-=Deep space, unknown time; bridge of the IPV-1 System Patrol Craft Eriast=-


The ion engines on the system patrol craft screech a shrill tune as four members of the Rebel Squadrons intelligence division speed the craft through a debris field at speeds unnatural for a ship of its size. Four full squadrons of TIE Avenger starfighters scream toward them at maximum velocity, hot in pursuit. The TIEs juke and dive between small gaps in the debris field as the patrol craft plows straight through debris in an attempt to shake the Imperial pursuers. Shots glance off the vessel’s shields as the TIEs enter weapons range, lighting up its engine blocks with slender beams of green energy…

“Two minutes until we breach the field!”

“SHUT UP AND PILOT!” Screamed Harlin Kars; one of the Rebel Squadrons’ top infiltration agents as he is half consumed by an open panel; attempting to rewire more systems to feed the engines. He wears a set of stolen Stormtrooper armor, black scorch marks across it indicating his participation in a pitched battle that his team barely escaped from. From time to time, he rips another piece of armor off his body and throws it across the bridge to give him more mobility, unable to spare the time to remove it all.

“I am piloting! Give me more power!” Another of his team members yells; the four of them were running across the bridge to man the assorted stations all the while attempting to dodge laser fire and plot their hyperspace route to safety.

“I’ll have coordinates in another two minutes!”

“WE DON’T HAVE TWO MINUTES!” Harlin screams as a console to his right explodes, a shower of sparks and flame engulfing him for a moment. The entire world goes black for a moment and he feels a dull pain in his abdomen as he emerges from the destruction, part of his armor shorn clear off his torso.

“Thirty seconds!” Another yell… Harlin’s world was spinning now and he wasn’t sure why. He reaches down to his stomach, touching it gently and glancing down at his hand. His eyes widen slightly as he spots a pool of red blood quickly expanding beneath his feet.

“Ten!” His eyes start to lose focus as he feels around his abdomen, rewarded with a deep strike of pain as he touches his side. His hand slowly gropes around his body to feel a metallic object protruding from his right flank.

“Entering hyperspace now!” He could hardly hear now… his head drops, vision blackening. His hands run across the object, feeling slowly as he realizes he’s been run through by a support beam…

“We’re safe!”

“We made it!”

“…Uh… Sir?”

“…I’m getting fluctuations in the hyperdrive!”

“SOMEONE HELP HIM!”

“WHAT’S THAT?!”

“INTERDICTOR!”

“INCOMING TORPED….”

The world was jumbled together as Harlin felt the ship decelerate; he heard the screams but couldn’t quite understand. His mind slowly wanders as he feels his entire body go numb beneath him, and the last thought Harlin would have before everything turns to black would be of his children… and how the information he had obtained would affect their lives forever…



-=Rebel Squadrons’ Domed Command Complex, Blerthmore, 44:2:27:03=-


“Sir, I’ve got multiple incoming signals, same approach vector, no recognition codes… Ahh… They’re not ours.” A dreary-eyed sensor official says while glancing over at his commanding officer deep within the recesses of the Rebel Squadrons’ domed command complex on Blerthmore.

“What do you mean they’re not ours, who the hell are they?” Vice Admiral Tyrell Borran demands of the officer, glaring daggers at him.

“I’m not sure sir but they’re coming in fast, hyperspace reversion in thirty seconds… I’m showing only six conta…” His eyes widen in horror as his sensor display starts beeping uncontrollably, red blips becoming more focused within what was once a few hazy areas on his console. “…Seventeen… twenty two… Sir I have over forty capital class contacts!”

“…Identify them, immediately!”

The sensor officer didn’t even have time to respond to the barked order as his face goes white. Vice Admiral Borran looks over his shoulder and two sets of wide open eyes stare at the sensor console, unbelieving of the data streaming on it.



-=Bridge of the Tector-class Star Destroyer Satanic Rage, 44:2:27:03=-


“Hyperspace reversion in three… two… one…”

The molted blue-white swirls of hyperspace quickly recede from view as the hyperspace engines onboard the gargantuan destroyer power down, revealing a dull brown planet looming ahead with small specks of dull grey juxtaposed against its surface. As the star destroyer slows to sublight speed dull red and blue streaks almost immediately lance out from the void, splashing harmlessly against a blue-tinted hue that immediately envelops the vessel.

“Automated defenses opening fire sir… no damage to shields… returning fire.”

Without issuing a command an officer at the prow of the vessel’s bridge, silently looking out into space, simply nods. A grin only adherent to a madman crosses his face as the destroyer’s primary batteries unleash a single barrage of green death toward the small grayish platforms that were tickling the shields of his vessel. The grin only widens as he glances out of the port and starboard viewports, more starships belonging to his strike force emerging from hyperspace and repeating the instantaneous devastation adherent to their plan… The battle had begun…



-=Rebel Squadrons’ Domed Command Complex, Blerthmore, 44:2:27:03:10=-


“GET THE DAMNED SHIELDS UP NOW!” Vice Admiral Borran yells at the top of his lungs, the command center a flurry of activity under his barking orders.

“Contact all available RS units, we have lost all outer sector defenses, that fleet is heading here FAST and we need assistance *NOW*.”

Red pulsating lights seem to be only the smallest indication of the danger that was quickly approaching the headquarters of the Rebel Squadrons. The Imperial Fleet which had minutes before emerged from hyperspace on the outer edge of the sector had easily annihilated the minute hyperlane defenses setup to deter pirates. Hundreds of TIE starfighters streak through space, screaming toward the Golan platforms that serve as the heart of RS operations, dozens of capital ships cruising behind them with weapons primed, gunners hungry for blood.

“Distress calls are being sent on all frequencies sir, the Righteous Indignation Division is currently attempting to organize orbital defenses to try to mount a holding action until Intrepid and Renegade can arrive…”

The Vice Admiral nods solemnly. “Pray that they make it here soon… Force help us…”



-=MC80 Mon Calamari Cruiser Rebel Fist, 44:2:27:03:25, 25 minutes after the start of the Imperial incursion=-


“Sithspit…” That simple word summed up nicely the thoughts of Major General Anton Nels as he stood, stunned, on the almost vacant bridge of the Rebel Fist. The IBG’s flagship was horribly understaffed after their recent campaign, most of the bridge officers on shore leave for a few days while the fleet wound down to re-establish their readiness. He reads over the distress call twice more before he is able to regain his composure with a quick shudder of his head. Anton sighs while glancing over at the young woman sitting at the communications station; he didn’t even know her name, yet was about to pull her into one of the most desperate missions he’s ever undertaken.

“Comms, get me through to all wing and squadron commanders! Helm, set in a course for Blerthmore; I want us there yesterday!” He bellows with a sort of strength only available to an officer in times of dire need. A set of tones announced a ship-wide communiqué as the general breathes deeply.

“Red alert, all hands to battle stations, Blerthmore is under siege; prepare all starfighters for immediate launch and for imminent contact with Imperial forces… May the Force be with us all.”

The scene upon the Rebel Fist sours as officers and enlisted men alike run for their stations, the deck plates shuddering beneath their feet as the cruiser leaps into hyperspace en route to the sight of a desperate battle.

Anton nods solemnly to himself, looking at the molted blue-white hue of hyperspace as he mentally prepares for what is to come.

“Those bastards will pay…”

The scene onboard Renegade’s flagship, the MC80 Ad Astra, was almost identical to that onboard the Rebel Fist; the cruiser leaping into Hyperspace only moments behind its sister vessel. The general mood on both starships was shared… feelings of confusion, anger, rage, and fright passing through the minds of those serving. As the two starships rocket through hyperspace, they only hope that they will arrive in time to make a difference.



-=Immobilizer 418-class Interdictor Cruiser Fleshrinder, 44:2:27:03:31, just over 30 minutes after the start of the Imperial Incursion=-


“Gravity wells online now sir, we expect enemy contacts in minutes.” An officer calls from the ‘pit’ of the bridge, looking up at his commanding officer whom had just finished conferring with the commander of the Imperial I-class Star Destroyer Exterminatus.

“Very well, have all crews stand by for contact, Captain Inras is en route back to the Exterminatus, once he is onboard move us to a position five kilometers off the ventral aft quarter of his starship. Inform the admiral that we are in position and awaiting enemy contact…”



-=Bridge of the Tector-class Star Destroyer Satanic Rage, 44:2:27:03:40, 40 minutes after the start of the Imperial Incursion=-


“Helm, pitch to starboard, full power to engines! FLANK SPEED!”

The sound of metals grinding together was only drowned out by the screams of orders and status reports resonating across the bridge of the Satanic Rage as its prow hull rakes across the neck of the Nebulon B-class Frigate Shay’s Honour. The Star Destroyer’s reinforced hull slices through the thinly armored frigate as if it were a lightsaber slicing through Sullustan jelly; and if sounds could be carried across space the only thing that would be able to be heard would be the screams of anguish of the crew as the destroyer rips through the hull of the frigate. Metal plating is shorn off or simply vaporized by the Satanic Rage’s shields as it tears through the vessel that had ventured too close to the warship. The destroyer’s guns, unable to miss at point blank range, tear into the hulk of the frigate that once stood stalwart against the destroyer; now rendered into scrap. A rippling explosion engulfs both the frigate and the destroyer as the Nebulon’s reactor detonates, killing all those who served upon it immediately. Moments later, the unscathed form of the Satanic Rage bursts from the fireball; its guns already unleashing a barrage of green hellfire into another vessel…

Elsewhere the battle rages, Imperial forces pitted against the best the Rebel Squadron’s has to offer, green and red bolts of energy lance from ship to ship, some splashing harmlessly against shield systems while others rake long black scars across hull plating. Shards of starships and starfighters constantly pelt the particle shields of BASE Castor, which has received the brunt of the Imperial offensive. Sections of its hull cleanly sheered off the superstructure by concentrated fire from the deck guns of two Imperial I-class Star Destroyers. Fires blaze across multiple decks of the installation, damage control teams working their best to keep the station’s systems operational. Each impact causes another console to explode, another bulkhead to fail, another crew member maimed or killed by razor sharp shards of superheated metal. Sections of its hull glow bright red from the sustained fire, armor literally melting off the superstructure, even in the cold vacuum of space. The Star Destroyers bear upon the installation, their weapons blasting away at the station centimeter by centimeter; sending entire chunks of it toward the planet as they’re blown clear off. Knowing their situation is dire, the gunners onboard Castor push their weapons to the limit, unleashing an almost unending stream of fire into one of the Star Destroyer’s command tower…

“Sir, we have to back off; I can’t keep the shields intact!” The shield officer onboard the Star Destroyer Severance screams as he tries desperately to keep up with the barrage of fire from BASE Castor.

“We will not retreat from a TRAINING FACILITY, PRESS THE ATTACK!”

“Sir, I can not kee… SHIELDS DOWN!” He screams as a barrage of fire impacts in force against the destroyer’s command tower, rocking the entire starship.

The gunnery sergeant on BASE Castor, looking down at his console with blood streaming from a laceration across his skull grins; his teeth gnashed in pain and burning fury. “…Target their bridge… all batteries… Open fire!”

His last dying order before slumping forward on his console reaches the ears of the men and women manning the remaining turrets along the hull of the dying Golan II, and something… be it the Force, or the passion of his voice, or coincidence, lights a burning fire deep within their hearts. Bloodied, battered, and bruised; they carry out their commander’s orders, unleashing lengths of fire into the Destroyer’s bridge so quickly that the turrets along the outer hull glow bright red with heat. Even as one of the turbolasers explodes in a brilliant crimson fireball that resonates across Castor the stream of fire does not cease. Even as the station begins listing toward the planet’s surface as the Golan’s reactor begins to fail; the men and women onboard Castor do not abandon their stations. Moments before their weapons go silent for the last time an eruption of monstrous proportions engulfs the entire command tower of the destroyer. As it dissipates a silent cheer is shared between those who know death is swift approaching them as the destroyer begins listing toward the planet’s surface, the entire command tower a ball of flaming metal. As the darkened carcass of the once proud Imperial warship drifts slowly toward the planet’s surface those onboard Castor who are unable to escape find their place with the Force…

“Sir, the Severance has been disabled by BASE Castor, it is adrift and falling toward the planetary surface, the crew is unable to maintain control of the vessel and is abandoning ship.” The sensor officer onboard the Satanic Rage bellows to his commanding officer, the sound of the Nebulon-B scraping against the starship’s hull still ringing in his ears.

“…I see, and what of the base?”

“Powered down, falling toward the surface.”

“…And of our little surprise?”

“Set and waiting enemy contact.”

“Good… Very good… Target BASE Raptor… full power to weapons…”

“Yes sir…”



-=MC80 Mon Calamari Cruiser Ad Astra, 44:2:27:04, One hour after the start of the Imperial incursion=-


The hull of the Mon Calamari cruiser seems to groan like a member of the undead in a bad holoflim as the familiar sight of hyperspace is suddenly ripped away from the viewports; replaced instead by the normal blackness of space. Flung from his place standing at the prow of the vessel, Major General David Pasiechnyk leaps to his feet, his mind already racing.

“Status report!” He yells to the assorted officers on the bridge, who were just now attempting to claw their way back to their stations.

“Interdictor off the port bow, sir! There’s a Star Destroyer running point defense! They’re locking weapons!”

“SHIELDS, NOW!”

The Ad Astra rocks powerfully as the first barrage of turbolaser fire from the Exterminatus slams into its unshielded hull. Consoles on the bridge erupt into sparks and dull explosions, sending a few officers that had just clawed their way back to their stations clear across the bridge.

“Medical team to the bridge! Shields! WHERE ARE MY SHIELDS?!”

“Up sir!” The shield officer yells, moments before another series of impacts rocks the ship.

“Damage report! Status of the Rebel Fist?!”

“Minor damage to secondary hull, sir; secondary systems are holding; shield relays damaged, down to seventy percent! The Rebel Fist was pulled out of hyperspace as well; she’s reporting damage to her engines and hyperdrive, but she’s still battle ready.”

David nods, before turning to the task at hand. “Return fire, launch all starfighters! DESTROY EVERYTHING!” He yells with a burning fire in his eyes as he glares at the Star Destroyer and Interdictor ahead of his vessel… “Kill them all…”



As the battle rages over Blerthmore with the Righteous Indignation Division’s backs to the wall, a trap is sprung against the flagships of the Intrepid Battle Group and Renegade Fleet… The future of the Rebel Squadrons now rests in the hands of the men and women climbing into their starfighters, preparing to embark on the battles of their lives. May the Force be with them all.