The Vanguards: Retribution - 9.121

The next volley came in and lit up the tactical station behind Cirr like a Life Day fireworks show. Lieutenant Bara'el kept his post somehow, beating down an electrical fire with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Deflector coil's hit, Captain! We've got nothing up front."

Captain Raurrssatta kept his eyes on the sweet spot, watching the shaded circle that represented the Thunderchild's effective bombardment range finally bisect the enemy flotilla.

Mallin wasn't long in bringing the good news.

"The destroyer's putting the word out to clear a lane, sir!"

Not a moment too soon. Cirr leaned forward.

"Cut behjind thejirr advance and get us clearr!"

Novgorod came about, her agility needed more than ever now that her shields had failed. A wolfpack of alien fighters hounded her, spraying laser fire across her wings which blistered the paint away in blossoms of fire. Her missile tubes spat a rebuke, hitting two fighters but missing the balance as they came in for a kill...only to be shredded by a motley gang of A-Wings and TIE Interceptors screaming across axis as a shadow fell over it all. Thunderchild trundled above, blotting out the nearest star's light as her port-side guns turned in deadly unison, suddenly raining fire through the sky. The lead cruiser took the brunt of the bombardment, a prominent blister on its lower hull flaring with the sunspots of dozens of heavy turbolaser strikes. Suddenly it had taken enough, and blew outward into the ether, sending a spray of debris across the bow of the nearest picket ship. A cheer went up on Novgorod's bridge at the proverbial smell of blood in the water, and Cirrsseeto eased back fully into his chair.

"Get that deflectorr cojil back up!"

The Rebel's starfighters were weak, and while he struggled to keep pace with them, he noticed that so much as a prod caused them to erupt into a fiery explosion. Just as the immortal words of the Goddess Shiraya commanded the protection of the weak and the deserving, so did Jackal insist the rest of his wing play defense for the far more fragile Rebel fighters. With their onboard shield generators and stronger hulls they were capable of taking a hit or two before fading back to wait for a recharge. They could not predict every enemy strafe, but when they could see it coming he found himself position his ship to take a shot that would have otherwise ended the life of the flying deathtrap A-Wings.

The dogfighting continued until an order came to clear space between the Thunderchild and an enemy cruiser. Repeating the order over their comms, and communicating with the A-Wing squadron the Shadows broke away from the fight, climbing for space to avoid the sovereign fist of the Empire as it punch a hole through space. Even the mild mannered Jackal could not help but let out a woop as the enemy cruiser was turned into fiery wreck venting atmosphere and spewing debris.

Their vector took them over the Thunderchild and past it toward the Rebel cruiser designated Novgorod. Sensors reported it's shields were a mess. The Thunderchild's attack angle made more sense now. It was also a defensive tactic, providing cover to the Novgorod. While he was sure many would not be pleased with the idea of an Imperial ship putting it's neck on the line, Jackal mentally commended the commander of the Thunderchild for his choice. While he served the Empire, he did not entertain all of their ideals. To him all life was sacred, but he still believed that he owed his government his service. That's how a religious farmboy from Naboo ends up strapped into one of the greatest starfighter squadrons in the 'verse. Civic responsibility.

As their path took them over the Novgorod sensors booped out proximity alarms, indicating that there were more enemy starfighters about. The small craft were swooping in like carrion birds to prey on the weak and dying shields of the cruiser. Jackal didn't even wait for orders or the green light before punching his thrusters and flashing after the A-Wings that were obviously switching to run interception for the damaged cruiser. Flying alongside the cruiser, level with it's surface, he let the green bolts of his cannon mingle with the red of the Rebels as they coated the nimble enemy ships with hot death.

Blowing past, he whispered a prayer of protection upon his new found allies. They were going to need each other today.

A pair of alien picket ships accelerated towards the destroyer, screened by a few squadrons of fighters. They desperately sought to close distance to screen their flagships, only to be gutted by a fusillade of heavy turbolaser fire. It became painfully clear how vulnerable the alien capital ships were to the big guns once the their onslaught of fighters could be dealt with. Thunderchild continued with a full head of steam, engaging two more of the light cruisers.

Back on Novgorod, the E-WAR terminal began to light up with a furious uptick in activity. Something was happening within the faltering formation of alien ships.

"Alert. Enemy electromagnetic activity has increased 524%. Spectrum appears to be a communications burst."

"Jam jit, now!" Cirrsseeto's voice snapped back in an instant.

Working furiously at the terminal, Morgan ran up every countermeasure at his disposal to muffle what was likely to be a distress signal.

"Got it muzzled." The Jedi said, a little tentatively. "But there's no telling if any of their message got out before we jammed it."

"Fuck fuck fuck," Bette cursed into her cockpit, the comms filling her ears with chatter. She toggled the yoke with her feet, bringing the TIE Defender she was riding around 180 degrees, her wingmate following. Vaping another droid fighter she flew through the debris as Thunderchild began to pound the enemy capital ship with its turbolasers. She scanned her HUD and found something interesting - a lonely sheep away from the herd.

"Wing Two, form up with One for a run on that light cruiser, looks like the droids are starting to scatter. Let's not let them have a home to go back to." As part of Wing One, she and her partner led the winding charge, three other Shadows dropping in behind her, their Defenders silently screaming as their tore through space. Any enemy fighter caught between them and the cruiser were smashed to bits by their lasers.

"Shadows, target their weapons and engines," came the call from Thundechild, crackling over the comms.

Bette armed her concussion missiles, the targeting scope flashing up on the HUD. "Roger that, Thunderchild." The Shadows unleashed their missiles in succession as they flew by the cruiser, scoring direct hits on it's critical systems. Shadow Nine took a glancing blow on his shields from the ship's weapons before they were disabled and spun out of the fight, but was able to limp back toward Thunderchild.

Bette looped back around, making sure the cruiser was dead in the water, so to speak. "Looking good, Shadows. Let's clean up these fighters."

The alien line was broken, and it was becoming a rout. Cirr watched Thunderchild exact inevitable revenge, paying back better than it was given as her unrestricted fire hit the enemy ships hard. One by one, the picket vessels were shot from the sky, blossoming into an eruption of debris and burning gas. Some of the alien fighters turned truly desperate, opting to ram into the hull of the destroyer directly, but by this point in the battle, her double-front deflectors had regained enough of their integrity to make them more than a match. At best, they were now a delaying tactic to keep the Destroyer from completely overtaking the flotilla before what remained could escape.

"Captain, Gold leader confirms successful bombardment on the last remaining cruiser. She looks to be venting a lot of drive plasma."

Returning to his holo HUD, Cirr watched the last enemy blip's acceleration bleed into nothing, now fully within Thunderchild's gun range once more. A few lashing bursts from the Imperial warship swatted away any vestiges of deflector screen and killed their main drive altogether. The TIE Defenders responsible for the attack doubled back to gather strength and to pounce the last few squadrons of enemy droids. From the alien cruiser, power fluctuations could be detected that signaled the death of her main batteries and that she was now reliant on what little her emergency power could offer. Cirr exhaled, knowing the fight was over. He hoped the Imperial commander had the good sense to know it as well. With a mysterious cruiser dead in space, they had a rare opportunity to know their enemy.

"Myktel, sound rrecall."

"Recall order, aye. Our birds are coming home."

He watched the blips representing Alliance A-Wings begin their return vectors to Novgorod's position...three less than what they started out having. Three lost souls. A million or more so far. A drop in a bucket, but so close to home. Cirr watched the remaining ships continue to regroup, a hard expression on his face as he punched the comm on his armrest.

"Glayde. Rreporrt to the brrjidge."

Just as quickly as the comm was activated, he killed it. Reaching out in the space before him, he pulled the holographic image of the derelict cruiser out of the air, turning the image over in his paw to examine her. Her alien lines glowed in ominous orange hue suspended in air, the ghost of an occasional signal flicker in the holographic image the only motion of a ship otherwise dead in space. Silent. Waiting.

"Just what arre you, exactly..."

"On my way, sir."

His reply halted for a moment as the hyperspanner he'd been carrying was gripped in his mouth, freeing his hands to scamper down the access ladder from one of the engine compartment's upper gantries. The Captain was right to question his whereabouts of course; technically speaking, the Executive Officer's place was on the bridge in these sorts of situations, ready to leap into command should any part of the ship decide to break free and disagree with the commanding officer for some reason.

To hell with that though; John Glayde wasn't a naval officer, no matter what uniform you wrapped him up in, and what shinies you pinned to his collar. He was about as much use up there as a chocolate thermal regulator; and wasn't really much more use down here in the bowels of the ship, but at least here he could follow instructions and get his hands dirty.

He wasn't sure where the SpecOps team had got to; didn't much care. His priority was his people, and putting them to the best use. There was nothing to board, nothing to defend against, nothing to shoot at this point; that meant setting aside the blasters, and swapping them out for wrenches and fire extinguishers and trauma kits, patching up the leaks whether they sprung from pipes or people, junction boxes or jugulars. The call from the Captain, and the shift in Lieutenant Altink's words from clipped orders to exasperated rants was a good sign; they were in a bad way, but at least whoever was shooting at them had stopped doing so long enough that things weren't getting any worse.

Boots hitting the deck plate, he liberated his mouth.

"Just making sure the ship doesn't fall apart before I get there."

Weaving his way through the cramped and smoky - or was it steamy? - engine bay, Glayde ducked what faded aurebesh paintwork claimed was a coolant duct, and clambered up a few clattering stairs to the small cluster of computer terminals that clung to the cleaner, fresher end of the Novgorod's guts. He hesitated, gaze settling on the young woman in front of him; Saidra K'Vesh, her data file said. Officially she was a passenger; a slicer or somesuch they'd picked up along with Ledo Prent, and who'd been languishing in a not exactly luxury cabin for far too long, imprisoned by strict orders not to look at or touch anything. Glayde didn't doubt that she'd already crawled her way through the innards of the ship's computer a dozen times over already, just for kicks; but if she meant the ship any harm they'd have been ambushed by Imperials long before now. She wasn't supposed to be in here, strictly speaking; but when steam and sparks had started leaking from parts of the ship as John made his way through the corridors, he'd made the executive decision that they were better off with her helping to keep the ship in one piece than without.

He placed a hand on the small of her back; gentle enough not to make her leap out of her skin, but firm enough to make it clear that he wasn't after anything other than attention. He leaned close, relying on proximity rather than volume to ensure he would be heard.

"You holding up okay, Sadie?"

She weren't used to this sort of dren. Military folks and proper procedures and battle conditions and all. But then when the skag hit the fan it was just about like anythin' else. Get to work, do what you gotta do, and keep your damn head down and outta the way of the important folks. That Regan guy hadn't been all too keen on her pokin' about at a console even if the order had come on high complete with the ship's XO lettin' her outta her pretty if cramped little cage, but when she'd managed to keep the power flows from runnin' into dead space with some quick redirectin' of circuits and other crap that would take way too long to explain and wouldn't go and be interestin' to no body but herself and maybe a few of the more techy type engineers... well, he'd seemed to figure she weren't his biggest problem and trusted in the girl even if she'd caught him mutterin' 'bout not knowin' who the hell gave her access to do such a thing. No one had, of course but that was one of them details they could all argue 'bout later. After all, the Novgorod goin' all boom wasn't really in her best interest what with her bein' on it and all.

With the more major reroutin' done and over with she pried her eyes away from the screen in front of her and cast a over the shoulder smirk at the executive officer. "Right as rain on Kamino, boss-man."

Course no sooner than she'd spoken did some pipe down the line decide to blow out at the pressure valve, sendin' a fresh cloud of steam pourin' into the face of one of them actual uniformed folks. Sadie made one of them tight lipped wide eyed grimaces that told of sympathy before eyes darted back t'wards Glayde.

"I ain't responsible f' that. Kept guns firin' an' shields up n' everyone from stumblin' bout in th' dark, though. No thanks t'..." She stopped ramblin' on despite adrenaline kickin' in an' makin' her all talkative. Weren't no sense of guilt or shame in pointin' out her purpose. Was more on account of the face that Altink was pullin' as he was headin' in their general direction.

A small nudge was given to Glayde with her elbow, perfectly all aware of the fact that probably weren't exactly a proper thing to do. "Ooookay, 'm thinkin'... you can handle Mr. Grumpy, yeah? Figure he's 'bout t' give an earful r'gardin' me messin' with 'is ship or some'a'tha'."

Regan glowered.

It was one of his favourite expressions, in no small part due to the fantastic word that described it. Regan Altink was a man who frequently frowned, scowled, grimaced, and glared depending on the situation, more because it was what his face was naturally calibrated for, and it fit with the irritable persona that he wrapped himself up in like a warm, reassuring blanket. He seldom glowered though: that intensified expression was reserved for situations when he needed the person on the receiving end to categorically know that they were the one responsible for his sour and acerbic mood, rather than just catching collateral from someone else's wrongdoings.

"Should you no' be on the bridge?"

There was accusation in his tone, which was probably unwise in the long run; but frankly Glayde deserved it, Major or not. Granted, a large chunk of that deservance stemmed from the fact that the Captain wasn't here in person, and Tink's uncertainty over whether or not he could get away with being so confrontational with his commanding officer; but Glayde was SpecForce, and he was enough of a stereotypical soldier to form a protective barrier that would shield the Captain from awareness, out of some martial necessity to handle his problems personally and not show weakness. Of course, from the rumours Tink had heard about Glayde's service record, handling his problems might end up with Tink in a pool of his own blood stashed in one of the maintenance crawlspaces.

On the upside, at least he wouldn't have to worry about patching up the Novgorod the next time these idiots went breaking his ship.

"Or are y' here to unleash more a' these -"

He gestured vaguely in Sadie's direction, searching his mind for a descriptor, and becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact that so many of the ones his mind offered up were complimentary. Truth be told, she'd been something of a godsend; Tink had too few people to keep on top of the myriad crises that a full-scale space battle presented, and less than none to run around granting access permissions and explaining rudimentary tasks to the amateur untrained bodies that volunteered to assist. Situations like this needed people who could do, and this K'Vesh girl had certainly done, taking the initiative to - unsettling as it was when you stopped to think of it - waltz past the ship's security protocols like they were made of paper, and fulfil an urgently needed role that, though he'd never admit it, was probably a big part of why they were all still alive. Though he disagreed with it, the stubborn part of his mind that made and stuck to snap decisions had already set itself on talking to the Captain about trying to enlist the wee lass; if this was the kind of thing she could achieve when she wasn't supposed to, imagine how useful she could be to the crew when she was.

He'd never admit that, mind you. If anyone ever asked it would be the Major's idea, and it would fill him with intense frustration.

"- helper people tae run around willie nillie, patchin' stuff an' fixin' things?"

Glayde barely managed to conceal an amused smile. Most people would probably have thought such things in these grim circumstances were inappropriate, but when you served with SpecForce or the Stormtrooper Corps, it adapted your baseline tolerances. You learned to find enjoyment in the small things; if you didn't, you wound up going insane and turning your blaster on everyone around you, or yourself.

"That's Tink's way of expressing his gratitude," Glayde translated for Sadie's benefit, a little wryness sneaking out of the corner of his mouth. The almost completely concealed expression mellowed, sincerity replacing mirth. "You have mine as well, Sadie. Thank you."

He let his gaze linger for a moment longer, offering the kind of look that transformed simple words into genuine meaning. There were so many different kinds and categories of people in the galaxy, but Glayde only ever really cared about two: those he could rely on, and those he could not. It was all to easy to move from the former to the latter; but Sadie had already more than proved she deserved to go the other way. He'd find a way to reward her for that, somehow; and maybe a way to rescue her from the poor company she seemed to be keeping, and get her life headed in a more productive direction. She reminded him of another young woman he'd tried to rescue: a little less tall and a little more blonde, but the same kind heart and wealth of potential wasted in the wrong environment.

That stab of realisation threatened to take his mind in a completely different direction; he derailed that train of thought with a thermal grenade.

"And you're right," he agreed, turning his attention back to Tink, "I should be on the bridge. Keep us together, Lieutenant, and keep up the good work."

With a curt nod to each, he fled as fast as he could without it seeming as such, silently thanking his genes and heritage for the long strides that made casual swiftness possible. He wrestled his thoughts as he stepped into the turbolift; fought for calm as he rode the few brief seconds to the command deck. A hand smoothed down the front of his uniform, willpower and training smoothing through his mind. The door hissed, and the Major strode out, composure restored once more.

The Captain's eyes were locked on the viewport; as he stepped into place beside the Captain's chair and fell into parade stance, he could see why. The word alien had almost lost it's original meaning in the multicultural society that spanned most of the galaxy; aside from a racist slur off the tongues off Imperial humans. Everyone was an alien to someone; and yet it was the only word Glayde could think of to describe what he was seeing.

"That's not a class of ship I'm familiar with, sir," he observed. That wasn't saying much, given his area of expertise; but he was willing to bet that the Captain hadn't seen anything like it, either.

Cirr continued to watch the derelict list, turning with the last bit of energy of whatever explosion or weapons fire had hit her when her engines failed. The ether of deep space preserved such chaos, and the ovoid lines of the strange vessel would continue their dance forever, or until some other force put an end to it. The Captain licked his lips slightly, finding them dry from neglect.

"Therre's an answerr forr all thjis."

The Cizerack nodded toward the viewer.

"jIn therre. An answerr forr Karrallon."

The grey wedge of Thunderchild could be seen at the periphery of the viewer, it's massive shape looking unmoveable and immense as a stellar body. They'd found whatever truce necessary to work together to bring the aliens to account, but nothing from this moment was a guarantee. If the Imperials wished it, they could no-doubt make a prize of Novgorod as well. Cirr's tail jerked, betraying his inscrutable face as he worked the calculus of the confrontation out in his head. They'd received no hail from the Imperials, but neither had the Star Destroyer prepared to bring weapons to bear. His ears tilted forward to the extreme, as if yearning to listen across the abyss to what his counterpart on Thunderchild might be conspiring at.

"Tell me what they'rre thjinkjing overr therre."

He knew Glayde's past with the Empire. He'd been a creature built by Imperial doctrine long before he'd decided to have a change of moral certainty.

"That depends on her commander."

It was a non-answer, and yet vitally important. With all their rigid structure, strict regulations, and overbearing dictatorial approach to every aspect of operations and life, it was so easy for those outside the Imperial military to regard them as some sort of homogenised, united front. That was an effort of design: generic uniforms, faceless footsoldiers, guideline physical parameters for branches of service, starship designs that made it nigh impossible for the uninitiated to distinguish one from another. It was easy to be afraid of something that was relentless and indistinguishable.

Beneath that veneer however, it was a boiling sea of discontent. For many, the man marching behind you was just as likely to stab you in the back as cover it, if he thought it would help advance his career or improve his power base. This was a service where a Captain could become an Admiral by literally putting on the uniform of his dead predecessor; the idea of prestige and prowess being the path to authority was a carefully crafted disguise to conceal the fact that the real road to the top was by stepping on anyone and everyone in your way.

People didn't always agree on the best approach to that, however. Their situation would all depend on the man in command of that Star Destroyer; how he got there, and where he thought it would take him.

"If he's some old veteran, he'll probably want to slag the ship and have done with it; get the pat on the back for having saved the Empire, and leave the worrying for Intel or the Inquisitors. If he's young, and has upward aspirations, he'll want to get in there, steal everything that isn't bolted down, and stick an Imperial flag in everything that is. Either way -"

He shook his head.

"- don't read too much into the fact that we're still here. They probably just think we're too insignificant to post a threat."

That was the Empire's mistake; but that went without saying. The Alliance's greatest advantage was being underestimated: their entire existence, they had exploited the fact that the Imperials were too absorbed to take notice of anything beneath them; that the Empire was too busy maintaining it's shield up to guard against the unexpected attack to the shins.

He glanced to Lieutenant Bara'el at tactical. "You have anything on the -?"

"Thunderchild?" the Lieutenant filled in for him, filling in the blank fact that Glayde had missed while crawling around the Novgorod's nethers. It took only a few moments before a dismissive shake of his head manifested. "Nothing on her Captain, though it does say she's registered as a flagship for a Moff Rübezahl out of Greater Javin."

That name was familiar; Glayde dredged his memory, reaching back to the part he'd played in helping to liberate Bothawui, years ago. Rübezahl had been the name of the Moff there; pretty tame as Imperial Governors went. The only real crimes or atrocities he'd been guilty of were either by accessory and association, or related to his gods-awful acting career. He'd slipped the net when SpecForce had come to him; it was a surprise to hear that he was even still alive, let alone sailing around the opposite side of the galaxy to the Greater Javin where Bara'el had reported he was from.

A Moff complicated matters; even one so far removed from the resources and reinforcements he might have had at his disposal. This was no mere Destroyer Captain: this was someone whose responsibilities demanded a balancing of military and politics as a matter of course. Glayde had no idea what council to offer in predicting that.

"We need to get over there." It was the only logical course of action. "Preferably before they do."

Captain Raurrssatta nodded. They were of one mind.

"Get a team rready forr the Comet." he spoke low, as if their conspiring might somehow be overheard by the unknown quantity the Star Destroyer represented.

"And a backup team forr the Jammerr."

It was unspoken on the reasoning for backup. In case the Imperials swat the first boarding attempt from the sky. A potential death sentence, but right now, the idea of not knowing seemed completely unacceptable. A million dead needed accounting for.

Cirr wasn't going to mince words with his XO. The long and short was he was going to order him into harm's way. And that's probably where Glayde would prefer to be anyway. He clapped a hand at Glayde's shoulder and made eye contact.

"Be qujick about jit, John."

In dismissing the SpecForce Major, Captain Raurrssatta had handled the easy part. Now he had to consider whether to rush the boarding party unilaterally, or telegraph his intent. In balancing the choice, the threat seemed clear and present in both directions.

"Malljin, get a channel open to Thunderrchjild."

Captain Raurrssatta's tail twitched as he brought his hand to his chin. What would he say? And how?

The term Moff had many meanings. The literal etymology had faded into obscurity; it had been used by the Galactic Republic for as long as the galaxy could remember, first to describe the leaders of loyal vassal warlords back in antiquity, then as a ceremonial title embraced by the Sith Empire, which Palpatine in his Imperial wisdom had chosen to revive. But while the definition of the word was little more than a half-remembered echo, the meanings were far more diverse and numerous.

To many, Moff meant power: almost absolute authority over military, bureaucracy, and politics within a given region of space; that was the meaning the Galactic Empire had embraced when power had been handed off from the Imperial Senate to the Regional Governors. To many of the Empire's citizens, Moff meant oppression: the local manifestation of the dictatorial desires of the old Emperor, and the new Empress; of the ruthlessness and cruelty that people like Grand Moff Tarkin had encouraged the New Order to embrace. To some of those who held the title, Moff meant accomplishment: the rank was an achievement in and of itself, and it became an excuse to indulge in opulence and avarice, to feed on the perks of authority, often at the neglect of responsibility. To the Empire's enemies, Moff meant target: since the declaration of the New Order, more Regional Governments had died as a result of clear assassination or under questionable circumstances than had retired, died of natural causes, or been killed in open conflict.

For Ceto Rübezahl however, Moff meant opportunity. It was not the opportunity for selfish gain, though admittedly he did embrace the fringe benefits perhaps more than he should; instead it was the opportunity for improvement, for betterment, as much as was possible within the framework of the Imperial regime. Ceto had begun as a loyal subject of the Galactic Republic, and had embraced it's ideals with all it's heart. When the Republic had become an Empire, he had still held on, even as the Empire itself pushed those ideals into the recesses of memory. There was no denying that the Empire was broken, corrupted by tyrants, and guilty of unspeakable things; but those who opposed the Empire through force of arms were no less guilty of their own actions. Lives taken in the pursuit of freedom were still lives taken: the Rebellion liked to pretend that every Stormtrooper and every Imperial Officer was as evil as the Emperor or Empress who ruled them, but in truth many were merely innocents trying to make the best lives possible for themselves, without having to stray outside the law. Many of the Alliance's soldiers had forgotten their roots: forgotten how the Imperial military hadn't looked quite so heinous when it offered them a chance to escape the life they loathed.

Ceto had no right to claim that his life needed escaping; but he had found himself in a position where he had the power to make a difference, small at first; and rather than abandon that ability for the sake of his morals he had sought to find ways to alter the positive influence that he was able to cause. Here, another such opportunity presented itself: a chance for the Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance to set aside their differences, unite against a threat that was undeniably more evil than both of them combined, and to plant a seed of cooperation that might one day be permitted by both sides to flourish.

"This is Moff Rübezahl aboard the Star Destroyer Thunderchild," he spoke with the kind of softness and sincerity that had taken decades of practice to perfect, ignoring the disapproving glances of Captain Stark, discontent with the Moff's decision not to simply blast the alien ship - and the Rebels - out of the stars. "My apologies, Captain; I'm afraid I did not catch your name."

Lieutenant Mallin glanced back in surprise at the incoming comm that arrived on tightbeam just a moment before he was to initiate his own hail. Cirrsseeto caught the look of surprise from his comms officer. Well then.

Cirr cinched the bottom hem of his jacket down with a sharp tug as he regarded the image of the well-manicured man in front of him. Wouldn't do with looking second-best, this was his first time meeting a Moff, after all.

"Thjis jis Captajin Cirrsseeto Raurrssatta of the Corrvette Novgorrod."

He took a quick glance behind - but saw that Glayde had already run off to handle his business as he was ordered. So much the better. Again turning to face the hologram, he wasn't quite sure how to begin this. Moff Rübezahl had opened the line. The sajoi was in his bowl. And if it were an overture demanding terms of surrender, Cirr thought with strange pride, it would at least be worth noting that it took no less than a Moff to try and drag it out of him.

Ceto kept his surprise carefully disguised. If the strange accent, and the name with even more drawn out vowel sounds than a Bothan wasn't enough of a clue, the ears made it unmistakable; a Cizerack, commanding a rebel starship. It was a rather small starship, granted; but even so the surprise remained intact. Ostensibly, the Cizerack were neutral, and while that certainly didn't preclude their role in active rebellion, they had a reputation for being too isolated and self-interested to become involved. The same had been said of the Bothans once; but the Cizerack didn't have quite the same compulsive urge to meddle that the Bothan's did.

This Captain Raurrssatta wasn't exactly coming off as conversational; but that was hardly a surprise. Ceto carefully measured his tone; as open and non-confrontational as he could muster.

"It would seem we are in something of an awkward situation."

He glanced out of the holoprojector's field of recording for a moment.

"As I'm sure you can imagine, my advisors are suggesting we destroy your ship as swiftly as possible, to prevent dangerous intelligence falling into the hands of the enemy, or words to that effect. However, in the face of an enemy responsible for wiping out entire colonies, it seems to me like our little rivalry between Alliance and Empire pales by comparison. They would also like me to destroy the alien craft and eliminate it as a threat, but I can't in good conscience do that either: not if there's even the remotest possibility of finding something inside that could help us defend ourselves and save future lives."

His expression shifted, a faint involuntary twitch of grimace creeping out from behind his facial self control.

"Alas, I am aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer, not an explorative cruiser: I have a crew who are experts in operating and repairing Kuati engineering, but not much else. The Alliance on the other hand has a reputation for being able to wrangle disparate and exotic technologies and somehow blend them together. If either of us stand a chance of unlocking the secrets of that ship, my money is on you; but at the same time I cannot the risk to Imperial lives if I simply allow you to explore that ship unsupervised."

It was a florid, evasive, meandering course that he followed towards his point; but it was essential, not just if he stood a chance of being successful, but also if he wanted to emerge from this without criminal charges. The Empire kept records of everything, and with the scrutiny he would no doubt face when Imperial Command heard of this, even a poorly worded message in the communication logs could be his undoing.

"There is a saying among my people: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Whoever these aliens are, they pose a threat to the entire galaxy, and it would be irresponsible of us not to do our best, together, to ensure the safety of the innocents we are both sworn to protect."

His mouth drew into a grim line.

"Can we set aside our differences, Captain Raurrssatta, for the greater good?"

He certainly spoke like a politician. Meandering and careful words. Taking thirty words to say what five would accomplish, because he had to be careful. It was a very alien way of talking, and Cirr found his jaw tensing a little waiting for Rübezahl to get to the damned point. But Rübezahl eventually did...and it was a point they could agree on. Still, Captain Raurrssatta could feel every set of eyes on the bridge on his back, and could very well imagine that his entire bridge staff was wondering if they were hearing the Moff correctly. These weren't enemies you could sip tea with. This was the Galactic Empire. Old hatreds still ran deep, and for very good reasons.

"Therre's a shuttle on jit's wajy to that crrujiserr rrjight now, Moff Rrübezahl." Cirr kept his tone even, and his face inscrutable.

"Full of folks who arre, as you say, able to wrrangle djisparrate and exotjic technologjies."

Only at that retelling of the regional governor's own colorful description did Cirr allow a smile to begin on his expression. If you only knew who you were talking to, Moffy...and that smile grew a little more.

"You'd betterr tell yourr landjing parrty to hurrry up jif they don't want to mjiss the chance to explorre."

The Captain turned to Mallin with a nod.

"Trransmjit ourr landjing coorrdjinates to Thunderrchjild."

"Transmitting, aye."

Cirr turned back to face the Moff, his smile gone again.

"Therre's somethjing you should know, jif we'rre gojing to do thjis. We jinterrcepted a spectrrum burrst frrom one of the aljien shjips beforre they werre destrroyed. jIt may be a djistrress sjignal. We jammed what we could, but..."

The Cizerack's face had a grim look to it.

"We should move qujickly."

* * *

There was nothing about this that Glayde liked. It was the right course of action, as missions so often were, but he didn't like it. He didn't like having to leave so much of his team behind on the ship. He didn't like that MARCUS was muzzled, unable to be of any tactical, combat use because of orders. He didn't like that Captain Tallen had to remain behind, to prevent an incident from depriving the Novgorod of both it's senior SpecForce officers. He didn't like dragging Sadie K'Vesh into this, no matter how much her slicing skill bordered on superpower. He didn't like that Ledo Prent was stepping off the shuttle beside him, instead of Porter or Onashi; all because their "talents" were too valuable to risk losing them if this recon went terribly wrong. He didn't like the fact that they were babysitting Vek Vek and Tink; regardless of how expert they might potentially be in working out what the hell was going on here.

Worst of all though, he hated the prospect of working with Imperials. He didn't hate them the way that many of his comrades did; he sympathised, understood how hard the Empire worked to scrub morality from their minds and replace it with obedience. Villainy was in abundance within the Empire, but at far higher levels than these footsoldiers; many Rebels judged them for not having opened their eyes to the evil that they were serving, but Glayde knew all too well how hard it was to do that when your eyelids had been sewn shut. Killing Imperials was his duty; but he did it out of obligation to the mission, not out of some sense of justice or enjoyment that motivated his comrades.

Because of that, he had always been discrete about his history, especially the specifics. Some knew he had once been a Stormtrooper, but most simply didn't ask, out of respect for his privacy. That was the Alliance way: as long as you were here to fight, the why was nobody's business. That was a relief: he doubted many would be so willing to follow his orders if they knew the specifics.

Now was not the time for vain secrecy, however.

With a gesture, he instructed De Ville and her team to secure the perimeter, and signalled for Ledo to watch over the specialists. He caught a glimmer of the nervousness in Sadie's posture and furtive glances; caught her gaze, and flashed a flicker of a reassuring smile. He hoped that it helped, but doubted it would; eighteen years of combat service, and being inside this damned ship was unnerving even him.

He set his sights on the Imperial contingent, unloading themselves from their own boarding shuttle. A platoon of Imperial Army; a squad of Stormtroopers. A remarkably restrained and proportional response; he'd half expected them to deploy AT-ATs, but apparently someone over on that Star Destroyer had a modicum of strategic sense.

His Stormtrooper senses kicked in, scanning the uniforms and body language for the tell tale signs of officers. He picked his best guess candidate.

"Major John Glayde, Alliance Special Forces," he announced, holding his blaster rifle as casually as one could safely hold a charged and primed firearm. "You the ranking officer?"

He had requested a squad, because as Stormtroopers, they were the elite front-line soldiers of the Empire. When commanded correctly, there were few forces in the galaxy capable of standing up to them.

He also wanted the most disciplined of his soldiers with him. The horrors committed by these creatures upon an Imperial world had stoked the non-clone elements of his forces to a fury; taking a large group would result in catastrophic charges and foolish initiatives taken by his subordinates. He had a mission to complete, and a Stormtrooper completed his mission, or died doing so.

The platoon of Imperial Army soldiers immediately began making weapon emplacments and setting up barricades while he conferred with the Special Forces commander, and the eight stormtroopers primed their blaster rifles and stood at attention behind him.

"Valentin Adras," the armoured Imperial replied, his blue striped helmet held loosely in one hand, and a newly machined E-12 blaster rifle in his other hand. "Commander, Imperial Stormtrooper Corps, 303rd Legion, 12th Regiment, 9th Company. I am the ranking officer."

"Get that scanning crew down the ramp. Hurry!"

Captain Falco waved down the squads of army specialist down the ramp of the Sentinel-class shuttlecraft, giving the derelict ship's hangar bay a brief scanning for potential threats. Aside from the threat of falling overhead debris, the enormous space was in a state of eerie calm. Only flickering lights and the groan of some unknown din halfway across the ship gave malice to the scene, casting ominous connotations to an aesthetic that was clearly alien.

A gloved hand tightened around the grip of his blaster, but held fast to keep the weapon within its holster. Falco's eyes flicked to the entry points leading out of the hangar, but he also glanced at them. The Rebels.

"Keep an eye out." Falco grumbled at his sergeant as he kept his eyes fixed on the point man exiting the ugly Rebel shuttlecraft. Major Glayde. The Imperial Army Captain glanced behind Glayde, seeing a gaggle of flunkies, aliens, and reprobates. True scum. And yet here they were, hand-in-hand against something even worse.

"We don't have time for dick waving. Governor's orders. We escort you traitors through the guts of this abomination and find the name of who we have to kill and where he fucking lives."

"Yessir." Sergeant Trask replied, snapping off a smart salute to Captain Falco before waving a few of the Army specialists over, the ones not currently unloading the sensory equipment, and walked them over to the exits out of the alien hangar bay. Some of the doorways were still closed but others had broken and fallen loose from the damage to the ship, and he dared a peek through one such hole but saw nothing but wide hallways. His grip tightened on his blaster rifle. The whole mission was beyond eerie. The abandoned hangar bay, the lack of any kind of dead or living occupants made the ship feel like it was piloted by droids or ghosts.

Glancing back over his shoulder he saw the Rebels and Imperials standing off, looking uncomfortable while trying to be intimidating. Beside him the two Army Specialists were complaining under their breath about having to work with rebel scum, and Trask hushed them with a simple hand gesture; the raised index finger. A shushing motion reserved for children. Once they quieted he turned and looked them in the face, their own visages reflected in the unfeeling black lenses of his helmet. "You will stow that kind of talk until after this op is over and then, and only then, will I permit you to open your goddamn mouth to say anything but sir and yes." Their stunned faces was the only reply he needed before setting off again, the two falling into step behind him. They completed their check of the perimeter, even stopped and acknowledged the rebels doing the same with a nod of his head, and then returned to Falco's side. "Perimeter secured. Nothing to report."