[This narrative is the summation of the previous tour(s). The RS201 narrative, along with the accompanying first missions of RS Tour 2 will be launched shortly. Note that this is the final narrative I will be writing, so I hope you enjoy it. ":)]



-= Near Termagant Base, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:16 =-


The red clouds of the Ragyss Nebula were backlit with the wash of an unnatural multicolour lightshow that flickered and flashed eerily and silently near the behemoth space station lying in its depths.

Abruptly the brighter flash of an explosion lit up the nearby nebula, and out through the thick, rippling wisps of dust and cloud an X-wing starfighter roared in pursuit of a melted TIE's wreckage.

"Holy frak!" General Kirghy Lommax swore in shock as he wrenched his flight-stick back forcefully, barely adjusting his vector in time to avoid a collision with the slate grey bulk of the enemy Golan station.

The hostile station had suddenly loomed up impossibly quickly out of the murky red depths of the nebula.

Muttering and cursing under his breath, the Commanding Officer of the Vigilance Starfighter Group completed a painfully tight turn and burned back into the opaque crimson depths as the Imperial gunners on the station finally noticed his appearance and opened up their heavy cannons in the retreating fighter's direction.

"This is Dagger Leader, please repeat," the garbled but distinctive Tatooinian accent of Commander Richo sizzled through the nebula-distorted comm.

As he put his X-wing fighter through the necessary series of manoeuvres to evade the heavy fire from the enemy station to his aft, General Lommax considered his force's options in the hazardous combat zone that was bound to claim a vast number of lives from navigational issues alone.

"Vigilance group, this is General Lommax. Remember your R2 units have estimate maps of the locations of the primary and secondary targets as visual scanning is almost nil places. Repeat, trust your astromechs, because visual scanning and short range sensors are unreliable. Lommax out."

All around him, largely unseen, the fighters of the Vigilance Starfighter Group and the warships of Group Besh of the Subterrel Strike Force swarmed and fought through the blinding red ripples and particle clouds of the Ragyss Nebula. Nestled away in its depths was the primary target of the operation, the vital Rogue Imperial space station which held an importance so great that even the General himself wasn't fully appraised of its specific significance.

In an effort to split the defending forces and increase the odds of the objective being neutralised, the Subterrel Strike Force had been divided into two assault groups: Aurek, led by Admiral Raven aboard the Star Destroyer Redemption had successfully lured the vast bulk of the Rogue Imperial defending fleet out to engage them at the nebula's edge, while Admiral Sconn's Besh Group, spearheaded by the Calamari Cruiser Ad Astra had swarmed in from the opposite route into the nebula to hammer the under-defended target flat.

The unmistakable dark profile of a TIE Interceptor rocketed out through the red clouds at Kirghy, and he squeezed the trigger reflexively, slaying the enemy pilot and dodging the ensuing wreckage.

"General, this is Control," crackled through his comm unit.

"I read you, Control, go ahead," Kirghy acknowledged as he performed a lazy glide through the almost impossible to navigate dust clouds. The General's craft suddenly soared into a large clearing, and through his transparisteel canopy he saw the distant Immobiliser 418 cruiser Raging Dragon exchanging fire with a Corellian corvette, which was gutted with flame. But despite the death knell of the enemy corvette, the unmistakably trails of heavy rockets could be seen angling toward the New Republic Interdictor.

"General, the Raging Dragon reports they're under rocket attack by utility vessels. We need more fighter support over there ASAP."

"Copy that, Control. It will be done. Lommax out," As his rangefinder to the Interdictor ticked down, his sensors starting picking out the targets the communication officer on Ad Astra had referred to. "Dagger Leader, do you copy?"

There was a brief pause. "Dagger Leader here, go ahead."

"Richo, I need you to escort Dragon Squadron in to hammer that Golan. Do you think your boys can handle it while we take care of things out here?"

"Roger that, General. I think we can handle that for you. Dagger Leader out."

Confident that Richo's X-wings could safely lead Dragon Squadron's Y-wing bombers in to pound the Golan station through the dust clouds, he keyed his comm to Ragnarok Squadron's channel.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, listen up. Admiral Sconn's getting angry at some shuttle jockeys ruining his paint job, so let's hammer them out. If you come across any TIEs, feel free to flame them, but our job at the moment is taking out those utility craft firing rockets at the Interdictor. Confirm receipt of orders and acknowledge."

As the pilots of Ragnarok Squadron reported it, they cut through the clouds of the combat zone spectacularly, angling in toward the heavily-armed escape vehicles trying to knock the New Republic Interdictor out of commission — they couldn't escape from the nebula without disabling or destroying the Interdictor, and General Lommax wasn't going to give the enemy the luxury of running from this battle.

Confident that Admiral Sconn's co-ordination of the warship battle was going as planned, he brought up his warhead targeting program and prepared to protect the Admiral's ship by vaping some rocket-happy shuttle pilots.

And he sincerely hoped that Admiral Raven's forces were faring better in the near-opaque, disorienting mess of the Ragyss Nebula.



-= Edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:30 =-


The two formations of mighty warships ripped into each other with exajoules of coherent energy weaponry, punctuated by the explosions of conventional warheads exchanged back and forth with devastating consequences.

With a blinding explosion, the Carrack Cruiser Audacious's reactor went critical, resulting in a blinding flash as the cruiser was wiped from existence forever. In the midst of the mayhem swarmed entire wings of New Republic and Imperial fighters locked in a battle to the death. Here in the Ragyss Nebula, there would be only victory or total annihilation — no other outcome would be possible as the multitude of warships and fighters exploded periodically.

Groups of boxy New Republic freighters, wired to the brim with unstable explosives were remotely flown into the sides of the bigger Imperial vessels, overloading shields and in some cases blasting into the hulls.



-= Main Bridge, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:33 =-


"Commander Dolaree confirms his squadron have broken through the forward lines, and are moving to engage the enemy warships directly."

"Thank-you, lieutenant," Admiral Raven scanned the realtime holographic representation of the battle in miniature in front of him. "Have Phalcun Squadron concentrate their torpedoes on the Imposer. Tell Commander Hyde to cover them."

"Yessir," the communication officer continued forwarding orders along the appropriate chains of command into her microphone.

"Admiral," Sergeant Hadrian, a ranking member of the shipboard security crew addressed him curtly with a bow. "We're receiving reports of unidentified persons moving beyond the Aft Cargo Hold."

"The prisoners?" Raven growled darkly.

"Affirmative, sir. What are your specific orders?"

The Admiral appeared to ponder the situation for only a moment. "I want security teams encircling them yesterday. I want the officers alive; feel free to take whatever actions you deem necessary for the rest of the them."

"Yessir," the security officer nodded briskly, and turned to go.

"And Sergeant."

"Yes, Admiral," the security head turned back to address the piercing expression of the leader of the Subterrel Strike Force.

"Proceed with care. If I hear any reports that you've lost any of your men to a rabble of ill-equipped prisoners I would be most displeased. Do you understand me?"

The guard sergeant paused in confusion momentarily. He was of the opinion that the Admiral didn't care how many men were lost in the pursuit of his objectives. Such concern for the welfare of his people seemed out of character. Unless Hadrian just didn't understand the brooding Admiral. "Uh, as you wish, sir. We will proceed with all due care."

The Admiral nodded at him, noting the sergeant's confusion, but confident he would follow the orders unquestioningly. "Dismissed."

General Max Cal moved from his station toward the Admiral. "Trouble?"

Raven gave him a measured look. "Our guests appear to have grown tired of their accommodations."

The General's expression soured; he was decidedly unhappy with the notion of hostile prisoners running loose on his ship. He wasn't even happy inheriting the POWs from his predecessor in the first place, and that was when they were safely locked away. "You're confident this situation will be dealt with?" he nodded in the direction of the departed security head, wondering why his security chief hadn't reported directly to himself, as commander of the Redemption.

The Admiral smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. "I have the utmost confidence in Sergeant Hadrian and his crew," he turned back to monitor the ongoing battle beyond, not acknowledging any breach of shipboard protocol to the junior-ranking officer. "I don't think for a moment our good friend General Vaughn completely understands who he's dealing with."



-= Passageway near Aft Auxiliary Hanger, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:37 =-


The teams of uniformed Loyalist Imperial prisoners of war proceeded down the hallways of the enemy warship quickly, with peripheral scouts leapfrogging their way along with the bulk of the group moving in teams without pause.

Fifty-eight there were in all, split into two main groups, which were further subdivided still. Brigadier Vaughn puffed loudly as he ran. Although a career officer, he hadn't had the opportunity for much exercise since his incarceration onboard the Rebel ship. And running for their collective lives was more physical exertion than he felt cut out for. But onward he ran with the group.

Less than ten minutes had elapsed since he had led the Imperial prisoners in a breakout from the 'POW camp' onboard what he considered the Star Destroyer Sustainer (regardless of what the Rebels chose to call the ex-Imperial ship). The Rebels were undoubtedly aware of their actions by now.

But Vaughn had worked on warships most of his career, especially Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and if the Rebels were as efficient at running a ship as his own Imperial forces, then his group of POWs should make it to the auxiliary hangar with the barest amount of time to escape.

But it would come down to the wire, and they were only going to get one chance at this. If they didn't successfully make it off this ship before Admiral Raven's shipboard security reached them, he didn't doubt for a minute that the Rebel leader would execute them all . . . and probably Vaughn personally.

So onward they jogged at pace; the scouts working overtime sprinting ahead to check the coast was clear, then catching their breath as other scouts overtook them, then acting as rearguard before running to the front of the constantly moving formation of people once again to repeat the pattern.

Colonel Galin Tanasea ran at the head of his formation of twenty-three POWs who had been in Rebel captivity the briefest. Despite being probably older than General Vaughn, whom he had begrudgingly conceded command of the combined Imperial POWs, he led his men at pace, without having even broken a sweat.

The datapadder Vaughn couldn't say the same, as the Colonel occasionally glanced over at the balding, bearded General as he puffed, panted and sweat, running unsteadily. And instead of leading from the front, as Tanasea did, the coward ran in the middle of his formation, surrounding himself with a veritable shield of his own personnel for if they encountered resistance.

But despite what Tanasea considered to be Vaughn's lack of honour, the pencil-pusher seemed to have planned their escape extremely well, and their run was proceeding incredibly smoothly. Perhaps too smoothly? It was difficult to tell. The lack of visible security presence on the Rebel vessel seemed to indicate that Traitors may have boarded the ship. In which case it was doubly important their escape attempt succeed — the Traitors probably wanted them all dead more than the Rebels, especially for his group's role in the escape from the Maxite facility last month.

On and on the group of escaping Loyalist POWs ran, Colonel Tanasea's group of twenty-three moving as a single pack, with Brigadier Vaughn's group of thirty-five moving in three main groups, as the scouts continued their constant leapfrogging ahead of the entire formation.

Private Tenner, Vaughn's lead scout, ran ahead of the formation and stopped at the access way into a large room beyond . . . sticking his head around the corner and back again quickly he spied a number of shuttle-craft sitting in what was obviously an auxiliary hangar. And what was more, the hangar was completely abandoned. No techs, no Rebels at all — and no Traitor boarding party, either. If there was fighting onboard this ship, it was obviously happening somewhere else.

He ran back to Vaughn to report.

The sight of Tenner running back caused the entire fifty-seven person procession to come to a halt quickly. Over the chorus of panting as everyone caught their breath, Tenner ran through the formation to report directly to Vaughn, who was too far out of breath to ask for his report verbally.

"Sir, I count five Lambdas ahead. No discernible resistance — looks like we're home free."

"Don't," Vaughn puffed, holding his side, "say that yet. We're not . . . out yet," He took a deep breath to bellow, "Everyone, listen up!"

The combined mass of POWs looked to their leader while they caught their breath; the scouts still facing outwards looking for potential threats.

"We are nearly at our objectives. There are five Lambda-class shuttles ahead. We will proceed in combat formation into the hangar. If there is resistance we will fight our way onto the ships, if there isn't . . . then we break onto those ships and get the hell out of here. You pilots," he made eye contact with the seven pilots in the group, "will be in charge of getting the shuttles up and running. We are on a tight deadline people; let's head out!"

Bolstered with confidence, the fifty-eight POWs surged into the abandoned hangar bay; experienced hand to hand fighters at the front of the formations . . .

But there was no resistance. No Rebels guarded the ships. Shaking his head, almost unable to believe their luck, Brigadier Vaughn couldn't help but smile grimly. He'd outwitted that bastard Admiral Raven after all.

"Everyone, onto the ships! Coombs, you're with me."

"Yes, sir!" the blonde lieutenant exclaimed with joy. They were actually breaking free. Free to continue their war against the barbaric Rebels who'd caused her so much pain . . .

"Colonel," he addressed Tanasea, trying to maintain civil relations with his adversary, "I'll see you on the other side."

"Yes you will, General," Tanasea confirmed significantly. He was going to have some choice words with Imperial command about the General's compromised attitude in captivity. "I look forward to it."

With a mock salute, the Colonel jogged off to another shuttle. Vaughn stared after him with narrowed eyes.

"Sir!" Mary Coombs called to him.

"Right, I'm coming," he clambered up the ramp to the ship, and behind him the combat veterans followed him in before the ramp was raised, effectively sealing them off from the outside ship.

"Sir," a black-clad blonde woman, who he mistook for Coombs momentarily called out to him, "there's no-one onboard; we're good to go."

"Thank-you, Zennah. Harper?"

The deep, booming voice responded after a moment. "There seems to be just the standard security countermeasures. We should be good to go within minutes."

"Excellent. I want us off this ship yesterday. Zennah, work with Harper to override the hangar shields; the last thing we want is to splatter ourselves when we launch."

"Sir," she confirmed with a quick salute, bounding off toward the cockpit with Harper.

Coombs nodded in respect at Zennah as she passed, who was one of the handful of female prisoners of war. The woman returned the nod in reply as she moved past, flicking her blonde hair back with her black-gloved hand. Vaughn watched them with idle interest, noting how similar they looked if he didn't pay much attention.

He allowed himself a small smile as he tried to put wanton thoughts of attractive black-clad, blonde women out of his mind and bring himself back to the job at hand. After months in Rebel captivity without any companionship, his mind was starting to wander. Only now at the edge of his victory against the Rebel Admiral, when he could relax and let his underlings do the work, he found it very hard not to be distracted. But still, there would be plenty of time for distracting thoughts later, assuming they made it off this ship alive.

That thought grounded him back in reality as suddenly as he'd lapsed out of it. Frowning, he hoped that the other teams were proceeding as smoothly on their shuttles as his team was. On the other four shuttles, he'd assigned ranking personnel to command them, all answering directly to him. Once they were ready for launch they'd co-ordinate via the comm system, but not before — he didn't want to give his nemesis Admiral any forewarning of his group's readiness before he was absolutely ready to launch.

Apart from the troublesome Colonel Tanasea, Vaughn's three hand-picked marshals, Ensign Kamen, Sergeant Rennel and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sarpah were in charge of their respective ships. Within a minute they'd be ready to launch from this hellish Rebel ship, and hopefully make it through the Rebel–Traitor battle beyond, then get successfully lost in the Ragyss Nebula until they were able to jump free.

If his expectations were correct, they'd be deep in the thick of the nebula, where the Sustainer would be besieging the Traitor space station. Vaughn was counting on the thickness of the dust clouds to provide the cover they would need to avoid being easily shot down by both the Rebels or the Traitors.

He knew it was going to take a great deal of tricky manoeuvring to get lost in the clouds of the nebula, and then later find their way out again on the other side, but he had faith that the five best pilots available were flying the ships, as his marshals had already identified people with shipboard experience to support the pilots in crewing the shuttles. Each shuttle had at least eleven people onboard, and he was confident in the abilities of his marshals to have organised people with the relevant experience across the five ships.

For the moment here was nothing for him to do but try and recover his strength. He'd wait back here in the passenger compartment, keeping out of the road of Lieutenant Coombs, Ensign Zennah, Private Harper and the others while they got the ship ready for launch.

The trio were hard at work in the cockpit with Lieutenant Junior Grade Randall and Ensign Tonkins, the two pilots who were going to fly the ship, and the Brigadier settled in to make himself comfortable until needed. All around him the five other Loyalists with no ship-board skills strapped themselves in and prepared themselves for the coming ride.

Vaughn closed his eyes and allowed himself a sigh of relief. They were almost free.

Almost.



-= Near Termagant Base, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:38 =-


"This is Dagger Leader calling the Ad Astra," Commander Richo voiced over the comm, "we'd like to call in for backup assistance. The Termagant base has lost shields and is down to seventy-five percent hull integrity, but Dragon report they're running low on ordnance. Requesting for the assault transports held in reserve to be launched."

"This is Control, we copy that, Dragon Leader. Reinforcements will be launching in two minutes. Force be with you until then."

"Roger that, Control, Dagger Leader out."

"What's the verdict, Commander?" Richo's Corellian Executive Officer inquired over the comm.

"Control says two minutes until reinforcements arrive. We've gotta hold the line and try to punch as many holes in their defences on our own until then."

"Uh, do they realise how hot it is out here?"

"I think they do, Naes . . . we'll just have to make the Impies hurt some more," he clicked his comm squadron-wide. "Okay Daggers, form up on me, let's strafe that kriffing station and keep their eyes on us! We have friendlies launching in two minutes to bomb them, but until then it's up to us!"

The X-wings of Dagger Squadron soared back through the reddish clouds of the nebula and opened up their laser cannons onto the bare grey hull of the Golan station, which bubbled and exploded with superficial damage, before the returning fire forced the X-wings shy off.

Off to the starbord side of the X-wing formation, the Y-wings of Dragon Squadron were getting chewed into by fresh waves of TIE Intereptors, the numbers of which seemed almost limitless.

"Dammit, boss, we'd have a much easier time with this if the Redemption were here." Commander Draw cursed in frustration at the Golan's defences.

"Yeah, but then we'd have to deal with that whole fleet thing, so let's count our lucky stars and keep the bastards hurting while we can!"

Explosions rippled through the void; the death-knell of warships on both sides, rippled through the surrounding gasses of the nebula, expanding the destruction of the blasts with shock waves through the dust and cloud.


-----


Captain Bolard stood, clutching at the command console onboard the veteran warship Crimson Ghost, as the frigate roared through the swirling red dust clouds of the Ragyss Nebula.

"Helm!" he screamed with a blood-streaked face full of rage. "I want us bearing three eight mark two seven, now! Full speed ahead!"

"Sir!" the Helmsman complied, coughing up blood.

The entire ship shuddered constantly with hundreds of fires gutting the hull, but the massive Nebulon-B Frigate groaned to comply with the directional instructions.

"Comms, have all friendlies in the area concentrate firepower on the command tower!"

"Aye, captain!" Comms screamed over the blaring klaxons that kept bursting to life before the audio could be cut by the bridge command crew.

"Gunnery, aim all available weapons at that motherfrakking Star Destroyer!"

"We only have three turbolaser turrets left! Everything else is gone!" the Gunnery operator objected.

"Well fire them anyway! Any ordnance we have, launch the frakking things! Make no mistake: we're going down, ladies and gentlemen, so let's make these kriffing rodders pay for it as much as we frakking-well can!"


-----


General Lommax flew through the red clouds of the combat zone firing on targets of opportunity. He hissed at the sight of more TIE Bombers targeting the friendly assault transports, which were attempting bombing runs on the primary target, which was almost neutralised.

With a quad-linked blast he melted a double-hulled craft, but not before it squeezed off a fiery blue proton torpedo.

"Assault transport Five-Oh-Niner Two! You have incoming warhead! Repeat, you have incoming warhead."

"Copy tha— . . . —on it!"

The rangefinder counted away as Kirghy's laser blasts seared into the distance, trying to strike at the proton torpedo before it impacted on the ATR's shields . . . he swore viciously as the warhead escaped his range of fire and closed in on the lumbering assault transport.

There was nothing more he could do for them now, except pray their gunners had good aim. Gritting his teeth, he veered off on another vector, hunting for more proximal targets of opportunity.

Suddenly the clouds of gas opened up and he witnessed a sight that made him gape in awe behind his flight helmet: the Calamari Cruiser Ad Astra and other assorted Republic Shield warships were exchanging heavy cannon-fire with the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Dominus.

All ships were taking heavy damage, as there appeared to be not a single operating shield matrix in sight.

As the lumbering warships slowly glided through the area with hundreds and thousands of red, blue and green energy bolts darting between them, he saw a flaming Nebulon-B Frigate, obviously the Crimson Ghost bearing down at the dorsal surface of the imperious Star Destroyer.

For a few seconds Kirghy couldn't even respond, as he watched the flaming shape of the once-mighty vessel plunge into the Star Destroyer's bulk, hammering into the command tower.

Time seemed to hold still as the two ships met, when suddenly gouts of flame tore back out from the direction of the Crimson Ghost's entrance, followed by a blinding-white explosion that ripped from the impact zone.

All combatants in the immediate zone paused at the passing of the two mighty vessels. The Republic Shield had taken down the behemoth Star Destroyer Dominus, and paid for it with the lives of the Crimson Ghost's crew.

"All fighters, this is General Lommax: break off your attacks and hit the Golan with everything you've got, now! That is a direct order, abort your current operations and take down that frakking space station!"

From all throughout the immediate, cloud-ridden zone of combat near the Golan station Terminus, dozens of prismatic drives could be seen angling away from their previous courses and bearing down on the giant, flaming grey hulk that was the Rogue Imperial nexus of operations. Massive stretches of fires burned out from the hull of the station, choked out once they hit vacuum.

And at the current rate of assault, within five minutes the base and all its inhabitants who hadn't evacuated were going to be blown to the Nine Hells of Corellian lore.



-= Edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:40 =-


Before the Crimson Ghost's noble end, the fleet engagement between Admiral Raven's diversionary force and Admiral Kiarr's defensive fleet raged on, with major losses on both sides.

In the mix of battle, flight formations could go awry. So it was that Lieutenants Kilyeron and B'illiam, Phalcuns Four and Eight were paired together trying to unleash their torpedoes into the dying Victory Star Destroyer Imposer.

"Okay, targeting now . . . fire!"

Two pairs of blue streaks launched from the wishbone-shaped Y-wing bombers and into an exposed and flaming breach of the VicStar's ventral hull.

"Four, watch yourself; squint coming down at four five mark two ten!"

"Got it, Eight; lining up for a head to head. Hit him if I don't nail him the first time around."

"Copy!"

The two Y-wings split formation; Lieutenant Kilyeron's starfighter intercepting the vector of the rapidly approaching TIE Interceptor.

Red and green bursts flashed back and forth between the two craft, with the Phalcun's shields sparking out of existence just as he nailed the squint through the wing pylon.

The Imperial pilot was incinerated as the ungainly TIE wreckage twisted out of sight, but Kilyeron's fighter was critically hulled. "Aaaah!" he screamed. "This is Phalcun . . . Four," he grunted, "E! V! A!"

The canopy burst open as the pilot launched himself on his ejection seat from the wreckage of his Y-wing bomber, which soared mostly intact out of the nebula.

"Control, this is Phalcun Eight! We have a downed pilot at the following co-ordinates! Require immediate evac!"

"We read you, Phalcun Eight. We can't get anyone out there just yet, there's too much action going on. Contact the EVA pilot and make sure they activate their homing distress signal; we'll have a medivac shuttle pick them up when it's safer."

B'illiam hissed in vexation. His squadron-mate was slowly freezing in the depths of space while the evac craft took their sweet time getting there. "Copy that. Eight out."


-----


In the middle of the Imperial formation, two Red Dragon X-wings danced with a pair of Resurrection A-wings as they harassed the central ships in the Imperial defensive fleet. They performed a dicey dance of death with the Imperial TIE pilots near the Star Destroyer Death Knell.

Commander Brig Dolaree, Red Dragon Leader, opened up his red laser cannons at the flight of TIE fighters that rose up to engage his wingmate, Red Dragon Twelve. Lieutenant Zim juked his X-wing about spasmodically, stamping down heavily on the etheric rudder to evade their bright green cannon-fire.

"Hyde, can you get to him?" Commander Dolaree called out.

"We're on it, Red Dragon Leader!" Commander Hyde responded. "Olias, take the port ones, I'll take the starboard ones. Red Dragon Twelve, prepare to break port on our mark."

"— copy, Res—ection — eader," Lieutenant Zim's garbled comm reply crackled.

Commander Dolaree twisted and turned his fighter, unleashed a red rain of coherent energy onto the radiator panels of a TIE Interceptor that strayed too close to Red Dragon Twelve, and into the squadron leader's firing solution.

"Mark!"

The lieutenant threw his X-wing into a tight right turn as the two A-wing pilots of Resurrection Squadron tore through the Imperial formation, slaying two, three and four of the pursing TIEs.

"Thanks, guys, I really needed— aah!" Zim's scream was cut off as his flailing form ejected from his melting X-wing as TIE Interceptor blasted apart the port wings of his craft.

"Damn it!" Dolaree cursed, before unleashing his cannons and disintegrating the cocky Imperial pilot's craft.

His lieutenant squadron-mate's distress beacon was activated, which told him his comrade was still alive. Thank the gods of the universe for that, Brig thought, before reporting in Zim's position to Control.

"Resurrection One, this is Red Dragon Leader: let's strafe their flagship, give them something to think about!"

"Copy that. Eleven, you're my wing."

The three fighters darted through the cross-fire of friendly and enemy warships and unloaded their weaponry into the Star Destroyer Death Knell's shields. Blue torpedoes and red missiles hammered mercilessly into the ImpStar's defensive grid, which was thinning rapidly due to the heavy bombardment it was receiving from the combined assault of the Star Destroyer Redemption, and Assault Frigates Titan and Chiin'tal.

A flashing red warning got Dolaree's attention.

"What the . . . Warbler, can you confirm that failure in launcher one?"

The Commander's R2-D9 unit warbled and trilled its diagnostics report, which indicated melted wiring prevented the unit from being able to determine if there was a true fault, or merely a reporting error.

Brig shook his head, considering his options. Frak it, he thought, this is the battle to end all battles out here, might as well give it my all.

"Firing torpedo six," Dolaree muttered to himself as he squeezed the trigger to send his final warhead into the shields of the ImpStar Death Knell.

Nothing happened immediately, then suddenly his cockpit shook with a massive bang followed by piercing alarms as the torpedo misfired in the launcher. "Mother of . . . help, this is Red Dragon Leader, I'm hit!"

His X-wing's fuselage began to glow an ominous colour as he strained to steer out of the cross-fires near the enemy flagship. He half-read a message from his R2 unit that the warhead was jammed in the fuselage launcher and likely to explode imminently. "Damn it!" he screamed, punching in his astromech's ejection sequence. "It's time to bail, get out of here!"

Brig couldn't hear his astromech's mournful wail over the deafening roaring as his cockpit's atmosphere vented through a crack in the transparisteel canopy. The droid refused to abandon its master, so Brig punched the manual override, hurtling the R2 unit through space without its consent.

Certain the lodged torpedo would explode any second, the Commander quickly reached down and pulled the ejection lever next to his flightseat, hoping against hope that saving his droid hadn't cost him his life.

The explosive bolts ripped the canopy away, and he was thrust down into the flightseat as it rocketed away from his doomed fighter . . . he didn't see or hear the resulting explosion, as the gee forces pushing him down into the chair threatened to black him out. He had just about enough willpower to punch in his distress beacon before settling in for the uncomfortable ride to what he sorely hoped was away from the destructiveness of the combat zone.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, Aft Auxiliary Hanger, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:43 =-


"Sir!" the clarion call of Lieutenant Coombs from the shuttle's cockpit jolted Vaughn awake.

The aging Brigadier snapped out of his daze instantly and jumped to his feet, clambering into the crowded cockpit. He hadn't even realised he'd dozed off. "What is it?"

"We've got company!" she indicated beyond the transparisteel viewscreen of the shuttle's cockpit, where dozens of New Republic security personnel were pouring into the hangar.

Vaughn looked to his technical experts. "How are we going with that hangar shield?"

"Almost got it, sir," Harper boomed in reply.

"Just a few more slices to go," Zennah elaborated, typing away at the console with her gloved hands.

"That's it," Vaughn shook his head at the approaching enemy troops, "we've got to get out of here."

He looked to Coombs, "Break comm silence and order the other ships to repulsor off the ground and fire on those troops," then to the pilots: "The laser cannons work, don't they?"

"They look to, sir," Randall confirmed. She looked nervously through the pane of transparisteel as the Rebel troops opened fire on the unshielded craft. It did no damage, but was likely a stalling tactic to distract the POWs until heavier weaponry arrived.

"Good. Get us in the air, turn around and shoot them."

"You got it!" "Aye, sir!" Randall and Tonkins confirmed in unison.

Lieutenant Randall powered up the ship and adjusted the vectoring controls, while Ensign Tonkins readied the ship's weapons. It was time to pay back some hurt to the Rebel scum who'd tortured and restrained them for so long.

Within moments the five tri-winged shuttles hissed off the deck ominously and slowly turned about to face the direction of the security guards.

"Fall back!" screamed the leader, "Fall back now!"

Mere seconds after the Rebel troops emptied from the hangar the shuttles opened up with their scarlet red bolts, tearing guttering holes into the polished walls of the Imperial-designed corridor beyond the hangar.

"That should keep them back for a moment," Tonkins exclaimed, pleased with the effects his handiwork had on the mass of Rebel troops.

"Harper, tell me you've got good news about that deflector shield," Vaughn demanded, his patience running thin as he felt the seconds counting against them.

"We've almost got it . . ." Harper stalled.

"Now!" Zennah interjected, "We're good to go!"

"Right," the General pushed forward and manned the comm. "All ships, this is Vaughn, let's get the hell off this ship and head for open space. Remember, we're going to be launching into the deepest part of the nebula, so visual scanning with be almost nil. Make me proud! Vaughn out."

One by one the shuttles, their wings still tucked up in the landing configuration, gracefully moved from the hangar and launched into the crimson void beyond.



-= Main Bridge, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:45 =-


"Sirs, unauthorised launch from an aft auxiliary hangar. I count four, no, five new contacts. Friendly IFF," the sensors officer exclaimed.

"They're not responding to hails," the communication officer elaborated.

Admiral Raven and General Cal exchanged a significant glance, before the Admiral issued orders, "Very well. Contact the Cornelius and tell Cody that he is to intercept and destroy those contacts."

"Sir," the comm officer confirmed with a nod.

"So it's a race," Raven murmured to himself as he turned his attention back to the main battle, which was going to be a bloody one.



-= Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transport Cornelius, defensive holding position near Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:46 =-


"Okay, it's show time people," Admiral Cody Qel-Droma communicated to the members of Zealot Unit. The operatives were holding station near the Star Destroyer Redemption, as ordered, engaging only targets that strayed too close to Admiral Raven's flagship. It was demoralising work for some, as the real battle was being fought beyond the flagship.

The Zealots were floating in space in a collection of A-wings and X-wings, while Cody led a crew onboard the assault transport Cornelius. The ship was fast becoming part of the patented Zealot fame, as Captain Leaph Chausew had liberated it at Selaris, and the vessel had most recently acted as the evacuation craft for Zealot Unit from the doomed Imperial Penumbra Base, when Commodore David Pasiechnyk had personally flown the craft to extract the surviving Zealots to their safety before the station exploded.

That operation had resulted in the confirmation of the Rogue Imperial station that was currently besieged, and the Zealots were now relegated to essentially baby-sitting duty for the Admiral's flagship until 'something interesting' happened.

Of course, the unauthorised launch of five Lambda shuttles from the Redemption, only minutes after a large group of Imperial POWs were reported missing from their confinement definitely fit into the criteria of 'something interesting', and now Zealot Unit were activated for duty.

Manning the flightstick, Cody nodded to his flight crew as they confirmed the ship was ready for action. He activated the comm for a final pep talk before they were properly underway. "Okay, people, let's break holding position and engage the targets. There are five contacts, so break by pattern Delta-Aurek and get them. Let's go kick some ass."



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:46 =-


Within the first moments that Vaughn's convoy of commandeered shuttles launched from the Star Destroyer Redemption, he knew they were in trouble.

It wasn't so much the heavy turbolaser fire from the Imperial-class vessel they leapt from; that was expected, and the pilots were twisting through hard manoeuvres to compensate for it. No, it was the fact that Termagant base was nowhere near their current position, and that open space could be seen from the present location in the Ragyss Nebula that told Brigadier Vaughn he had miscalculated drastically.

Instead of being buried in the thick of the fighting in the deepest regions of the nebula, they were presently located right on the edge of the Ragyss Nebula. And that was bad news, because it meant they were out in the open and exposed. Vaughn had been counting on the thick clouds of vision-obscuring gasses near the Traitor Golan station to allow them to disappear while the Rebel–Traitor battle unfolded.

Instead, they were suddenly exposed on the edge of the nebula, where hostile forces could easily track and intercept them.

"Kriff . . ." Vaughn breathed, deflated, as he fell back into his flightseat heavily, barely even registering the hard manoeuvres Lieutenant Randall was making just to keep them all alive.

"Sir, what it is? What are your orders?" Good old dependable Coombs, or maybe he thought of her as Mary now? At the moment he was too busy comprehending the magnitude of his failure to really consider it. The lieutenant kept speaking to him in a panicky tone, trying to get him to snap out of it.

We're all dead, he thought to himself, but shook himself mentally to try and become the leader of men he needed to be.

"Coombs, get on the comm and tell everyone to head to open space. No co-ordinates necessary; just head away from the nebula — that black spot in the red is our destination. Once we're clear of the gravitational distortion of the nebula, we'll jump to emergency co-ordinates, then work our way back to the home fleet from there. Zennah, I want you to calculate the jump to lightspeed and distribute the data tight-band to the other shuttles. Now let's fly like hell and show these bastards they can't keep a good Imperial down!"



-= Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transport Cornelius, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:48 =-


Cody's Zealots were gaining on the wayward shuttles swiftly, and they were under orders to terminate with lethal force. Which was good, because that's what Zealot did best.

The five targets had broken formation, which was a clever move, as it meant the New Republic forces had to split up their interception efforts into five separate groups, unable to reinforce each other if the need arose. Cody had ordered all of his operatives in fighters to pursue four of the shuttles, while he and his crew on the Cornelius pursued the lead craft themselves.

The disparity in velocities between the two craft was not high, but Cody's assault transport was steadily gaining on the fleeing Lambda shuttle. His vessel was crewed skeletally, whereas the shuttle appeared to be carrying at least double the load of personnel. The difference in weight ratio probably didn't make much difference, but every kilogram of mass counted in a race that was going to be this close.

Because despite the fact he was gaining on them, it was going to be a race against time to see if they could reach the shuttle before it escaped the gravitational influence of the nebula and jumped into hyperpace.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:49 =-


Brigadier General William Vaughn checked the sensor monitor once again, and couldn't help but find himself drawn to the main Rebel–Traitor battle that was being fought. The bastard Admiral Raven appeared to have committed the majority of his forces — including the Star Destroyer Sustainer — to battling the Traitor defensive fleet out here on the edge of the nebula. From what he'd managed to surmise, a sneak attack force must have been attacking the Traitor base directly.

Despite his utter hatred for the man, he was forced to concede it was a ballsy move — he personally wouldn't expect an enemy force armed with an Imperial-class Star Destroyer to use it solely as a diversion, when he could just as easily use the warship to pound the enemy target flat.

A quickly cut off scream of static snapped his attention to the green contact which had winked out of existence on the sensor screen.

"What the hell was that?" he wondered aloud.

"Sir," Lieutenant Coombs looked to him, face stricken and voice thick. "That was one of our shuttles; Kamen's group, sir. Looks like the Sustainer's gunners got them."

Vaughn set his jaw stoically as his crew looked amongst themselves in response.

"How long until we make the jump to lightspeed?"

"Three minutes, sir," Zennah confirmed.

"Randall, I don't care what red-lines you have to cross, get us more speed or we won't make it that long."

The grizzled Brigadier stared defiantly at the sensor blips pursuing his ship and the other escaping shuttles. He would grieve the loss of Ensign Kamen — of all eleven Loyalist Imperial POWs onboard that shuttle he'd failed to protect — but not now. He had to hold it together until they were safely in hyperspace, else he'd demoralise his crew, and that would doom them more certainly than their already doubtful odds of survival.



-= Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transport Cornelius, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:49 =-


The Redemption's gunners had successfully eliminated a second target, thanks to the Zealot fighters successfully boxing the ship in enough for the low-aim, high-powered turbolasers to track and blast the target apart. This left only three more targets for Zealot to pursue. Cody had his top pilots going after the two targets he wasn't pursuing, and the rangefinder kept ticking down closer to a firing solution for him on the lead ship. It wouldn't be long until they were close enough to unleash hell.

"How long until we're in range?" he asked the Zealot crewing the sensor station.

"Two and a half minutes."

It was going to be close.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:50 =-


Lieutenant Mary Coombs gulped back the lump she felt in her throat. Kamen's team, then Sarpah's — their ships had been blown out of space. It was deathly quiet in the cockpit of the General's escape craft, disturbed only by the constant background whine of the ship's engines. The tiny blonde woman could only guess how much the losses must be tearing him apart already. After months of trying to keep them all alive, twenty-two of their comrades were dead within minutes, and if her mental calculations were correct, they were going to lose more.

This was confirmed by another sensor blip vanishing from the screen, and she balled her fists in impotent rage and grief.

She coughed to clear her throat. "We just . . . lost Rennel's ship, sir."

Vaughn didn't even reply. He just sat staring straight ahead. The rangefinder to their jump point loomed closer, as did the enemy vessel pursuing them.

Everyone knew it was going to be a close one. Of the fifty-eight POWs who had escaped a quarter of an hour ago, thirty-three were now dead.

With tears of rage and fear starting to overwhelm her, she watched the sensor screen as the blips representing hostile A-wings approached Colonel Tanasea's shuttle.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Icarus, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:51 =-


The battle-hardened Colonel looked grimmer than usual. Though ordinarily appearing to be forged of granite, there was an extra tenseness in his face as he studied the sensor screen.

Suddenly he sighed with finality and punched in the ship-wide intercom.

"Okay, everyone, listen up," he made eye contact with all of the flight crew on his shuttle, to help them shore up the courage that would be necessary in the next few moments. "I want you all to know that you've done me proud. It has been an honour serving with you. Fighting alongside you against the Traitors, surviving Rebel captivity, and now breaking free from that prison. Hell, we broke out of a Star Destroyer for frak's sake. Believe me when I say that I can think of no finer soldiers to spend by last moments with. We shall live on as heroes of the Empire for all time. Now, make peace as best you can. We shall soon become immortal legends, as we deserve. For honour! For the Empire!"

His eyes glowed with a burning fire as he finished his impromptu speech, which was greeted with stoic silence. He could hear sounds of motion from the passenger compartment behind him as his troops either accepted their fates or not. But for Colonel Tanasea, he stared boldly at the stars of the rapidly clearing starfield as the engines of the shuttle-craft roared to escape the nebula before the enemy caught up with them.

But Tanasea knew better. The maths didn't lie. He barely flinched when the first barrage of cannon-fire lashed the ship.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:52 =-


Coombs made a watery grunting sound in her throat as she could no longer choke back the tears she was valiantly holding back. Colonel Tanasea's sensor blip had vanished from the console, leaving her ship alone in the flight to open space, pursued by the damnable Rebel hunters.

Brigadier Vaughn put his hand on her arm and she saw his eyes soften in apology as they made eye contact.

They both knew this was the end. They were going to die, along with everyone else they had lived with the past months.

Thirty seconds from their jump point, on the edge of a nebula at the end of space, fleeing from the largest battle this remote star sector had ever seen, the heavily-armed Rebel craft was now clear to fire.



-= Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transport Cornelius, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:52 =-


Cody gave the order to fire, and his gunners unleashed fiery barrages of pure hell into the Lambda shuttle's shields.

The turbolaser shots thundered against the ship's deflector shields and quickly hammered through to scald the hull as the energy shields collapsed.

Chunks of hull boiled off as other parts were ripped into space by the force.

"Now!" Cody yelled suddenly, and his gunners adjusted their firing vectors slightly, aiming away from the shuttle's centre of mass and ripping through two of the tri-form wings instead.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:52 =-


Vaughn and Coombs squeezed their eyes shut as the ship rocked and roared in protest around them. The universe seemed to slow as they felt their ends near . . . the ship was being torn asunder by turbolaser-fire. The two pilots struggled to hold the ship straight along its forward momentum as it rocked about uncontrollably.

Suddenly a black blur ripped between them and Zennah's black-gloved hand wrenched the hyperspace levels back.

With a sickening groan accompanied by the brightest of lights, the ship unexpectedly lurched into hyperspace.



-= Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transport Cornelius, edge of the Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:53 =-


"Cease fire," Cody ordered calmly.

His gunners ceased fire in disappointment as the shuttle disappeared with a flicker of pseudomotion into the starfield beyond the Ragyss Nebula.

"Okay, people, well done," he congratulated his crew. They'd followed orders, even though they weren't happy the Imperials had gotten away. Their reputations would be tarnished, even though they had followed orders precisely.

Cody flicked on the comm unit to contact Control. He was sure the Admiral would be most interested in his report, before sending them into the thick of the battle proper.



-= Main Bridge, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, Ragyss Nebula, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:5:02:53 =-


"Uh, sir . . ." the communication officer began, stiltedly.

"Yes, lieutenant?" Raven growled, annoyed by her indirectness.

"Uh, report from Admiral Qel-Droma, sir."

"Yes?" Raven asked, now really annoyed at the nervousness of the operator.

"He reports . . . four of the five targets successfully eliminated."

The Admiral slowly climbed to his feet and stalked steadily towards the communication officer, "Four of the five, you said?" he asked quietly, dangerously.

"Uh, yes—sir. Four, sir," she was terrified of what the violence-prone admiral might do to her, just for being the bearer of bad news.

"That is most . . . displeasing," he concluded gravely. He walked slowly back to his command chair. "Commit Zealot to the fleet engagement proper. Tell them their orders are to take down that Star Destroyer. And that I won't accept failure as an option."

"Yessir!" he communication officer confirmed in a high-pitched voice, her relief at being spared the Admiral's wrath evident.

As he sat in his command chair, Admiral Michael Raven, leader of the Subterrel Strike Force; ranking officer of the New Republic task force Republic Shield in the remote region of the Outer Rim repressed the urge to smile darkly.

All he had to do now was win the fleet battle, destroy the enemy base, and he would achieve a totally satisfying day.

And complete satisfaction with the universe was something that Raven did not achieve very often. So he intended to win the day.

He turned his mind fully back to the fleet battle, and prepared to order the Redemption further into the heart of the enemy formation, supported by the Unforgiven, Titan, Chiin'tal and Resurrection II. He was going to execute a surprise point-blank assault on the opposing Star Destroyer Death Knell.

Yet another Imperial commander who didn't know who he was dealing with.



-= Lambda-class T-4a shuttle Cyrian, in hyperspace bound for the outskirts of the Aurora Sector, 44:7:5:17:22 =-


Fourteen standard hours had passed since the eleven Loyalist Imperial prisoners of war had escaped death by the barest of margins, and due to the bravery and quick-wittedness of Ensign Zennah.

The young woman had summoned up a courage that far outstripped Vaughn and pretty much every other Imperial onboard the ship when she had recognised the ship had reached the hyperspace point mere moments before the enemy forces had utterly destroyed the vessel. Not even the ship's pilot and co-pilots had noticed, so wrapped up in keeping the ship flying were they.

Zennah's quick thinking had saved them all, and they all owed her their lives.

The memory of that sight, seeing the black glove wrenching the hyperspace levers back . . . that image would stay with him, probably unto his dying day.

In the hours since that fateful lever pull by the Ensign, Vaughn's crew had set down on a small-sized moon and made rudimentary repairs.

Satisfied that their mangled hulk of a ship could make the long journey home, Vaughn had given the order to jump to the outskirts of the Aurora Sector, where they would hopefully be able to contact a passing Loyalist patrol.

He doubted the Rebels or Traitors — whichever hated faction won the engagement in the Ragyss Nebula — would bother chasing down one barely-functional Lambda shuttle with less than a dozen crew. But he wasn't prepared to stick around and find out.

Their course was set for a border system in the Aurora Sector. He was not looking forward to the eventual debriefing that was fated to occur. But surely nothing could be worse than the personal hell he and his men had endured in Rebel captivity, and then in their escape from it.

"General," a female voice called tentatively into the darkness.

He'd purposely darkened the compartment he currently lay in. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts in the darkness for a while yet.

But if there were any in his company who could draw him out of his dark mood, it would be Mary Coombs. If only temporarily, at least.

"Yes, lieutenant," he answered finally.

"Are you okay, sir?" she asked, tentatively.

He didn't answer immediately. ". . . well enough."

"It wasn't your fault, you know," she plead, as if begging him to come back to the light with her.

He didn't answer. He knew it was his fault. He'd knowingly colluded with the enemy. He'd gambled the lives of fifty-eight loyal soldiers of the Empire. And he'd just sent forty-seven loyal sons and daughters of the Empire to their deaths.

And what was worse . . . he'd managed to survive because of it. The utter selfishness and dishonour of the outcome galled him, and made him seriously consider that perhaps the late Colonel Tanasea was right about him after all. Maybe he did have no honour, after all.

"Lieutenant," he finally found his voice, and it was stern.

"Yes, General," she sounded optimistic, hopeful that she had gotten through to him.

"Dismissed."

The word hung in the silence like a gong.

After a weighty silence, he heard the click of the woman's boot-heels together in crisp military fashion as she complied wordlessly with his orders and marched from the darkened room.

Into the darkness he felt himself sink.

It was going to be a long twenty-hour journey to the outskirts of contiguous Loyalist territory. In the meantime he had only the darkness and his thoughts to occupy him.

He'd just condemned forty-seven of his people to their deaths, because of his misguided choices.

Just who the hell was he?

Obviously, he was Brigadier General William Vaughn, Service Number ILO-One-Zero-Five-Six. In the black darkness he struggled to keep his face and eyes impassive as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position; it was going to be a long day.



-= Main Hangar, MC80a Star Cruiser Windstorm, Tarsonis orbit, Greeop system, Greeop Sector, 44:7:6:18:44 =-


Commodore David Vaughan stepped off his shuttle onto the deck of the Windstorm's main hanger bay and quickly glanced around before striding briskly towards the waiting Acting Fleet Commander. It was never an enviable task to report a failed operation, but Vaughan certainly preferred it to actual command.

He had been pushing for a return to a desk job for ages, and hopefully the Republic Shield High Command would grant his wish now that the Subterrel Strike Force was reportedly victorious over the Imperial forces in the Subterrel Sector. Of course, those were only rumours, and there was a lot more work yet to be done to determine if this were in fact true. But still, he deeply hoped it was true, and that the return of Admiral Raven's forces would be swift.

He shook hands with Admiral Hawkins before they headed off to the Acting Fleet Commander's office.


-----


"Bad day, Vaughan?" the Admiral inquired as they reached the office and sat down.

"You could say that," he exhaled heavily, feeling a burden on his shoulders that he never remembered from his former life as a squadron leader. "The outpost we attacked was totally destroyed and the militants escaped into Dave's trap with the Peril, but unfortunately the militants got through them with minimal losses. We lost quite a few fighters in the debacle."

Vaughan was clearly unhappy with the outcome, as he recited the facts grimly, his voice almost monotone.

"Damn," Admiral Hawkins intoned, sighing. "I don't know how much longer our TIE forces can hold up under this sort of punishment. Not to mention that most of our surviving pilots aren't too keen on flying TIEs anymore."

"I don't blame them, really. If it were me, I'd retire the TIE wings; it's just getting too costly, in both resources and personnel, to maintain them," Vaughan said, with a slight hint of sadness. Josh knew full well that Vaughan had started his service with the Republic Shield years ago in the task force's TIE wing as an Interceptor pilot. That was back before the wing had dwindled to the current size of a few mere squadrons.

"Some pilots won't like that, but it's probably the best thing to do. I'll have to discuss it with Reagan; see what he thinks. Still, even if the recent operation failed, we should hopefully have Raven's forces back soon," Josh paused. Both officers knew that even if Raven had won the climactic battle they'd heard reports of fro the Subterrel Sector, it would still be some time before they saw the strike force back in the home territories.

Vaughan nodded slowly at Josh's sentiments as both men fell silent, lost in thought at the notion of the much-welcomed break in duties they anticipated with Raven's eventual return.

The departure of Admiral Dave Trebonius-Astoris mere hours ago complicated matters, with Admiral Hawkins reluctantly taking on the mantle of Fleet Commander until Raven returned to command the task force.

With the emergence of the Imperial Grand Admiral Thrawn, the Sluis Sector had suffered deeply, and was still vulnerable to attack. The valuable shipyards could not afford to be lost, and everyone knew they needed a seasoned commander to organise the defences during the ongoing crisis.

It made sense that Admiral Trebonius-Astoris would take up the challenge and take on the Sector Admiralty of the Sluissi region. But still, it meant that local affairs would become that much more difficult, as they had lost another experienced commander to the wiles of the Galactic Civil War, even if only temporarily.

The situation in the Greeop Sector and surrounding territories was worsening, and they needed some kind of relief soon.



-= Main Bridge, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Apocalypse, in hyperspace bound for the outskirts of the Aurora Sector, 44:7:6:09:54 =-


High Admiral Julon Dija strode through the corridors of the Apocalypse, glowering at anyone he met with baleful looks as they tried to talk to him. He hadn't said anything much since the disastrous Battle of Pyaimm and its aftermath. Not that he felt any shame or deep anger at the defeat, but simply because he physically couldn't thanks to a month-long stint in the Apocalypses medbay.

After weeks of bacta immersion, difficult and dangerous operations to replace his shattered arm, leg, one of his eyes and half of his face as well as weeks of rehabilitation so that he could breath again properly thanks to his heat-scarred lungs. It was at his insistence that those would not be replaced.

A lesser man than Dija would have committed suicide rather than continue life as a cyborg, a state of being largely shunned by civilised society, and that was ignoring the continual phantom limb pain in his left side and shortness of breath. Darth Vader at least had the advantage of being able to kill people from a distance simply by clenching his fist. Dija sincerely hoped someone would make the fatal error of insulting him in some way; it felt like the only thing that would amuse him now was to toss a hapless underling out the nearest airlock.

Dija reached the bridge where Fleet Admiral Jalen Valaris was waiting. As soon as he entered the space, he could tell that the crew on duty were trying not to stare at him. Either that, or trying to ignore his shallow, noisy breathing. He marched straight to the Fleet Admiral before he succumbed to his much-contemplated urge.

"Admiral Dija," the Fleet Admiral acknowledged stiffly. Dija thought Valaris disguised his disgust well.

"Fleet Admiral Valaris," his new voice was dark and gravely. The medical droids said he was lucky he could even speak, "No doubt you have held my ship together while I was recuperating."

"The ship perhaps, but not the Subterrel Sector. Suffice it to say, the Rebels' interference in our affairs has proven a major setback to our plans," Valaris said without embarrassment.

Dija summoned his most baleful half-organic, half-mechanical stare yet as he stepped up, face-to-face with the Fleet Admiral, his red eye glowing angrily. His voice grated like tortured mechanical gears, "You mean to say that we have no holdings in the Subterrel Sector left. That these kriffing Rebels have driven out our superior forces, under your command while I was having wires implanted in my nerve endings, to leave me a mere half-man? Fought amongst yourselves to take command of our fleet as children would over a toy?" Dija was almost breathless after having reached a crescendo, but the anger and rage at his injuries and at the Rebels gave him the strength to ignore his protesting lungs.

"Please calm yourself, sir, before you lose whatever 'half-life' remains in you," Valaris said soothly, despite the High Admiral's proximity, as though calming an insolent child who was likely to hurt himself. "Termagant Base is a total loss, along with most of our stationed defences there, though we were able to inflict some capital ship losses in return. I have therefore ordered our remaining units to return to our underground holdings in Aurora Sector, just before you arrived now."

"So we run, like the cowards of history's battles. Let these Rebels drive us out, when we should be driving them out, as is our right?" Dija spat, as he stepped back from Valaris, slowly recovering his breath. A few crewmembers had stopped their work to stare at the two admirals, before a clenched mechanical fist cowed them back to their consoles.

"Sir, Subterrel is lost to us. We have no choice but to retreat and rebuild . . ." Valaris dropped his voice, ". . . lest your plans should die with this ship in a battle we can't win," Valaris added tactfully.

"So we return to Aurora, and what few holdings we have left there," Dija rasped bitterly, as he tried to remember his breathing exercises. "Is there anything you wish to add, before I have you thrown in the brig for criminal incompetence?"

"Sir, respectfully . . . our faction has split while you were in for repairs, so to speak. Every Admiral with a Star Destroyer wanted to take control, and I quite simply could not allow that, as I was acting to protect your interests. They refused to acknowledge your leadership, due to your . . . 'incapacitated' state, and things went poorly. Many fled in unknown directions in the aftermath of the destruction of Termagant Base. For what reasons are also unknown, though an ancient saying of 'rats leaving the sinking ship' does come to mind. Suffice it to say, sir, is that your grand plan at the moment lies in tatters. Estimated time to arrival in the Aurora Sector should be in twenty-five hours. Until then, you should rest."

Rest was the last thing that was on Dija's mind as he glared at Valaris. The fury he had felt had mostly bled away, leaving behind the howling maw of resignation. His grand plan . . . escape from the pointless warring with the pathetic Faithless in the Aurora Sector, move out to further Outer Rim holdings and live like Grand Moffs of the once-glorious Empire . . . all gone, for the foreseeable future. Now all he could lord over were some pitiful holdings in Aurora Sector, left behind as contingencies in the unlikely event of his failure, which had unfortunately come to pass. And what was more, those few holdings he was going to have to fight those pathetic Faithless just to keep hold of.

He briefly considered making an example of the Fleet Admiral as he turned away for his quarters, but he reluctantly concluded it would serve no sane purpose. Certainly the power was in him to do so, he considered as he flexed his mechanical arm experimentally.

As the leader of the Rogue Imperial faction thought more about how everything had gone to hell in a matter of weeks, the rage grew. It was not long before his thoughts turned to revenge. The Rebels will pay dearly for this, he thought to himself, his mental voice almost as rough as what his real voice had become.

He was never the most zealously anti-Rebellion Imperial. He always considered himself focussed on the bigger picture. When the Emperor died, and Imperial Centre fell, he realised the truth that the galaxy had changed forever. The Empire would never return as it had in the glory days. He alone had seen the truth that the best life he could make for himself was to rule by strength of arms, out in the distant Outer Rim where the fraudulent 'New Republic' wouldn't dare touch him.

He could negotiate a better life for himself and all his followers from the strength of a fleet of Star Destroyers. And he had convinced thousands of former Imperial men to join him on his crusade for freedom. But now, with his dreams in tatters, back to warring futilely with the Faithless who had refused to join him . . .

He would make those responsible this setback pay dearly. If it meant killing every single one of them, he would hunt the Rebels in this region of space down. But first he had a war against the pitiful remnants of the Empire in the Aurora Sector to win.

Then, once he had a unified sector of resources at his disposal, those Rebel bastards in the Greeop Sector would pay.



-= Personal Quarters of the Admiral, Imperial-class Star Destroyer Redemption, high Azemin orbit, Azemin system, Subterrel Sector, 44:7:14:19:56 =-


Admiral Raven, leader of the Subterrel Strike Force sat and brooded thoughtfully.

It was two weeks since he had won a great victory; one that would be recorded in the annals of the task force's history with pride.

But it was a hard-won victory, with heavy costs.

Despite that, he felt good about the outcome. His scouts had provided sufficient data that indicated the Rogue Imperial fleet had withdrawn from the Subterrel Sector, and were possibly in retreat back to the known Imperial territories of the Aurora Sector. He was also led to believe that the Loyalist Imperial fleet had also withdrawn to the Aurora Sector, which made him smile grimly.

His tiny strike force had kicked the ass out of two major Imperial fleets. And now they were going to face off against each other, while he savoured his victory.

Of course, there was much to do before his triumphant return to the Greeop Sector was assured. There would be another few weeks of follow-up reconnaissance and surveying, before he was completely confident that all vestiges of Imperial activity in the Subterrel Sector were rooted out and neutralised. His forces had already found and eliminated a number of hidden mines and automated defences, some of which they had managed to disable and capture for future use.

It was a very promising start to what he hoped was the end of the Subterrel campaign. And despite the losses he had suffered in the Battle of the Ragyss Nebula, he firmly believed the outcome was worth every life — he had the Empire on the run. And that was worth any cost he could pay.

He sat and read through the piece of flimsiplast that he held steadily in his hands for the umpteenth time.

The report was only nine words long, but his eyes kept returning to it, again and again.

The blocky Aurebesh spelt out words that pleased Raven greatly.

"THIS IS DARK LANCER REPORTING. INFILTRATION SUCCESSFUL. AWAITING ORDERS."

Yes, his victory in the Subterrel was worth all the cost of lives that were paid, indeed.