The Vanguards: Retribution - 9.121

(OOC: Continued from The Vanguards: Rapture and The Vanguards: Ragnarok)


Somewhere in hyperspace

The adrenaline had worn off, and exhaustion crept its way back into the vacuum. Once the shock and revulsion of a million dead bodies had burned through his sense of horror and despair, the only thing left for Cirrsseeto to feel was tired.

They'd plotted the quickest course away from Karallon and were headed to clearer space to broadcast to Alliance Command the grim news they'd discovered. It gave the Captain at least a couple of hours to crash on his bunk.

An hour passed, if that, and his precious sleep was interrupted by the comm.

"Captain to the bridge."

Bleary eyes cracked open, faintly glowing blue in the darkness of his cabin. Cirr thought about protesting the summons. Thought of questioning whether it was needed. When he'd had a second to think, he realized that in light of what they'd all seen, there could be nothing good to come of it. Slowly, Cirrsseeto got to his feet, threw his jacket on, and was out the door again.

* * *

"Rreporrt."

The Captain was too tired to yawn. When he moved to sit in his chair, his knees protested with the kind of ache you got all over when you'd gone over a day without any real shut-eye. Bitterly, he thought of how glib humans were about that sort of thing. Pulling an all-nighter seemed to be the kind of event they were hard-wired for. The temperament of a Cizerack was certainly...fussier.

Lieutenant Mallin at least looked as exhausted as he did. The crew was due a shift rotation. That they had remained at post meant there was something serious.

"Captain, we're getting some major energy discharges within five light years of our location."

"Weapon fjirre?"

Mallin's eyes fixed on his terminal, adjusting his sensor sweeps.

"Has to be. From the readings, looks like a capital ship engagement."

There were no Alliance ships in the region. He'd already made sure of that with Captain Terius and was told very simply they were a long way from reinforcements. That left the Empire as a likely culprit, and...

...whoever was responsible for Karallon.

"Rred alerrt! Sejine, adjust courrse forr jinterrcept!"

Straightening in his seat as the klaxon howled, Cirrsseeto waited for Novgorod's course to shift. As close as the engagement was, they'd be upon it nearly instantly...

...and just like that, the starstreaks shrank into pinpricks, just as the massive wedge hull of an Imperial Star Destroyer trundled overhead.

At times like this, Captain Stark was forced to concede that despite the remarkable feat of design and engineering that the mighty Imperial Star Destroyer represented, the lack of adequate seating for it's command officers.

Knuckles whitening at their vice grip on the situation table, Stark had to spare a moment of brief admiration at Moff Rübezahl. The actor-turned-politician might have been lacking in many areas, but balance was not one of them. Nor, it seemed, was chiming in with unnecessary commentary. Unlike most regional governors the Captain had encountered, the Moff was doing a wonderful job of keeping his mouth shut and actually letting the trained professionals get on with their job.

"Tactical!" he barked, a scowl deepening on his brow as he gazed at the strange holographic vision that floated before him. Whatever was attacking them, it was unlike any starship he had ever seen. Though dwarfed by the Thunderchild's mile-long dagger hull, the three enemy frigates and their smaller picket cousins seemed unperturbed by the pinnacle of Imperial engineering, looming in space like the strange and oblivious deep sea creatures Stark had witnessed years ago during an otherwise unremarkable visit to Naboo.

Their assault had been unprovoked, unannounced, and completely without restraint. The Thunderchild was soaking up the hits - for now - but that wasn't even the worst of it. Each of the three frigates had belched forth countless dozens of what the Captain could only imagine were droid fighters: no sentient species he knew of could possibly be small enough to fit inside those tiny two-meter pyramids along with all the other requisite systems.

They didn't move like drones, though: their speed and agility was causing hell for the Imperial gunners, their shields seemed impossibly robust, and despite all of the zooming and tumbling, the craft's weapons never seemed to lose their lock.

Intelligence would want us to snag a few of these in one piece, he mused. But let's worry about keeping us in one piece first.

"Fire everything," he commanded, as the Tactical Officer reacted to his shout. "And get our birds in the air."

He shot a grim glance towards the Moff.

"Maybe they'll have more luck than us once they get in close."

Saine compensated seemlessly, allowing Novgorod to dip nimbly from the path of the trundling destroyer. Still, this was a situation one normally didn't find themselves in.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Unless that enemy is comfortable with wanton genocide, Cirr thought darkly. The ships that faced the Imperial warship seemed to match the description of whatever attacked Karallon. The tactical reports started to flood in. Three of the same light cruisers they'd seen, and double the number of pickets against an Imperial class star destroyer. The swarm of smaller objects appeared to be some kind of drone fighters. And there were a lot of them. Even with the star destroyer's impressive complement of fighters, the aliens had them on numeric advantage easily.

Seconds passed, and fusilades of fire from the destroyer pelted the lead cruiser, as the other two charged ahead for each flank. Cirr watched it all with a grim expression.

"Send message to the jImperrjial destrroyerr."

A TIE fighter split apart in front of them in a gout of fire. Cirrsseeto continued.

"Alljiance Frrjigate Novgorrod stands rready to assjist."

The tension on the bridge was thick with that statement. They were about to lend aid to their sworn enemy.

Captain Raurrssatta fixed his eyes on Lieutenant Mallin, and spoke with force this time.

"Do jit."

"At once, Captain. Sending."

The message went out, and all they had to do now was wait for a response. Cirr didn't look, but he could feel Glayde's eyes fixed on him. He didn't have time to dwell on what his second thought about all of this.

"Alerrt the hangarr. Prreparre to scrramble fjighterrs."

"Rebel contacts!" someone's voice rang from the crew pits beneath the Star Destroyer bridge's central catwalk. "They're moving to intercept!"

Stark's jaw clenched. "Assign new targets to our starboard batteries, and inform the squadrons -"

"No, sir," the officer interjected, a mix of insistence and confusion thick in his voice. "They're moving to intercept them." The officer's grey-sleeved arm pointed to wards the main viewport for emphasis.

Another chimed in. "They're also hailing." The comms officer didn't wait for an instruction before feeding the transmission to the overhead speakers.

"Alljiance Frrjigate Novgorrod stands rready to assjist."

Stark's eyebrows climbed as he exchanged a glance with the equally surprised Moff. Something unspoken passed between them: Help from the Rebels? How can we accept that?

The Moff's response was a wordless shrug. Stark got the message loud and clear. How can we not?

Stark threw a curt nod to communications, and did his best to instil some stability in his impact-rattled voice. "Novgorod, this is the Star Destroyer Thunderchild. We acknowledge your offer of assistance, and gratefully accept."

Pacing back to the situation table, he typed in the commands that would sync his terminal with the active comm feed. "I'm transmitting the frequency our fighters are using; please switch to this and have your pilots coordinate with ours. Be advised: the enemy ships appear to have an unbroken three-sixty field of fire, and we suspect they are droid-controlled."

He hesitated, long enough to glance at the tactical data on the Alliance vessel that his Executive Officer had pulled up on the situation display. A Marauder Corvette. Fast. Agile. Squishy. Her shields wouldn't last long under even a fraction of the barrage that the Thunderchild was soaking up. Then again, the whole point of a ship like that was to avoid getting hit in the first place.

"Our sensors are unable to pierce their interference field and get a solid target lock. If you are able to get close enough to transmit telemetry on any of those ships, we are equipped to launch a sizeable missile strike."

"Acknowledged, Thunderrchjild."

The Novgorod bridge crew waited with collective held breath. They were danger close to a Star Destroyer - a distinction not many Alliance spacers lived to talk about. When one third of the red blips on the holographic IFF flashed to green, nearly everyone let that breath out at once. Still, these were strange days.

"Malljin, do we have those comms?"

Cirr's comms officer pressed an earbud flush with a finger as he hunched over his console. He looked up to Cirr and nodded.

"Get ourr bjirrds out. Defense scrren Crresh."

The word was given to the hangar, and the A-Wings began to scramble, lining up in the chutes to drop through the atmo field. One by one, they peeled away from the mother ship, establishing a loose, open diamond to pick off any advancing droid fighters.

"Gold Three to Actual, multiple targets on vector. They're too small to register as fighter craft."

That hubris was nearly fatal as he banked hard when one of those small targets snapped a deadly spray of laser fire at him. A wingman put counter-fire in a stitch that nearly missed, but managed to kill the droid on the last burst.

Captain Raurrssatta took his seat, preferring to get an overview of the battlespace instead of getting lost in the weeds of the fighter swarm.

"Brrjing us to zerro-zerro-njine marrk two-njine-njine, and go full burrn."

Novgorod banked and dove, putting distance between herself and the destroyer to force the aliens to divide their attention. Cirr toggled the live comm back to Thunderchild.

"Novgorrod to Thunderrchjild, pull yourr fjighterrs back frrom thjis vectorr, we'll open a lane forr them."

A fresh swarm of droid fighters regrouped to press the frigate, and as they massed to overwhelm the screen of A-Wings, Novgorod's missile tubes lit up the sky, sending a scythe pattern of diamond boron warheads into the maelstrom. High-radius detonations clapped through the ether in unison, taking advantage of the alien's reliance of the swarm and turning it against them. Dozens of droid fighters shattered in the explosion, leaving a weakened flank exposed.

"Gold, put your sensor package to AMTT." Morgan instructed quickly. Unlike the other starfighters, the A-Wing’s sensor package had an aggressive missile/torpedo tracking mode. It was features like that that made the small Alliance Starfighter such a maintenance headache. The ANs-7e sensor suite in the A-Wing was superior to the X-Wing’s, with a multi-layered approach not seen on every X-Wing. In Anti-Missile/Torpedo Tracking mode, it would give the agile starfighters a chance against the smaller vessels.

Morgan refocused on the jamming possibilities, but his heart sunk when he saw the conclusion.

Analysis complete:

NO DISCERNABLE EXTERNAL DATA LINK DETECTED.

The words sat in unblinking terminal green. There was something small enough with enough brain power to run those ships, and it seemed to be organic based on movement.

“We can’t jam them.” Morgan announced. But maybe they could fool them.

"They're all over my tail, Shooter!"

"Stay calm, Wrench," Bette bit out over the comm, looping down and back up, putting her Defender behind Shadow Seven and targeting the bogeys trailing it. One of the tiny starfighters immediately fired on her, their laser cannon placement allowing them to fire a full 360 degrees which of course included behind them. Bette cursed and jinked to port as her shields were lit up, but she managed to hit one of the fighters behind Wrench as her wingman went into a barrel roll on her y-axis, up and away from their current direction.

The remaining enemy fighter followed the fleeing Defender, it's small size making a standard evasion nearly impossible. Bette tried to compensate to follow but was a few seconds behind and trying to play catch up as the battle raged around them.

"Rebels joining the battle," she heard dimly over the comm as she raced through their engagement area, Shadows and enemy fighters zipping past as Wrench barely escaped a targeting lock and nearly flew right into another pair of the pyramid shaped ships.

"Keep your head on," Bette shouted. "Go starboard and neg Y, full throttle."

Wrench threw her ship down and away as instructed, bringing her tail into Bette's line of fire. The enemy disintegrated under Bette's Defender's laser cannons and Wrench blurted out her thanks as she formed up on Bette's four again.

"We have A-Wings entering the battle near you, Shadows. They are allies. Switch to comm channel gamma-alpha-two."

Bette looked at her sensors briefly to verify the entry of another group to the fray, and switched her comm over.

"Slims in the arena," Ox called out. "They better stay out of my way."

"Cut the chatter, Five," V'larr's calm voice sounded like he was ordering breakfast from room service.

Bette took out another bogey and Wrench fell back a little to clear one off her tail. "These things adjust too fast to be droids and are too small to be piloted."

"Just vape them, Shooter, let command worry about what they are."

"Understood, Shadow Leader." She spiraled pos Y and the Rebels' capital ship came into view. "You came in that thing? You Rebels are braver than I thought."

"Please refrain from inefficient communication."

MARCUS, in the guise of his ship-mounted persona of Novgorod's E-WAR suite put out a general message as he began to add new parameters to the irrationality matrix that controlled the frigate's electromagnetic bag of dirty tricks.

"Alert. A gap has formed in the enemy fighter screen."

True to form, Novgorod's bombardment, combined with a squadron of TIE Defenders pouncing on the remaining droid ships in disarray had caused a noticeable weakening in the alien line. MARCUS exploited that chaos, drawing upon Morgan's observations and began throwing sensor shadows into the gap, creating duplicate readings for the TIE Defenders and A-Wings that were approaching. The alien ships took the bait and a dozen began chasing the ghosts on their scopes.

Cirrsseeto watched the battle play out in front of him. It was an impossible number of fighters, and a battlespace that teemed with organic energy. Nevertheless, he could sense the weakness when it happened.

"Actual to Gold Leaderr, engage the enemy fjighterrs and punch thrrough."

The dozen A-Wings running support near Novgorod parted from their mother ship. Without her fighter escort, the frigate, drew closer to the protective gun range of Thunderchild and the screen of standard TIEs that provided her mainstay fighter complement. A sharp bank, and the marauder cut loose with another diamond boron barrage on a group of alien fighters not clearly being engaged, thinning their ranks as she sped away.

Towards the weakened fighter line, the A-Wings began to accelerate to attack speed.

"Shadow Leader, this is Gold Leader. We've got you covered for an attack run on the cruiser, do you copy?"

On cue, an A-Wing cut across on a scissoring intercept and swatted a droid fighter as it lined up for a bead on a defender. Two more droids diverted from their chase to go after the Alliance fighter, giving the Shadows even more of a seam to work out of.

De'Ville pressed herself into her bunk, her team jammed into a barracks that was already full of fighter jocks so that a few had to sleep in shifts. Right now all the stick jockeys were out riding their starfighters into battle, so there was plenty of room to stretch out.

Lellan was trying to play cards, but the air was thick with tension and he kept shuffling the deck and redealing. The SpecOps team was theoretically getting a ride with the Novgorod to the next Alliance friendly port, but Lilaena didn't know when they were going to reach it. Things in this sector were fracked up, and the enemy that had emptied Karallon was here, here in space.

Attacking the Imperials. Attacking the Rebels. De'Ville rubbed her temples, turning on her side toward the bulkhead. She could feel the enemy fighters as they swarmed around the Novgorod, feel them as they winked out. It wasn't like the Imperial and Rebel pilots. She could feel them also as they moved through the Force, when she tried, and it was entirely different. Accounting for this being an alien sentient species they had not yet encountered - yet it was alien, so very alien. It made her sick to her stomach, the life forces in the ships.

Yet she felt as though she had to learn all she could, so she lay still on the bunk while her team had nothing to do but wait and hope the ship didn't disintegrate underneath them, and she reached out with the Force. Reached...reached... to one of the strange beings on the attacking starfighters. Not one - two. Two life forces.

De'Ville could not touch their minds, but she did what she could, trying to learn about them. How she could use any of this information she didn't know. It was a tight rope she was walking, and there was a Jedi Knight on board. She hoped that he was busy enough with the battle that her activities would go mostly unnoticed. She wanted nothing to do with him.

What she had felt at the table, the technology they had found on Karallon, she could feel it in the starfighter. And... the pilot and the gunner were both humans.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up abruptly, banging her head on the bunk compartment above hers.

"You all right, boss?" Grenn looked up from where he was watching Lellan lay out his solitaire game. De'Ville winced, swinging her legs out of the bunk and nodded.

"Yeah, I keep forgetting how little space there are in these things." She hopped down to the deck. "I'm going to stretch my legs. Being cooped up here is -" she looked over at Kyle Mano who was chewing his fingernails down to nubs - "driving me crazy."

"I'll come with you," Fi'lik said, her green lekku swept around her shoulders. De'Ville nodded, and the two women walked out into the passage.

"The fuck are those -!" There were a few moments of verbal chaos as the Imperials found multiple sensor readings for their fighters popping up on their readouts. A confused pair of TIES flew evasion on friendlies that weren't there, only to crash into one that was. Bette winced, shooting down an enemy that turned to chase a sensor duplicate and left itself open.

"Frackin' Rebels and their tricks," swore someone, while command figured out what was going on.

"Sensor package recalibration coming through," came a terse voice over the comm, and there was a tense moment while her HUD blinked and then the sensor ghosts appeared as just that - faint outlines that were easy to differentiate from the real thing. Neat trick, Bette thought.

"Shadow Leader, this is Gold Leader. We've got you covered for an attack run on the cruiser, do you copy?"

"Copy that Gold Leader," came Lt. Commander V'larr's calm and rational reply, quickly assessing the changing situation with his green brain and ordering the Shadows on an attack run.

Bette banked hard to port, her Defender screaming underneath her in a way that she could only feel as a vibration through her pressure suit, her teeth clenched as she fought the stick through the turn. Her wingman, Wrench, executed a wider turn and had to accelerate to catch up. The enemy cruiser had her starboard flank wide open as the slims punched through the swarming droid fighters, and the Shadows took full advantage, using the heavier guns of the Defenders to tear into the hull as they flew past.

That moment, as his TIE Defender launched from the hangar, as an enemy combatant came screaming to intercept. There was no time to think. Only react. A sharp tug on his control yoke sent his fighter turning and spinning downward immediately, clearing the hull and disengaging immediately. The rest of his wing was close behind him; their voices confused and flabbergasted over the comm. Without looking Zach reached across the small cockpit and rested his hands on the interior wall where religious scripture had been written in flowing text throughout the cockpit.

He believed in something beyond technology and firepower. The battlefield was daunting; a world of crisscrossing laser beams and too many objects to acknowledge at once. Shiraya give me strength. "There is no darkness. Except that found in the hearts of men." He whispered before he lost himself in the battle, juking between wreckage and battery volleys as his wing exploded into the scene in a hail of laser fire. It was a fight to bring the pain as quickly as they could. The enemy combatants were tough, with strong shields and a size that was difficult to track. With a calm precision that had always set him apart from the rest of the Shadow Squadron, Zach drew close beads on the enemy fighters and by combining firepower from the rest of the wing they were capable of focus down the shields and disintegrate the bogey.

The call came in, Rebel forces assisting them. It seemed so strange a thing. Shouts of opposition and arguments broke out all through the comm but Jackal switched to the new designated channel, and was overwhelmed with the slew of new voices added. No faces to place on these voices as he flew into combat with the enemy. The enemy force was thickening to the point that it was suffocating and he almost wished he had the faster Interceptor to bob and weave through the debris, but that would be suicide. Already his shields were the only thing keeping him alive. Even then, one barrage and it was lights out.

The call came out. Shadows cleared for a bombing run on the enemy cruiser. Good. In unison his flight peeled off their present course and lined up for the hole in the enemy fighters; moving in behind V'larr's flight. With a thumb he armed all his missile batteries and prepared for the run. Taking up position behind Vl'arr's "shoulder" they offered cover fire for the spearhead.

"Shadow Nine in position."

"Their evasives are erratic...what the frack is this?"

Gold Nine, frustrated at what should have been a kill shot sailing past an enemy that banked hard starboard, moved to try and anticipate his target.

Onboard Novgorod, Cirrsseeto kept transfixed to that little section of space: the tip of the spear where Gold and the Shadow contingent had pushed their assault. Even accounting for tactical incongruities, droid fighters usually playede the game like a school of fish, the broad strokes of their movements obviously being controlled by programming of a single source or at least a single logic. An organic mind still couldn't predict it, but it was like pornography - you knew it when you saw it.

Trouble was, it wasn't there. At all. The swarm before them moved differently.

"Actual to Gold Nine, break pursuit and relay at one seven two."

Lieutenant Myktel was the deck officer, and he called the ball tactically for gold squadron on the bridge, serving as their sense of perspective. The perspiration on his brow was a tell-tale of his own awareness of their situation. Cirr had spent enough time on Layla to know small unit combat. The line was overextending.

"Stay on the escorrt, Gold. Stay on jit..."

"Actual to Gold Nine, I repeat, disengage and divert, there are no friendly guns..."

Nine's comms came in clipped through comm static.

"I'm coming about to over-under with Eight. Get ready. Arm concuss-..."

From their vantage, the blip that was Gold Nine's fireball appeared miniscule.

"Gold Eight, disengage and divert! This is Actual, over!"

Another voice on the line.

"Shields depleted...starboard engine...diverting power..."

A second burst in the dark, followed by a few echoed in retaliation as Gold reunited with Shadow in a counter-strafe to buffett the enemy aside.

Novgorod herself was back on sortie, skirting wide to take a shot at the flanking screen, and hopefully to thin the fighter line. Switching to concussion missiles, the Marauder stalked like a bird of prey, peppering the sky with anti-fighter salvos.

The fighters had done more than their share. They'd somehow punched through the mass of alien fighters and bloodied the cruiser's nose. If it was a street fight, now was the time for the haymaker. Cirr looked at the far side of the tactical screen at the advancing Star Destroyer, the notion that it's intimidating profile brought a degree of comfort a bit unsettling.

Morgan was engaged with a shadow sensor dance with the enemy, and had pulled a few gambits that had just paid off. They absolutely should not have paid off.

The droids/drones/whatever they were did not have an optical sensor suite. He pulled away from the console for a moment, and left MARCUS to run the show. He reached out in isolation to a group of the alien fighter craft and studied it. The design was simple, and the primary thought was ease of manufacture. Laser cannons, re-directive shielding. That was clever. Not exactly durable beyond the shielding, and the engines were sub-optimal. Sensor suite was simplistic, so was the power...

Morgan doubled over and threw up on the floor, his cheek against the console, with one hand to steady himself.

"Morrgan!"

Any other crewer having a spell would just be cause to get them relieved at their post. Morgan wasn't any other crewer, and while his role as Jedi was secondary on their mission, he knew that his friend didn't exactly "turn off" that gift, and when a Jedi starts to get a funny feeling, it's a good idea to pay attention.

Already, Ensign Strath had him righted. Cirr's attention turned to his Jedi companion, even as his frigate pounced on the fighter flank, engaging in concert with a renewed TIE escort to roll the enemy's line up.

It was a shot of intuition, but Captain Raurrssatta had learned long ago to trust his gut.

"jIt's the fjighterrs, jisn't jit?"

No droid fighter technology was good enough to do this. There was something else at work. If Cirrsseeto couldn't explain it with nuts and bolts, he'd accept whatever he could get.

Morgan nodded while he wiped his face with a sleeve. Cirrseeto might not have been gifted by the Force, but he had a keen ability of observation.

"They bottled the essence of a being, and it's the power plant." Morgan spat. He paused, fighting down a mix of disgust and rising anger at what had been done. He took a deep breath.

"They're all screaming." Morgan shook his head, the dull echo of pure emotional terror still raw. His logical mind was in denial about what it was, but he knew it was true. He knew what another being felt like, and those had been crudely ripped from their bodies. He'd read a tale of vampire-like Sith who would supposedly consume the essence of their followers and enemies to enrich themselves, but it wasn't ever bottled, as far as he knew.

Morgan wished Serena and Rhianna were here. Their skills suited the situation much better. The only release he could think for the tortured life force was the lethal one.

The doors to the bridge opened after she presented her ident card to the scanner. Couldn't have just anyone barging into the command center during a battle. Fi'lik entered behind her, her lithe Twi'leki body insinuating it's way into the room. She was ridiculously graceful - an attribute of her species that had caused most of them to be enslaved as dancers. The bridge was in barely controlled chaos.

Lilaena stepped aside as an ensign bustled past her, the viewscreen showing the battle in front of them. There was the pungent aroma of vomit in the air, and she quickly zeroed in on the culprit - the Jedi knight, Morgan. They hadn't interacted much, purposefully on her part, though she'd been careful not to blatantly avoid him. A small cleaning droid was already taking care of the mess he'd left beside his station, and their Cizerack commander was standing beside him.

To be quite honest, now that she could see the ships flying around her bile was rising too. How much could she get away with saying? It was in her record that she'd been a padawan before Order 66, though it was also in her records that she'd received no further training since she was a child. Best not to say anything at all, unless directly asked.

"I figured a Jedi would be made of stronger stuff," Fi'lik said quietly, her voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the bridge.

De'Ville swallowed down a lump in her throat, willing herself not to join her companion in looking green. "Most Jedi are."

There was a nagging feeling in the pit of Cirr's stomach. "They bottled the essence of a being, and it's the power plant."

A pile of a million dead husks left to rot outside a city like garbage. Nothing taken, nothing destroyed, but everything taken. Everything that mattered.

Cirr watched De'Ville and one of her commandos enter the bridge. While there wasn't a mission-specific need for the ground pounders during deep space red alert, he had a feeling that he was about to need all the help he could get, and gave her a brief nod after making sure Morgan was upright. Standing by the Jedi's post, the Captain looked ahead.

"Ssajine, adjusst by zerro-two-zerro and come about full."

The helmswoman knew where that would bring them, and needed no instruction on the speed. They were all-in, charging over the winnowed flank to hit the enemy close and provide the Star Destroyer with bombardment telemetry. Fortunately, Shadow and Gold had mostly overrun the swarm, and were now lining up for a free shot. Half the fighters doubled back to protect the motherships, while the rest did their best to harry Thunderchild's trundling approach.

"Adjust deflectorrs to..."

Cirr caught his words. There wasn't going to be a front line where they were heading.

"...just keep them up."

Novgorod righted herself, her engines strobing bright as she picked up a full head of sublight thrust, accelerating to speeds on par with an X-wing. Forward missile tubes cut loose with diamond boron warheads, cutting a gap ahead that would surely diminish quickly. The boron weapons were immediately followed with quick salvos of concussion missiles to pick up stragglers on their vector. The problem was, there were only so many missiles and so few tubes to fire them from. The dull thumping sound of laser weapons on shielding started picking up in pace, like rain in an advancing thunderstorm.

"Morrgan, jI need you to get a bombarrdment lock."

MARCUS bundled the balance of all available targeting data brought in from Novgorod and the combined forces of fighters, bringing the information up onto Morgan's terminal.

"Alien picket ships targeting data is complete and ready to disseminate to firing solutions. Directed fire at the ventral bow hull blisters is likely to cause a cascading deflector failure."

Of course, what wasn't mentioned was the incomplete data for the cruiser. They still needed to close distance for a detailed reading on it. Nonetheless, they were close enough for general bombardment against it if they chose to engage.

Captain Stark watched the sensor telemetry in silence, his perspective focused on just one of the Alliance fighters which had been magnified on his hologram display. The Rebel pilots referred to them as A-Wings, he was told: the RZ-1, faster than a TIE Interceptor but with the shields and hyperdrive that seemed to give Alliance pilots the edge over the Empire's quantity over quality approach to space superiority. He'd heard them called 'slims' in certain circles, a slang reference to an A-Wing pilot's slim chance of survival, relatively speaking. Idly, Captain Stark wondered if Imperial pilots would feel that nickname was as apt as the Rebel ones did.

The projection's focus changed, shifting to the enemy ship. Lines that had been approximated before snapped into sharper resolution, fresh telemetry from the A-Wings that had managed to weave their way through the curtain of point defense fire and the swarms of air cover, no doubt succeeding because of the same factors that set them above Imperial craft.

"Sensor telemetry received," his Tactical Officer confirmed unnecessarily. There was a moment of hesitation as he conferred with a Communications Officer. "The Alliance Frigate is recommending target locations on the ventral surface, but we will need to move to closer range to bring all our batteries to bear."

More contemplative silence, the Captain's intense old eyes straying from the holographic miniatures to the fireworks display beyond the bridge's main viewport. "Status on the Novgorod," he requested, his mind extracting the vessel's name from his memory of her Captain's unusual accented words.

"Not good," came the Tactical Officer's blunt response. "Her forward shields are in imminent danger of collapse."

This was the moment, then. He could feel it in his bones; feel the Moff's unrelenting gaze upon him, an opinion on the tip of his tongue held back by reluctance to provide it unsolicited. By rights, the Moff had the authority to turn his political views into orders; jurisdiction or no, he was Captain Stark's superior by a wide margin. That was not how their relationship worked, however. That was not the level of trust Captain Stark had earned, nor the level of respectful non-interference that had become the norm. Even so, Crichton felt his eyes drawn to Rübezahl as he issued his orders.

"Helm: bring us to within missile range, and position our shields between that Alliance ship and as many of their gun batteries as you can muster. Tactical: advise all Imperial and Alliance fighters to vacate our forward firing arc, and order all gun crews to defensive fire; I want a curtain of fire making whoever they are think twice about coming any closer. Stand by all missiles on my signal."

A chorus of responses sprung up, different officers at different consoles going through the motions that would steer the vast ship as instructed. The Imperial-class moved with such slow elegance to the outside observer; few realised just how much effort and complexity was involved in hurling a mile of durasteel around the stars.

"Weapons range!" the Tactical Officer announced.

Stark moved, abandoning the holodisplay to advance a few essential paces down the catwalk that bisected the bridge. Ahead, their target loomed, in all it's utterly alien glory. His hands clasped behind his back as he stared the cruiser down.

"Open fire," he instructed, his eyes narrowing. "All weapons."

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."

Being inside the ship was worse. Much worse. De'Ville kept a straight face, but her stomach was churning. Everything, from the lights to the wiring in the bulkheads, felt wrong. Her team had fanned out at Glayde's instruction, and they were causally watching the perimeter behind the rest of the group, keeping a clear way back into their shuttle should the Imperials decide to turn their attention to the Rebels rather than the alien ship.

"Notice anything, boss?" Lellan jerked his head toward where Glayde and the others from Novgorod were standing.

"Maybe," she replied cautiously, unwilling to be drawn into an obvious joke that she had yet again missed.

"They didn't send their A-team, not all of them anyway. And Captain Raurrrssath-whatever sent us, we're practically expendable in his eyes. Not his people, not his problem." His normally open face was all business.

De'Ville considered that. "While I'm sure the Captain has faith in our abilities, you're probably right. Is today a good day to die?"

Lellan grinned. "It's a good day for someone else to die." He stared meaningfully at the Imperials who were setting up sensory equipment, and some gun placements, no doubt to protect their shuttle but also conveniently almost in range of the Rebel's own ship. Just out of range, though, they were obviously just barely trying to play nice.

She signaled him to shut up, and they waited to see how the exploration teams were going to shake out.