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Some days I hate this job, Anton L’sard thought as he sighed.  “Major, standing orders are to treat the miners with kid gloves,” the officer said softly.

The immaculately attired Major turned around and glared at L’sard, his arms crossed behind his back.  “Lieutenant,” he said in a not-so-quiet voice, “these abo have broken Imperial law.  We are going to send a message to all of the scum on this world.  Now prepare your men—that is an order, Lieutenant.”

Anton shook his head and he stepped up close to the Major, turning his back on the miners and their families that Major Westral had dragged from their homes in the middle of the night.  “Sir, you have no proof that these individuals broke any law—and even if you did, Sir, a rock thrown through the window of a recruiting office does not carry the penalty of burning down these people’s homes.  The local authorities will handle this, Sir.  If I might sugge-. . .”

Westral, whose face had grown redder and redder as the words spoken by the Lieutenant registered.  “YOU MAY NOT!  I gave you an order, Lieutenant!  Now obey it, or I will have you relieved and arrested for insubordination!”

"Who does this chakaar think he is?" Vsilisk muttered, and Anton closed his eyes and sighed again as Westral spun around and worked his jaw.

“WHO SAID THAT?” he bellowed at the platoon.  None of them said a word, but the sergeant in charge of Vsilisk’s squad spat on the ground.  The Major turned back to L’sard.  “I will have this entire platoon broken, Lieutenant!  Now fire those buildings!”

The special missions Lieutenant sighed again.  I gave you three chances, you imbecile.  He knew exactly why Ise and Patrice had picked the 442nd for this assignment; the veterans under his command wouldn’t be intimidated by mere rank, after all.  Westral was merely one of scores of officers that had deserted their posts and fled to Cyralis over the past year.  And before Patrice trusted them with an independent command, he wanted to make certain they were not the same types of officers liable to provoke an incident.  So, the 442nd had been broken up into platoons and each of these officers were assigned one of those platoons.  Only they weren’t wearing their 442nd patch.  No, the special missions troopers were pretending to be fresh recruits out of Basic, in the field for the first time.  So far, L’sard had finished a month with two other officers—decent, if not great, officers.  But this time, by the Emperor’s Black Heart!, this time they had found an example of just what Patrice had feared.

“No, sir.  Sergeant, place the Major under arrest, while I defuse this situation with the min-. . .,” L’sard stopped in mid-word as Westral drew his blaster and pointed directly at the junior officer’s face.

“You are guilty of refusing a direct order on the field of battle, Lieutenant!  You are guilty as well of being an abo sympathizer, and a traitor to the Empire.  In the name of Director General Isard, I hereby sentence you to death; sentence to be carried out immediately.”

The sound of a throat clearing behind the major made him look back over his shoulder, and he blanched as he saw thirty-seven blast rifles pointed directly at him.  “Put down the blaster, Sir, and you might just live,” the Sergeant said.

“You are all traitors!”

“Sarge, the idiots just too dumb to live; can I cut him now?” Vsilisk asked plaintively.

“DAMN IT, Vsilisk!  Can’t you go two minutes without saying a word?” the Sergeant answered—and the Major started to sprint.

But Anton L’sard wasn’t a well-connected high-society officer used to a posh posting; he was a former special missions enlisted trooper who had been selected to attend Officer Candidate’s School, and he leapt forward, grabbing the blaster pistol and wrenching it away as he threw the Major over his shoulder and into a muddy ditch.

“Major Kelgor Westral, by the authority of Moff Patrice, I find you guilty of being too stupid to live,” L’sard said as he walked over to the ditch.  “I also find you guilty of being a speciest and of issuing an illegal order.  The sentence is death.”  And with that word, Anton fired a single bolt into the chest of the gawking, sputtering, mud-splattered officer.

“Vsilisk,” he said as he tossed the weapon to the Sergeant.  “Package up the body to be returned to Cyralis—I need to calm down the Quarren and Mon Cal.”

“Right-O,” the trooper answered as he jumped down in the ditch and began to pat down the bodies.  “Just give me a second to find his cred-. . .,” and Trey sighed, as he felt a hand on his shoulder.  “You aren’t gonna let me keep it, are you Sarge?”

“The credits?  Hell, no.  They go in with his personals, you know the rules.  But the body?  Yeah, Vsilisk, you can keep the body.  In fact, I’m gonna make you carry the body all the back to the shuttle.”

"Carry him!  Come on, Sarge, it's forty-two klicks back to the shuttles!"

“Yep.  Now get him in a body bag, Vsilisk—and no souvenirs.”

“Not even one ear?”

“VSILISK!”

“Okay, okay, I’m putting  him in the bag—with both ears intact!  What about a tooth?  We could say that the LT knocked one out.”

"VSILISK!"

Chapter Nine

“War.  Once again war has been thrust upon the Empire,” Director Isard said into the camera with a sad face.  “It is with a heavy heart that I must report that former Grand Moff Zsinj has broken faith with the Empire and declared that the worlds he was charged with protecting are seceding from the Galactic Empire.  Such treason will not be allowed; already there have been mass defections among Zsinj’s ranking officers as they return to Imperial service answering the orders of the Ruling Council here on Coruscant.  I ask that all citizens of the Empire have faith—this . . . Warlord will not be permitted to brazenly defy the will of the Council.  He will be brought to justice.”

The news announcer reappeared on the screen.  “That was Director Ysanne Isard speaking for the Ruling Council earlier today on Coruscant.  Eyewitness reports from along the border of the Quelli Oversector confirm that sizeable formations of the Imperial Fleet and several score Legions have begun an invasion into the space claimed by the renegade Zsinj.  The Kidriff system has already played host to a major battle involving no fewer than three hundred capital warships and forty Legions—as we speak, loyal Imperial ground forces are rooting out those who have forsaken the Empire to swear allegiance to this traitor.”

The holoscreen blanked as Thom turned the news report off.  “So, it has begun.”

Kell Morvin snorted and then he took a sip of his drink.  “And if the reports that I am hearing are correct, they are going hammer and tong at each other—Zsinj hit Taanab from orbit when he discovered that Isard was using it as a base of operations.”  Kell shook his head.  “From the rumors, it was pure butchery, Thom.  He utterly destroyed the capital city of Pandath in a fit of rage over Isard taking your advice.”

The Fleet Admiral took another sip and he shook his head again.  “I have increased all patrols—Zsinj might well want revenge on you as well, and if he comes against us in force, I doubt that I can stop him.”

“Kell,” Thom said with a chuckle.  “Isard has gone all in.  With what she is throwing at him, can Zsinj spare anything for us?  Would you?”

“Would I?  Hells no, Thom.  But I am not Zsinj—and that man carries a grudge way too far.”

Thom shrugged.  “Which means he may well want to attack us, but can he—realistically—spare the ships or men while Isard is pounding his forces?  Especially in wake of the ships and troops who switched their allegiance to Coruscant in answer to her recall order.”

Kell sighed.  “Realistically?  No.  But this is Zsinj we are speaking of; he may well no longer care about what is realistic.”

“Point taken, Kell,” Thom said, “and I approve of your caution.  But there comes a time, when caution must be thrown aside.”

Kell raised the glass in a salute of affirmation and took another sip.  Whereupon the third man present spoke up.  “As with this summit you have proposed, Moff Patrice?”

“No, Conal.  That is just hedging our bets,” the old general replied with a laugh.  “Most of the Sector Moffs with whom I spoke were rather . . . incredulous of such a conference.  But not all; some were very much pleased given the lack of recent attention the Outer and Mid Rim in this quadrant of the Galaxy has received from the Core.  No, all thirty-two delegations will attend—and that, my friends, means we might be able to press ahead all the sooner.”

“Attending does not mean that they will agree, Moff Patrice,” the Ubiqtorate agent said softly.  “Certainly, Veers will not—that man is a fanatic.”

“True.  Which is why we already have plans in place to take care of Veers—regardless of how Mon Mothma replies to my overture.  You have managed to get your people in place?”

“I have,” Galen said briskly.  “And it will look as if he has been assassinated by Zsinj’s people.  Which should infuriate Isard even more, considering she personally sent Veers out here.”

Conal winced.  “My Lord, I do not care for us assassinating Imperial officers of Veers caliber—I do not care for it one bit.”

“Understood, Conal,” Thom said.  “And I admire the man myself.  He knows his duty and he does it—which means what if he discovers what we are up to out here?”

The Sector General sighed.  “He stops his operations on Ryloth, whistles up Admiral Daanin’s Fleet from Corellia and comes hunting us.”

“Exactly.  As much as I hate doing it, it must be done, Conal.  You are still with us, I hope?”

“Aye, my Lord.  I gave you my word, and I will follow you—I just do not like having to do this deed.”

“But what of Isard?” Galen asked.  “She will be told of this summit—and she will not like it, Moff Patrice.  She has already warned you not to poach your neighbors; and while this is still in the neighborhood, she will wonder if you are planning to declare your own fief out here.  And when she wonders, she gets nervous.  When she gets nervous, people begin to die in spectacularly bad fashion.”

Thom smiled.  “I took care of that already.  I spoke with Isard this morning and invited her to send a representative to this summit as well.”

Kell groaned.  “You just had to poke the Rancor, didn’t you?” he said softly, as Conal shook his head in disbelief.  But Galen was nodding.

“And how did she respond?” he asked.

The old general turned Moff chuckled.  “I thought she was going to have a stroke—until I told her that as a whole, these Sectors could be governed with far less military force than are currently assigned to them.  Why, if we can unite to assist each other—as loyal Imperials should—we can each reduce our forces by a dozen or a score ships, ships that can be then returned to Coruscant for redeployment elsewhere.  Such as against Zsinj.”

“Hoo-hoo-hoo,” laughed Conal.  “I bet her demon eyes got wide with that one.”

“That they did, Conal.  That they did.  But she ran down the list of possibilities very fast, and then she agreed to send a liaison to this summit; I didn’t push the idea, but she is very sharp, Galen.  She mused about the formation of a new Oversector here—the Cyralis Oversector—and she asked just how much could we draw down our strength if these sectors were united.”

“It’s risky,” Galen said shaking his head.  “She could be playing you and once your Fleet is gone, turn right around and squash you.”

“Aye.  But that risk is part of the game, is it not?  So what about it, Kell?  You and Conal know the order of battle of these Sectors best—how much can we spare if she does decide to form the Cyralis Oversector?”

Kell let out his breath.  “Even with what he has already sent back to the Core, Moff Panaka has three times the normal Sector Fleet—everyone else is just about par for the course, including us.  Two dozen Star Destroyers, plus a hundred lesser vessels?” he mused.  “But none of those Moffs are going to want to give up their own internal Sector forces.”

“No.  But considering what Isard is going to Zsinj right now—at this moment—none of them are going to want to . . . infuriate her by refusing.  I did suggest that perhaps, if the Ruling Council decided to form a new Oversector, we could reduce each Sector Fleet and Army by half, forming the remainder into the Oversector Fleet and Army.  Without needing reinforcements from the Core, and still allow us to send our excess ships and troops back to Coruscant.”

Conal snorted.  “And what if she decides to appoint someone else as Grand Moff of the Cyralis Oversector?  What then?”

Thom shrugged.  “She trusts very few people, Conal.  And while she doesn’t trust me, she knows I have no intention of moving against her on Coruscant, whether I have twenty Star Destroyers or two hundred.  She is already very pleased with the fighters and ships we have sent to the Core; and with the fact that the Rebellion is so quiet in my Sectors.  Which is good enough for her purposes.  And mine.”

“Still, she could appoint Panaka or Thorin—the same could be said about them,” Galen pointed out.

“Agreed.  Which is why we are moving heaven and earth to make certain that our forces here in Cyralis and Lamaredd are loyal to us.  How did the maneuvers with Pelgrin and Bitrose go?”

Now Kell shrugged.  “They need a lot of work, but there is good raw material there.  Or at least there is since your friend Moff Biram Voelkers sacked the worst of the lot and had them shot.  And Krandor is scared of you—I mean the man seems to think that you are going to emerge from the wall in his bedroom one night and slit his throat.”

Thom laughed again.  Kell smiled and he continued.  “Right now, our forces are just about as well-trained as I can get them, Thom.  Naval and ground,” he said pointing his chin at Conal who nodded in agreement.  “And the rank and file troopers and spacers of Pelgrin and Bitrose are coming onboard fast.  I am worried that we are expanding too fast, though.  And if this Oversector idea takes off, we are going to be getting a lot bigger a lot faster.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Kell,” Thom said.  “But you are right.  But think of this, gentlemen.  If we can unite this section of the Rim—Outer and Middle—between Bitrose and Chommel,” Thom smiled.  “Gentlemen, if we can carry this off, in five years time we need no longer fear no one.”

“That is the one word I hate to see in planning sessions, Moff Patrice—IF,” Conal said with a sigh.  “But I agree, Sir.  And if you can get the Alliance to back off in these sectors . . .,” his voice trailed off, but the grins of his fellows and their nodding heads said all that was needed.

“Bear in mind, Isard will not last five years, gentlemen.  The Council is too volatile and her enemies are too many.  Soon enough she will fall.  May this war with Zsinj we have sparked make that happen all the sooner,” Thom said as he raised a glass in a toast that his subordinates answered, and each man took a sip.

“Speaking of enemies, have you confirmed that information that Captain G’deransk retrieved?”

Galen smiled.  “I have, Moff Patrice.  And I have discovered that the Board of Directors will be holding their annual meeting on Kelada, in the Ananid Cluster, Duluur Sector of the Colonies region; that meeting will take place in six weeks.”

“Is that so?” Thom asked quietly.  “Conal, do you reckon the 442nd is willing to give up babysitting duty in order to send a message to those who put a price on my head?”

The Imperial General smiled brightly.  “Message implies that you expect some of them to remain alive, Moff Patrice.”

“I mean for outside observers to get the message, Conal.  The ORO Corp Board?  I could care less for them.”

Conal nodded.  “If Kell can spare a few ships, I think we can do this—it might get messy.”

“Try to keep the splash to a minimum, Conal.  But if it comes down it to it, your boys can do what it takes to waste those bastards.”

And the three others nodded their assent and approval.

The newly restored Venator-class Star Destroyer Invictus slowly passed in review, escorted by serried ranks of hundreds of TIE Avenger fighters, TIE Scimitar bombers, and Starwing gunboats.  Thom shook his head slightly as he stood on the bridge of Kell’s Flagship—the ISD Scorpion.  “I know that those ships performed well in the Clone Wars, Admiral Morvin, but we are putting a lot of our fighter assets in one big basket there.  Is she really worth it?”

The High Admiral of Cyralis chuckled.  “Definitely, Moff Patrice.  She carries three times as many fighters as an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer—and while she isn’t as heavily armed as an Imperator for ship-to-ship combat, she still packs a punch.  And with that number of starfighters embarked, she is a magnificent threat to any Rebel—or Imperial—battlegroup.  Wouldn’t you agree, Tan Stele?”

“I do, Admiral.  Moff Patrice, this is the type of ship that the Imperial Fleet has desperately needed for the past decade.  Instead of trying to build capital ships to engage hostile fighters, we have a heavy starfighter carrier with the weapons and armor to defend herself against capital ships, while her squadrons serve as the offensive arm.  Damn, but we could have crushed the Rebellion if Palpatine had converted forty of these ships—FORTY, Moff Patrice!”

“I wouldn’t go that far, [Tan[/i] Stele,” Kell replied with a broad smile.  “Three hundred and sixty Avengers and seventy-two Scimitars are a powerful force multiplier, but we will still need more conventional Star Destroyers—her fighter squadrons might well be able to overpower a single Imperator and escorts, but at a high cost.”

“With all due respect, High Admiral, I think you are underestimating the effectiveness of her complement.  Properly trained, deployed, and led, Invictus can field enough fighters to take on even a Super Star Destroyer; after all, if the Rebels can do the job, then by Palpatine’s Black Heart, Imperial pilots can as well.  Note to mention that your Mod 2 Avengers are damn fine fighters, even if they lack a hyperdrive, and those Scimitars are sweet to fly.  And she carries another seventy-two Starwings to back them up,” Maarek Stele looked away from the ship and he smiled wistfully.  “Which is why when I heard rumors of what you people were doing out here, I deserted my post on Kessel and made my way out here to join up.”

Thom snorted.  “Isard and her advisors were short-sighted Tan Stele.  I have heard of your exploits—and to think they stripped you of your rank and assigned you to command a squadron of TIE/ln, on anti-smuggler patrol at Kessel.  They would cut their nose to spite their own face, I believe.”

Maarek stared at the Moff for a moment and then he turned back to look at the impressive sight making her way to a berthing orbit.  “You do not worry that the Emperor himself taught me the skills I would need to serve as his one of his Hands?”

“I served alongside Jedi Masters in the Clone Wars, Tan Stele; I fought alongside Vader in the wake of the conclusion of those Wars, cleaning up the mess left behind.  I think that what Palpatine taught you is yours—not the mark of a Sith or a Jedi or a force witch, but yours.  And as long as you are content in serving the Empire and your commanders are not homicidal maniacs willing to kill their own for sheer pleasure, you want to serve.  You want to fly!”

The pilot slowly nodded and he shook his head again.  “So where are you planning to station me?  Cadre for your Flight Academy?  Test pilot at Phaulkon?  Command of a planetary defense squadron?”

“Actually, Tan Stele,” Thom continued with a smirk, “Kell and I are making a slight aleration in the command arrangements aboard Invictus.  I thought that perhaps I would promote you to Captain and assign you as the new CAG.”

“CAG?  What the devil is a CAG?”

“Commander, Aerospace Strike Group,” Kell answered.  “Invictus will remain under the command of Captain Landon—I believe you two know each other and have proven that you can work together, yes?”

“Saul Landon?  Yeah, he’s a good officer.”

“Captain Landon will command Invictus, Tan Stele, but you will command her six fighter Wings, her shuttle Wing, and her gunboat Wing.  You will be the officer to make certain those pilots get that training and leadership that you so bluntly said that they needed.  And making certain that they are properly deployed.”

The pilot exhaled and he stared at Thom and Kell for several moments.  “That violates all doctrine—the ship commander is always in charge of the fighters.”

“Rancors take doctrine, Tan Stele,” Thom snorted.  “I don’t care about doctrine, I care about what works.  Now, I want to know if you are up to the challenge—most of those pilots assigned to Invictus graduated our Flight Academy over the past year.  Only a bare cadre of them are previous service Imperial pilots—can you get them up to speed?  Or do I need to find a better man for the job?”

Maarek spun around and his eyes were hot for a moment, but then he slowly smiled.  “As CAG will I get to fly?”

“Yes,” Kell answered simply.  “When your schedule allows for it,” he added.

The pilot turned back to the bridge windows and he gazed upon that now-distant, lovely ship for several moments more, and then he nodded.  “In that case, High Admiral Morvin, Moff Patrice, you’ve got a CAG.”

Thom blanched as he saw the splatters of red appearing on the holo-display; his reaction was not alone as everyone of his senior officers and aides winced.  Kell nodded, and he pointed a laser-wand at one of the sites of conflict.  “Zsinj was apparently even more furious than you and I thought he would be, Moff Patrice.  He not only attacked Corellia, he threw Fleets against Kuat, Rothana, Mandalore, Fondor, and Loronar.  And he deliberately aimed at the shipyards, causing tremendous damage to each.”

“Ord Tanis,” Thom hissed and he looked up at his Fleet Admiral whose face was tight.  Kell nodded again.  “I have already ordered reinforcements there immediately; thankfully, Ord Tanis is off the major hyperspace routes, so if Zsinj has sent a Task Force after us, it will take a little while longer before it can ar-. . .,” Kell’s voice trailed off as the Twi’lek aide Goran rushed into the room.

“My Moff,” he said breathlessly with a slight bow, “Ord Tanis is under attack.”

Chan Palomar smiled as Zsinj’s attack force suddenly altered course and began to launch their own snub fighters—they had apparently just detected the wall of TIEs heading in their direction.  “I do not think they were expecting that, Commodore,” he said.

Abril nodded.  “It is an impressive sight, Commander.  Well, Chyrs, they fly straight anyway,” he said to the SFS liaison who had shuttled up to join the defensive fleet.

“That they do.  I cannot believe that someone just mothballed so many war droid brains—you know I found an entire warehouse down there with them thrown in and left to rust?”

The Commodore frowned and then he shook his head.  “We still have a few minutes before they get into range—Tan Stele, I believe it would be best to slave each of the droid squadrons to your pilots; do you agree?”

“Affirmative,” the comm unit spat, but Abril noticed that Chyrs suddenly sighed.  “Squadrons?  Ah, well, the thing is . . . I haven’t assigned them to squadrons . . . yet.  Prototypes, you know.”

Every officer on Ascension’s bridge simply stared at Chyrs and she shrugged.  “I wasn’t expecting to throw these into battle—they will respond to your orders, but as individuals.  It was that or use a central droid command unit, and that hasn’t worked out well historically.”

“Commander Palomar, open a channel to the droids.  All Golem units, follow instructions from Gold One, designating now,” Abril said as he highlighted Maarek Stele’s TIE Avenger and then the comm system went crazy.  Twelve hundred droids received the order and ALL of them immediately replied with “Roger, roger,” on the exact same channel and nearly at the same time, creating a cacophony of noise that lasted for almost six full seconds.

Abril glared at the fighter liaison.  “Exactly what kind of droid brains did you use?”

“What I had available—they are from something called a B-1 series II Battle Droid.”

Abril sighed and he shook his head.  “And you put ALL of them on the same comm channel, with no hierarchy?”

The woman squirmed.  “That’s what field testing is for, to find out where we need to improve, Commodore.  I wasn’t expec-. . .,” but Abril interrupted her.

“To take them into combat.  They are going to clog up comm frequencies, some terrible.”

“Commodore, let’s try this,” said Maarek Stele as the distance between the two opposing forces rapidly fell.  “All Golem units, DO NOT RESPOND by voice; acknowledge all further orders by blinking your navigation lights.  Implement.”

And twelve hundred TIE Interceptors and Bombers blinked their lights in unison.  Stele chuckled.  “It’s all in knowing how to talk to them, Commodore.  Deploy in attack pattern Theta and prepare to engage the enemy,” he ordered . . . but nothing happened except a sudden blinking and twinkling of lights.

“Oh,” said Chyrs softly.  “I haven’t uploaded standard Imperial formations yet.  They don’t know what attack pattern Theta is.”

Maarek bit back a curse, and he snapped out another order.  “All Golem units, engage the enemy!”

And the hostile fighters merged with the defenders.  Abril winced as Zsinj’s pilots tore into the droid fighters—each of whom was shooting full-bore . . . but taking no evasive actions.  “Chyrs,” he growled.

The woman leaned over a control panel and she shook her head.  “I don’t know why they aren’t maneuvering!  It’s like . . . oh god.  They are trying to deploy in line abreast and just advance—they aren’t programmed for evasion!  Who builds a droid brain that doesn't have dodge as a basic program!” she wailed.

The Empire’s preeminent ace sighed as he banked his Avenger—at least the sheer numbers were having some effect on Zsinj’s own fighters, but the droids were easy prey.  “All Gold, Obsidian, Jade, and Rainbow elements—fly top cover for the droids.  All Golem units—target nearest hostile capital ship and set intercept course at maximum speed; engage target as you close, and then ram your targe.  Acknowledge.”

Hundreds of droid fighter blinked their nav lights.  “Execute.  All other fighters, let’s keep the Eyeballs off their backs and then we follow them in.  Attack pattern Delta-Four.”

Back on Ascension, Chyrs jerked upright.  “Ram?  RAM!  He’s throwing them away!”

“Madame Offal, you can build more.  All ships, follow the fighters in—concentrate all fire on that Torpedo Sphere and then take the Star Destroyers.”

Officers and ratings sprang into action and Chan Palomar walked along the catwalks to stand behind the gunnery stations.  “All ships have acknowledged, Commodore.”

“Very well, Commander.  Let’s get it stuck in, shall we?”

Of the twelve hundred droid fighters and bombers defending Ord Tanis that day, only four hundred survived to take the plunge into the hostile capital WarShips.  But along their way, their unwavering, almost constant, stream of laser fire had cut a wide swath through Zsinj’s own fighter screen—and the TIE Avengers led by Maarek Stele had pounced onto the rest with a fury seldom seen.  The combination of the kamikaze’s, aimed missile and laser strikes by Stele’s manned fighters, and the concentration of fire of Jonas’s ships shattered all of the plans that the enemy Fleet had.

Organized fire sputtered and died as every one of the attacking ships concentrated on trying to keep the droids from slamming into their hulls—and many succeeded.  Of the two hundred and fifty Interceptors and one hundred and fifty surviving Bombers, less than a quarter managed to impact the hulls of the ships they targeted—that was more than enough.

The heavily armed Tector-class Star Destroyer shattered under their pounding, careening out of control, and organized, well-drilled squadrons of Starwings and Scimitars from Jonas’s Fleet swept in and finished the job with heavy missiles and torpedoes.  Dozens of lighter ships simply vanished and the surface of the massive Torpedo Sphere was wracked in fire.  Fire that only intensified as five Star Destroyers and their escorts of the Cyralis Fleet poured bolt after bolt into the massive vessel.

Despite the incredibly thick armor plating and heavy shields, no manufactured vessel could withstand the force of that assault . . . and the Sphere suddenly exploded as one its torpedo magazines was penetrated and the warheads detonated deep within the oblong hull.

But the casualties were not all one-sided, and Stele’s pilots—many of whom for which this was their first battle—suffered heavily.  Superb found herself caught in a cross-fire between two of Zsinj’s surviving Imperators and a Victory, and while Taan’s flagship hammered them, her own hull was breached and shattered in hundreds of impacts and she vanished in an eye-tearing glare as her hyper-matter reactor took a direct hit.  Mortally wounded, the Star Destroyer Harrow followed the example of the droids, and she slammed into the belly of a Secutor-class Star Destroyer . . . when the flash of the explosion faded, only debris was left.

Perhaps the enemy would have withdrawn, but the artificial gravity wells prevented the ships from jumping to light speed, and both sides redoubled their efforts to break the other.  Ship after ship staggered out of the conflagration, streaming atmosphere and debris, and yet the fighting went on and on and on.

By now, the remaining fighters on both sides were spent, and on his flag bridge, Commodore Jonas ordered Tan Stele to withdraw to the Yard and rearm—Zsinj’s fighters found no such respite.  But even with the destruction inflicted on the enemy, the Cyralis Fleet was painfully outnumbered and slowly the attackers began to gain the upper hand.

Until the promised reinforcements suddenly appeared in their rear, yanked out of hyperspace by the artificial gravity wells, and already well within engagement range.  The relief force was led by three fresh Imperator- and one Glorious-class Star Destroyers, along with forty escorts, and it proved too much for the battered and broken ships Zsinj had assigned to this attack.

They scattered, breaking off and running at sub-light speed, crawling towards the edge of the gravity wells so that they might leap back into hyper-space and flee.  Eighteen ships of Zsinj’s Fleet managed to achieve that—the remainder died well outside of the orbit of the Ord Tanis Yards.  And of the ships under the command of Abril Jonas, the fifty-five who had stood their ground and fought with all their heart and soul in the finest traditions of the Fleet . . . only twelve remained.  But of those twelve, three were the Star Destroyers Ascension, Invictus, and Fearless.  Their hulls broken, their damage incredibly heavy, these three ships—and nine of their escorts—survived.  Their sacrifice, and their fellows, saving the Yards (and the tens of thousands of civilian workers onboard) in the process.

Ooh, things are picking up.  Great as always.  Can't wait for more.