Begin Log: Battle 2, Mission 2 - Part 2, Banshee Base

Damon Lightwind - Flying 6.1

-= Assault Transport Brier =-

After chasing off the Dreadnaught, Damon positioned his Squint just in front of the Brier, then cut his engines and prepped for docking. As he did, gremlins picked that moment to strike once more. "What the...SLAG!...what now," he hollered as his panel sparked and shorted out. He looked over his system and found the shield system that was added by Captain Ra was completely fried.
Damon called over the comm., "6.1 to Brier. Got a problem over here. Please stand by."
"Roger 6.1. Standing by," a member of Shock replied.
"Damn gremlins! First the comm system, and now this...! It's a good thing I carry a tool kit with me or we'd be in some serious poodoo.
“Well the good news was the shields worked for a little while. However Ra is not going to be happy about this at all," Damon muttered to himself.
Moments later Damon managed to bypass the modification Ra had made. He checked over the diagnostics once more, and with the shield system out of the mix the other systems came back online and his Interceptor’s panel sprung to life once more. "That's much better now maybe we can get out of here," he muttered.
"Brier to 6.1 what's your status," a member of shock asked.
Damon replied, "We’re good to go, sorry about that had to make sure it was safe before docking with ya."
"Understood. So what was the problem?"
"The modification that was added to this Squint burnt out, shorting out everything else. With that said, I didn't want to take the chance if this thing decided to go during docking," Damon explained.
"Yah, that would've been very bad. Thanks for considering that," the Shock member responded.
"No problem! And now that this issue is resolved we should catch up to the Aragorn quickly," Damon said.
"Aye. We'll have you on board in just a moment."
"Understood. Standing by," Damon responded. A few minutes later Damon felt his Squint jolt a bit as the docking clamp engaged and locked on.
Moments later he was prepping his Interceptor with new fuel cells and life support canisters. After he finished that he checked the diagnostics once more just to be safe. He wanted to be sure everything was in working order for when they arrived. With all the issues he’d encountered to this point he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
After he was satisfied that every thing was in order he boarded the Brier. All Damon could do now was rest and let the Brier and her crew get them to the base. He decided to start working on his report and pulled out his data pad. He figured now was as good of a time as any to get a jump on it. Soon the Brier had reached its jump point and they were under way. Damon worked on his report for a while then decided to get some sleep - it had been a long day so far, and he felt this was the best opportunity. Not knowing what they would be running in to when they arrived only reinforced this fact. As soon as Damon lay down, he fell asleep.

 -= Banshee base =-

Sometime later, a member of the Brier’s shock crew woke Damon. They were close to arriving. A meal of battle rations was provided from the Brier’s emergency stores and given to him. These, of course, weren’t the greatest tasting things, but Damon made the best of it. He also knew this was better than having nothing at all, and could only help to keep his energy up for what might lie ahead. After the meal, he got suited back up and ready to board his Squint, now standing near the access hatch.
He next got a run down on what was expected to happen from the Shock Captain. Or, in this case, what could happen upon arriving at the base. She was very small woman, and for a commando this struck him as a little bit odd. But still he listened very intently to her review, and what to expect, which kinda translated into a go in hot, and be ready for anything kind of situation.
Plus by coming in hot it presented challenges to the undocking process. As well as present certain dangers to Damon and the crew of the Brier. This was why this kind of thing was only done only when absolutely necessary, and in this case there wasn’t much of a choice. The various situations that could happen weighed heavily on Damon’s mind. He knew he had to react quickly when the time came. Also with the added problems he has encountered already with his Squint he was concerned as well that gremlins would once again pop up.
Damon pondered these things as he continued to listened to the Shock Captain as she finished by saying, “Being that we’ll be blocking your view as we go in, I’ll advise you of any unexpected conditions. But be ready for anything.”
Damon gave her a thumbs up and then opened the hatch to lower himself back down into his fighter. As he did he heard her say. “Good luck! And may The Force be with you!” Damon looked back up, nodded and said. “Thanks! And I wish the same to you!”
With that the hatch was closed, and he strapped himself in. He quickly went over his final preflight checks. “Engines green. Life support green. Laser cannons green. And Comms green. Good. At least we’re good to go. Now for the hard part.” Damon muttered aloud to himself as he took the controls. Soon he saw shortened streaks of starlight which indicated the entry back to normal space. Damon Braced for the next action he’d have to make as his Squint rattled and jerked when the Brier released her docking clamps.
Next Damon heard the Shock Captain holler out over the comm. “Thorn 6.1 Pull up!”
Damon pulled back hard on the stick and rolled to the right just clearing the Brier.
“Wait for orders! Unforeseen Conditions!” The Shock Captain called out.
Roger, Brier. Awaiting orders,” Damon replied.
“By the way, thanks for missing, us 6.1!” the Shock CO said.
“No problem, Brier! Thanks for the lift,” Damon added.
“Crap!...We need a status report!!....Damnation! Saguaro, this is the Brier! Request status and orders,” the Shock CO calls out rapidly.
“6.1 to station defense. Brier comes home! GO!!” Flight Control answered.
“Roger, Control. 6.1 heading to the base now!” Damon responded.
Flight Control called on the general ship-to-ship, “Banshee Base. Help is on the way. Can you maintain integrity?”
“We can hold, but hurry!” the base replied urgently.
“We’re on our way. We’ll cover until then, Control! Glad you could make it, 6-lead! Come on and join the fun!” 5.1 called out.
“Aye! Thanks 5.1! Glad to be back! I’m on my way!” Damon said.
Flight Control ordered, “Thorn group! Priority one – defend the base!”
“Roger, Control! 6.1, just catch up fast - we could use the help!” 5.1 said in acknowledgment.
“Understood, 5.1. Coming in range now,” Damon said as he opened fire on the Frigate to help beat its shields down.
“The Frigate is expendable. Disable if possible,” Flight Control relayed.
“Understood, Control… Disable if possible.” Damon replied. He took out an Enemy Tie on his way back to pound on the Frigate’s shields and take out more of her guns. Soon the Frigate’s shields were down and she was quickly disabled. Damon broke off to go after a pair of T/A’s that had entered the area. They were headed toward the Thistle, and he sped up to catch up with them. He managed to keep these two busy long enough take them out.
While Damon was dispatching the second of those T/A’s, a second wave of three arrived. Also arriving was an Assault Transport but it didn’t stick around for long as it turned and fled back in to hyperspace. Damon chased each of them off and with the help of Petr Margul and Dave Trebonius Astoris. After a bit of a chase the last T/A fell to his lasers and then took a look around to make sure the area was clear. But what he saw gave him a pain in his chest he hadn’t had in a long time. One of the Bases Landing wings was gone, and it had taken a good chunk of the hull with it. …other pieces floating away looked like Shuttle parts.
This was NOT good.
“All chicks to the nest,” Control commanded.
“Roger Control. Heading for home!” Damon replied. Soon he was close enough to the Saguaro that the tractor beam guided him in. Damon quite tired from his experience released the controls slumped back in his seat and dreaded what he knew was going to be bad news.
Dealing with Captain Rs was going to be another matter. Ra was not going to appreciate that the systems had failed on his squint, or the quick mods that Damon had had to make to keep it in action. Ra was not one who liked people messing with a fighter’s systems he worked on. Damon Sighed then said to himself. “Well maybe he’ll take it better form me over a drink!”

*****

Ta Re` D’Jo – Alternative p.o.v

Ray watched from a window of the Aragorn as her fellow squad mates had been flying patrol. She heard the order for everyone to come back so that they could make the jump. One by one she watched them come back and dock. She also watched as a ship hypered in and heard the order for its inspection to go through, followed by the order to make the jump to lightspeed anyway. She threw a hand to the window she had been looking through as she watched in horror as one little TIE got left behind, knowing exactly who’s presence could not be accounted for.
She whipped around and glared at Castor. “What have you done!?” she yelled.
Castor held up his hands apologetically. “There was nothing I could do, Ray. It’s alright. I sent the Brier out so he won’t be stuck there. He will come back to us as soon as he inspects that ship.”
She considered getting in Castor’s face for a minute… and then decided better of it. “He better come back in one piece, Sir.”
Castor closed his eyes. “He will be fine.”
“Sir!” she practically barked at him as she turned and walked out the door, her hair whipping around behind her. “I cant deal with this crap right now. I need to calm down.” Ray walked to her room and closed the door.
She showered and put her hair into many braids, as is customary of Dathomirian ceremonies. Slowly she changed into her ceremonial robes and then kneeled on the floor and relaxed. Her eyes closed and she pictured her family in her mind. She pictured Türelem, her rancor, and then started flipping through the faces of her friends - Damon, Taan, Bigfoot - right down the line to Tacomah.
She sat for three hours meditating on her family and friends before her stomach started to bother her. She slipped out of her robes, since she really couldn’t have a proper Dathomiran ceremony anyway. It just wasn’t the same away from home. She decided on sweat pants and a tank top before jogging down to the hangar bay to just sit on her TIE and attempt to think.
She sat in the cockpit with her feet up on the dashboard; and that is how she fell asleep, waiting for Damon and the rest of the crew on the Brier to come safely home.

*****

Petr Margul, Flying 5.1

"Tacomah, could you do me a favor real quick?"
Tacomah glanced at the voice that had came behind him. He had been sitting in the mess for a couple minutes now. He was a light sleeper, and he figured he would rise early and have some breakfast before the scheduled briefing later that day.
"Sure Dave. Whatcha want me ta do?" He asked eagerly.
"I've got to go over some things with Slyder before the briefing," Dave said, "and I was wondering if you could possibly make sure Petr's up in time for the briefing. I'll be along in a couple minutes, but if you could at least rouse him..."
Suddenly Tacomah was a little less enthusiastic.
"Ya mean Petr Margul?" He asked, a bit hesitantly.
"Yes," Dave said, pausing momentarily, confused. Suddenly a fact was recollected, and Dave continued with a chuckle, "Heh, I'm sorry if he gave you a bit of a fright earlier. Don't worry about it Tacomah, his bark's a lot worse than his bite."
"Huh?" Tacomah looked at him, unsure of Dave's meaning.
"He's harmless. Right now I doubt he'd be able to hurt you even if he wanted to," Dave said, smirking. "Trust me. You’re in no danger."
"Okay," Tacomah said with resignation, "if you say so, sir."
"Thanks, Tacomah," Dave said, turning for the door.
Tacomah just sighed. Today was looking to be a difficult day.



"Dammit!" A roar came from the ball of bunched up pillows, cushions and comforters that was residing in the corner of the room. "I already told you twice kid. I’m stayin in here!"
"But Mr. Margul, sir," Tacomah said, his hesitance clearly gone. The second he had seen Margul it had been pretty clear to him that his fears were unfounded, "Dave tol' me ta wake ya up b’fore the briefin'. Ya don't wan'im in here after ya."
"I swear, kid, the moment I manage to stand up you're gonna be running for your life, and I'm not speaking figuratively." Trying to add substance to his threat, Margul struggled to rise. He managed to make it to one knee before his legs buckled under him and he fell, uttering expletives all the way. Now he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with one of the sourest expressions Tacomah had ever seen.
"Well kid. You going to help me up or just stare, let me know cuz we'll get you a damn picture," Margul groaned, struggling to stand.
"Oh. Sorry sir," Tacomah sputtered, running over to help the older pilot to his feet. After several collapses, Margul finally managed to make it to his feet. He rubbed his forehead and felt at a rapidly forming bruise on his cheek.
"Dammit, feels like I was hit with a slab of durracrete. Stupid sith-spit commando. I swear. I ever get a line on that bastard again."
"Well, you'll be seeing him soon," came a new voice from the door.
Tacomah turned to the voice in the doorway. Dave walked in and nodded to Tacomah. Seeing Petr standing, looking around dazedly, he smiled slightly, and shaking his head, motioned for Tacomah to help him. Motioning for the sink, they began to drag the dazed pilot.
"Hey! What the...? Put me down! Dammit!" Margul protested. "For cryin out loud, can't a guy get a little R and R around here?"
"Not when he has a briefing to attend in five hours and a playroom session in thirty minutes," Dave said, unable to stifle the humor in his voice.
"No! You hear me? Son of a Sith, I'm not goin in that damn playroom with no damn commando," Margul protested, his face red.
"Petr, we've got a child present. Mind if you keep your language civil?"
"Civil!? I'll show you civil. I'm not going into the playroom with some land ape, and that's final," Petr said resolutely.
"Oh, but you are, rest assured about that," Dave replied darkly.
Margul muttered something in reply, which Dave didn't quite catch, but he didn't want to identify what Margul said, for the benefit of Tacomah's young ears. Sighing, Dave turned the sink water on.
Margul stared ahead blankly for several seconds before realizing what was about to happen. Suddenly he began to tug weakly against the two who were holding him to the sink, shaking his head from side to side.
"Dave, I'm warning you. You dunk me in that water and we're gonna have prob" Margul wasn't able to conclude his speech as he was forced under the sink water. Several seconds later Dave pulled him out again.
"You son of a" Margul began, again cut off by a swift dunking. This time Dave held him under longer, so when he allowed him to come back up for air again, he was speechless, gasping for breath.
"I... don't care... I'm not doing it," Margul managed between gasps.
Again Dave dunked him, holding him under for a good time. Finally, he let him back up again. Now Margul was sucking for air, completely winded.
"You finished now?" Dave asked. "Now, seriously, Petr. You've got about fifteen to get yourself together. You're on the flight roster, and only Castor knows why that is. Try not to compound the error any further."
Dave and Tacomah let him go and took a step back. Sighing, Margul splashed a little of the water on his face and blinked several times. Suddenly, he clutched at his stomach, his face going slightly pale. Without a word he began to sprint for the refresher.
"Wutz wrong wit him?" Tacomah asked, suddenly unsure.
"Uhm, I think now would be a good time for us to leave," Dave said quickly, "and Tacomah, I think it'd be wise if you sent a janitor to this room on your way by?"
"Why?" Tacomah asked, puzzled.
"Just take my word for it," Dave said glumly.



A number of hours later saw a very disgruntled Petr Margul leave the briefing room.
"How was Kashyyyk Level Two?" Trate asked jauntily. While he and Petr were the best of friends, they always had some sort of rivalry going. Petr didn't reply, but only sent a dark look and a rude gesture Trate's way. "Geez, sorry I asked. Couldn't have been that bad?" Trate asked.
"Couldn'ta been..." Margul paused, "that damn chest harness and cord keeping us together... Let me tell you. It would've been no sweat. But that stupid jarhead was holding me back. I tell ya I doubt there's a brain among em. Would've been easy if not for him, made me fall three times, sith spit."
"Looks like you didn't learn your lesson," Dave observed solemnly.
"Learn my lesson, hell. I discovered that commandos have the mental talents of a ronto in heat. I learned that," Margul responded sarcastically.
"Well that's too bad Petr, because you're signed up for Kashyyyk Level Three with your new buddy tomorrow," Dave replied.
"Wait a damn second. You said I'd only have to do level two," Petr pointed his finger at Dave angrily.
"Yes, unless you didn't learn your lesson. And seeing as it's pretty clear you didn't, I think you need to try it again."
"Why you son of a" Margul started, but was quickly cut off with a question from another pilot.
"Hey Petr. You're on the flight roster, why the long face?" Petr's good friend and fellow Chandrilan, Slyder McGrath, asked.
"I barely feel like walking, much less getting into a freakin’ TIE right now," he replied unhappily, still glaring at Dave.
"Well hey, if you really still feel that bad, maybe you should tell Castor," he said helpfully.
"Nah, I'll shake it off ok," Petr said, waving him off. "Just need to get out there and fly. The rest will attend to itself."
"Good," Slyder agreed, still a little unsure of his friend, "and Petr."
"Yeah?"
"May the Force be with you."
"Thanks," Margul said with a snort as he walked toward the ready room.



Margul sat in Tess’s Place. The chairs were comfortable enough. Not up to an aristocrat's standard, but well enough for him. He was still wearing the black shell of his Imperialissue flight suit, a necessity to fly the Tie Interceptor. He had taken off the helmet and the breathing apparatus, as they were not needed, and they made him incredibly uncomfortable. Sighing, Margul leaned back into his chair, gently passing into the first sleep he had managed in quite some time.
Everything seemed to congeal, to melt into nothingness, and then everything slid into being again, slowly, creeping its way up his frame of vision, just as it had suddenly melted away. He was no longer on the Aragorn, heading toward whatever impending doom awaited them on the other side. He was back on Chandrila. From the first moment the dark, subtle browns of imported greel wood had become whole, he had known exactly where he was. Only he wasn't. It felt as if he was standing in the room, his father's study. He could look around. He could feel the gentle pulse of the room's subtle lighting, squint at the glare cast by the plasma lamp on the desk, a utilitarian, militaryissue thing that had reserved that same place on his father's desk since it had been given to him as some token from times long past.
He could see his father, sitting behind the heavy greel wood desk. A tall man, as most men of the family were, he had greying brown hair, cropped close to his skull. He also sported a thin, flaring goatee, also greying, typical of many of the nobility of the day. His cheekbones were high and prominent, and he stared at the door, vacantly, yet piercingly with deep brown eyes, as if even in an idle moment an immense power were behind them. Ivan Radikovitch Margul, CEO of Margul Industries, Duke of House Margul, sighed heavily, folding his hands over his now bare desk. Petr could tell he was waiting for someone or something.
As he was about to turn away, the ornate doors leading into the office were cast open. An even taller young man, blond, with similarly penetrating eyes of an icy blue stood in the doorway. The set of his cheekbones, his nose, there was no mistaking that these two men were related. However, the younger had a somewhat harsher cast to his features, as if they had come from granite. Petr gasped. The young man, barely eighteen, was himself. At once he remembered this situation, this circumstance. This was the day he had joined the Rebellion.
As the young Petr entered, his father stood, fixing a stern gaze on his son. Rather than buckle, the younger Margul returned it, not wavering.
"So your mind is decided?" Ivan asked, his stare not diminishing.
"Da, father. I have no choice in the matter," Petr replied.
"No choice in the matter?" Ivan said this calmly, the only trace of emotion a slight raising of his brow. "You were the one who fired on a friendly cruiser, who hijacked an Imperial ship, who mutinied against the Empire. You had no choice then?"
"We've been over this. I had no more choice then I do now," Petr replied, struggling to remain at ease.
"Those Verpine didn't ask you for help. They were, after all, refusing to pay their taxes. While I might not agree with the Empire's methods, they have every right to do such a thing. And you were a soldier in their employ. I would expect you to follow orders, as you would have obeyed me," he said, still looking directly at Petr, "You let emotions, propaganda, all those things go to your head. You might think temporarily saving a Verpine colony was a noble act. But in the process you defied the organized government, the government you WERE a citizen of. Morally right or wrong, you mutinied."
"Because I had to!" Petr shot back, the anger now flashing, "You don't kill people because they don't pay their taxes. They were peaceful! From what you've always told me the Old Republic would"
"The Old Republic no longer exists!" Ivan snapped at him. "The Empire is the government now, and it is them you must obey. Try not to forget that. If the Republic still existed, you may have done something heroic. Now you're a criminal."
"True, which is why I must go," Petr said.
"Go? Petr, we could protect you. Don't kid yourself. I am the head of one of the most powerful houses in the galaxy, and your mother, well, House Tagge has enjoyed new favor under the Empire, your mother now could wield significant influence too. The crew and the destroyer are back in the Empires hands, and the ship you fired on was only disabled. If you gave us some time, things could be arranged."
"Arranged so that I live out the rest of my life on Chandrila? No father. Do you honestly think the Emperor cares about our House, or the Tagges? …or anyone? He'd sooner burn as all to the ground than be troubled by us. Father. I have to go. I have to fight him. My time with the Navy taught me that. No good is going to come to this galaxy with Palpatine in control."
"Fight him? Petr, stop with this foolishness," Ivan snorted. "It is true. Maybe we couldn't shield you from the Empire. Palpatine is... unpredictable. But fight the Empire? Your mutiny has already put the entire House in a compromising position, and you would wage your own little war against the Empire? Do you have ANY idea what that could mean?"
"Wage my own little war?" Petr asked, incredulously. "That's not my plan. As soon as I leave, I have a contact from the Alliance waiting for me. I'm joining them."
Ivan said nothing, only looked at his son. He stared straight ahead, not moving. While he projected impassivity, in his eyes, a maelstrom was brewing. His arm spasmed slightly as he clenched his fists, still staring straight at Petr.
"Look, I don't agree with everything the Alliance stands for. But freeing this Galaxy from Palpatine's grasp, father, even you should know that's more important."
Ivan still said nothing, staring straight at his son. Finally, his hands still shaking slightly, he turned around, staring straight at the wall.
Petr was about to open his mouth, but said nothing. For several seconds he waited, hoping his father would say something. A bellow of rage, a sarcastic remark, anything to keep him from doing what he would have to do next. But there was nothing. He waited for several minutes, to nothing. Finally, he turned, sighing, and left.
Petr awoke with a start. His head, neck and back ached slightly. Apparently the chair hadn't been quite as comfortable as he had first imagined. The dream he had, it had occurred before. Several times, actually. While things had changed, with the establishment of the New Republic, his father had begun to accept him again, but things were still never to be the same. He hadn't spoken to his mother, in the months before or the years since that conversation. He had done what he had to do, and while he would never consider the possibilities of his life had he not joined the Rebellion, he did occasionally regret what had happened. Being shunned by his family, disowned by a royal house, were not things he had wanted. Now they were gone, but the pain from those times, struggling against the Empire, the pain still existed.
Margul's thoughts began to wander again as he struggled to forget his dreaming. He had only been in Grey for a week, and yet he had no idea where he was, nor where he was going. He imagined Castor, in all his immaculate mystery, had planned it to be that way. Even what they were doing, why they were doing it, it all remained shrouded in the thick fog of the unknown. While unsettling, this was not to deter Petr. Despite being born an aristocrat, he had known the soldier's life for almost a decade. There were times when one did not know what they were doing, only that they had to do.
What unsettled him more, is what had occurred during his time in Grey. When he had taken Castor up on his offer to join, he had understood that the changes, everything would be hard on him. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that those changes would have driven him back to the bottle. It had been a weakness, a disease in his life that had first burst forth in all its putrid glory years earlier. It was a common tale, not unique in the least. Petr had watched a good friend die, and had blamed himself. Booze had been an easy solution to the pain. But it hadn't gone away when his grief had. It had stuck with him, following him everywhere it went. Eventually it had forced him into resigning his commission. Using his finances to buy an old YT1300, he had journeyed into the stars to find himself. Only six months ago he had returned, confident that he had successfully exorcized his demons. The last week had shown him that his trip through hell was just beginning.

-----

Margul performed one last check on the squint before the reversion to realspace. He had a feeling in the pit of his gut, one he usually got before a mission, but it was stronger now. He didn't know what awaited him once he flew clear of the Aragorn, but something told him it wouldn't be good. Over the intercom, Flight Control counted down until their reversion and the release of the TIEs. Margul took a deep breath. He always felt like he was choking in these TIE suits.
With a deep rumble, the TIE suddenly exploded into space. Immediately the intercom in his helmet cracked to life. Before him, the base they had been sent to retrieve the computer cores from was under attack by a Frigate. Margul attempted to scan the enemy ship, but, like the Dreadnaught he had encountered earlier, he had received nothing. However, it didn't take a deep scan to ascertain that the ship was hostile.
Switching to single lasers, Margul began to strafe the ship, aided by YWings as well as the stations counterfire. Quicker than he had imagined, the large ship's shields were stripped away, and the YWings moved in for the quick disable. The station had been saved, for the moment, with its shields at the point of failing. Margul turned to the scattering of TIE Fighters that had been launched from the Frigate. While the other ships from the Aragorn and the Thistle had cut most of them down, one was still flying. Aiming carefully, Margul put a quad shot right through its left wing, causing the pylon to disintegrate, and the ship, fatally wounded, to spiral into the distance.
Margul turned away and prepared to escort the Brier and the Bramble, both who were headed for the station. He heard a launch warning, and turned back toward the Frigate. Supposedly dormant, it had just issued two very much alive TIE Advanced from its innards.
Margul cursed.
Now he was facing a ship superior to his own in almost every way. Preparing for the fight of his life, Margul throttled toward the two TIEs. However, rather than fire on him, both simply zoomed past and continued on their course. Possibly, they were trying to get through to tell someone who we were. Knowing this not to be an option, Margul throttled up and tried to keep pace with the faster Advanced. Meticulously, he lined up the closer of the two in his targeting reticle. Waiting for the green outline, he depressed the trigger, sending several salvos of quadlinked bolts at the fleeing Advanced. The first several bounced off the shields. Glancing at his indicator, Margul could see the shields were failing. Undeterred, he kept up his attack. Again, his first shots deflected harmlessly away. But the next shots struck home, neatly eviscerating the ship into fragments of metal. His wingman had a farther lead, but Margul just had to aim even better.
Lining up the other TIE in his reticle, he let loose with repeated quad blasts. Several missed before he managed to fully line up with the Advanced. Again the first couple hits were absorbed by the shields, but then, when the TIE was about to escape his firing range, the two bottom shots of a quadlinked pair managed to slip past the weakened shields, finding the TIE's engine cowling and completing severing it from the ship, destroying the power plant and causing a brilliant corusca of an explosion. He was not allowed a moment to gloat, however.
Frantic voices filled his communit. The Bramble was under attack. Putting all power to his engines, he pushed the TIE to the fastest it would go, mentally urging it on, willing him toward the threatened ship. While he had been cutting down their comrades, three more Advanceds had launched from the frigate. It had been a brilliant ploy, Margul thought, and now it was possible the occupants of the Bramble would pay the price. Margul came upon the TAs without opposition, as if they were so intent on the Bramble's destruction that a single Interceptor was like a flea to them. Determined to get their attention, Margul opened up on the first Advanced. All three salvos found the Advanced, and reduced its shields to nothing. Obviously alarmed now, the TIE broke off its strafing run of the Bramble. Following it, Margul stayed with him through several elaborate maneuvers, waiting for the pilot to level off, even momentarily. The moment came as the pilot of the Advanced tried to put more time between them. Quickly lining him up, Margul snapped off a shot that impacted squarely with the TIE, enveloping it in a flash of light.
He turned in time to see the Bramble die. Its shields ripped to pieces by the Advanced, suddenly the strafing shots of the TIEs broke through, ripping into the hull. More and more shots impacted the hull, shredding it like a rain of death. Wracked by explosions, the shuttle convulsed, then, suddenly, split apart. Anger now flashed through Margul. Without a second's hesitation, he fell on the two TIEs, who were now very much aware of his presence. He dropped the shields of one, and was dropping in behind it for the finishing touch, when his cockpit came alive with the scream of a warning klaxon. Relying on instinct, Margul broke up and to the side, just missing a stream of fire from the other TIE's wing. He threw himself into a series of maneuvers, causing the Advanced to break off and put some distance between them in hopes of another run. Margul was willing to give him the time. Immediately he fastened onto the Advanced he had first fired on, and after several missed shots, it joined its three other cohorts. Margul now turned to face the last Advanced. While it was, in all ways a more superior ship, Margul held no doubts as to the superior pilot. Ignoring the warning of an impending missile lock, Margul threw his ship into a series of elaborate dives and jinks, evading the fire coming from the Advanced. Rather than match the TIE's frantic single shots, Margul linked his shots, watching the first salvos splash against the TIEs shields. Margul continued in toward the TIE, almost to the point where they would ram, and then the Advanced pilot blinked. He threw his ship into a loop, avoiding Margul's careening Interceptor. Petr turned sharply to the side, coming up just under the Advances loop. His first shots were high, passing in front of the other ship's cockpit. Alarmed, the pilot attempted to shy to the side, to roll out and behind Petr's squint. The Advanced pilot broke, and began his roll, directly into Margul's shot. All four shots gored into the eyeball frame of the ship, shredding it into four jagged pieces, all of which exploded into radiant flame as the TIE's power plant went critical.
Sighing, Margul pointed his TIE toward the Saguaro. There were some brave commandos to bury.
And someone, somewhere, had some explaining to do.

******************

Fion Grell: Flying Flight 2.2 - Alternate P.O.V.
*Now, THAT is neat!*
Skimming a handful of meters over the Saguaro's hull at full blast was definitely one of those things that made it into the "do it again someday" category. By the time I cleared the bridge  only a few seconds had passed since the reversion back to realspace  my adrenaline had me on a high that served well to dispel the boneweariness I'd been feeling all day.
One glance at the radar, however, brought me back down to eart… back to reality. There was a Frigate pummeling the station we were here to defend...great. Flicking my comm to transmit, I asked, "Sag, can you do something about those eyeballs?"
As Flight Control answered, I could distinctly hear EfrataLandis shouting orders in the background. Didn't we all love hot zones..."Negative, Thorn Lead. In fact, orders are for YOU to take them out."
I gritted my teeth and slightly altered my course. "Sag, I'm more useful distracting that Frigate and saving the station, or at least giving our people a chance to evac."
There was a brief pause. "Affirmative."
Doubleclicking my comm to signal recieving the orders, I inverted my fighter and "dove" down at the Frigate's starboard side. She had all guns firing at the station, and I managed to strafe her hull unmolested twice, taking out one gun emplacement.
"You're welcome," an unknown voice said. Frowning, I checked the comm board...the person who had spoken had been the lead pilot in the YWing group that had just recently arrived.
Still confused, I turned back towards the Frigate...and realized what he'd meant.
She was neither maneuvering, not firing any more. Grinning, I replied, "Thanks. I owe you a drink."
The wishbone pilot laughed. "Not you; the people on that station do."
Still smiling, I said, "Copy that" and turned back to the Saguaro.

**************************

Dave Trebonius-Astoris: Flying 5.2 - Alternate P.O.V.

The Saguaro had entered a combat zone ripe for spilled blood. Dave had immediately launched, throttling his Tie Interceptor to full power, the TIE Fighters of Thorn Flight directly behind him. He noted grimly that space was literally buzzing with TIE Fighters who didn't look too friendly, and that the Platform was locked in a death struggle with a Nebulon B. Frigate.
Dave gritted his teeth. He heard the calls of target choice from the other TIE group, but did not reserve a fighter for himself, flying instead straight to the Nebulon B. He was not the least surprised when he got nothing from his identification probe but static.
About this time the Brier arrived with 6.1 hot on its tail. After hearing some banter between the Brier and its TIE Interceptor, Dave croaked into the comm with some amusement, "Glad you could join the fun, 6.1."
Then he was in the thick of the dogfight. He managed to put down one TIE Fighter, and immediately after the Frigate was disabled and his computer chimed as hostile TIE Advanced began pouring into the area. Dave groaned at the assessment, but decided to help take them one by one. The first pair fell quickly, perhaps surprised by the swiftness of their attack. The others
knocked out the Bramble and a Thorn TIE Fighter before Dave and the rest could deal with them.
"Nice shooting, 6.2" came a shaky voice from the platform. Dave did a flyby of the platform, waggling his T/I's wings in reply. The Brier boarded the platform and returned to the Saguaro without incident, at which time Dave followed it into the docking bay.

****************************

End log: T5B2M2

Battle 2 Mission 3: Debtor’s Due

The spiraling pattern of brightness burst into lines which shortened to points of light as the Aragorn merged into real-space. Neither Castor nor Horvath took more than a short second to assess the situation that they saw through the forward viewport.
“LAUNCH FLIGHTS ONE AND TWO!” Horvath shouted.
“LAUNCH FLIGHT FIVE!!” Castor added urgently.
“GET US THERE FAST!” The commander yelled.
The comm was a flurry of acknowledgments.
“DAMMIT!!”
No one was quite sure who that came from.
“STATUS!!”
“All systems GREEN!”
“FLIGHT FIVE, THE FRIGATE IS YOURS!”
“FLIGHT ONE AND TWO, YOU”RE ON THE TIEs!!”
“BRIER’S COMING IN!!”
“GODS!!”
“BRIER PULL UP!!”
“Brier, evasive!” From the ship to ship.
“LIGHTWIND, WATCH...!!”
“SITH-SPIT!!”
“SIR, THE BRIER AND LIGHTWIND HAVE BOTH CLEARED THE ARAGORN!”
“CLEARED, AYE!”
“BANSHEE SHIELDS AT FIFTY PERCENT!”
“FRIGATE SHIELDS AT SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT!!”
“SOMEBODY GET THAT FREAKIN’ FRIGATE!!”
“BANSHEE SHIELDS DOWN!!”
“LIGHTWIND HAS ENGAGED THE FRIGATE. TARGETING GUNS!”
“ENEMY TIES HAVE BEEN DESTROYED!”
“BANSHEE HULL AT FIFTY PERCENT!!”
“FRIGATE SHIELDS DOWN!”
“FRIGATE DISABLED!”
“Good work, Five! Base status!”
“Base hull at twelve percent!”
“Nicely done, Six, One and Two!”
“Sir. Number Two Y-Wing and Flight 2 lead are EVA.”
“Dawn’s Hope is launching the Thistledown to recover.”
“Roger, that!”
“Control, this is Brier.” From the ship to ship. “It took a little doing, but we didn’t hit anything, and I’m not shorter than I started out. Request permission to board.”
“Granted Brier. Approach 8.9 by 8.9." Slightly behind and slightly below. Out of the direct path of anything likely to launch.
“Roger, Control. Brier out.”
“Launch the Bramble! Stay sharp all! We want that core!”
The bridge crew was hard pressed to continue to pay attention to their stations, instead of watching the Bramble pass by the Frigate. The Thistledown was already on it’s second leg of recovery.
“BOGEYS FROM THE FRIGATE!”
“TWO ADVANCED CLASS TIES!”
It was hard keeping track of who was who, but Margul and Dave had reported that they were on the newcomers.
“ESCORT CLASS TRANSPORT JUST LAUNCHED!”
“HEADING!”
“STRAIGHT AWAY! THREE MORE ADVANCEDS JUST LAUNCHED!!”
“LOOK OUT, PEOPLE! FLIGHT FIVE COMES IN!!”
“ASSUME ADVANCEDS SCREEN FOR ETR COMMAND ESCAPE!”
No, Castor thought, that’s not right. But he didn’t have any better knowledge on which to base any other assumption. He looked around the battle field quickly. After the first Avenger of the first group was destroyed, the second started evasive maneuvers. And then he spotted the missile trails. Straight for the Bramble. If he’d been on the base, he’d have had the core out and waiting for the Comm/Comp team when they boarded. It might even be on board the Bramble by now.
The explosions created a ball of fire around the cockpit of the little Escort Shuttle.
“GET THEM OUT OF THERE!” Castor yelled. “BRAMBLE - EVAC TO STATION!!”
The second load of missiles sent pieces of the Bramble scattering into space. Some, nothing big enough to stress the shields, were headed toward the Aragorn. The entire landing platform wing of the station started to rip away from the base. Debris and explosions were almost completely obscuring the wing from visuals.
Castor watched the Bramble and the base wing tumble off into space. And he felt...

---------------

In the Brier’s cockpit, Captain Lessa Kylara having dropped the Brier into it’s cradle lightly, called Flight Control for further instructions. She watched the lift roll over felt the slight bump when it made contact with the hull just forward of her viewport. The deck hand had the hose up and waiting. As Lessa reached to flip the switch to allow the hand access to the fuel tank, she swatted at a second toggle to allow the comm to play through the cabin speakers. The trap door popped open on the hull, and the hand screwed the fittings together.
“Brier, stand by,” came from the speakers. “Prior orders remain in effect.”
“Aye control.” The deck hand gave Lessa a thumb’s up, which she returned, flipping the switch to allow the refueling. She tapped the gauge twice, and then stuffed an unruly lock of her light red hair back under her helmet past her pointed ear. She had a couple extra moments, so she popped her safety harness and checked the restraints on the booster seat attached to her pilot’s chair. Avoiding both the Aragorn and Lightwind upon reentry had stressed the connections almost as much as it had herself.
She seemed quite human at first glance, but the sharp facial features of her species gave her a resemblance to the elves of old children’s tales. Although she was short, she wasn’t all THAT short. 1.49 and a half meters, thank you very much! But she was VERY short for a commando, and very light. As a commando, she was fast enough not to require the strength required in many cases in personal combat, but her specialty was insertion-extraction. Providing access and egress for assault teams. More than just a transport pilot. Much more.
She climbed back into the chair and tapped the gauge again. She buckled her harness and flipped the switch to stop the fuel flow. She gave the waiting hand a thumb’s up, and he disconnected the hose, avoiding the steaming drops of super cold liquid that inevitably dripped from the hose.
After running her preflight checks again, she signed the datapad her copilot handed her with the readings that he’d taken during the last jump, and handed it back to him, which he traded for another datapad that held the Brier’s current orders and supply log. She signed that one as well, and pressed the button on the console.
“How we doing back there?”
“Medical, Environment, Rations and Housekeeping checked, restored and/or swapped.” The report came back. “We’re sealed, in place, and ready to lift.” They heard the transmissions too when she’d switched to the main speaker system. “How you doin, Kylara? Need that chair extracted? That was a fairly fun ride in.”
“Thanks, but no thanks! Size equates directly to pucker power. If you’d been in the hot seat, we’d have had to extract both this chair and the next one too. Which, by the way, would have let me see a side of you that no one should ever have to. Not to mention the fact that you’d have probably gotten a lobotomy as the chair went by.”
“Gunsmoke!” One of the commandos yelled from the back among the hoots and hollers. “Oh man! Grand slam!” No one yelled Whiplash, which was the nickname she'd been given after verbally decimating her first few opponents upon joining Shock. But she grinned just as if they had.
Lessa grinned, having unquestionably decimated her verbal opponent, and called back. “Anyone else want a go?”
“As you said. Thanks but no thanks,” came back.
"Wimps!" She said curtly into the commlink and grinned wider. "Now sit down and behave yourselves, and let me hear what's going on.”

---------------

Just like the previous Grey Squadron, the new Greys were getting into the habit of meeting in the Bar and Grill, even the off duty ones who had to interrupt their sleep schedule, after each mission. Most of the Greys had their favorite on or off duty drinks which the gotal, Tesserak, had silently placed in front of them, after which he had disappeared in his typical ghost-like fashion to leave them with their thoughts. All of the drinks had been unordered. Some remained untouched. The announcement came over the general ship comm.

...This is Admiral Efrata-Landis...
...I have an update on the status of the Bramble and crew...
...After docking with the Banshee Base...
...the Comm/Comp team met with the Katarns, who had already pulled the core...
...Most of the Bramble personnel were inside the landing wing...
...when the Bramble was attacked...
...We suspect that the attack on the Bramble was for the sole purpose...
...of covering the escape of the Frigate’s command crew aboard the Escort Transport...
...The Bramble, the platform wing, and the base core were subsequently destroyed...
...While Major Drefclu and his team...
...along with most of the Bramble command team...
...were able to escape back into the base, they did sustain injuries...
...The price of their safety, however, was the lives of the Bramble pilots...
...Captains Forjetti and Minaria...
...and the Shock Leader, Commander Garant...
...who was only able to close the blast doors and save our teams lives...
...by remaining on the wrong side of them..........

--------

“Bramble, you are clear to launch.” Their clearance came over ship to ship. Captain Forjetti didn’t look to get Garant’s clearance too. He’d served under her for a number of years. She knew her people, and she let them do their jobs. He nodded to his copilot, Minaria, who eased the repulsor power up a bit so the launch tractor wouldn’t have to work as hard. The copilot guided the Escort Shuttle through the containment field.
Garant sat behind the copilot, watching the monitor closely. The Brier and Lightwind’s Interceptor had come in. Plenty off course. Apparently they’d thought about the possible situation they’d find, but guessed wrong. Everyone had guessed wrong. Nice bit of flying, though. On both parts. The Brier had missed the Aragorn, and Lightwind had missed both the transport and cruiser. Her estimation of Lightwind’s reflexes went up another notch.
“And Margul… Didn’t do too badly with Kashyyyk level two, either. A few things to learn, but there’s hope for him yet”, she thought.
With Margul’s help, the Greys had disabled the Nebulon B Frigate quickly. Quickly enough to keep the Banshee base intact. But only just barely so. The station had gases and fluids of various sorts escaping from a number of places, and was starting to drift out of position. The frigate had turned when it’s shields went down, and it was slowly drifting away from the base.
And now she understood.
The Katarns had report that the frigate had arrived just minutes before the Aragorn. The Dreadnaught that had entered the area of the Aragorn’s asteroid field must have been sent to delay Grey’s arrival here. Someone knew that most of Grey’s fighters weren’t hyper capable. They had thought to distract the Greys from boarding and keep the Aragorn on station. And it had, in reality, come only a half a minute too late for that plan to succeed. The Aragorn had left on schedule, and arrived here with just barely enough time to save the base and the Katarns. Any delay at all would have seen the frigate clear of this area with nothing left but bodies and debris.
Someone is watching our communications very closely. The Admiral says the breach is not on the Aragorn. I’ve tried hard to prove him wrong. But we’re turning up nothing. We’re going to have to lock out communications entirely.
“Control, this is Bramble,” Forjetti spoke clearly into his headset. “We are free of the Saguaro, and proceeding to the Banshee Base.”
“Roger that, Bramble.”
Forjetti flipped a small toggle on the console and spoke more toward the comm on the bulkhead not very far from his face. “We’re free of the Aragorn, Major.” He informed the Comp/Comm team leader. “How’s your team?”
The Given’s voice came back though the speaker. “We-a are-a quite-a fine-a, Captain.” Drefclu replied slowly. “Thank you-a.”
Garant watched the Grey’s clear the last of the frigate’s TIEs during the minute it took to fly over to the base and dock. You’ve got more. You’ve got the room. Where are they? What are you waiting for? Garant silently asked the frigate. But as the docking clamps latched, she found out. An Escort Transport, much heavier than an Assault Transport like the Brier, launched from the frigate. Along with five Avenger class TIEs. Some of the TIEs ran toward the Thistle, and some ran in a different direction, and the Escort Transport in a third. And that would be everything they’ve got left. Might have to pick up a few Greys on the way back. But the Avengers shouldn’t be a problem. Running interference for the transport. Greys can take them. Through the open hatch Garant heard her team and Drefclu’s leaving the Bramble, so she took her attention away from the monitor, and patted Forjetti on the shoulder once as she made her way off the shuttle herself.
Drefclu’s team was talking with the Katarn’s computer experts as she caught up to them. The core had already been yanked, poly-bagged, and was waiting on a grav-dolly. Although she couldn’t identify the make and model exactly, it seemed to be an older core. Had Shock been here instead of the Katarns, she would have had them minimize the Comp/Comm’s extraction time by yanking the casing too.
WHUMP!
Garant was thrown off her feet, the core crashed to the floor inches away from her head. She rolled up instantly and yelled. “EVERYONE OUT!! BASE!! LEAVE THE CORE!! GO! GO! GO!!” She slapped the toggle on her headset. “FORJETTI, REPORT!” She watched Kanashaak grab up three of the Comp/Comm team members as he sped toward the main section of the base. She jerked Major Drefclu off his feet as she passed, carrying him far faster than the given could have hobbled, his exterior skeleton mechanics being what they were.
“One of the Avengers hit us with missiles! Turned back on us before anyone knew about it! All systems down. Launch impossible. Evac’ing the Bramble!” The call came back. The Bramble’s hatch opened and the two pilots bailed out scrambling to get away from the shuttle.
WHUMP! WHUMP!!
They’re not going to make it. Garant slapped the release to the blast doors as she passed it. “Seal yourself!” She told the given as she watched the bulkhead beside her separate. The air rushed past her, but in the wrong direction to allow her to reach the blast doors before they closed. “GRAB HOLD!” She yelled to him as she threw the Major as hard as she could toward nearest stable handhold.
Just before her eyes exploded from the vacuum, as she shot away from the station into the void, she watched the entire landing wing separate from the base. The Bramble tumbled off. It was in pieces.
I’m sorry. Was all she had time left to think.

-----

..........Commander Garant has our appreciation for her sacrifice...
...and will be given the Republic’s highest honor...
...A short ceremony will be given on the flight deck as soon as possible...
...As for the other personnel involved...
...Due to Major Drefclu’s particular body structure...
...he was somewhat luckier than most of his team...
...While the worst of the other injuries might be serious, none are critical...
...and after a little time in the bacta tanks, the Comm/Comp away team...
...as well as the attending Katarns and Shock, should be back on duty shortly...
...The destruction of the Bramble and the docking wing to which it was attached...
...was complete...
...The base core was lost, and nothing salvageable was recovered...
...More information will be forth coming as it becomes available...
...Thank you...

Many of the Greys hung their heads. They had been assigned the task of ensuring the recovery of the Banshee base computer core. They were relieved to hear that Comm/Comp team was on board and recovering, but when the Bramble had been destroyed there was no doubt that they’d failed. It was just a matter of to what degree. No one had expected Avengers to be on board - the one Interceptor would have had little problem against more Fighters or even other Interceptors while the rest of the group aborted their docking procedures.
So they moped in the Bar or reran the mission in the simulators just to see if they’d had any chance at saving the Bramble and Commander Garant.

-----

Castor entered the Bar, and the Greys, who had all been there for the better part of three hours, sprang to their feet. Even the two older Greys and Dave.
“Sir!” They yelled.
“At ease,” Castor said quietly, and the Greys moved to the formal rest position. Castor knew that they were feeling rather badly, about the injuries to the CompComm team, about the loss of the Shock commander, about the loss of the Bramble, about the loss of the Banshee computer core, and about their own failure at being able to prevent any of it. “Sit down, please,” he said gently. The pilots sat. Castor took the nearest rigid chair and sat on the back of it with his feet in the seat, above everyone so they’d be able to see and hear him clearly. He leaned forward with his hands folded and his elbows on his knees.
“We lost a very valuable part of our crew today, far over and above a significant piece of hardware.” Castor paused for a moment, letting his words take the pilots to a slightly lower mood. “We, and myself personally, owed Garant our lives many times over. Our strength has been reduced not only by the firepower of the Bramble, but it has been drastically reduced by the loss of Commander Garant.” He saw a number of the Greys faces darken as they blamed themselves for the losses. “We also, however, have learned an exceedingly valuable lesson.” He paused again and saw the younger pilots interest pique.
“Exactly what lesson would that be, sir.” Ray sounded irritated, but Castor knew that she was only frustrated at having the mission turn out badly.
“We are neither invulnerable nor immortal,” Castor replied simply. “None of us are. Not the crew. Not you. And not me. We will not win every conflict, and we will lose both equipment and personnel. Many of you seated here might not live to see the engagement after the next one. We all run, know, and willingly accept that risk. And we absolutely can not let it debilitate us when we do lose. Despair is just as dangerous as overconfidence.”
“But I don’t have to like it,” Ray grumbled.
“You’re right,” was Castor’s quick and cheerful answer. “You don’t. And I prefer it that way. It makes it very clear to you, along with each and every one of us, that the next hide we lose might be yours. Not necessarily yours, of course, Miss Djo,” Castor nodded once, “but you get my point. It’ll keep all of us alive much longer if we only take the risks that are necessary. But it’ll make all of our spent time more productive if you all recognize the bigger risks that you can and should take. There’s a fine balance that we have to find between caution and bravado. A fine line that we are all required to walk. Myself even more than the rest of you,” he explained, “I’m the one that will be sending the next one of you to your death.”
Ray grumbled something this time that Castor didn’t quite hear.
“There is a military strategic concept called acceptable losses.” Castor continued. “Personally, I feel that, while equipment can be replaced, NO loss of life is acceptable. And if I were capable of half of the atrocities for which I am reputed...” Castor paused as he saw a few sheepish looks float around the group. “...I would either be out here alone, having sent you all to your deaths already. Or I would be out here taking on the enemy by myself, armed only with my bare teeth.”
“But rest assured, people,” Castor said fervently, “we will extract every iota of compensation from the enemy that the gods will allow. And even more if we can get away with it.” Castor paused to let those words sink in a little. “And our first opportunity is coming up shortly.”
He had their full attention now as he read the unspoken question “oh?” on their faces.
“One of the few items that we WERE actually able to find and recover from the base was a number of datapads, including the Banshee leader’s. It was locked in a hidden compartment under his command seat. Apparently, the Katarn unit had been after this particular band of pirates for a while and had infiltrated the group months ago. The spies the Katarns had planted on board apparently maximized the opportunity for the base to be taken so fast and efficiently that the pirate leader didn’t have the time to wipe the datapad’s memory.”
Castor heard a number of muffled “yes!”s.
“While the little smuggling compartment might have been effective against your run of the mill customs authorities, it was not up to the task of hiding a datapad from the Katarns once they had some time to make a thorough search, which they very well accomplished once they knew we were on our way.”
“Major Drefclu and his functional people have sliced these pads and gone through the information inside of them. We have a curious reference to the word ‘payment’, in an obscure language, which seems to be linked to a series of coordinates which show a destination in a system not far from here. Drefclu has also found some information which, he believes, will allow us to decode the transponders which seem to be only transmitting static. But that application, he assures me, will take-a a little-a longer.” Castor mimicked the Given’s slow Standard, which brought a few chuckles from the still partially moping Greys. But at least they were looking in noticeably better cheer than when he had arrived.
“Captain Ra isn’t optimistic about the damaged X-Wings, he declines to explain at depth, and just says ‘trust me - I’m not signing off on them’. And I’m supposed to tell you, from Ra, that if you break any more of your toys, he said he’s going to take them all away.” Castor kept his expression fairly blank, and his statement elicited the expected sounds and gestures of mild disgust and defiance from the pilots. “But he has used some of the parts from the X-Wings to repair the T-Wing, so we’re sending it on ahead to recon the site.”
“We’ll hyper in to the outside of the system,” Castor continued, “and wait outside for a status report. When you get there, you’ll see the T marked as ‘Banshee’, but it’ll be in red on your command ID screens. As soon as we get our report, we’ll go in, and you’ll launch. Clear any hostile starfighters, but watch for further orders - we’ll have very little warning as to what we’ll be hypering into. We’ve got about three hours before we expect you to have to launch. Get some rest now while you can. Past that it’s going to be ‘hurry up and wait’ until we get the update from the T.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Lightwind spoke up, “but if we’re looking for compensation for our lost craft and personnel, why did we leave that B at the Banshee base site so quickly?”
Castor paused for a moment. “That’s a good question,” he said, “and past the fact that y’all didn’t leave it in very good shape, it’s a question that can’t easily be answered.” Castor looked around at the pilots who’s faces all basically held the same question. “I acted on the feeling that, if we had stayed around and tried to take the Frigate, we would have lost a better opportunity. It’s possible that the personnel who escaped on that Escort Transport had the remaining crew ready to blow the ship if we stayed. If that was the case, we’d have lost much more than just an opportunity. Or any of a couple dozen possibilities. In any event, it felt like a bad time to worry about the frigate. I know that a feeling isn’t necessarily much to go on, but it’s all I’ve got sometimes. I fully accept that all of your lives, as well as those of everyone aboard this ship, may well depend on a feeling that I might get, too. And sometimes it comes down to just a lucky guess.”
“May all your guesses be lucky!” Dave called.
“Hmm... Thanks. Also, leaving the frigate gives the Katarns a little more hardware, along with keeping them busy, off the streets, and out of trouble.” Castor grinned as the pilots laughed.
Now,” Castor continued. “Since almost all of the Aragorn’s command personnel are pulling double duties already, I’ve asked Admiral Daggerscout to take over Garant’s command of Shock and Aragorn Security, and he has accepted. Being that the Shock people don’t talk much, but neither Teke nor I have turned up dead, I suspect that they approve of the decision. Daggerscout was the commanding officer of the Rebel Squadrons entire Commando Division for a long time, after all, so I don’t expect that they’ll object much regardless of the loyalty they had for Garant.”
“On the other hand,” Castor looked pointedly at Petr, “Teke has far less patience with foolishness than Garant did.” Margul looked at Dave as if to say that the subject had already been beat to death, so Castor left it at that.
“In any event. We believe that the escort transport that escaped was carrying the frigate’s command crew, so we don’t expect the Katarns will meet with much resistence from those that remain. If they can find anything of importance on the frigate, we will be notified. Considering, though, that the command team escaped, it’s presumed that they had enough time to wipe everything that we might find useful. Therefore, the only information that it may hold will be from the frigate’s crew. I don’t expect anything of value from them either, however.”
“So, be ready to rock and roll. Nest high, my Greys.”

--------------

Castor was sitting at his desk when Teke came in.
“Got a sec?”
“Well, hopefully I’ve got plenty of them left that I can squander a few here and there.” Castor tossed out the joke offhandedly. “Come on in and sit down.”
“Un-huh.” The joke flew right past the commando and into the recycler, without Teke’s bothering to field it. Just about as Castor had expected, and he swore that he was going to get some sort of a reaction from Teke before his own seconds ran out. “Anyway. I was packing Garant’s stuff to ship it home. I changed her status at her desk, and I got a message notice about an archived file.” Teke waved his hand toward Castor’s screen. “I think you’re going to want to see it.”
Castor started tapping the keys and found the file. It was a holograph recording, and it started to play. Castor’s moustache drooped belying his emotions when he saw the figure of Garant speaking to her console. She looked as calm as she always did.
“Last will and testament of Commander Garant.” Garant spoke softly but clearly, and Castor glanced up at Teke, who just nodded toward the holographic figure. “Updated upon assignment to, and installation on, the Aragorn, under the command of Admiral Castor Efrata-Landis. Being of sound mind and body, at this time I hereby bequeath my personal effects on board the Aragorn, if at all possible, to my parents, to be disposed of as they see fit. To my daughter...”
Castor’s eyebrows shot up, and he hit the pause button. “When did she have a daughter?” He asked Teke.
“Some time ago apparently,” was all Teke answered, and lifted his chin slightly toward the figure. Castor pressed resume.
“Heather Saffron Garant, I leave my land holdings in accordance with our customs. To my husband, Coriander Spring Wind...”
Castor pressed pause again, and Teke forestalled the oncoming question. “Don’t ask me. No one else knew either. They’re not in the RS database. And not in any database I could access in association with your Garant.” Castor looked incredulous, and continued playing the file.
“I leave the contents of the safe-box numbered Q19zTx84217, in the Senate building of my home planet Tetrammoden. The above items constitute all my physical possessions. All they need is to know of my death, and the items at home will be taken care of without the formalities of this file. I would, however, like to take care of a few other things, now.”
This was, without a doubt the longest that Castor had ever heard the former Shock Commander speak during their years of working together. She’d never been one for many words, even when they’d occasionally shared drinks in Castor’s office during her evening reports on Aragorn Security status. The holographic Garant took a deep breath.
“If this recording is being heard, then I’m dead. I’ve spent a long time learning how to prevent that while accomplishing the procedures and objectives of my duties. If I’m dead, that means I’ve personally failed an assignment. I can only hope that my sacrifice was worth the price, and that Grey ultimately succeeds in it’s endeavor.” Garant took another deep breath. “Admiral, I know that you’ll be viewing this at least once. I wanted to leave you with my undying gratitude for all the trust you’ve placed in me, and Shock, over the years. I hope that my failure hasn’t breached that trust, or caused the loss of any other life than my own. The Odin was my first command post. Even with all we went through, I know that you’ve missed that old boat for a long time. And now you’ve managed to get yourself in command of an even older one.” She chuckled. By now, Castor would have thought that nothing she could do or say would amaze him.
“A long time ago you asked if I had a first name. I told you truth when I said that I did. But I didn’t tell you what it was. Even though you never admitted you had, I know you spent far too much time doing data base searches. I don’t know why you looked, but I know you never found it. And I thought that was funny.” She took a moment, and looked away from the recorder. She ran her stocky fingers through her short and spikey blond hair. The corner of her mouth turned up as she smiled sadly and looked back at the recorder. “It’s Posy. …Posy Lavender Garant… I’m sorry I failed you, Admiral.” With that, she reached forward, touched a button on her console, and her holographic image fuzzed and blinked out.

******