The Vanguards: Ragnarok

[Ceto Rübezahl]

The music was loud; loud enough to drown in. That was the way he liked it. You could take all the baths and hydro showers you wanted to scrub the dirt of those wretched backwaters off your skin, but scrubbing the dirt from your mind was a much more complicated process. Ceto's abrasive of choice was Rylothian Opera; not the most pleasing of genres to the human ear, but it was the kind of indulgence that high society people invested their time in, so that they could brag about it to other high society people.

The orchestral crescendo was interrupted by the arrival of a figure in the doorway of his office: a space aboard the ship far closer to the bridge than his stateroom, which he'd usurped for his own needs and decorated to suit his tastes.

He sat forward, legs swinging down from the desk where they'd been balanced. A hand on the desk controls simultaneously halted the music and brought the lights back to a more typical level. He offered a polite smile to the arrival; though he knew full-well that the Captain would never return it.

"Crichton, what a pleasant surprise," he offered, though it wasn't: while the old veteran was an extremely dependable officer and tactical advisor, he was hardly the sort of person that one enjoyed spending time with.

He rose from his chair, crossing the office space to a drinks cabinet. "Rendili Whisky?" he asked, reaching for the appropriate bottle. "I know how fond you are of it; I had a bottle brought aboard especially."

[Crichton Stark]

Captain Stark didn't flinch; he merely offered the slightest shake of his head. "Perhaps another time," he offered: a platitude to sate the politician who was his charge. This was a delicate situation; he would need all of the leverage and persuasion he could get.

His hands were clasped behind his back, like a Cadet on parade in front of a visiting Flag Officer. In a way he was: Ceto Rübezahl was a Moff by rank, though he seldom wore the trappings of one; and as such he outranked a good portion of the Imperial military. It was a shame he didn't act more like one of the people he was technically senior to; for while Rübezahl might have been extremely talented at the job the Empire had given him, his tactical skills left a lot to be desired. He had the potential, yes, but as the Battle of Bothawui had shown: he relied a little too much on his tactical advisors, and not quite enough on his own initiative.

He'd paid the price for that mistake, and had only just recovered his political standing. Hopefully it was an error he would come to learn from.

"We have picked up a distress call," he explained, keeping his terminology as simple and direct as he could manage. "It is heavily distorted, but it seems like one of our cruisers – the Ragnarok - has been ambushed by the Alliance. We are in range; it would be irresponsible of us not to respond."

[Ceto Rübezahl]

A frown graced the Moff's brow. "Then why are you wasting time telling me about it? Why haven't you -"

Ceto stopped, a hint of a smile tugging at his face. He had known the Captain long enough to work out what his subtle tells were indicating. "You've already given the order," Ceto inferred, with a ghost of a chuckle. "You knew there wasn't time to talk the situation over with your albatross of a passenger, so you decided to wait until it was too late to say no."

He drew in a deep breath through his nose, the smile fading from his face. His hands clasped behind his back, head nodding in agreement. "Better to ask forgiveness than to seek permission," he summated. "I respect that, Captain. You'll get no complaints from me."

He hesitated briefly. "Though in future, it might be worth bearing in mind that this ship has a rather sophisticated internal communications system."

[Crichton Stark]

Only a beat passed before the Captain replied. "I did, sir. Your music must have been too loud for you to notice."

Knowing that he had pushed his luck with the politician's patience far enough, he offered a bow of his head before departing.

"I'll inform you as soon as we arrive in the Auron system."

*

Stark stood firm as the ship lurched from hyperspace. Many people flinched out of reflex at the sight of it, but a seasoned veteran like Stark knew that the inertial compensators would take care of all that. As far as his internal balance was concerned, the viewport ahead of him was just a pretty light show on a vid-screen.

The image that resolved itself in front of him was shocking enough that even he joined in with the verbal and non-verbal reactions cascading around the bridge. "My gods," he whispered, his voice hushed.

Hanging in space before them was what had once been a Strike Cruiser, though it was barely recognisable as such. Cannon strikes had decimated much of the structure that held it's modular design together, and it had twisted into a painful tri-segmented shadow of it's former self. Angry gashes and scars tore through what had once been a pristine white hull, burning plumes of atmosphere still venting into space. Stark didn't want to consider whether the swarm of fragments drifting around the wreck were debris, or something more morbid.

His attention turned to the Moff. Almost as if he'd somehow known, he'd changed into his military uniform, now dressed as if he was prepared to attend the funeral that they had just stumbled upon. He didn't say anything; merely offered Stark a nod of concession, and took the slightest of subtle steps back.

Stark straightened, staring out across his bridge as he gave his orders. "Get me long range tactical scans: if the ship responsible is still out here, I want them found. And check all Imperial frequencies for distress beacons: lets hope at least someone survived this."

He glanced across to his flight controller. "Launch two of our alert fighters. I want a visible inspection of that ship, looking for air pockets and pressurised cabins. Have rescue shuttles standing by in case they find any."

As a volley of 'aye, sir' rang back from the various crewmen; Stark’s mouth drew into a thin line, and his own words echoed back at him.

Lets hope at least someone survived this.

[Cael Bathala]

The alert fighters launched into the black like a volley of cannon fire from the Thunderchild. Taking point, Cael Bathala thumbed his TIEs sensor packages to life and began a preliminary ranged sweep, though his eyes were drawn quickly away from the sensor readouts to the remains of the Ragnarok. Even a blind mynock could see that the cruiser was as good as scrap. Whatever was capable of doing that kind of damage should have registered long ago on the Thunderchild's radar, if it was still within sensor range. That didn't make Cael any less anxious about how large the Ragnarok was beginning to loom ahead of him, however.

“You picking up anything off this thing, Dubreas?”

[Kistra Dubreas]

"Not a damn thing."

Kistra wasn't sure if that was comforting or not. Great that whatever it was that had caused the damage was no where in sight, but not so great with what it was they were seeing. Even a Hellfire pilot saw their share of destruction, even if it was while just watching Shadow do their work... but this... well this was just above and beyond anything she had ever seen. No way were they going to find anyone left.

But you had to try and stay optimistic, she supposed. Though there was a growing sense of discomfort at the thought of survivors. Whatever had attacked the Ragnarok had done an amazing job of pure destruction, but just the right amount. It would have been far easier to just blow the damn thing up if you wanted to get rid of it. No... someone was making a point, and a big one at that. And when that was the reason behind something like this... well... Kistra had to wonder if the crew was just better off dead.

Kistra shuddered slightly and continued to watch the sensor readouts.

"I've gotta hand it to the Rebels on this one... if they're going for intimidation, I think they've pulled it off."

[Cael Bathala]

The TIEs thrusters burned brighter as Cael edged the 'fighter ever closer, tilting the craft this way and that to avoid clipping its wings against the debris. His sensors cycled through all available modes of analysis, sweeping across the outer-hull of the cruiser then casting out further into its hollowed-out innards. Each sweep came back negative. As lifeless as the Ragnarok appeared to be, instinct told Cael to keep power outputs to a minimum. Anything else felt like it'd be too loud - too disrespectful even - for what amounted to a floating graveyard.

“You get the feeling we're poking our noses in somewhere we shouldn't be?”

[Crichton Stark]

Stark listened as, distorted by interference, signal scrambling, and background radiation, the pilot's conversation played out through the speakers in the bridge. His mouth drew into a thin line as Dubreas' summation tumbled through the air. The Rebels.

There were many kinds of rebels - many dissident groups who weren't particularly happy with the way the Galactic Empire did things - but it was clear which particular group she was thinking of. The so-called Alliance to Restore the Republic may have been vilified in the propoganda pieces as the assassins of Palpatine and the perpetrators of numerous other crimes against the Empire, but Stark was old enough and seasoned enough to see through most of that.

The Alliance was a group of idealists. They didn't have the balls for an attack this vicious: it was exactly the kind of Imperial brutality that they abhorred. But if they weren't responsible for this, then who?

"Signal Firefly," he instructed, his mind ticking over what he remembered about Strike Cruisers from his service aboard one, years before. "We're going to need sensor data from that wreck, if we can get it." With sensor telemetry streaming back from the recon flight, an increasingly accurate holographic display of the Ragnarok was being built by the computer. The command deck was devastated; but the engineering section on the other hand -

"We should be able to retrieve a secondary memory core from the emergency command and control post on deck seven, aft." He considered his options carefully. Too much time spent lingering here would let the trail go stale; their odds of catching the people responsible were decreasing by the minute. Prepping a salvage team would take far too much of the time they simply didn't have.

By virtue of it's design however, the TIEs currently surveying the wreck offered an alternative.

"Can our pilots get close enough to make a safe EVA into that part of the ship?"

[Kistra Dubreas]

It seemed odd to her that everything was quiet... Not from the Ragnarok, but from command. Surely there was something they'd want a closer look at, or want a particular area scanned again or...well, anything. Then again, maybe they were just as stunned by the desolation as she was.

No sooner than the thought had occurred to her and she was about to force some sort of new comment to Cael, the comm crackled to life and a crisp voice flooded her senses.

"Recon team, we are going to need you to board the ship and retrieve the Ragnarok's memory core from engineering."

It was such a simple thing to say... From the safety of a chair aboard a big cruiser. Kistra found herself less comfortable with the order though. Sure, it was possible, sure their flight suits and helmets would protect them from the vacuum no doubt present on the vessel thanks to the numerous hull breaches... But still, they had to be insane to even think of a thing like that! Only the brave, daring, experienced types were made for someone like that. They were Hellfire... They were...

It word dawned on her with grim reality. Expendable.

Well, if there was one thing her father had taught her it was respect of command and no matter how much she wanted to question and berate whoever it was that decided on this course of action, all that could slip from her lips was: "Understood."

[Hurst Falco]

Goddamn reassignment.

The thought pounded through Captain Falco's mind as he ran through the troop garrison corridors aboard Thunderchild. He'd gotten the 'talk' from Tagge. She encouraged him to seek an assignment that would allow a better chance of promotion. Bullshit. She just didn't like eggshells in her perfect little Cloud City omelette. Fine. His methods didn't jive with polite people with agendas. That he could understand. Still, he preferred to get a straight answer. An armor commander on a destroyer garrison that was more or less assigned to guard dog duty of Bespin? And this was a promotion?

Falco continued to run. Twenty laps around the garrison in the morning, twenty in the evening. Weights midday. Had to keep your weapon serviceable, after all. Gave him time to think. Time to stay angry.

Part of his circuit took him by the windows that marked the outermost periphery of the garrison decks. As he turned a corner, he saw half his platoon crowded around each of them.

"Can you believe that?"

"Those bastards!"

"Rebel scum!"

"It's payback time!"

Falco slowed to a stop, wiping the perspiration from his face on the bottom of his PT shirt. From his vantage, he watched the gutted corpse of the Ragnarok vent plasma and debris. Whoever did this...

Hurst Falco said nothing, but he knew he had an outlet for his anger out there. Somewhere.

[Cael Bathala]

“Understood.” Kistra's voice filtered through the speakers in his Cael's, made shaky by more than just distortion. He sucked in a long breath as their ships drifted further forward, given sufficient momentum by just a fractional application of their thrusters.

He could have asked if Dubreas had done anything like this before, but he already knew the answer. Hellfire Squadron was proving ground for pilots, the trial-by-fire that they went through before being reassigned to a unit that had a real purpose. Their bread and butter was flight formations and combat air patrols, not extra-vehicular exploration of dead starships.

When Cael thought about it, it was stupid to be scared. All that ever stood between them and the unforgiving black of space was a thin canopy and hull. They were only ever one stray blaster bolt away from their transparisteel viewport shattering inwards and sucking them out into the cold, merciless vacuum.

That's it, Cael. Think positive thoughts.

“Dubreas,” Bathala flipped a switch on his comms, ensuring that only the pilot flying at his side would hear what he had to say. “I.. I've got this. You just.. keep an eye out for me while I'm in there, alright?”

[Kistra Dubreas]

Oh the brave hero, willing to sacrifice himself to save her from the horror of finding yourself alone in space. So noble, so commendable... So... Self-serving.

Kistra knew damn well what pulling off this stunt could mean: A one way ticket to promotion-land and a Get-Out-Of-Hellfire-Free card. Bad enough Cael was an actually good pilot in comparison to most of Hellfire, but to add this to his resume while she hung back would just be crippling. No way was the rising star taking off without her. Not this time.

"Not a chance. No telling what the integrity of the ship is like in there. If I'm just out here playing watch dog you could get killed before anyone could get to you. We both go in. We both come out."

[Cael Bathala]

A minute later, they'd entered the inner-debris of the wreck.

Their TIEs hung almost motionless in space, revolving by degrees. With his main view-port angled perpendicular to the Ragnarok, Cael's cockpit access hatch faced the dead ship. He reached above his head to where the hatch release controls were and wrapped the gloved fingers of one hand around the release mechanism then took a deep breath.

It was irrational, to fear leaving the TIE. The starfighter wasn't equipped with life-support systems – those were all part of his spacesuit and helmet – but a cold weight settled into his gut, regardless, at the thought of popping the access hatch open. It didn't help that they had no way of securing themselves to the 'fighters.

With a pop, Cael pulled down on the hatch release control and the dome above him swung slowly open. Bare structural framework and the torn remains of a walkway lay ahead.

Cael bent at the knees -

“Last one in buys the victory booze.”

- then pushed, drifting weightlessly forwards.

[Kistra Dubreas]

Cold terror gripped her, tightening her chest, making it hard to breathe as she stared at the open space above her. It just wasn't normal. But the site of Bathala in the corner of her eye spurred on the competitive nature in her, overriding the rational comfort of staying put.

The first initial kick off from the TIE was easy compared to the sudden uncontrolled free movement through space. The complete lack of control was far worse than any sort of image her mind could come up with. They were floating in the general direction of the derelict ship, which was at least somewhat comforting.

The moments seemed to drag on infinitely, painstakingly until her gloved hand reached out and finally wrapped around a twisted piece of metal. Kistra pulled herself close to the wreck, forcing her feet to find a place to rest as well. She let out a long breath of relief and looked over to where Cael was most likely to have landed.

"Well, hard part's over, right?"

[Cael Bathala]

The aft emergency command and control post was directly ahead of them, at the end of a hallway that had been ripped apart from every angle. Panels from the floor, walls and ceiling had been blown away, leaving gaped ragged holes in their blast. Cael pulled himself along the wall towards the opening ahead where mangled bits of floor grating had become embedded into what had once been a door.

The blast door had buckled inwards, as though struck by a giant fist. Cael clung to the edge of the warped metal, the torchlight shining from the top of his helmet lancing into the darkness that lay beyond. The turning of his head made sluggish by the absence of gravity, the beam passed over was a haphazard collection of shapes, contorted at every angle. Most of them angular and artificial but some...

Kistra glided into place beside him, hooking gloved fingers around a smoother section of the torn metal. Cael glanced sidelong at her, barely able to see her from within the confines of his helmet. Without a word, Cael pulled at the edge of the blast door and tried to angle himself into the opening.

Instantly, his helmet bumped against something. Panic burst inside of Cael's chest as he feared the worst – that the sealed between his helmet and suit would somehow burst. His head-mounted torch flicker, blinking on and off, but the suits seal remained firm. With his head and neck wedged into the opening, Cael felt his feet slowly drifting upwards behind.

“Gimme a push. I'll pull you in after me.”

[Kistra Dubreas]

What was that Davis had said about teamwork? That they were all going to die a horrible death unless they learned the value of it? Yeah, it was something like that. Well, at least the gist was enough to remind Kistra not to pull Cael out of the hole and dive first in herself, heedless of the danger, only thinking of how good someone's record will look when they were the one to find the memory core.

It still took her a moment to take a deep breath and consider the options before finally realizing that getting into some sort of tiff with Bathala out in the wreckage of a ship wasn't really the smartest idea.

"Right."

Kistra waited until he had pulled himself into the ship just a bit more before forcing herself to let go of the opening with one of her hands and give her fellow pilot the smallest of shoves that sent him vanishing into the wreck far faster than she had intended. Damn zero gravity. She panicked a moment again, wondering if he was going to leave her stranded in the void of space.

With a deep breath she moved to where Cael had been moments later, reaching her hands out to hopefully grasp his. She couldn't see anything except the light from her helmet reflecting off the twisted bits of metal...something that may have been even more disorienting than the initial float away from her TIE.

[Cael Bathala]

The push was just what Cael had needed, and yet he hadn't considered what would happen after he'd made it through the damaged blast door. He needed to reorient himself. He drifted away from the opening where Kistra stood peering into the gloom, the absence of gravity making turning to return to her an almost impossible task. Glancing back over his shoulder towards her, he didn't even see the body until he collided with it.

His helmet smacked into a fleshless skull, separating it from the neck of a body that was wedged between a misshapen seat and what might have once been a console. Cael braced his gloved hands against the console, wide-eyed as he watched the disembodied skull begin to drift away from him. Its jaw hung open, empty eye sockets staring back at him for a moment before momentum turned its gaze away to the darkness.

“...Ffffrakk.”

A drop of sweat dripped from Cael's forehead onto the visor of his helmet. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply before gradually using the console to reorient himself and push back towards Dubreas. When he drifted into view, he could barely see her expression as his torch reflected off of her helmet. He held both hands out to her.

“Let's get this box and get the frakk out of here.”

[Kistra Dubreas]

The moments her fingertips had been outreached with nothing on the other side had been agony. Her head head filled with visions of sudden explosions that would rip the limbs right off of her, leaving the vacuum of space to suck the lifeblood out of her body faster than she would realize what was happening. So when her fingertips were welcomed by Cael's she quickly reached out and grabbed hold of his hands, breathing a quick sigh of relief.

As she cleared the hole and took a cautionary look around, the sensation was quickly lost. The spotlights from their helmets didn't entirely light the room, but it was enough to show the amount of damage it... and the people within it... had sustained. She could only hope it had been a quick death.

"Couldn't agree more." The words came breathlessly as a shudder crept up her spine.

"I wonder if the gravity is out though the whole thing..." Kistra couldn't help but muse outloud as she tugged herself to the control panel next to the doorway. A quick code was punched in and it slid open, revealing hallways dimly lit by an emergency power source that somehow must have managed to keep on. That was a blessing... it made it easier to see rather than bump in to the lifeless forms of their former compatriots.

The design of the ship was fairly standard so their course to the memory core wasn't too unknown. The ship still felt entirely alien in its destruction, though. No where could evidence of the attack not be seen. Kistra knew this would certainly stick with her long after they had found and eliminated the Rebels responsible.