systems,” she continued. “Even if the bridge were taken – which is next to impossible considering the security – the ship’s command could simply be rerouted to another location.” She shook her head, much to Misnera’s obvious chagrin. “Much wiser to try capturing a cruiser or destroyer, not a Titan. These ships have hundreds if not thousands of generations in service. That does not simply occur by happenstance.”
Nevertheless, Misnera was not to be dissuaded so easily. He held up a hand. "Please hear me out. I have a crack team of Jedi standing by and ready to go. This could be our only chance to eliminate two Titans at the same time," he said adamantly. "Imagine depleting Nimrod's fleet by not just one Titan, but two!"
"How exactly do you propose infiltrating one of the Altarin'Dakor's most technologically advanced and heavily protected battleships?" asked Vonture.
Misnera turned to look at him, and Percy could see the determination and fervor in his eyes. “I have a plan that will get us in. All we have to do is to commandeer an enemy shuttle or corvette. Then we can convince them that we’re one of them.”
Commodore Awel Kylar shook his head slowly. "The transponder codes would be nearly impossible to forge."
"It wouldn't be as easy as when the Rebellion sneaked an Imperial shuttle onto Endor," Kerensky added.
"Then perhaps if the ship came in damaged..." Misnera offered.
Zalaria spoke up before he could finish. "If the proper codes were not transmitted, they would never let the ship onboard. Titan commanders, especially, are very distrustful. They are trained to be quite paranoid in regards to potential enemy tactics. They would blow your ship out of the sky."
"Well there has to be some way," Misnera countered. "I believe this will work!"
"What makes you so sure?" Kerensky asked, brow furrowed in a quizzical expression. "Something in the Force?"
"There is... a glimmer of something yes," Misnera answered.
Percy didn't know what the man might mean. Whenever the Force came into the conversation, or the Jedi started 'sensing' whatever it was they sensed, he naturally distanced himself emotionally. He wasn't interested in using any data that couldn't actually be substantiated. And right now, he had to have hard facts, some real chance of success, before he could warrant such a mission.
"I think this idea has some merit," Walt Amason put in then, and all eyes turned to him. "Perhaps we could come up with some alternative ways to get you onboard..."
"Like what?" Kerensky asked.
"For instance..." Amason paused, obviously straining mentally to find a way. Percy figured if anyone could make something up, it would be Walt. If not for he and Donitz, Operation Spear would never have been conceived. Of course, it was still yet to be seen if it would succeed or fail.
"What if we forget the shuttle idea?" Misnera offered. "Get a team in another way. Maybe we could hide away in something the AD would want to capture. "
"That idea was dropped when we discussed sending in a Devastator, K'bail spoke up. "We said the AD would destroy something unknown before actually capturing it." A low growl emanated from his throat.
"We could disguise you as a piece of flotsam, floating around," Amason said, though he didn't seem convinced himself as he glanced at the others around the table.
"That's too dangerous," Kerensky said flatly.
"Besides... What will you do once you're onboard?" Vonture spoke up then. "Assuming you make it in, that is."
"We'll hide our presence in the Force," Misnera answered. "Or perhaps we won't even have to. There will be Jedicon everywhere, after all. Our team will break into two groups, one going for the bridge, the other for the engine room. That way we'll have control of both elements."
"Alyx, I don't think this is the time," Kerensky cut in suddenly. All eyes turned toward Xar, who had a serious expression on his face. "Taking a Titan isn't like assaulting a Star Destroyer or something. Once they know something's amiss, they will come after you relentlessly. And don't forget, a Titan is much more compartmentalized. There will be ways to bypass you and take control of the ship again."
"Nevertheless," Misnera countered, "I think we should still find a way..."
"It's too much of a long shot," Kerensky interrupted him, his voice gaining a stern edge. "It's too dangerous to risk losing you and some of our best Jedi. You're the Grand Master."
"Xar," Misnera shot back, "As many crazy missions you've sent us on that you've led personally..."
"We have to defend Varnus!" Kerensky practically shouted at him. Percy winced, and the room suddenly felt much smaller, and a lot more dangerous. He definitely didn't want to find himself stuck in a shouting match between two Jedi Masters. Who knew how much control they had over their arcane powers, anyway?
After staring intensely for another moment, Kerensky finally seemed to relax, and his voice took a softer edge. "Alyx, I know you feel responsible for the loss of Macreed, Narsh, and the team, and I know you want to rescue them... if they're still alive." He shook his head slowly. "But that's just it: we don't know if they're alive, much less what ship they may have been taken prisoner on. I can't justify sending more Jedi out on a mission with such a low chance of success."
Misnera seemed ready to argue further, obviously convinced of his plan.
"Please," Kerensky said, firmly.
Amason, standing next to Misnera, moved closer and laid a hand on his arm. "We'll figure out a way to save your men," he offered. "Let's get Operation Spear out there and hit them hard for what they've done to us."
Finally, Misnera nodded compliance.
"Very well," Percy said, deciding the conversation had pretty much run its course. It was time to get things moving. "Walt, are you ready to leave?"
"Ready and waiting," he replied.
"Then let's do it. We'll adjourn for now and the rest of the command staff will meet again this evening to discuss the defense plans for Varnus."
With that, everyone stood up, and Percy followed Amason as he headed towards the exit and the hangar deck.
* * *
Alyx was one of the last to exit the conference room. He gathered his datapad and notes, then strode out the door and made his way down the hall towards the turbolift. Mentally he was reviewing the conversation, and the sense of frustration was building inside of him.
Xar's lost it, he realized. The man was focusing so much on building his power level and combating the Altarin'Dakor, he had completely lost his ability to sense the will of the Force and its flow. All he cared about now was protecting Varnus, so focused on the forest he couldn't see the trees. Alyx's plan was to help stop the AD before they even attacked the planet, but all Xar saw was wasted resources, not worth spending on a gamble, even one that might have a tremendous payoff. Not to mention abandoning Roger and the team. Alyx had lost men in combat before, but somehow this felt different. This time it has been a personal assignment, and they had close comrades. He couldn't help but feel an extra pang of losing them. But to Xar, their main value was in being Jedi, weapons necessary to the war effort. Alyx didn't want to think of them like that. Xar was becoming colder, and taking more control now that things were revolving around his own home world. Well, Alyx was a Varnusian, too. He loved his home, and he would do whatever was necessary to defend it.
But Xar had pulled rank, making the final decision for him despite their both holding the title and position of Grand Master. If the man didn't trust him, why had he given Alyx his job in the first place?
He rounded the corner, coming to the turbolift entrance... and there she was.
Zalaria stood there in all her glory and dread beauty. Her olive skin, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and her locks of hair. And she was looking right at him as he ground to a halt in front of her, a chill creeping up his spine. He didn’t have to be afraid of her, he reminded himself.
"Tell me," she said, staring straight into - or maybe through - him. "Are you serious about infiltrating one of my brother's Titans?"
Alyx was immediately taken aback. It was the last thing he expected to hear from Xar's own wife. What should he say? He tried to recall why so many in the Division and the NI resented her and her forces. They had, after all, come in uninvited and were tromping around the palace – and the NI – as if they owned the place. And because of her, Xar wasn’t the same man he once knew. "Did I look like I was kidding?" he asked her testily.
Her eyes narrowed. "I have... resources. Contacts within my brother's military."
"Spies?" he asked. Was she seriously offering him...?
"We all have agents in one another's territory," she explained with a condescending look. "I can get you onboard one of my brother's ships. My agents there will contact you and guide you through security and into the essential parts of the ship. The rest will be up to you. It doesn't guarantee success, but it does help. Are you interested?"
He had been listening to her words with a growing sense of disbelief. Zalaria, herself an Altarin'Dakor Warlord, was actually offering him her assistance to infiltrate Nimrod's forces. But why was she doing it like this, in private instead of at the meeting? Why had she kept silent about it before?
“Are you serious?” he asked in spite of himself. When she didn’t respond, he decided to pursue a different question. “Why… Why should I trust you to help me like this?”
She gave a smirk then, and her expression showed that she didn’t really care whether he trusted her or not. “I am offering you a choice, plain and simple. If I have given you any reason to doubt my motives since I have been here, then go ahead and refuse if you like.”
“But what about Xar?” he added, pushing further. The man had been adamantly against Alyx’s plan. There was no way she had his approval in this. “When he finds out…”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “He is my husband. I will convince him.”
He still didn’t know if he believed her. But… did it matter? Whatever her reasons were, could he refuse, now? This was the only chance he might have. Before he realized it, his lips were already moving. "Okay," he said, "I am interested." After all, she could make this job a whole lot easier.
"Very well," she replied. "Assemble your team. I will contact you again soon."
With that, she turned and stepped inside a turbolift door that was just opening. As the doors closed, Alyx was left alone, wondering just what this indicated between Xar and the NI Command and Zalaria's own, mysterious forces.
But what else could he do?
* * *
Titan-class Battleship Nexus
Varnus System, 0925 Hours
Jann Percy stood in the Titan’s massive hangar bay and took stock of his friend in front of him. “Be careful out there, Walt,” he said.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Amason replied curtly, standing before the entrance ramp of the hundred-meter long Altarin’Dakor corvette resting on the deck behind him. “It should be a quick in and out, and if we’re lucky, the payoff is going to be more than worth the risk.”
“Never been much of a gambling man,” Percy admitted, “but I’m with you on this one. If I was a Jedi, I suppose I might say ‘may the Force be with you’.”
The other man just grinned. “I get enough of that from the Jedi in the Division. Anyway, I’m looking forward to doing something proactive in this war.”
Percy understood well; they had been fighting a reactionary war for long enough. Unless they took the offensive, they wouldn’t have a chance. And this plan was audacious enough that it just might put a dent in the enemy’s seemingly unshakeable morale.
“By the way,” he added, curious about one question still on his mind. “I know you didn’t want to say it in front of everyone – security and all – but where exactly are going on this mission?”
It took less than a second of hesitation before the man answered. “I figure we’ve got to stay on top of the invasion. The Titans will be where the new systems fall. Yesterday we received a distress call from the Eridani System.”
Percy nodded, mentally filling in the blanks that Walt didn’t say. Poor Eridanians. The system was only lightly defended, and everyone had been ordered to evacuate some time ago. If there were any left, he sure didn’t want to think about what they were going through. “Stick it to ‘em where it hurts,” he told Walt. “This one’s for all of us.”
“I’ll see you on the other side of this,” Amason replied. Then, with that, he turned and started up the entrance ramp to the AD ship awaiting his command. Percy watched until he disappeared inside and the ramp retracted, then the ship slowly rose on its repulsorlifts and pulled clear of the Nexus’ main hangar bay.
* * *
Varnusian Productions Presents:
Vectur, Varnus
1130 Hours
Maarek Stele piloted his TIE Avatar into the hangar, his canopy reflecting the sharp contrast of light as he passed out of the bright sun into the tan stonework and marble interior of the palace bay. Gliding in gently on his repulsorlifts, he edged the sleek machine into the rear of the chamber, swiveled right, then came forward to a halt as the grapples took hold and secured him into the dock. The other two wingmen in his flight pulled their craft alongside his and guided their craft into the berths at either side.
Another escort mission completed. And just about a thousand more to go, he thought dourly. It was one of those mundane, ordinary missions that comprised ninety-five percent of a pilot’s flying time, in which nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The other five percent, the utter chaos of battle with death and explosions all around, might fill one’s imagination of a fighter pilot’s life, one full of heroism and romance. But that wasn’t today. This was just another round baby-sitting some large freighters to the system jump-out point and swinging back in.
Maarek adjusted his seat back and popped the access hatch so he could climb out vertically, rather than open the canopy and try to climb down the five-meter drop to the floor below. He disconnected his suit from the craft’s life support systems, popped off his TIE Fighter-style helmet, and squeezed himself out of the hatch and onto the hanging walkway above. The hatches of the other Avatars popped open and Rann Wosper and Tanya Vinikoro climbed out in their flight suits, as well.
“Things are getting busier up in the air, aren’t they boss?” said Rann as he stepped into stride behind Maarek and Tanya. From somewhere in his suit he produced his ubiquitous grooming comb and began brushing his blond hair back over his head, seemingly unconscious about what he was doing. “The defense preparations are on double time and the space around the Nexus is crazy.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Maarek replied, remembering seeing several shuttles launch out of the Titan’s hangar and pass his Avatar like it was sitting still on their way to the jump point.
“The AD ships seem to come and go without regard to NI aerospace authorization, nor traffic patterns,” Tanya added. She shook her head, sending her black hair, cut at half-neck length, swinging. “They are disrupting our operations with near impunity.”
“That’s a nice way of saying they don’t give a nerf’s backside about us,” Maarek added, guiding them through an opening in the wall and into the hangar’s upper level corridors. They turned toward the changing rooms, where Tanya went through the women’s portal while Maarek and Rann entered the men’s side. Once there, they quickly found their respective lockers and, after a quick shower, started changing into their off-duty clothing. Inferno Squadron was off for the rest of the day, and the other two flights had already finished their runs.
“Hey boss, got any plans tonight?” Rann asked sometime later as he pulled a fresh shirt over his head.
Maarek shook his head as he slid on a comfortable pair of lightweight walking boots. He really didn’t have much planned; this was the first actual downtime he’d had in what seemed like weeks. He was probably getting behind on checking his personal mail, but that was about it. With all the preparations for defense and refugee ships coming and going, he’d been flying extra time, partly to take his mind off the battle at Sigma and all that had happened there. “I… might catch a Holo or something,” he replied.
“Aw, come on. I’ll give you something better to do. Me and the rest of the squad are meeting up in the palace for dinner around nineteen hundred. You know, that restaurant up in the tower there? Why don’t you join us?”
Maarek arched an eyebrow quizzically. That was fairly odd; usually the squadron spent so much time together they all entertained their various hobbies while on leave. “What’s the matter, Rann?” he eyed the other man. “No date lined up tonight? This must be the first time in what, a year?”
The blond-haired man grinned widely back at him as he pulled on a dark vest, then reached up to brush his hair back again. “You don’t believe I’d put our beloved commander before one of the lovely ladies, do you? Boss, I’m hurt.”
Maarek grinned in spite of himself. It seemed wrong to do so when there was so much loss around, but he had to get over it, he reminded himself. He’d been through scrapes just as bad, before.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” he said finally. “What time?”
Freshly
showered and changed, Maarek made his way towards the personal quarters that
had been appropriated for him in the
A small group of Sigmans stood in an alcove, swaying their antennae and chattering sadly to one another. Maarek swallowed hard and stepped by them quickly. Guilt over their loss at Sigma kept trying to well up in him from time to time, and he knew it was especially hard for Kikitik, in Flight Two. He tried to console him whenever he could.
He checked his datapad, which gave him a running update of the situation on-planet and in orbit, and saw that he had new messages waiting for him. That was fine, he’d take them in his quarters, he decided. The readout also showed him that Inferno’s TIEs would be undergoing scheduled maintenance until 0800 the following morning. It looked like he’d be free to join the squadron’s get-together after all.
Following the curve of the hallway, he reached a security checkpoint on the left and entered a wing set aside for military personnel.
Moments later he had arrived, and the door to his personal quarters slid closed behind him, offering blessed peace and quiet from the outside. His rooms were small but more than enough for one man, and furnished well enough for an admiral. Cool bluish lighting shone throughout the inlaid shelves and in the refresher, helping him to relax as soon as he entered. He dropped his bag onto the plush sofa against the wall and sat down beside it, grabbing the remote and activating the holoscreen on the low table across from him.
He quickly bypassed the news feed, which was showing all the refugees trying to pile their way into the city, and the weather forecast, which showed a clear, early autumn week ahead, and accessed his personal mailbox. There was little of the junk-mail that occasionally plagued the military servers; they seemed to be on top of things lately. He perused through several messages left from contacts in the navy, mostly fleet and squadron status updates and logistical refinements made. No luck on the off-hand hope of messages from his family, either. Then his gaze fell on one item and he froze as a chill ran down his spine – it was a reply from the family of Petur Kien.
His heart immediately started thumping, and he reached up with a shaky hand and opened the message. It was a reply to the personal message Maarek had sent upon Petur’s death. Inside were the words of the parents of the youngest and most potential-filled pilot that Maarek had ever trained during his years. In the message, short and respectful, they offered their sincere thanks to him for training their son, and for leading him into combat where he could give his life in service to Varnus and in protecting the innocent. There was no outcry at the senselessness of his death, no call for revenge, no angry or anguished epitaph for the fallen pilot. There was only pride and honor at their son’s sacrifice. But their sense of composure for some reason did not parallel the flood of grief and despair that tried to grip his heart. And there was something else there, too, and Maarek could barely admit to himself – fear.
For the first time in a very long time, he had met someone in battle who was a better pilot than himself. And if not for Rann’s last-instant save, Kamren Thansil would have killed Maarek, too. The Altarin’Dakor wing commander had him dead in his sights and would have blown him out of the sky. Hard as it was, Maarek had to be true enough to himself to admit that.
Now he faced the prospect of flying against Thansil once again, and this time the curse of self-doubt had added itself to the equation. Would Maarek, even learning from his mistakes, be able to overcome his fear and take on the enemy commander? Fear could cripple him and give the enemy an even greater edge. Any hesitation, anything but total confidence and composure, was a certain death warrant should the two face off once again. Secretly a part of him wished they wouldn’t meet again at all.
But then, with almost relief, he realized that another part of him wanted to settle the score and avenge Petur’s death. And, he realized, he did want to find out who was truly the better pilot. It was the endless struggle of humanity, to compare oneself against another and try to come out the superior man. Part of him had to know, and that meant that he had not given in completely to despair. There was hope.
Forcing himself to move on, he scanned quickly through the rest of the mail he’d received, and then spotted another name that immediately caught his attention – a message from Jac Railler. He remembered Jac fondly, having met the man from Haven after the AD attack there and helping him to rescue some of the victims still left on the surface. The last he’d heard, Jac had been recruited by Xar to help train the palace defense platoon, and he was apparently staying somewhere in the palace. He scanned the mail. It read:
Stele, how are things? I’m back in the palace, helping get the troops ready. Looks like something big is going down here, soon. Would like to meet up if it is convenient for you. Give me a call.
Maarek jotted down the number and saved it into his datapad. He’s call Railler a bit later to set up a meeting, maybe a lunch or dinner or something.
He almost closed out the mailbox, but before he hit the button another mail popped into being at the top of the list, flashing an urgent priority message from Navy Command. He opened it and quickly read its contents.
Fleet Communiqué from Sector Admiral Arfann Dogar
Officers of the New Imperium Military:
Command has received intelligence reports
that indicate further Altarin’Dakor attacks are occurring outside of New
Imperium sovereign space. In addition to attacking systems across the border
into the
However, an even more disturbing report
has come out of Ssi-Ruuvi space. There have been
reports of widespread devastation among the Ssi-Ruuk
Empire, loss of fleet assets as well as numerous member worlds. These reports
have been passed down from escaped members of Ssi-Ruuvi
slave races, however the reports appear to have a
measure of truth in them. If this is true, it indicates that the Altarin’Dakor are striking on multiple fronts and may have a much larger
force than we originally anticipated. It is imperative that we make all efforts
to defend core New Imperium worlds and turn the battle against the enemy on our
front. Please be aware this may involve additional patrols for our fighter
squadrons in order to remain on full alert in case of new enemy incursions.
Further updates will be made when more intelligence is received.
Stay alert for further updates.
The message ended there, and Maarek closed out the mailbox and leaned back into the couch, feeling a new weight settle itself onto his shoulders. The news about Beli’s fleet was understandable; as far as he was aware the admiral had settled just outside of NI space, only one or two quadrants over. But to hear that the Ssi-Ruuk had been crushed, too… Maarek had no idea how powerful their empire was, but surely in the years since Bakura they would’ve been able to grow quite powerful again. To think that the AD had advanced that far – or rather, that they were attacking across such a wide front – the news was astounding. How powerful were the AD, really? Who was leading them? How were they able to coordinate attacks across such a massive area of space?
Of course, this put the dilemma in Varnus Quadrant in a whole new light. Did it even matter if the NI stopped the AD here? Apparently they could just keep pushing along a different front, further out in the Unknown Regions, and still make it into the rest of the galaxy. Then they could literally surround the entire NI, and it would only be a matter of time. Were the Altarin’Dakor really unstoppable, like people where whispering behind Command’s back? Was everything they were doing even making a difference at all?
He shook his head to clear it. Down that line of thought lay only one thing: hopelessness. If people gave into despair, the NI was finished. Soldiers would abandon their posts, the civilians would flee, and anarchy would reign. No, he couldn’t dwell on such thoughts. He had enough emotional turmoil to handle already. He had to get it dealt with before the next battle came, wherever it would be.
The screen returned to the live news feed, which hadn’t yet reported the new findings. That was all right; pretty soon it would be out al over the NI. Not enough to incite a panic – after all, it didn’t really affect the NI – but it would get people thinking. Suddenly feeling the need to do something, Maarek turned off the screen and got up, heading for the door and towards the chaotic jumble of bodies once more.
* * *
Office of the Diktat
NI Senate Complex
Tralaria
1030 Hours
Gene Rytor sat behind his opulent desk in the massive, circular office of the Diktat. Beneath him a plush, round blue carpet emblazoned with the symbol of the New Imperium covered most of the floor. His visitor, pacing back and forth on it in front of him, looked on the surface like a regular human, but inside a far more powerful and ancient conscious lurked. Rytor was still unsure what exactly it was that had taken over the body in front of him. But he knew without at doubt that it was, indeed, an Altarin'Dakor Shok'Thola, and because of that, it commanded his obedience.
“This is disturbing news,” Queklain said, still pacing as a holographic star chart of Epsilon and Delta Sectors floated above him. “I do not believe that Nimrod would stretch his resources so thin and attack so many fronts at once. It’s too audacious, even for him.”
Rytor just watched him. He was, of course, referring to the recent news of attacks in Delta Sector, and especially the damage incurred by the Ssi-Ruuk. The map showed the current areas that were confirmed taken by Nimrod: large swaths of NI space had been cut out, and Varnus was now completely surrounded with the loss of Eridani. But now, also, there was a large wave of color that had moved into the territory ‘east’ of NI space, deep into Delta Sector, as well. A question mark over there the Ssi-Ruuk Empire was thought to be was currently shaded in Altarin’Dakor colors.
Queklain stopped in front of the desk once more and turned to match gazes with the Diktat. “The others are moving, as well.”
“The others?” Rytor asked. “You mean the other Shok’Thola?”
Queklain just glared at him as if the answer were obvious.
Rytor raised his eyebrows. “What makes you so sure?”
Instead of replying, Queklain strode over to the desk and tapped a few buttons on Rytor’s terminal. A new holographic window opened in place of the map, showing a dark, somewhat grainy video – an eyewitness view of AD activity in Ssi-Ruuvi space not made available to the public.
Queklain pointed to a large shape moving slowly in the image. It was definitely a Titan; it was long and black, and only the front of the ship was visible, although several scythe-looking projections extended for what must be kilometers out from the bow of the vessel. “I have seen this ship before,” Queklain said, pointing at the image. “It has existed since the original Great War, and unless Nimrod has expanded further than I think and has taken over her empire, this Titan is the Nightlord, and belongs to the Shok’Thola Asellus.”
Rytor silently mouthed the name – he hadn’t heard of that particular Warlord before. But then, he didn’t know how many Shok’Thola there were, in total. “Still,” he surmised, “this activity is hardly close to New Imperium space. Our main focus right now is how to stop Nimrod from destroying us.”
“If the other Shok’Thola are moving, then Nimrod is only one enemy we must face,” Queklain warned.
Rytor shook his head, daring to disagree with the Warlord in front of him. After all, he was the Diktat. “Defending the New Imperium is our top priority. If the rest of the galaxy burns, I will still have this be a stronghold of peace and justice.”
“You are delusional if you think you can stand alone against the Altarin’Dakor.”
“We will, or die trying. I built this little empire, behind the scenes, and I won’t let it fall so easily.”
“Don’t think too highly of yourself,” Queklain snapped. “You are but one man. People will still follow no matter what face is there to lead them.”
Rytor smirked. He felt more confident in his position lately, more comfortable in his relationship with the Warlord. He was more immune to the Warlord’s small threats. Queklain could kill him easily, true – but if he did, how would he maintain his control over the NI Government? There were no other agents as highly placed as Rytor, and he couldn’t just place an unknown in Rytor’s position instead. Even if the Warlord used the Force to mask his own physical appearance as Rytor’s, he would eventually be found out. The personality and subtle habits would not be so easily duplicated.
And anyway, that brought them to the heart of the matter, the reason Rytor had asked him to this meeting. “Speaking of removing those in office,” he said, letting a dark tone into his voice. “Did you kill my secretary?”
A flash of something came into the Warlord’s eyes, and Rytor knew it was true. Sudden anger flared up in him then, and he slammed a fist down onto the desk with a thunk.
“I didn’t want him dead!” Rytor nearly shouted at him.
“He found out about you,” Queklain said flatly. “He was trying to send a message to someone when I found him and took care of him.”
Anger quickly subsided into a pang of fear. “Was he successful?”
“I could not tell. I do not have the access codes to the network in the command room.”
Rytor digested that news, thinking silently for a moment. It was unlikely that Brucmack had gotten out a successful message, because he’d heard nothing since the man’s reported suicide. There was no public outcry, no media scoop, no politicians or military officers demanding his arrest. It seemed his position was still safe.
“Calm down,” Queklain said, probably reading his thoughts with the Force. “No one would believe such an accusation, anyway.”
Rytor continued to consider that in silence for a moment.
“The man was unimportant,” Queklain continued, taking on a more authoritative voice. “Don’t get distracted by petty details.”
Rytor dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t going to be lectured like some schoolboy. “Speaking of details, I do have some things to take care of,” he told the Warlord.
“Do not forget to contact the one named Nico,” Queklain reminded him. “He has returned to Varnus to be with the other so-called Jedi.”
“I am aware of that,” Rytor replied.
“You should not have let him out of your sight. He isn’t like you. His mind is still… volatile. He could be dangerous.”
“I am keeping a close eye on him,” Rytor countered tersely. “I…”
Just then his desk commlink beeped, and Rytor held up a hand to forestall any further comment. He touched the button to receive, and his remaining aide Quat’s face appeared on the screen.
“Diktat, Emperor Virzixl has arrived to see you,” the thin man spoke softly.
“Ah, good,” Rytor replied. “I have been looking forward to receiving him. Send him in.”
No sooner had he closed the connection than Queklain spoke up again in his lecturing tone.
“Why concern yourself with a defeated race, Rytor? They are insignificant, now.”
“Don’t underestimate them,” Rytor retorted.
“You’re wasting your time.”
Abruptly standing, Rytor touched a button that shut off the holographic images floating above their heads, then gestured a hand towards the main doorway out of the office. “If you please,” he intoned to the Warlord. “I do have a few things to take care of.”
“Very well. Just remember my words.” With that Queklain turned and strode quickly from the room.
Barely a moment later, the doors parted open again, and a small troupe of Sigmans ambled in, led by one in the center with a more leathered, crimson-colored carapace. The Sigman emperor wore a black robe, which Rytor knew symbolized the mourning he was going through over his people. It was still unknown how many Sigmans were still trapped on their homeworld, and whether the Altarin’Dakor had taken them hostage, or simply wiped them out like they had the Krri’Graq.
“Dear emperor,” Rytor greeting him solemnly, feeling a true burden of sadness for what the Sigmans had lost. “My deepest condolences. I’m afraid words just don’t suffice at this moment.”
Virzixl raised an arm, and the rest of his retinue held back while he strode closer to the Diktat’s desk. He spoke then, his vocal translator speaking in a melancholy tone.
“Greetings to you, Diktat. We Sigmans wanted to thank you personally for doing everything you could to save our people.”
“I just wish we could have done more,” Rytor said sincerely. “I assure you; as soon as possible we will mount a counteroffensive and retake your home.”
“We look forward to that day. But first we must protect our other worlds, so that our brothers and sisters in the New Imperium do not share in the fate that has come to our people.” Virzixl swayed his antennae back and forth, slowly. “I only regret being unable to save more of my people as we fled the battle. It is unfair for me to survive while so many have suffered.”
“Nonsense. You are the leader of your people.” Rytor knew that while the Sigmans shared a sense of the hive-mind that most insectile races in the galaxy seemed to have, it was much weaker than in races like the Krri’Graq or the Verpine. The Sigmans still retained a strong sense of individuality, which meant that if their leader fell, there was no one else who could quite fill his role in exactly the same way.
“Please,” he told the Sigman leader, “Make full use of the accommodations we’ve set aside for you and your staff here in the Senate Complex. I hope you can take some comfort here and allow us to serve whatever needs you may have.”
Virzixl bowed his head and was silent for a moment before replying. “We… are most appreciative,” he said. “You continue to prove your friendship and trust to our people.”
“As do you,” Rytor replied. “Please make yourselves at home here.”
“Thank you again, Diktat.” With a final bow, Virzixl turned and led his group out through the doors. Rytor sat back down in his chair, silently contemplating the emperor’s last comments for several moments.
Then, the day’s previous concerns coming back once more, he leaned forward and activated his terminal to call Senator and Jedi Master Nico Flygras. Despite his confidence in their secrecy, his still meant what he’d said to Queklain. The man did have to be kept up with. Otherwise, the Force only knew what he would be getting himself into before long…
* * *
Titan-class Battleship Nexus
In Orbit, Varnus
1900 Hours
Alyx stood in the Nexus' massive hangar bay and took stock of the team he had hastily gathered for the mission. Paladin Vykk Olyronn, Crusaders Colin Moore and Jontaar Domi, and Knights Mrax Satai and Rilke Darcunter had all volunteered for this mission; he hadn't forced anyone to come along. They all stood in front of the sleek Altarin'Dakor corvette that had been appropriated for them by Zalaria.
The Warlord had been cryptic and brief during their meeting less than an hour before. Zalaria had given him this corvette and crew, which would be transmitting Nimrod’s fleet’s codes, and told that when they boarded the Titan Desolation, they would be met by a Myrkos Rothran, one of her agents onboard who was also an assistant engineering chief. He would get them into a secure location onboard the Titan where they could proceed with the mission. However, aside from getting them initial access to the bridge and engine rooms, there was little else Zalaria’s spies would be able to do to help. The rest was up to Alyx and the team, but he wasn’t panicked. He’d faced sticky situations before, and he knew that if you didn’t play the odds, you’d never win big.
He nodded at the four Jedi with him, each knowing they risked not only their lives on this mission, but also their reputation in the Order – and in Xar’s eyes. Alyx had the feeling that Zalaria hadn’t told Xar about it yet; she was probably waiting until after they left. But as he’d taken the time to meditate on the Force, Alyx had received a level of certainty he’d rarely had before. This mission had to succeed, or when the AD attacked Varnus there would be nothing but carnage and death. They could win or lose based on this.
“Thank you all for coming,” he spoke to the gathered members. “Last chance: anyone want to stay onboard?”
All he got in reply were four silent grins, and he nodded. “All right then. This way.”
He turned and led the way up the gangway and into the AD vessel. Only a skeleton crew was onboard, as the ship was supposed to have been damaged in an NI attack. Real damage had been inflicted onto the vessel’s hull, even affecting some of her internal systems – no simple cosmetic job was going to fool the best scanners in the Altarin’Dakor military.
One AD officer closed the hatch behind them, and they passed only a couple more on the way to the ship’s small bridge. They all kept carefully reserved faces, and Alyx sensed a sense of… distance… which they projected between themselves and the Jedi. It wasn’t outright hostility, but then again, at least some sense of amiability would’ve been nice. This mission would be complicated enough without having to worry about his own crew. If this was the most NI-friendly crew the woman had to offer, then the New Imperium was in trouble.
They reached the bridge without incident, only to find a single pilot starting the preflight sequence. Alyx decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe one person could fly the whole ship. After all, it was an Altarin’Dakor craft.
“Are you ready to leave?” the pilot asked in passable Basic.
Alyx slid into the copilot’s seat beside him, nodding for the rest of the team to sit down at the other stations around the cabin. “As ready as we’ll ever be,” he said, turning back to the pilot.
Within a moment the craft lifted off the deck and pushed out into space. Alyx watched the hull of the Nexus scroll by, with the blue/green orb of Varnus floating somewhere off to starboard.
“Here we go,” Vykk said from somewhere behind him. “Can I rethink this?”
“I… think I forgot my shaver,” Domi’s voice chimed in.
Alyx swiveled around in the plush seat he was in and flashed the others a mock-cruel smile. “It’s the Desolation or bust now, guys.”
“Let’s hope for not bust, then,” Mrax Satai added from the other side.
“We have reached the jump point,” the pilot reported mechanically.
The stars stretched into starlines, and the assault team was on their way.
* * *
MC-120
Darkstar
Rilke
System
1700
Hours
Another system lost.
Sector Admiral and War Coordinator Arfann Dogar stood looking out the viewport of his command ship, towards a distant star, a system that a day before had been free, but was now under the control of the Altarin'Dakor. Degrabo and Genotia had been mostly evacuated in time before they fell; this time, however, the NI colonists on Rilke hadn't had enough time to get out. And neither was the Second Fleet without casualties.
In the span of
the last few hours, four Titan-class Battleships had exited hyperspace
virtually on top of their position. In desperation Arfann
and Stan had launched everything they had in an attempt to buy the evacuees
some time. Instead, all it had earned them was a bloodbath. The four Titans had
launched some five thousand fighters against them, plus dozens of other capital
ships, and after losing three ISDs, five VSDs and nearly half their smaller capital ships, Dogar had
ordered a hasty, disorganized retreat. It was estimated over eighty percent of
the evacuees had either been captured or destroyed trying to escape. Now, again
Dogar felt responsible for thousands of lost lives.
Intelligence had pinned the Titans as belonging to the
Warlord Nimrod: the Fall of Light,
the Right of Conquest, the Subjugation, and the Havoc. Each were over thirty kilometers
in length, and they were traveling together, taking over system after system
while their support forces came in to occupy each world behind them. The Second
Fleet simply could not stand against such a powerful assault. Once again they
were being forced back, and there was nothing they could do about it.
Stoically he turned away from the scene, restraining the emotions roiling inside of him from showing on his face. “Damage report,” he called out. “Have they sealed off those decks yet?”
The Darkstar herself hadn’t escaped the battle unscathed. A huge hole had been blown into the side mid-ships by one of the Titan’s beam cannons, and dozen decks had been exposed to hard vacuum. Thousands were dead. Furthermore, they had been stuck here, unable to risk sending the ship into a long-distance hyperspace jump without making sure the areas had been secured. The other task forces, led by Fleet Admirals Caramon Majere and S’cill Shokfer, had already made the jump to Lorn out-system ahead of them. Task Force Darkstar had to catch up, and hopefully before the AD noticed they were still in the fringes of the system.
Sector Admiral Stan Sanders and Fleet Admiral Tam Eulicid had been standing just behind him, and Eulicid stepped over and consulted the station officer’s screen and slowly nodded. “Force fields are in place and atmospheric pressure has been restored,” he reported. “The marine barracks is gone, and hangar two will have to stay closed until we can affect repairs at a star dock. Structural integrity is at eighty-one percent.” He looked back up at the Dogar. “Stable enough to make the jump.”
“Get us out of here, then,” Dogar said immediately. He shivered slightly in spite of trying not to, thinking of how deep and large a hole had been eaten into the side of the ship. That beam could have easily hit the bridge, and there would be nothing left of them. They would’ve ended up just like Admiral Varrel…
“Where to, sir?” Eulicid’s question interrupted his thoughts.
“Take us to Lorn,” Dogar snapped. “We have to start the evacuations there next.”
“That’s likely the AD’s next target,” Stan pointed out, looking askance at him. “What do we do then?”
“Then we’ll move on to Gracchus, and Vol, and all the way to Kolath or Tralaria if we have to,” Doger replied tersely. “We can’t stop an attack on the scale they hit Rilke with. We weren’t ready at all.”
“Still, we can’t evacuate everyone on those worlds,” Stan countered. “You know we do eventually have to make our stand somewhere…”
“We don’t have a chance of stopping them, Stan,” Dogar shot back, shaking his head. “Not while they’re all together like that. The only chance is to hope they separate and pick them off one by one.” He wouldn’t – couldn’t – send the whole fleet to their deaths like that. Not again.
“Whatever you
say, sir,” Stan replied. He was clearly uncomfortable with how the War
Coordinator was acting, taking such a direct command of things. But what could
he expect? Dogar was in the task force. Success – and especially failure –
would be pinned on him. I should have
stayed on Tralaria, he realized. Or just retired, like I intended to.
He looked past them, at Commodore/Admiral Jingo Yatai the rest of the bridge crew. They looked ready. Dogar knew they had been through a lot, and he was proud of them. They knew they might not survive this, and yet they performed their duty efficiently and without complaint. It was all he could ask for in a crew.
“Make the jump,” Yatai ordered, speaking loud enough for the whole bridge to hear. “Lorn System.”
“Aye, sir,” the Navigations Officer came back.
Dogar exchanged glances with Stan and Eulicid again as the starfield began to shift outside the viewports. “We may need to contact the Diktat,” he suggested, knowing that Rytor wouldn’t be happy to hear how powerful the AD on the ‘western’ front were. It would take both fleets together to stop either threat, and the fleet attacking Varnus Quadrant even now was even closer to Tralaria than this one. NI space was shrinking, fast.
He knew that if they didn’t do something about it soon, not only would NI space cease to exist, but the rest of the galaxy, as well.
* * *
Observation Lounge
Planet Varnus
1925 Hours
The sun was
just starting its trek toward the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of purple
fading to orange, when Maarek entered the revolving restaurant in the
observation lounge of the
Maarek quickly found the table where most of the squadron was gathered
and joined them at a round table near the windows. Almost everyone was there: Rann Wosper and Tanya Vinikoro, of Flight One; Bast
Vlagen, Gren Pabos and Kikitik, of Flight Two;
and Salle Darl and Narm Greyrunner of Flight Three. Each was nursing a drink and
talking quietly, but no one was eating just yet. "Sorry I'm late," he
said.
"Glad you could make it, boss," Rann spoke up jovially as Maarek took a seat reserved for
him.
Sitting, Maarek quickly took in each member present.
It was a group he'd gotten close to over the last couple of years. Rann Wosper, from Varnus, slim
and blond-haired, still enjoyed making pranks and dating women, although he
tended to be far better at the first than the second. Tanya, with her short-cut
black hair and pale Coruscanti features, had opened
up a little more since they'd started the squadron, though her staunch Imperial
background and service on Byss had kept her
hard-edged and business-at-hand. Maarek still hadn't gotten to know her too
deeply, as she had never opened up about her past. Her attitude was naturally
more Imperialistic than some of the others, especially Salle Darl, who had been with the Rebel Alliance before signing
onto the NI. She never let her opinions get in the way of others, though, nor
did she ever let things get personal.
Bast Vlagen
still held the mentor-like persona among the group, as its oldest member. Also
a Varnusian and a former Imperial pilot, he had retired after the war to
continue civilian life with his wife and two children. Fate, however, had seen
different, and when the NI came to Varnus, Bast had
naturally signed on to help protect his home. He looked out for the other
pilots, especially Gren Pabos,
who sat beside him. Gren had been going through a
series of tough times lately, first after the loss of fellow squad member Kei Nomos, with whom he had developed a romantic interest, and
now since his people, the Renastatians, had been
driven from their refuge on Ravick in the Moro System
and were now temporarily stationed here on Varnus. Maarek had done his part to
console him, as well, though he was somewhat concerned about his emotional
state affecting his piloting skills. But still, he wasn't as worried about him
as he was about Kikitik, the Sigman
pilot in Flight Two, who had lost his own homeworld
just a few days before to the Altarin'Dakor attack. He'd also lost his
relative, Kaviq, who had been the Sigman
ambassador to the NI, and Maarek knew he felt even more responsible since he'd
been viewed as a hero among his own people. Kikitik
hadn't spoken much since witnessing the attack, and it was sad to see how his
antennae drooped and how his normally jocular attitude was simply gone.
Finishing up the table were Salle Darl
and Narm Greyrunner of
Flight Three. Salle had consistently gotten better and better as a pilot, and
had integrated herself as a member of the team much more tightly in the last
year or so. A native of nearby Kolath, she was
good-natured and friendly, with dark hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes.
Formerly a crack pilot with the Rebel Alliance – turned
“We were waiting for you to get
started,” Narm nodded toward him with a grin. “Lead
on, Commander. Shall we order?”
Within moments
the whole squadron was wolfing down a delectable selection of native Varnusian
cuisine, a five-course meal complete with side dishes and a generous portion from
each food group. Braised meats, steamed vegetables, and piping hot bread and
rice were all consumed with fervor; the squadron rarely ate this extravagantly,
and there were few words exchanged until everyone was finished. It was
delicious, exemplary of a high-class restaurant such as the one rising above
the
After about an hour, everyone was stuffed. Then caf was brought in, and they each began sipping their drinks contentedly as the sun dipped below the horizon. The lights of Vectur’s skyscrapers offered a superb night view as the restaurant slowly made its circular journey.
“Actually,” Rann spoke up, finally breaking the silence, “There is a reason that we’ve come to a place like this.”
Maarek looked at him curiously, wondering what he meant, when he felt the presence of someone else just behind him. All the other members were staring at him expectantly.
He turned, and saw a waiter standing there with an extravagantly-decorated white cake, complete with burning candles sticking out of the top.
“Happy birthday!” Rann exclaimed.
Maarek turned back to them, staring in shock as the whole squadron applauded him. He shook his head, bewildered. “What do you mean guys? My birthday isn’t for almost two weeks. You’re early.”
“We know that,” Bast replied as the waiter placed the cake down in front of them and began to cut slices out of it. “But we wanted to do it now, just in case we didn’t have a chance later, on the day itself.”
Maarek understood what he meant; it seemed likely the AD would attack at any time. Still, he was touched that the whole squadron had come together like this for him. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I’m flattered.”
“We just wanted to show you our gratitude for all you’ve done for us,” Salle spoke up, eliciting nods from the others. “You’re the best squadron commander we could ever have hoped for, and we’re honored to be able to fly with you, sir.”
Rann reached over and slapped the commander on the shoulder. “Congratulations! You’re an honorary Varnusian, now!”
Maarek was truly moved at their display of kindness, and he felt himself blushing. To cover it up, he leaned forward and blew the candles out. Then the server began placing large squares of cake on each person’s plate, accompanied by fresh refills of caf.
The table erupted in conversation from that point, as the cake was consumed along with warm drink, and quite a few stories were exchanged, including fond and funny memories about their beloved squadron commander. Maarek laughed along with them, although he wished Petur and the others had been here, and part of him silently mourned the fact that they were gone. Maarek knew he had gotten emotionally attached to his squadron, something that hadn’t been allowed during his Imperial days. This was something different, a new way of thinking, and he liked it, although he knew that there was always the chance he would pay the price for it later. Like with Petur. But these pilots were good, and they had beaten the odds for the most part. They had killed more AD pilots than they’d lost squadron mates, and that said a lot.
But he couldn’t think of such things for long, as the conversation was lively and he was too busy recounting stories with the others. One popular topic, as always, were Rann’s various love interests.
“So Rann, I guess you didn’t have a date tonight?” Narm asked with a wink. “We just can’t imagine you missing out on a night on the town, even on our dear leader’s birthday.”
“My dear Narm, I’m hurt,” Rann said mock-seriously. He made a grand display of pulling out his comb and running it through his slick hair. “You know this is a special case, and I keep our commander close to heart.” He grinned widely. “I had to push tonight’s back and do a double date tomorrow.”
That elicited chuckles from all around, though Tanya rolled her eyes dramatically. Maarek shook his head.
“Watch it,” Salle put in, “Wasn’t the last time you tried that, the dates actually met, and they were two races that had a blood feud going on at the time?”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Rann waved her off. “Things get embellished over time.” He glanced at Maarek, who was still working his way through his piece of cake. “Speaking of romantic interests, by the way… Hey boss, how about yourself? When are you going to find somebody to settle down with?”
Suddenly put on the spot, Maarek took a sip of caf while he thought of a response. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “There’s no time for that now, I suppose.” Truth be told, there was someone he’d been thinking about when the chaos of the war wasn’t taking his undivided attention. There was a slim, red-haired Jedi named Rynn Mariel he’d met soon after coming here. Rynn had come to Varnus shortly after Maarek himself had joined up, and she had risen through the ranks quickly. Their first meeting hadn’t quite gone as smooth as he’d hoped, however. Since then they hadn’t spoken much. Maybe I’ll give her a call, he thought. If he did, he’d better do it before things really got crazy around here.
Soon after that, the conversation shifted courses, and Maarek continued to sip his caf as the talk, inevitably, made its way back around to the topic that was always lurking around somewhere – the war.
“So they say that the AD might make their move anytime,” Gren Pabos said, breaking a short silence. “I wonder what they’re waiting for.”
“I don’t know, but it’s giving us more time to prepare,” Rann put in. “I’ve never seen fleet traffic so heavy in orbit.”
“Why are we just holding up here, anyway,” Salle asked, gaining everyone’s attention. “Why aren’t we trying to evacuate people, like we’ve been doing on all the other worlds? Instead, more and more people are coming here.”
“Because this is Varnus,” Bast pointed out, answering for all of them. “This is one of the core NI worlds, much more populated than any other world until now. We have to make our stand somewhere. This is where we draw the line.”
“Besides,” Rann added, “Varnusians aren’t going anywhere. We’ve been through hell before, and we will again if we have to. But we’re not leaving.”
Maarek nodded. He’d begun to understand the Varnusian resilience the more he’d lived here. The whole planet had been devastated years before, but a new, stronger society had risen from the ashes of the old one. So it had done for millennia, it was said.
“This will be all or nothing,” Kikitik chimed in, swiveling his head to take in each of them. “But the enemy has us surrounded now. Everything is riding on the next battle.”
“It really is a brilliant strategy they are following,” Tanya mused aloud. “Flawless, even.”
Across from her, Salle gave her an incredulous look as soon as Tanya had made the comment. “How can you say that?” she asked accusingly. “They’ve killed countless innocent civilians. They’ve herded countless more here, where they’ve trapped us in and are just waiting to wipe us all out. Do you admire that?”
“I admire their expertise,” the other woman answered. “So far they had defeated us with superior strategy rather than simply by strength.”
“They’re merciless killers,” Salle countered. “They have no sense of right or wrong.”
“I was not commenting on the moral character of their methods, only the logic of their actions themselves.”
“Still, I can’t believe you would admire what they’ve done. They’ve forced all the populations here so they can wipe us all out with one blow. It will demoralize the entire rest of the NI.”
“A very effective strategy. Isn’t that what you would do if you were them?”
Salle glared back at the cool dark-haired woman. “No, I wouldn’t. And we’re not them. We should act better than them, or we’re no better than they are.”
Maarek was worried that Salle might get up in disgust, so he held up his hands to forestall any further argument. “That’s enough, pilots,” he ordered. “Just relax. I’m sure Tanya doesn’t approve of their methods, like she said.” He looked at her, and she quickly nodded.
“I was just speaking from a strategic viewpoint, trying to understand how they think,” Tanya replied. “I’m sorry if I offended.”
“You have a valid point,” Bast put in. “We should try to think like our enemy, sometimes. As long as we remember who we are.”
“I understand,” Salle said, glancing between him and Tanya. “I’m sorry too. It’s your birthday, Commander.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Maarek said dismissively. He pushed his chair back, signaling it was about time to go down and call it a night. “Thank you all for such a wonderful night.”
“Our pleasure,” Rann said, rising with Maarek. “Don’t worry; we’ve got the bill.”
Maarek and several others chuckled at that.
“I don’t know about you all,” Narm said with a sly expression, “But I think I’ll head downstairs and hit the sabacc tables for a while. Anyone with me?”
“I’m in,” Gren replied. “Don’t have anything else to do.”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that, myself,” Bast put in. That was somewhat rare; Bast was usually the more mature leader of the group, but he did enjoy himself, sometimes.
“Commander?” Rann arched an eyebrow at him.
“No thanks. It’s getting close to my bedtime,” Maarek said jovially.
“All right, suit yourself. See you in the morning.” Rann turned and nodded to the other two men. “What say we go try and win back this meal, shall we?”
* * *
Vectur, Varnus
2355 Hours
Mathis Organa entered his quarters and heaved a sigh of relief as privacy returned once more. Things were just too busy outside, now, with so many people about. He preferred peace and quiet, and it was hardly worth going out into all that hassle to do any errands. Besides, it wasn’t like there was much he had to do, anyway.
Moving over to the couch, he spent a few moments watching the day’s news on the holoscreen. He had only a few messages, most of them inconsequential. Nobody paid much attention to him these days, and he had little in the way of duties. Most of the time he just felt like one big burden on everyone’s shoulders. Especially Xar’s.
Xar had paid him little attention since getting married to that Altarin’Dakor woman. He was stricken with her, and it had to be more than just infatuation. He had changed, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was him making the decisions, or her doing it through him.
Truth be told, though, Xar had grown distant long before then. Mathis hadn’t been able to take the stress of taking care of the man. Now he was removed to a figurehead ‘Chancellor’ position, where he was theoretically supposed to take care of the palace, but with Xar here running everything personally, there was little for Mathis to do.
What had happened to their friendship? Was there anything Mathis could do to reestablish the connection they’d once had?
Stang, it was calling him again, now. What should he do? He knew he should just ignore it and go to sleep. He’d manage to do it for what, now, a week? But there it was, like an itch demanding to be scratched, and it just wouldn’t go away. Bloody, kriffing stang…
He quickly sat up and turned around, pulling up one of the seat cushions. Underneath was a small compartment area which held a small wooden box. Mathis pulled it out, replaced the cushion, and stared at the box for a moment. Surely just looking wouldn’t hurt, right? He hadn’t given in yet.
The box sat on his lap for a long moment, while he stared at it. The itch was getting stronger. Stang it all, he’d just take a look, maybe study it for a little while. He picked up the box and took it to his small desk in his sleeping area, then sat down in front of it and carefully opened the small box.
Inside were a number of small compartments suitable for storing anything from jewelry to credits or datachips. Instead, out of one he procured a smaller, shiny metal box, and out of that he drew a plastic bag that held a fine powder, colored a deep, rich brown.
Exquisite. Even from here he could smell its pleasant fragrance. It was Ryll.
Mathis was no connoisseur, but it had cost him a lot to obtain it at this quality. His thoughts raced, salivating in anticipation of consuming such a delicacy. It was just a relaxing way to end the day, he reminded himself. The truth was, sometimes it was his sole companion.
Stang. It was there again, the need. The need! Not satiated with mere imagining. Very well, a little more, then. Pulling out a waxy sheet of flimsy from the box, he laid it on the table and ticked out a line of rich brown powder onto it, a couple of centimeters long perhaps. Too much? Not enough? Why stop now? It was calling him.
Also out of the box he produced a thin plastic tube. How to take it? There were many ways that the spice could be enjoyed. Some let it enter the bloodstream faster than others. Tonight he was feeling a bit worse than normal. He needed a salve, a balm for his worries. The spice would allay all his fears.
A taste, then, just a drop on the tongue. Oh, it was magnificent! The spice! It flavored his palette with joyous harmony. But it was only a foreshadowing of the real thing. Again, no satisfaction. It was incomplete.
Well, no flaming use in waiting any longer, was it? Just get it over with; it wouldn’t hurt anyone after all, would it? Stang, but the itch was strong. Just fulfill it this one more time. Maybe this would be the last time.
He leaned down, placing the tube carefully up into one nostril. Then, touching the other to the end of the line of brown loveliness, he drew it in, slowly.
It hit immediately. The spice worked its way through the conduit and became one with him in a flurry of chemical absorption. His eyes began to water. Just a little more! He couldn’t stop it! Desperately he drew the rest in, working his way all the way until the end. He felt lightheaded. It was gone! All within him, now. Stang, but it burned!
A final sniff, the tube discarded, and he raised his head as the fire spread out, behind his eyes, down his throat. It felt like his sinuses were being eaten away! Bloody frak, the pain! It burned!
What an idiot! What had he done? So stupid… After all that trouble of avoiding it… He hadn’t wanted to! It was too late, now… Hadn’t he tried to stop, before? How much longer would he succumb? Oh stang, he wanted to stop, he had to stop, he wanted to stop, he had to stop, he…
The thought was gone. A sense of peace was suddenly there, the anxiety forgotten in an instant. Somewhere inside, a rational thought remained. It was taking, he knew. He stumbled to his feet, the world whirling around him. Somehow he found his bed.
He fell down upon it, his eyes staring towards the ceiling above. Or beneath. Or whatever it was in front of him.
Oh, never bloody mind. He relaxed and gave into it as the floodwaters of ecstasy broke free and washed over him…
* * *
Vectur, Varnus
0945 Hours
The sun was well up in the morning sky as Rynn Mariel made it to the tapcafe on the eastern side. It was a bustling place, with well-lit tables as being gathered for breakfast and to read or watch the morning news. The smell of fresh caf wafted throughout the café. Rynn had herself a cup and was sitting near the window, finishing a morning pastry. She’d gotten a message last night from Maarek Stele, and though it had been a long time since they’d last spoken, she respected him enough to give him some time and see what he wanted. He’d said he wanted to meet and discuss a few things, and because of her busy schedule, this happened to be one of the only free moments she had this week.
She checked her wrist chrono and noted the time. Later in the morning she had another session scheduled with Bren. They were still working to perfect their Battle Meditation techniques – with only Bren’s foggy memories and old texts to guide them, and not very many volunteers willing to try the technique, it was slower going than she’d hoped. Still, it gave them something to do that was progressing at least somewhat, and it was a nonviolent way to deal with the Altarin’Dakor threat, which she welcomed readily. In her opinion, there had been enough blood shed, and some of it by her own hands.
Rynn didn’t have to wait long. Commander Stele showed up in his off-duty uniform and took a seat across from her.
“Good morning, Commander,” she spoke up first, giving him a nod.
“Morning.” He sat down across from her.
“Anything to eat?”
“No thanks,” he replied. “I don’t usually have much except a protein bar or something.”
“I see. Must be how you keep your figure,” she replied with a smile.
They chatted for a few moments, making mainly small talk, as she finished her caf.
Then, after tossing a few credits onto the table for the caf, she walked with him out into the corridors. They continued through the crowded sections until they exited the interior and found a quieter spot along the wall lining one of the courtyards below. He didn’t say much until then. Rynn could feel a sense of unease about him, or perhaps nervousness, radiating towards her through the Force.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” he said finally, as they came to a stop near a bench.
He paused for a moment, staring out towards the city. Finally he spoke again.
"Did you
hear the news? Rilke has been captured."
"Yeah. I heard,” she said.
"They say the Second Fleet
suffered heavy casualties in the battle."
“You okay?” she asked him.
Maarek shook his head slowly. “Yeah. I… lost another one of my pilots the other day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why’d it have to be Petur?” he asked, voicing his thoughts aloud. “He was so young... He had so much potential.”
Rynn sighed. “It seems illogical, arbitrary. War takes our best and brightest, oftentimes.”
“That’s a mature thing to say. But it’s still hard to go through it.” Maarek gave her a funny look, then. “Doing your Jedi thing again, I guess. Reading my mind, right? It’s what you all do, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t work quite like that,” Rynn explained. “We can pick up people’s emotions, how they’re feeling, that sort of thing. It helps tell whether or not someone’s being truthful. But we can’t read minds, not just like that.”
“I see.”
He looked down for a second, then back up at her. “Anyway,” he continued, “I know that we got off to something of a rocky start. I wanted you to know that I’m not always like that.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” she assured him, curious as to why he was bringing this up now. “We already discussed that.” She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “I respect you a lot, Commander. You’re a hero to the people of the New Imperium, a title I know you deserve.”
“Thanks,” he continued as she removed her hand. “Look… I’ve thought a lot about you, and I was wondering… Once this next thing is over, I’d like to get to know you better. If you’re interested, that is.”
Rynn blinked and stared at him in surprise. So that was what he was nervous about? She had had no idea; she realized that she still had more training to do in actually deciphering the feelings that people gave off. This was unexpected – and a bit awkward, indeed.
“I’m honored,” she admitted candidly. “But Commander, I think it’d be best if we pursue a more… friendly approach right now.”
She felt a twinge of disappointment in him, and his face fell slightly, despite his obvious attempt not to let it show. “I… see. I guess you’re seeing someone right now?”
“I… I think so,” she said, her mind wandering to the jumble of emotions and thoughts that were associated with Jacob “Jinx” Skipper. Were they really seeing each other? She certainly felt an attraction to him; he was an amazing person, had a great personality and was a natural leader. But there were still a lot of things that needed to be worked out. She wasn’t completely sure how Jinx felt, either. Anyway, she felt bad for disappointing Maarek. “It’s complicated,” she admitted.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Maarek replied, a more formal note entering his voice. “I understand, Crusader Mariel. I would be honored to call you a friend.
“Maarek, I’m sorry…”
“No, no need.” He shook his head and waved her off. “There’s a lot going on, and there’s a lot I have to do, anyway.”
He made as if to l