A Savage Defense

[Damien Kantrael]

It was not sleep. There was no dreaming. Only darkness. Time passed; and the darkness felt eternal and unending. Existence was numb. It did not bring peace. It was unnerving and cold. A limbo between the worlds of the living and the dead that would last as long as it desired until he finally woke, or did not. It gave one time to think, to ponder and analyze. Too much time. He did not like what he found within himself. There was always a limitation, a weakness. It needed to be made strong, or be ripped out.

The world came back at lightspeed. The first sensation was pain. Incredible pain. Hot and strangling, like fiber cables made of fiberglass and fire dragged across every sinew and nerve ending. Limbs responded to impulse and flailed for purchase. A wall, a ledge; anything to give bearing and support. Lastly sight returned, bright and blurry it caused a pain that overwhelmed but could not be looked away from. It was necessary to bear it, to become one with it, to let it make him stronger. He would not turn away from it now.

Slowly the world came into focus. Voices murmured, indistinct and distant but growing closer. Words took form alongside shapes. The painfully white sterile lab came into sight, as did the outlines of machines and the shapes of faces. All that time spent reflecting in the darkness and he had not remembered where he was or his purpose. He had only to see the tubes and wires protruding from his chest, to feel the drag of machines connected to his arms, shoulders, and legs, to remember just what price had just been paid. Now to reap the rewards of the sacrifice.

"Report, Garbrandt."

The reflective lenses of the surgeon's spectacles shone in an already brightly lit room. A beacon to the weakened eyes of the freshly resurrected.

"The augmentation went as expected, my lord. You've been in bacta stasis for two weeks. The strain on your body was immense and I strongly recommend additional weeks of bedrest until you've recovered... but I know you will ignore my request."

"Indeed. Unplug me, Doctor. I have duties to attend to."

Nothing, not the pain or the concerned look in the surgeon's eyes could dissuade Damien from rising shakily in the emptying bacta tank. Nurses attended to his body, steadying him in place as they carefully disconnected each of the dozens of cables and tubes running from the ceiling of the bacta tank to the various hardware on and in his body. Each implanted port opening was sterilized and bandaged. The pressure was soothing. Every point of connection ached. Fresh scars were lost in the patchwork of flesh and machinery. That was the cost, and already he could feel the reward. Through the pain and weakness he still felt bigger. Stronger. Garbrandt looked smaller than ever. Yes. This was the power he wanted, and was willing to pay any cost for.

'I want this aug added to the Decimator rotation immediately."

"But sir, we have not have sufficient time to observe side effects or rule out rejection, or infection! Please, give me more time."

"Very well. You have one week, Garbrandt. I expect results. My army must be perfect, as perfect as me."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Now summon the Triskelion. There is much to do."

[Damien Kantrael]

At the top of the City Tower of Clan Dakkam the Triskelion assembled. Warmaster Orzmo with his magnificent armor and huge body dwarfed Praetor Silvanus, who sat with his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his naval cap and fingers steepled together against his chin. Sorin Markos was one of the few remaining true Nightmares, and he wore the terrifying armor as a homage to the once great Empire. Although not a true member of the Triskelion council, T'chu is the leader of Clan Dakkam, their host and the only alien that would ever be counted among their allies. His knowledge of his own world, of Oba Diah, and the other clans was indispensable. The four together were Damien's closet allies, each representing a branch of his military; army, navy, and intelligence.

And the only ones he would ever permit to see him in his current state. To see him without his armor.

"Report."

Orzmo was the first to speak, rumbling alive like a furnace warming. His thick brow nearly hid his small eyes. They shown like gold ponds at the bottom of the darkest pit. The average Decimator was a hulking warrior, and Orzmo made them look small by comparison. His body was hardly human with the level of advance cybernetic augmentions he had undergone. He was more siege weapon than soldier.

"We have brought in many new conscripts in the last several raids. The number of Battleborn has swelled into excess. The factory has been expanded to increase production and new barracks are currently in construction to house additional troops. We are strong, very strong, but we lack enough armor to clad every soldier. We need more resources shifted to the armory, and another factory built."

"Oh please, Warmaster." Silvanus' cold tongue extinguished Orzmo's flame immediately, "The army already receives the majority of the disposition of resources. I know it is a point of pride for us, but the navy could use far more resources than it is currently receiving to maintain our three fleets. After all, we cannot ferry your troops into battle with rusting hulls and flickering engines. We lack the munitions to even muster all three fleets at once. But I digress. The navy is doing fine, my liege. The use of cerebrates has greatly increased our abilities and lessened crew loads considerably. However, the technology is far from perfect and failure common. We have run out of souls to entech, so until Orzmo sacrifices some Battleborn we are far from fully staffing our fleets."

Markos said nothing. He was a soldier through and through. He was not sullied with the self-centered hubris that came with the station of officer like Orzmo and Silvanus. Markos waited to be called upon, and when Damien did he was ready with his report.

"The Empire and Alliance are holding. The Ssi-Ruu occupation of Terminus has endured. There have been no reported Starkiller detonations. It's impossible to say what they plan, but I would imagine that they will keep the Ssi-Ruu in place and do everything they can to stop their advance. Regardless, the Ssi-Ruu have a foothold in known space. The galaxy will be quite occupied with dealing with them. Their eyes are pulled away from us. We are inconsequential by comparison. At least, to them."

"Good. With their guard down we will strike from the back. Increase our raids, gain greater footholds, resources, and conscripts; repair our fleets and get them fully staffed. By the time the Ssi-Ruu are dealt with we will be ready and it will be too late for the Empire and the Alliance. Have we heard from Commander Bolivar?"

There was an uneasy glance between the three generals, each waited for the other to speak.

"My lord, he is here."

"What do you mean he is here?"

"The Third Fleet is in high orbit. Above Oba Diah."

[Damien Kantrael]

"Comm Bolivar now!" Damien hissed through clenched teeth. Medical sensors still attached to his body beeped a warning at his rising blood pressure as it rose in tandem with his anger. Waiting for the communication to be established between the throne room and the Echelon did nothing to sooth his wrath. A massive vidscreen on the wall crackled to life, revealing the silver haired Commander of the Third Fleet. His entire command staff was lined up behind him, and his bridge staff stood at attention in the command pits and in the background along the raised walkway of the bridge.

No. Not at attention. In defiance. They offered no solute, and Bolivar's impeccable pencil mustache was beset by a scowl.

"Commander Bolivar, why have you returned ahead of schedule?"

The view was one sided. Damien would not allow them to see him in this state, without his armor, and looking frail and human. They would have to make due with hearing his voice.

"In all due respect, Grand Inquisitor, you have sent my fleet to the very edges of the galaxy, to salvage battle fields like rats while enemy patrols threaten us at every turn. This is not what we signed on for when we joined your insurrection. You promised us a conclusion to the war, not stalking behind our enemies like cowards."

"You were given very explicit instructions, Bolivar. What you were doing was aiding the war effort. We need the alien technology, we need the resources. A war is not fought with men alone."

"The time to strike is now. The Empire is distracted by the alien threat. We should use this opportunity to attack Coruscant, to cut the head from the snake. We are wasting this opportunity"

"You forget your place, Commander. Return to your post immediately."

"I must regretfully refuse that order, sir. I demand a place on the frontline, or I will leave and take my fleet with me."

Turning his head, Damien looked at Praetor Silvanus. He spoke loud enough for Bolivar and his crew to hear.

"Praetor Silvanus; is the Echelon in range of the First Fleet."

"Yessir."

"Command the Fleet to target the Echelon. Only the Echelon."

"You wouldn't." Bolivar interrupted, as warning klaxons could be heard through the comms, no doubt indicating the numerous weapon locks that had just been levied against their ship.

"You should have chosen your words more carefully, Commander. Cut the head from the snake, and the body dies. That is how the old adage goes is it not? You may either surrender your station or be forcibly removed from it. You have one minute until your vessel is destroyed completely. That is, unless your crew intervenes."

"My crew would never betray me! Shields up, target Palpatine's Revenge. Scatter posit-uagh!"

The zap of a plasma bolt was clearly heard and the Commander crumpled to the floor reaching for a burning hole in his back that he just couldn't seem to reach. As he fell from view an officer was revealed standing behind him, blaster pistol in hand. Holstering the weapon he stepped into the place the Commander had occupied, squared his shoulders, and acted like nothing had happened.

"My apologies, sir. We will return to our position immediately."

"Very good, Commander Roshan. You are in command of the Third Fleet now. Do not disappoint me."

"Yessir."

[Damien Kantrael]

The vidscreen winked out and the Triskellion council was left alone once more. Turning in his seat, Damien cast his eyes over at the only member who had not spoken yet. The lenses that composed his eyes turned and focused on the strange alien's face.

"And what of you, Master Tchun? What council have you brought me."

"My lord, your verra many troops have expanded too great. Da mountains threaten to buckle quick quick if you push them anymore. The valley is full. We need more space. Different space."

More space. This was an inevitable problem that they would have reached eventually. The world of Oba Diah boasted many thick mountain ranges that flowed like a sea of spires. It left very little flat ground for construction. That was why the Pyke built tower cities between the mountains. Anchored in what little space they could find to rest them. This region was particularly dense, with more agreeable lands controlled by much stronger Pyke clans. Many of them members of the criminal Pyke Syndicate. They were strong. Not unassailable, but not enemies that they needed right now.

"Show me the land, Sheev."

A holographic map of the region sprung up in the center of the chamber. The towering mountaintops were made small until they become little more than a texture to contrast against the orange columns that represented dozens of tower cities in this region alone.

"There. Which clan controls that city?"

"Clan Brakem. They not very much important. Small like Dakkam."

"Formerly. It'll be ours within the week. Make the preparations, Warmaster."