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General BattleTech => Alternate Universe => Non-BattleTech AUs => Topic started by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:33:32 PM

Title: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:33:32 PM

Broken Empire

A Fictional Novel set in the Star Wars Universe

Created by George Lucas

Written by Stephen T Bynum

All Rights Reserved

Prologue[/B]

As the blast doors leading into the briefing room slid open, the assembled officers of the Empire rose to their feet.  Powerful men, one and all, the officers gathered for this meeting ruled the Cyralis Cluster in all but name, answering only to the Fleet Admiral whose boots echoed across the polished floor.  And of course, the Emperor and his appointed Moff.  But the Emperor was distant, far from this backwater on the rim of the galaxy, and Moff Jendar . . . well, to say that Moff Jendar had the imagination and initiative of a Gamorrean would have been an insult to Gamorreans across the universe.  But Moff Jendar was not present today.  And if his intelligence was in question, none present dared to deny his cunning and vicious defense of what he viewed as little more than his personal fief.

Fleet Admiral Kell Morvin circled the table with measured steps, but he did not take his seat at the head.  Instead he walked up a short flight of stairs to stand before the armored windows set into the bulkhead, his arms crossed behind his back as he gazed out over the collected ships assigned to his command.  Finally, he turned around and faced his officers.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” he commanded, as he descended the steps and stood behind his vacant chair—and the empty chair reserved for Moff Jendar.

“Seventeen days ago, the Rebellion achieved a victory over Imperial forces in the Moddell Sector, above the moon Endor in the Endor System.   They destroyed the second Death Star being built in orbit, gentlemen—and Imperial casualties were quite . . . heavy.  Lord Vader and Admiral Piett were lost aboard the flagship Executor, along with the majority the ships assigned to Lord Vader’s Death Squadron.”

Absolute silence filled the briefing room, as scores of eyes grew wide.  One pasty-faced officer, clad in the white uniform of the Imperial Security Bureau, visibly shook himself.  “Lord Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, is dead?” he gasped.

Kell slowly nodded.  “To make matters worse, the Emperor himself had chosen to oversee the final stages of the construction on the Fleet’s newest space station.  He was aboard the Death Star when the main reactor was destroyed by Rebel star-fighters on a suicide run.”

Chaos erupted as several officers shouted out denials and others simply looked at Kell in wonder . . . and fear.  Kell waited until the noise abated and the last man standing sat once more.

“It has been confirmed.  Emperor Palpatine has been dead now for seventeen days, gentlemen.  The Empire is in a state of shook, while the Rebel Alliance has gained a . . . a most significant boost.  Worlds across the Empire, primarily worlds with an alien sentient species, have declared themselves for the Alliance.  Imperial forces are reeling and attempting to consolidate their strength in the Core.  They will fail.”

“Treason!” howled Colonel Marius Rael, the senior ISB officer assigned to the Cyralis Sector.  “You speak treason, Admiral Morvin—the New Order is eternal!”

“Calm yourself, Colonel,” Kell said softly.  “The New Order is built around one man—the Emperor.  He has no successor.  He has no heir.  And with his death, so too will perish the Empire as we know it.”

Rael stood.  “Admiral Morvin, you are under arrest for treason, for dereliction of duty, for your lack of faith in the New—AAAHHHHHHHH!” he screamed as a fusillade of blaster bolts caught him squarely between the shoulder blades.

Kell nodded at the two Stormtroopers posted to either side of the blast doors.  “Well done, gentlemen.  Does anyone else here plan to have me arrested today?”

Only the activation of dozens of fan motors within the rooms venting system broke the silence; the smoke still rising from the charred and smoldering uniform was quickly drawn away.

“The Empire, as we know it, gentlemen, is done.  Moff Jendar left this system earlier today in the fastest ship this Fleet had at its disposal.  Like many Moffs, his concern is with Coruscant; he seeks to carve his own seat at the table.  But he missed the point completely; Coruscant is lost to us.”

More jaws dropped, and Captain Tylan G’deransk started to speak.  Then he glanced at the corpse and nothing more than an inarticulate gasp passed his lips.

Kell smiled.  “What is your question, Captain G’deransk?”

The commander of the Imperial Star Destroyer Rapacity shook his head.  “The Rebels don’t have the strength to seize Coruscant, Admiral Morvin; they can’t possibly take the capital.  They literally cannot, Sir.”

“Coruscant has not fallen to the Rebels, gentlemen, but it is lost all the same.  Hundreds, thousands of ranking men with the ambition and the desire to step into Palpatine’s shoes are rushing upon Coruscant as we speak.  Do not doubt that same desire exists in the heart of many of your own fellow officers—they too are on the move, and rather than defend the Empire, their actions will ensure that it shall Fall.”

Kell stood and he began to pace.  “The High Admirals and the Grand Admirals and the Generals will all see themselves as the only legitimate heir of Palpatine—and they will wage a civil war vastly more destructive to the Empire than the Rebellions . . . ineffectual efforts.  By the time they are done, Coruscant’s defenses will be a shadow of their former selves, and the Rebels will seize the capital.”

He stopped and bent towards his officers, placing both hands on the table.  “They have forgotten our purpose, gentlemen.  They will throw away our reason for being in their quest for the Imperial Throne.  We will see fractures, and a shattered remnant of our Empire with quarrelling Warlords vying against one another while the Alliance gains greater strength by the day.”

“Humanity itself is placed in danger by these fools.  Do you believe that given their treatment at the hand of the Empire; that the Bothans and the Wookies and the Sullustans and all of the other races out there will forgive humans for being the only species given power and authority?  Or perhaps, they will forget the past slights and the issue of being forced into slavery and servitude by those who wore our uniforms?”

“No, gentlemen, they will want vengeance.  They will seek to do to us what Palpatine and his minions did to them.  And if the Alliance succeeds at reforming the Republic as they claim to desire, they will form a new government suffering from all of the sins of the Old Republic, but one that shall be overtly hostile to our own species.”

“We cannot stop that; our forces in Cyralis are too small; our presence here on the rim of the galaxy too inconsequential for the Emperor to have been concerned with building us up to strength.”  Kell stood and he smiled.  “But that distance also carries with it advantages in this situation, gentlemen.”

“Cyralis is predominately human; there are no native sentient species among the thirty-two inhabited systems of this Cluster.  Oh, there are minorities in plenty, but none native to these worlds, colonized by various human governments in the days of the Old Republic.  And we will defend these worlds—our worlds—that, gentlemen, is now our duty.”

General Conal Ise frowned.  “Admiral, we are quite understrength—yes, you have six Imperator-class Star Destroyers and their escorts, your flagship makes seven; I have a Corp at my disposal as well.  But that is a mere pittance of what a proper Sector Group has at their disposal; a pittance dispersed amongst thirty-two worlds.  I doubt that we will receive additional reinforcements from the interior, Sir; how then do you plan on holding this Sector against an attack that you yourself admit must eventually come?”

Kell nodded.  “Your points are well taken, General Ise.  We must build up our strength, and for that it means that Ord Tanis must see its factories and ship-yards brought back online.”

“Ord Tanis?” Ise asked.  “Those factories were shut down more than a century ago, at the order of the Chancellor of the Old Republic.  They are out-dated and obsolete, Sir.”

“How much has the design of a blaster changed in the past century, General?  Or repulsors?  Or hyper-drives?  No, gentlemen, we shall bring the foundries of Ord Tanis back on-line and add the design schematics of our modern equipment to their data-banks.  The industrial complexes were designed for droid workers—droids stored on Ord Tanis by the millions.  Gentlemen, once those factories and ship-yards are activated our only limits in building a proper defense force are the pace of resource extraction ships mining the belts of this Cluster and our ability to provide manpower.  Need I not remind you that Cyralis contains over fifteen billion humans?”

“The Imperial Security Bureau will howl for your head, Admiral,” another voice interrupted.  “They could prove . . . difficult.”

The Fleet Admiral studied the black uniformed Ubiqtorate agent sitting there calmly.  The rivalry between the ISB and the Ubiqtorate was legendary, and Kell grinned.  “I am ordering that the ISB is to immediately disband—those resisting the order will be eliminated quickly and cleanly.  Certain members of the ISB will be arrested and tried for their crimes—their, ah . . . enthusiasm in enforcing even the smallest of Palpatine’s regulations makes them hated by every Imperial citizen in this Sector.”  The galaxy at large, Kell thought to himself.  “I understand that it will be difficult Director Galen, but can the Ubiqtorate make do without them?”

Galen laughed.  “Easily.  The ISB incites more rebellion than they quash.  For this reason alone, Admiral Morvin, you would gain my support.  Are you taking the title of Moff, then?  Grand Moff?  Dare I say  . . . Emperor?”

Kell shook his head.  “I . . . would not be the best man for such a task.  I know my limitations, gentlemen, and I desire no such political power.  But my agents are already contacting a man who I believe will serve admirably in such a role.”

“A puppet?”

“Director Galen, I take no insult at that—but my oath is to the Empire.  My choice will be no puppet, and I will serve him as well and as loyally as I served Palpatine.  If he accepts my offer, he will be our leader.”

“An untested leader, foisted onto the Cluster by us,” Captain Pyrel Taan muttered.

“Hardly untested, Captain Taan,” Kell answered.  “And the Cluster will accept him long before they would follow the rest of us—for he is a native son.  It is because of Fleet politics that he no longer wears the uniform . . . politics and the fears that Palpatine had over the concern this officer disagreed with his New Order.”

A dozen pairs of eyes locked on Kell like lasers, and the Fleet Admiral laughed.

“You are recalling . . . HIM?” Ise blurted.

“Do you have a problem with, General?” Kell asked.

Conal Ise slowly shook his head, and then he began to smile as well.  “Actually, I don’t.”

****************************************************

The Lambda-class shuttle shook as it crossed through the atmospheric interface; despite the cooling systems, the temperature within the troop bay began to rise.  Four rows with ten seats each filled the interior of the bay; the outer two with backs against the right and left bulkheads, facing their opposites set back-to-back in the center of the bay.  All but two of the seats were filled with an Imperial trooper, clad in the mottled camo pattern common to scout troopers.  There the resemblance ended, however.  For these troopers were not lightly armed scouts.  Most carried a full-sized blaster rifle, albeit with a folding stock and biped.  At least eight (two in each row) carried a light repeating auto-blaster.  All of them wore a blaster pistol in a holster on their chest, and carried at least one knife (one intrepid trooper wore no fewer than six!).  Each had at least two grenades dangling from their armor, and several carried thick satchels filled with explosives for demolitions.

“Hey, Sarge,” a voice rang out over the short-range comm links built into the helmets.

“Vsilisk,” another trooper growled, “unless it is a medical emergency, shut that trap!”

“My heart is broken, Sarge,” Vsilisk answered, “I didn’t get to sit next to you and I am so scared, Sarge . . . hold me, please.”

Chuckles and coughs peppered the comms.

“Vsilisk, you just can’t let it go, huh?  Okay, tough guy, you’re on point, once we hit the surface.”

The shuttle shook again.

“Hey, Sarge?”

“Damn it, Vsilisk.  What?”

“I don’t get it, Sarge; why the devil do they need an entire special missions platoon to make contact with this guy?  I mean, we got orders not to shoot him, but a whole platoon?  What’s up with that?”

“Vsilisk, I swear I will put you on the worst detail I can find when we . . .”

“At ease, Sergeant,” a new voice came on the comm.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.

“Vsilisk,” the lieutenant continued, “this is not an ordinary civilian we going to retrieve.  He is a trained special operator who lives away from everyone and everything because he knows that one day some Admiral or General or the Emperor himself, will send a team of assassin’s to take him out just because they do not like leaving loose ends.  They are sending us because this civilian would probably cut his way out through a platoon of regular army and Stormtroopers ain’t got a real good grasp on the take him alive option."

Snickers rose over the comm, along with an anonymous voice, "Heck, they can't shoot straight either!"

"Listen up, people!" the officer continued.  "This is NOT an exercise, and we are liable to come under fire, there are likely to be booby traps, and we are NOT authorized to waste the target.  So, I want everyone on their toes and watching for anything!  If you see something suspicious, DON’T touch it!  Unless you want to grow a new arm in a bacta tank!”

“Man,” another trooper whispered.  “What did this guy do?  Did he shack up with Palpatine’s sister or something?”

“Hey, I heard that he called Vader an idiot,” answered another trooper.

“Idiot,” said a fourth as he hit the previous soldier on the back of helmet.  “It wasn’t Vader, it was Tarkin.”

“How do you know, Corp?” asked the trooper that the corporal had struck.

“Because it was Vader, he’d be dead by now, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Vsilisk.  “But why is this guy so important?”

“Vsilisk,” the Lieutenant answered over the radio, “they didn’t tell me that.  I don’t get paid to get told things like that.  I get paid to get the jobs they give me done.  You get paid to do what I say.  Two minutes, people.  Get your game faces on," the Lieutenant said as he and another solider stood.

The second trooper, the Platoon Sergeant, turned to face the suddenly alert compartment full of armed men.

“STAND UP!” he yelled.  “WEAPONS AND EQUIPMENT CHECK!”

One by one, each of the troopers checked his neighbors weapons, grenades, and other gear, tapping the guy in front of them until the four squad leaders gave the platoon sergeant a thumbs up, just as the repulsors began to whine and the ramp started to lower.

The platoon sergeant held up his arm and he waited until he felt the hydraulic shock absorbers in the legs engage; he thrust his arm forward and the troopers filed from the shuttle, spreading out to cover the perimeter.  He waited until the Lieutenant passed him by and then he followed down the ramp, the shuttle lifting back off behind him.

As it streaked away in the sky, the veteran trooper scanned the thick foliage beside the creek that had served as their insertion point.  Tall narrow evergreens crowded together in the cold rainforest, rocky outcroppings breaking through the fertile, rich soil.  Slick moss covered the soil and rocks both, a treacherous hazard even to troopers in armor.

“Skirmish line oriented north-north-west.  Maintain radio silence,” the Lieutenant ordered and slowly the troopers began to move out take each step slowly and cautiously.

****************************************************

Trey Vsilisk moved quietly and calmly through the woods.  The evening mist was rolling into the valley below, making his vision-enhancers built into the helmet less effective than otherwise.  Despite his wisecracks, he was a veteran of the Empire—well trained and with a score of conflicts to his name.  Each step that he took was carefully chosen, nearly silent, and he kept to the shadows as a matter of course.  The dense forest was quickly thinning out, though, and he slowed his pace, coming to a complete halt as he spotted a small clearing ahead; a stone cottage built against a rearing granite bluff.

He waited and he watched, noting the ribbon of light grey smoke that rose from the chimney; the orange flicking glow that light the window panes.  But he heard nothing except the creatures of the night slowly waking to begin their daily hunts.  Still, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up . . . and he licked his dry lips.

“Delta Six, Delta One-Seven.  I’ve got a small building here, just the right size for our target—but something isn’t right,” the point-man whispered.

“One-Seven, Six.  We’re converging.  Don’t spook him.”

The helmet comm terminated abruptly, and he chuckled.  Spook him?  Hell, the target had him spooked.  The night birds and insects went quiet, and Trey bounced up, spinning around—but he was tackled to the ground by a mass of grasses and moss, his blaster rifle knocked to one side, and then Vsilisk could feel the razor’s edge of a knife pressed against his throat.

“So they finally sent you after me, did they?” the old man whispered.  “Assassins sent to kill me in my sleep!”

“PRAETORIAN!” Vsilisk screamed.  “By Palpatine’s limp dick, PRAETORIAN!”

The old man’s eyes grew wide.  “Who sent you, boy?”

“Morvin, Fleet Admiral Morvin—we aren’t here to kill you!”

The old man chuckled and he leaned back on his haunches, pulling the knife away from Vsilisk’s throat.  “Kell?  Okay, boy; that name and the codeword means you live . . . for now.  Where’s your CO?”

There was the sound of a voice clearing behind the old man, and he half turned to see a half-dozen more troopers coming out of the woods, their blaster rifles leveled as they kept a wary distance.  “Right here, General Patrice.  Lieutenant Anton L’sard reporting, Sir.”

“Do you always report with a blaster trained on the officer, Lieutenant?”

“More times than I would care to admit, Sir.”

Patrice laughed and he stood up, discarding the ghillie cloak onto the ground, and brushing the loose soil and grass from his bald head, as he sheathed the knife.  “I like you, I think.  So what does Morvin want?”

“Sir, I was just told . . .” the officer began, but Patrice waved him off.

“Never mind; it was a stupid question.”  He held out his hand to Vsilisk and helped the trooper to his feet.  “Well, Lieutenant, are we walking out or do you have transport coming?”

“The bird is on the way, Sir.”

“Hey, Vsilisk!” another soldier called out.  “I just won fifty credits from the pool!  Thanks for getting your ass kicked.”

“I did not get my ass kicked!”

Patrice shook his head.  “No, but you damn near got your throat slit, son.  ‘Course I was hidden awfully well; you almost stepped on me before you came to a stop.”

“Yeah, you never heard of using a blaster on stun?” Vsilisk asked.

“Swore I’d never again pick up a blaster to shoot people again, my boy,” Patrice answered solemnly.

“You what?” Vsilisk spat.  “You nearly cut me from ear to ear!”

“I must have hit your man harder than I thought, Lieutenant L’sard; he doesn’t seem to know the difference between a blaster and a knife.”

The rest of the troopers chuckled, but Vsilisk pressed on gamely.  “That makes no sense; you swear not to pick up one weapon so you won’t shoot people, but you’ve no problem with cutting their throats!”

Patrice nodded in agreement.  “It is a bit much for a man to totally go cold turkey, son.  I am working on it.  Just be glad you shouted out that password.”

“Working on it!” Vsilisk gasped, and then two troopers were there, walking him away as he kept saying, “he would have cut me, he would have cut my throat, he would!”

The faint whine of distant repulsorlifts began became audible in the distance.  “Well, Lieutenant; shall we see what Kell Morvin wants?”

“Would you like to change first, General?”

“Kell has smelled sweat a time or two in his life, son.  Let’s get a move on.”

************************************************

“So you want me to be the civil authority in the Cluster, do you, Kell?” the General asked as he swirled a dark amber liquid in a heavy crystal glass.  “And you think that the ISB will just roll over and allow that?  Please tell me you are not that stupid.”

Kell Morvin chuckled.  “Thom, you know me better than that.  Purging the ISB was the first thing I did after Moff Jendar abandoned his post—with the full and enthusiastic support of people of this Sector, I might add.  The vast majority of them made the choice to resist, which means that you will not have convene quite so many trials.”

“And the COMPNOR CompForce Units?  Conal has a Corp of troopers, true, and you have your Stormtroopers aboard the ships of the Fleet, but Rael had two regiments of those fanatics under his unilateral command.  And his troops were concentrated here on Cyralis proper.  The Army is garrisoning thirty-two seperate systems.”

“We gassed them while they were sleeping in their barracks—the 442nd Special Missions Battalion eliminated their watch-standers and we literally caught the rest sleeping.”

Thom Patrice smiled.  “A most poetic ending for those bastards, Kell.  Well done.”

The old general stood up and he gazed out the windows of Kell’s private quarters on the flagship Scorpion, the blue and green marbled sphere of Cyralis slowly turning below, half lit by the system’s star.  “I see two immediate problems with your plans, Kell.  The more pressing concern is that while we claim to be maintaining the Empire, we are—in effect—forming our own state.  The majority of your crews and Conal’s troopers are not from the Cluster; many of them will want to return home.  That is an ambition that being labeled as a traitor to the Empire may make rather impractical.  Some of them might well decide to stay here, but not all.  If we do this, you are going to have a lot of unhappy men with guns.”

Thom paused and he smiled.  “I have grown accustomed to the idea of being shot one day for no reason other than a Moff or a General or an Admiral or an Imperial Advisor decides to tie up loose ends, Kell.  Are you prepared to be shot by a disgruntled enlisted man that can’t ever go home again?”

Now the Fleet Admiral frowned.  “They joined the service knowing that they could be killed or assigned anywhere in the Galaxy, Thom.  They took an oath . . .”

“As did you and I and every officer involved in this Coup.  Come now, Kell, let’s call this what it is.  We, of all people, cannot afford to lie to ourselves, if we wish to make this work.  Essentially, we are now in a state of Rebellion and Insurrection, and while I agree that the focus of the command structure will be on the interior, that does not mean that every Moff and Grand Moff and flag officer out there will not want and desire our industries and population.  We cannot even be assured that Grand Admiral Haldon on Corellia will not assemble two or three dozen Imperators and escort ships, and swoop in here with an entire army of Stormtroopers to put an end to our short-lived endeavor.  That reaction is unlikely, to be certain, since I agree that he will be vying for more power and a shot at the throne—but it remains a possibility that we cannot simply discount, Kell.”

“Damn it, Thom, we need those men!  We can’t just let them . . .”

“Of course we need them.  I am no ideological idiot, Kell.  But the people of this Cluster will flock to our cause—and there are enough trained soldiers and spacers among them to fill the gaps of current personnel who want to go home.  It is best that we release them now, before they have a chance to become discontent and ripe for rebellion against us.”

“Thom, we have already factored in those former personnel—they are the key for our expansion!”

“Kell, do you want a stable government out here that is able to provide peace and security for the Cluster or do you want to be another Zaarin?   Another failure in the long line of men that have opposed the Emperor’s New Order?” Thom shook his head and he took a sip of his drink before he sat back down, facing the Fleet Admiral.  “Are you a Patriot, Kell, or are you merely an Opportunist?”

“I would think that you would not have to ask, Sir.”

“No, I do not.  Release your men, Kell Morvin.  There will more than sufficient volunteers with experience from the systems in the Cluster to replace them.  And ample trainees to beef up our forces with as well—if not quite as quickly as you might have hoped.”

The Admiral sat heavily back in his chair, and then he at last nodded.  “And what, pray tell, might be your second concern, Moff Patrice?”

Thom grimaced, but he nodded.  “I hate that title, Kell, but it does at least give us some cover until the rest of the Empire falls apart.  My second concern is your plans for Ord Tanis—you do realize that system has not been officially part of the Cyralis Sector since the New Order reorganized the Outer Rim fifteen years ago?  That it is now part of Moff Adair’s Lamaredd Sector.”

Kell snorted.  “Of course, my Moff.  I can read a map you know.  However, while it is technically a part of Moff Adair’s territory, I have been informed by excellent sources that he has not provided a permanent garrison there, it being so far removed from his populated systems.  And given the problems he has with the several different indigenous species and the pinpricks that the Rebels constantly give him, he doesn’t patrol Ord Tanis that often either.  A frigate or corvette visits the system every few months.  I am prepared to offer Adair that we will assume the responsibility for patrolling Ord Tanis—in a show of solidarity, of course—so that he can devote his own resources to fighting the Rebels and putting the aliens back in their place.  Now, once we are conducting the patrols, there is no reason to inform him that we have restarted the production lines.”

Thom frowned.  “That might work; it might also raise his suspicions as well.  Life all Moffs with whom I am acquainted, Adair is very territorial in nature.  He may well refuse your offer—and turn his gaze towards us.  His deputy, on the other hand,” and Thom smiled grimly, “is a far more pragmatic—and unimaginative—individual.  A tool who genuinely believes that all of the Empire works hand in glove towards a common goal, for the good of the New Order and the common citizen.  Were something to accidently happen to Moff Adair, I have no doubt that Osar will prove far more accommodating of your offer.”

Kell took a long sip of his drink, as Thom leaned back and raised his own glass to his lips.  Draining the glass, the Admiral set down the heavy crystal goblet and nodded.  “I have people that I can trust with arranging exactly that sort of fatal accident, Moff Patrice.”

“Good.  And once Osar loses control of the situation in Lamaredd, your naval counterparts, and probably many of the army units stationed there, might just consider a well-supplied, secure, and safe Sector, run by . . . professionals such as your and I . . . more akin to their liking.”

Kell refilled his glass from a decanter.  “They just might at that, Moff Patrice.  They just might.”

And the two men raised their glasses and tapped them together in salute.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:39:03 PM

Chapter One

“Attention!  Officer on the deck!”  announced First Sergeant Braal as the Colonel commanding the 57693rd Infantry Regiment of the Imperial Army walked into the crowded auditorium.  The one hundred and fifty-six officers, NCOs, and enlisted personnel assigned to Gamma Company of his Third Battalion quickly rose from their seats.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Colonel Eliad said genially.  “Today, this Regiment begins a new era; the entire Sector begins a new era.  Since the death of the Emperor and Lord Vader, and the abdication of Moff Jendar, Fleet Admiral Morvin decided that to preserve the dignity and authority of the Galactic Empire, it was necessary to appoint a civilian Moff.  Moff Patrice, however, is no ordinary civilian.  He served with distinction during the Clone Wars, gentlemen—and he has strong feelings on how this arm of the Imperial Army performs.  Many of you are considering the early discharge from service that he has offered—but I ask you to consider this as well:  what happens when you do go home?  The Empire is in chaos, gentlemen; and the Rebels are rapidly taking advantage of that.  You may well return to your home system to find it occupied by the alien-loving scum, your city blasted into ruins, your loved ones dead, dying, or homeless.”

“Your discharge may not be accepted by other Imperial officers, who might very well press-gang you into their own formations.  Who is to stop them after all?  The courts?  Tell me, gentlemen, that you are not that naïve.”

Laughter filled the auditorium, and Eliad smiled. 

“I thought not.  It remains your decision—and I will not interfere.  I will say, however, that your service here could make a difference.  We are not launching attacks upon our neighbors, after all, and we shall not be called upon to throw away our lives to grasp hold of the Imperial Capital on Coruscant.  You could do worse than to serve out the remainder of your enlistment, and then retire here on these worlds of the Cluster.”

“But enough of that!  Today, gentlemen, we have gifts from our new Moff.  Soon enough, the entire Army will receive their own gift boxes, but you are the first.  Moff Patrice fought in the chaos and confusion of the Clone Wars; he fought not from the deck of ship in orbit, but in the mud and blood that we share to this day!  And he is gravely concerned with emphasis that the Palpatine’s Empire placed on quantity over quality.”

“Standards of training have lapsed, with more emphasis placed on the recitation of doctrine—political as well as military—than on honing the skills that will keep you and your comrades alive in combat!  Soldiers, that is about to change.  And that change will begin with your new gear.”

“Each of you should have a sealed crate on the table in front of you; that crate should have your named and rank stenciled on the lid.  If the crate in front of you does not have your name and rank, raise your hand.”

Eliad paused, but none of the soldiers moved.  Two of his aides entered the auditorium and carried another crate, placing it on a table near the Colonel.  “Excellent!  Enter your service identification code into the keypad on the lid to release the seal.  Then remove the lid and set it beneath the crate.”

The Colonel did so to his own crate.  “Within, you will see a number of items in storage wrapping.  As I call out the item, and remove it from my own crate, you will do the same; this will ensure that everyone has received their allotment of gear.  You will not open the wrapping until I instruct you to do so?  Is that understood?”

“SIR.  YES, SIR!” thundered the crowd in answer.

“Very good,” Eliad replied as he lifted the first item from the crate and held it high.  It was a plastoid helmet, a dark grey in color, plainly visible through the transparent wrapping material.  “One helmet.”  He reached in again.  “One back-and-breast cuirass piece,” he said as he pulled out a second item.

“STORMTROOPER ARMOR!” An excited voice called out.  “They are giving us Stormtrooper armor!”

Eliad glared into the crowd and an uneasy silence settled down, one trooper looking sheepish—while his Sergeant’s glare of daggers promised pain and suffering for embarrassing him before the Regimental commander.

“No, gentlemen.  This is not Stormtrooper armor.  It is based upon the armor worn by Scout Troopers, but it has several differences.  You—and all of the remaining Army personnel in this Sector—will each be assigned a suit of armor.  This armor is resistant to fragmentation, kinetic damage, provides limited protection against blasters, is equipped with audio and visual enhancement gear, has an integral comm unit, gas filtration units, and a self-contained rebreathing system that will sustain you in the most poisonous of environments.”

Eliad sat down the cuirass and he walked to the edge of the stage.  “The Empire never wanted to spend the money to adequately outfit you common soldiers.  Instead they squandered our hard-earned tax credits on grandiose Death Stars.  Moff Patrice has different priorities; and this armor is merely the first of many force multipliers that we are about to receive, gentlemen.  Now, if there are no more questions or exclamations, may we continue?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:40:28 PM

Chapter One (cont.)

“Cease fire!  Cease fire!  The range is now cold, people!  DANIS!  What are you doing on my range!” the gunnery range officer shouted as he climbed down the ladder from the observation tower and stormed over to stand over the soldier lying prone behind a line of sandbags.

“Shooting, Sir?” Alvar Danis answered slowly.

“At what?  The moon!” the officer spat as he knelt.  “Danis you are blasting away without even aiming at your target!”

“I hit it, Lieutenant!”

“No, you nerf-herder, you hit Myklos’ target!  And Jelliac’s target, and Xyros’ target AND the rest your bolts finally managed to dig into the berm!  Your target doesn’t have a single blast scorch on its surface.”

“It’s not my fault, Lieutenant; this weapon must have bad sights.  And you’ve moved the targets back—I’ve never shot at 500 meters before!”

“Give me that weapon,” the Lieutenant growled.  He checked the power cell, the safety, and then he lifted the full-sized repeating blaster rifle to his shoulder.  And a series of single aimed bolts spat out from the tip of the barrel, streaked down range and impacted against the moving target, all within the center ring.”

The range commander handed the rifle back down to the infantryman.  “Nothing wrong with that weapon, soldier!  Do I need to send you to medical and see if your eyes are working?”

Danis gulped.  “No, no sir.”

The officer knelt once again.  “Look, Private.  You’ve got a sighting scope on that blaster rifle.  You know how to do this; just relax, breathe, and squeeze the trigger at the target.  Do you think Moff Patrice is going to be happy if you settle for spray-and-pray?”

“No, Sir.”

“Single aimed shots, son.  If you go full auto again, I am going to extract that power cell and transform it in a field suppository just for you.”

He stood up.  “Ready on the firing line!” he bellowed as he trotted back to the tower.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:41:15 PM

Chapter One (cont.)


Thom Patrice heard the thud of booted feet enter his office, but he continued to read the latest status report from General Ise.  When at last he finished with the document, he closed his monitor and looked up at the white-armored Stormtrooper standing before him.

“Sir,” the filtered voice growled, “Trooper CK-8374, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

“Remove your helmet, CK-8374,” Thom said quietly.

The Stormtrooper unlatched the seals and he pulled off his helmet, revealing the features of one of the original batch of clone troopers; his hair lit by silver highlights.

“I have been perusing the records, CK-8374—or should I say Commander Camlaan?”

The clone flinched.  “I have not been addressed by that name since the Clone Wars, Moff Patrice.  I prefer CK-8374 now.”

“You prefer?  CK-8374, do you know me?”

“I know of you, Moff Patrice.”

“You know that I too served in the Clone Wars, correct?”

“You obtained the rank of General before the final battles with the Separatists, Sir.  I . . . heard good things about your command.”

Thom nodded and he drummed his fingers against the surface of the polished desk.  “I am concerned about the Stormtroopers here in Cyralis, Camlaan.  What is your appraisal of their current state?  In comparison with the Grand Army of the Republic.  Please, be frank.”

The clone stared for a moment, and then he lifted his eyes and plunged ahead.  “They are ill-trained and capable of little initiative.  Modern clones are not as physically capable as we were during the Wars, Sir.  They follow their orders blindly and to the letter, but display no true knowledge; they have no feel for battle.  They remain loyal to you, Sir.  I mean no disrespect.”

“I know that, Camlaan.  What of your birthed brethren?  How are they performing?”

Camlaan grimaced.  “They are almost worse than the recent clones.  They are indoctrinated deeply and are loyal to the death, but they possess few of the skills of a soldier—other than the willingness to die upon command.”

Thom Patrice stood and he walked around his desk to a small alcove, and he poured himself a glass of water.  “Would you like one, Commander Camlaan?”

“Thank you, no, Sir.  I no longer hold that rank—I am merely a Stormtrooper of the First Order, now.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken, Camlaan.  As of today, you are Colonel Camlaan, and it is you that I am tasking with restoring the Stormtrooper Corps of Cyralis to the dignity of the Clone Troopers of the Old Republic.”

“Sir?” asked the startled clone.

“Colonel, I view things very differently from the so recently deceased Emperor.  Palpatine saw you and your brothers as expendable, interchangeable, and faceless.  He saw you as mere tools with which to build his New Order and institute a reign of terror.  I see each and every one of you as a person—an individual—a soldier.”

Thom sat down on the corner of his desk and he took a sip of the water.  “There will be no reinforcements coming from the Core, Colonel.  The Stormtroopers out here now are all that we will ever have.  Even if I possessed Spaarti cylinders, I would not use them—you yourself have seen that they produce little more than a body that possesses just rudimentary skill.  I want you to hone the Shock Troopers of Cyralis, to train them, to teach them—to make them worthy successors to the Clone Army of old.”

Camlaan licked his lips.  “Why me?”

“You were there.  We accomplished incredible things during that War, Colonel.  Your men—your brothers—were in the forefront and it was their skill and courage that led us to victory.  I need that skill and courage now, to give the Regular Army an inspiration.  I know you do not appreciate birthed soldiers, but you will have to make do—there will be no more Clones to replace those who fall.  I don’t need cannon fodder, Camlaan—I need men of valor.  And I need a veteran like you to teach those troopers, so that can become those men of valor.  It is a challenge that your Patriarch would have relished; can you honestly say that you, cloned from him, do not?”

“How long do I have, Sir?”

“Hopefully a year, perhaps two; but rest assured, Colonel, we have no more than that before we will find ourselves embroiled in this new Civil War.”

“I will have a free hand in training?”

“Yes.  And I have arranged for certain . . . texts of the old Mandalorian Academies to be made available to you.  In addition, I plan on doing away with the Imperial Stormtrooper armor.  Who ever thought it a good idea to clad our soldiers in white?”

Thom smiled at the clone. “I have authorized our factories to produce a new version of your old Phase II armor—with a camo-chameleon outer layer pre-programmed with seventy-four different patterns of camouflage.  And we will be getting rid of those damn E-11 blaster carbines, Colonel.  No, you will have accurate and long-ranged blaster rifles, plus a full spectrum of supporting weapons—including artillery.”

“Artillery?” the clone asked in disbelief.  “You are building artillery to support us?”

“Of course.  Palpatine was a miser where it mattered, and a spendthrift were it didn’t.  Yes, Colonel—your Shock Troopers will have artillery, and AT-ATs, and repulsorlift armored personnel carriers, and engineers, and . . . well, we are reforming this entire Sector Army.  Can I count on you to do your part, Colonel Camlaan?”

The clone snapped to attention, his eyes almost glowing with a purpose.  “Sir.  Yes, sir.”

“Good.  In that case, Colonel, I have paperwork to get back to—and you have a Shock Trooper Corps to build.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:41:55 PM

Chapter One (cont.)

“Phaulkon Control, this is Shuttle Vitorium on final approach.  Request that you lower your shields, and provide instructions for landing,” the pilot of the Lambda-class Imperial shuttle broadcast.

“Roger that, Vitorium.  Transmit authentication codes.”

“Transmitting, Phaulkon Control.”

“Authentication confirmed, Vitorium.  We are lowering defensive shields now.  Come to 232 Mark 84 and follow the beacon to Docking Bay 8.  Welcome to Phaulkon Station, Moff Patrice.”

“Affirmative, Phaulkon Control.  Changing vector to 232 Mark 84 for Docking Bay 8.  Vitorium out.”

Thom stood between the seats of the pilot and copilot, and he uttered a low whistle as the true scale of the space station began to become apparent. 

“First time visiting Phaulkon, Sir?” the flight engineer asked.

“They had only started construction on the station when I . . . resigned my commission and retired to Cyralis, Flight Officer Dendrick.  I can see why Kell insisted that I fly out here to tour it, though; quite impressive—even if it is a mostly stationary target,” he finished with a chuckle.

“Target’s don’t usually shoot back, Moff Patrice,” the gunner added.  “She’s got three times the firepower of a Tector, two pressurized repair slips able to accommodate anything up to the size of an Imperator, and carries four full wings of TIEs.”

“True, son.  But she can’t evade, and she can’t withdraw into hyper if the fight goes against her.  Course, the same can be said of any Fleet station short of the Death Star.  And those contraptions seem to have a bad track record—two built, two destroyed with less than a standard month of service between them.  I’ll take a good, well-designed, heavily-fortified, planetary-based HQ any day of the week.”

“Begging the Moff’s pardon,” Dendrick continued, “but planet-side isn’t really a good place to pilot a capital warship needing repairs.”

Thom laughed.  “Quite right, Dendrick.  Old prejudices die hard, I reckon.”

Vitorium slowly flew into the gaping maw of the docking bay, her skin fluorescing momentarily as she broke through the plane of the atmosphere shield.  Thom heard a whine as the wings began to fold, and then a dull CLANG as the landing gear deployed and locked into place.  And then the pilot set the shuttle down gently against the deck.

Thom shook his head as he spotted the formed ranks and files of Stormtroopers lined both sides of the Docking Bay.  “An honor guard.  Kell must want something, if he turned out an honor guard.”

“Ah, sir,” the pilot chimed in.  “Standing orders from Moff Jendar were that he was to be received by a formal guard of honor any time he toured the Station.  To my knowledge, sir, those orders have not been altered.”

Thom frowned.  “They will be changed as of today, Lieutenant.  There is no sense on wasting time with a formal review every single occasion that I decide to get out of the office and back into the real world—unlike Jendar I don’t need my ego stroked on a daily basis.  I’d tell you chaps to grab a drink and relax, but we might be leaving fairly quickly, so don’t wander off too far.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the pilot answered, “but Regs prevent us from drinking or consuming intoxicants for twelve hours before a flight.  We will be ready to ferry you back to Cyralis when you want us, Sir.”

“Good man.  And a very smooth flight, gentlemen.  Thank you.”

Thom stood up straight.  “I’d best get down there before the natives get restless,” he said, and then he turned and exited the cockpit.

Dendrick shook his head as he shut down the shuttle’s systems.  “He’s a lot nicer than the rumors said—and he actually talked to us.”

“Dendrick, if you have pulled that garbage of chiming in where you had no business with Jendar, you would in irons now,” the pilot answered.  “He’s a Moff, and he was a General—no matter how they appear to behave none of those guys are nice.  Still, he is quite a change from Jendar and the rest of your run-of-the-mill holier-than-thou high-ranking officials.”

The pilot sat back, and gazed out at Thom, speaking with station command and Fleet Admiral Morvin.  And he shook his head as the Moff approached one of the Stormtroopers and began to inspect him and his weapon.  “Quite a change, gentlemen.  I believe that we are now officially living in interesting times.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:42:56 PM

Chapter One (cont.)

“Moff Patrice, may I present Commodore Liam Charon, the commanding officer of Phaulkon Station,” Kell said after the old General had descended from the ramp of his shuttle.

Thom extended his hand, and a surprised station commander took it in response.  “I have heard nothing but good things about you, Commodore—that makes me wonder what you are hiding,” he continued with a grin.

“Thank you, Sir, and nothing . . . important, Sir.  Welcome aboard Phaulkon.”

Thom laughed.  “Very good, Commodore; I never fully trust a man with nothing to hide in his past,” but then he turned serious.  “As of today, gentlemen, this formal review nonsense ends.  We have better things to spend our time on than assembling a guard of honor just for me.”

“An official of your rank and station deserves what few accolades the Fleet can render to him, Moff Patrice,” Kell said solemnly.

Thom glared at him, but Kell simply stood there, his face stoic and at peace.  “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?  Commodore,” he continued as he turned to face the station commander, “you should know that your Fleet Admiral is a man with a low and mean sense of humor and entirely too caught up in the pomp and grandeur of military ceremony.”

“It is something that we have come to live with, Moff Patrice,” Charon answered glumly, which prompted Kell and Thom both to chuckle.  “If you would rather skip the review, I can dismiss the honor guard, Sir.”

Thom looked at the Stormtroopers standing at attention, and he shook his head.  “No.  Perhaps I need to play my role here,” and he walked over to a trooper picked at random to begin his inspection.

****************************************************

Two hours later, the three men exited a turbolift to stand before a pair of blast doors, guarded by a squad alert Stormtroopers.  The Stormtroopers stood straighter at the sight of the Commodore and Fleet Admiral; and while their blaster carbines were not exactly pointed at them, neither were they pointed very far away.  A Fleet warrant officer seated behind a desk rose and he nodded a greeting.  “Sirs.  The facility is ready for inspection.”

“Kell, quit grinning like a child in a confectionary who has his father’s credit rod,” Thom said.  “I take it that this is the reason you hauled me out here.”

“It is indeed, my Moff.  Open her up, Chief,” the Admiral commanded.

The blast doors slowly parted, and Thom winced as he heard the thrum of heavy machinery, the shrill whine of a metal cutter, the rhythmic thudding of automatic bolters, and the hissing of laser welders.  He walked into the large compartment filled with manufacturing equipment and droids working on an assembly line.  Shaking his head as sparks flew from the metal plates being formed and twisted into shape.  He felt a hand on his arm, and looked over to see Kell pointing towards a small—sound-insulated—office, and he followed along behind the Admiral and the Commodore towards it, climbing a short flight of stairs and then passing through a thick door.

The Moff felt his ears pop when the door closed behind him, shutting out the howl of the plant.  “Moff Patrice, may I present Chyrs Ofar, the liaison assigned to Starfighter Testing Station Phaulkon by Sienar Fleet Systems.”

“Madame Ofar,” Thom said as he took her hand and bowed, lightly kissing the back.  “A pleasure, madame.”

She looked slightly shocked, but then curtseyed in reply, and said, “Mine as well, your Grace,” in a pronounced Corulag accent.  “Have you come to view our work here?”

“I have indeed, Madame,” Thom answered as he gazed on the drawings of different types of TIE fighters plastered to the walls.  “That reminds me of the old Actis Starfighter, Madame Ofar.  I haven’t seen one of those since the Jedi Purge—outside of a museum, that is.”

“Yes, the Eta-2 Actis.  We have been working on several new models of TIE that should prove quite formidable; would you care to see them, Your Grace?”

“Certainly,” Thom answered.  He followed the woman as she led him out through another door, into a massive hanger bay filled with several different models of Starfighters.

“Our showroom, Your Grace,” she said with a smile and a bow.  “Two years ago, Sienar was contracted to begin a series of tests on the TIE/Advanced x2, conducted in several different systems of the Rim.  Originally, the entire project was assigned to the command of Admiral Zaarin, but his ambitions and subsequent rebellion against the Empire ended several . . . promising lines of thought.”

“Currently, we have managed to reconstruct the majority of the finalized design that his pilots dubbed the TIE Avenger, designated as TIE/ad.  The original was as fast and maneuverable as a TIE Interceptor, carries the same array of quad lasers, is equipped with two concussion missile launchers and a magazine of 8 missiles in total, and features defensive shields roughly equivalent to that of a Rebel A-Wing.  She also included a pre-programmed hyper-drive; but unfortunately the schematics and design specifications for that piece of equipment was lost during Zaarin’s rampage.”

“Madame Ofar, I have seen a few classified pictures of the TIE Avenger—this is different; the cockpit is that of an Actis.  And . . .” Thom walked around the compact fighter, frowning.  “These two protrusions beneath the cockpit; they resemble the lasers on the original TIE Starfighter; this design carries SIX lasers?”

Kell smiled and he walked over.  “No, but good eye, my Moff.  As Madame Ofar said, we cannot reproduce the compact Hyperdrive found on the original TIE Avenger—so we instead used that space for a more powerful reactor, which allowed us to increase shield strength to about the level of a Rebel X-Wing.  We had sufficient room as well to install two light ion cannons beneath the cockpit; however our Mk II Avengers cannot fire the ion cannons and lasers simultaneously.  Still, that does give our pilots more options.  We also replaced the standard TIE cockpit with a design borrowed from the Eta-2, providing greater visibility to the flanks and above, two areas where most conventional TIEs have to rely on sensors only.  And despite the added mass of the ion cannons and reactor, she retains the same speed and maneuverability as the original TIE Avenger; all at the cost of lacking a hyperdrive.  She is far less expensive as well."

“Impressive, Admiral Morvin, Madame Ofar; most impressive,” Thom whispered as he laid his hand against the slanted solar panels.  “These are the prototypes of your Mk II Avengers?” he added, waving at the other fighters in the bay.

“This is merely the current production run, Moff Patrice,” the woman from Sienar Fleet Systems answered.  “The industrial complex here on Phaulkon will be able to deliver sixty of these fighters every standard month, plus a dozen of our newest TIE bombers.”

“Bombers?” Thom asked, looking up in excitement.  “We have new bombers?”

“This way, Your Grace,” Chyrs Ofar said.  “Sienar has been working on a replacement for the standard TIE Bomber for six years now.  We have finally managed to settle on a prototype that will increase maneuverability, survivability, and firepower, while remaining compact enough to fit within existing hangers.  This,” she said, as she pointed to a long, lean, elegant Starfighter with the characteristic bent solar panels of the TIE Interceptor, “is our version of the TIE Scimitar Assault Bomber prototype.  Once again, the design is not capable of entering hyperspace on its own, but we used that space to add a second ion engine, providing speed and maneuverability roughly comparable to the TIE/ln fighter commonly used by Imperial forces today.  Armament consists of two chin mounted laser cannons and sixteen heavy concussion missiles, proton torpedoes, or bombs, each mounted in an individual launch tube on the ventral surface.  We replaced the original cockpit with a version of the one from the Eta-2, once again, improving visibility and pilot situational awareness.  The second crewman sits directly behind the pilot and operates two rear-mounted laser cannons that should prove . . . rather surprising to any Rebel attempting to shoot down this craft.  The Scimitar is shielded as well—being roughly equal to a late generation Y-Wing.”

Thom nodded.  “How many of these fighters and bombers do you have in service, Kell?”

Kell Morvin winced.  “Moff Jendar shipped all prior production back to the Core.  So, for now we have sixty Avengers and twelve Scimitars.”

“And to outfit our entire Fleet at the current rate of production?” Thom pressed.

“Thirty months.  Twice that if you want to replace the TIE assigned to the Army and Garrison duty as well.”

Thom considered for a moment.  “Madame Ofar, how difficult will it be to reprogram the factories on Ord Tanis to produce these new fighters?  And if we can, how many can those industrial complexes produce?”

Now the liaison frowned as she pulled up a hand computer and ran a few calculations.  “Depending on their current condition and whether or not the droid workforce is in place and able to be reactivated—we could upgrade the design schematics in a matter of weeks.  Production-wise, those factories could easily manufacture one hundred and fifty Starfighters each standard week.  Provided that they have the necessary resources and materials on hand, that is.”

“Good.  Kell, I want Madame Ofar assigned to Ord Tanis as soon as we assume control of the system.”

“ME?  You want me to go to some abandoned world and take charge of your Starfighter production?”

“Madame Ofar, I am not sending you out there alone.  Just answer me this:  is there anyone else as qualified as you to reprogram those automated factories?  These are your designs after all, are they not?”

“Oh, yes, appeal to my vanity and ego—that always works!” she snapped, and then her shoulders slumped.  “And in this case, you are correct.  No one else knows these designs as well as I do.”  She looked back up at Patrice.  “But this isn’t in my contract—you are going to owe me quite a bit.”

“Done.  Were you aware that I have this lovely little world called Velabri that is in need of a new Imperial Governor, Madame Ofar.”

“Velabri?  Isn’t that in the Lamaredd Sector?” Chyrs asked as she and the Moff were walking back to her office.

“Why, yes, I believe it is—at the moment.  But you know how often things change here in the Outer Rim.  And Moff Osar is a good friend of mine.”

“Osar?  You must mean Moff Adair?”

“No, madame, I mean Moff Osar.  Didn’t you hear about that tragic attack that the Rebels launched on Lamaredd last week?  They failed to do much damage to the capital, but they were successful in shooting down Adair’s shuttle—there were no survivors, my dear.”

“Oh.  How . . . coincidental.”

“Yes, the demise of such a loyal and attentive Moff is a tragedy, Madame Ofar, but we will somehow make do in his absence.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:43:34 PM

Chapter Two

Ran Karyda, the Deputy Vice-President for Exports (Customizations Sub-Division) of Corellian Engineering Corporation was reading the gloomy projections for the current quarter.  He winced, although he knew before he had even picked up the latest financial report that sales had flat-lined in the month since the Battle of Endor.  Good-bye, sweet bonus, he thought to himself, picturing winged credits flocking away from him.  Marya will not be happy when she finds out that we cannot vacation on the Islands this summer.

And when Ran’s wife was unhappy, she usually complained to her father—the man who just so happened to also be Ran’s supervisor.  Lovely.  My home life is now ruined, my work will shortly be ruined.  What else could happen to spoil my day?

On cue, his console beeped, and Ran groaned.  Why did I tempt fate, he asked.  Then he shook his head and he keyed the comm unit.

“Karyda.”

“Boss, I’ve got a customer calling via the Holonet.  Ah, I’m not sure exactly how to handle this,” stammered one of his many junior assistants, and Ran groaned, as he recognized the dark haired sales rep.

“Sipkins, if I’ve told you once, I've told you a hundred times . . . never mind.  What is the problem?”

“I don’t know if we can meet this order . . . it might not even be legal to meet this order!”

Ran stared at the screen for a moment.  “Put it through to my desk, Sipkins.  And if it is something that you could have handled, you’ve just forfeited your commission for bothering me.”

The screen blanked, and then it flickered, and it presented an older man, mostly bald and dressed in the uniform of an Imperial Moff.  Ran sat up straight in his chair.  “I am Ran Karyda, Deputy Vice-President for Customization and Export; how may I assist you today?”

“Master Karyda,” the Moff said with a genial smile.  “I hope that you can assist me.  I need some ships.”

Ran turned on his best salesman smile.  “That is what we do here at CEC, Sir.  Have you an account with us, Moff . . .”

“Patrice.  I am Moff Patrice of the Cyralis Cluster.  I do have access to a sealed account with Corellian Engineering Corporation.”

“Access, Moff Patrice?  We do not allow just anyone to access the deposited accounts—CEC is not Kuat Drive Yards, after all.”

“Of course, you don’t.  But I wouldn’t have access to this account if I were not authorized, now would I?”

“Perhaps you can give me the account number, and I will check for myself, Moff Patrice.”

“Certainly,” Thom answered, calling out thirty-four letters and numbers in a quick and precise sequence.

Ran’s eyes grew wide as the account information came onto the screen.  “This is most . . . unusual, Moff Patrice.  There is no name associated with the account.”

“But there is an authorization pass-code, correct?”  And Thom recited the pass-code that had once belonged to recently deceased Moff Adair.

The CEC executive punched in the code, and then he smiled again and sat back, as he saw the exact amount in the account.  “And what may we do for you today, Sir?” he asked.

“I need thirty of your HT-2200 transports.”

“Thirty?” croaked Ran.

Thom smiled, and the screen flickered again.  “Thirty.  And I need them customized for Imperial service.  A more powerful reactor core, four quad laser turrets placed dorsal, ventral, port, and starboard.  Combat capable shields.  Your standard sub-light engine upgrade package, the hyper-drive is fine.  Imperial Fleet standard controls, electronics, and communications.  Standard Imperial quarters and bunks for a crew of twenty-four.  Three months fuel and consumables.  To start with.”

“Excuse me, you want more?” Ran asked incredulously.

“Yes.  I believe your HT-2200 has four separate cargo bays, capable of storing 200 tons each, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“I need all of the cargo bays converted to Starfighter launch and recovery bays for three TIE . . . series fighters each.  The fighters in question measure 10 meters in length, with a width of 6 meters and a height of 4 meters.  That will fit, correct?”

Ran swallowed, and he licked his dry lips.  “Yes," he whispered.  That will fit in a single bay with room to spare."

“Excellent.  When can you begin?”

“Moff Patrice, these . . . modifications will be extremely expensive.  And while you certainly have the authority to place this order, CEC has established as a matter of policy that we cannot sell to anyone planning on using our ships against the Empire.  Not,” Ran added quickly, as he began to sweat, “that I am accusing you, you do understand.”

“I understand, Master Karyda.  And I officially state, for the record, that these ships are not going to be used against the Empire.”

Ran sat back, and he released a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding.  “Well then.  That is all that I was asking for, Moff Patrice.  We can have this order filled within the next six months.”

“That’s the problem, Master Karyda.  I need them in the next thirty days or I will instead have to go elsewhere.  And for CEC accomplishing that—and the delivery of those ships to Cyralis before the deadline—I will transfer the total sum in the account on file to Corellian Engineering Corporation in remittance for your services.”

Ran blinked once, and then twice.  He looked back down at the screen, and the flashing eight digit number blinking there—and he quickly calculated that a sale of this magnitude would more than make him eligible for this quarter’s sales bonus.

“We can do that, Moff Patrice.  Is there a particular color you desire your ships?”

“Imperial Grey, Master Karyda.  It is a pleasure doing business with you.”

The Holonet connection abruptly ended.  Ran sat there for a second, and then he pulled out a headset comm unit and stood.  He thumbed it on.  “Attention, all senior personnel.  Report to the executive briefing room immediately.  We have an order to fill, and no time to waste!  And someone call my wife; I won't be home this evening!”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:44:18 PM

Chapter Two (cont.)

“I cannot sleep, nor walk on the streets of Bartyn’s Landing in peace, Patrice.  I cower in this palace, fearing to show my face to my people,” Moff Rilian Osar lamented.  “One expects the Rebels to be active here, with so many aliens on this world, and they have been so in the past.  Arming the Menahunn, attacking my troops on patrol, stealing supplies, sabotaging the mines—but this!  Now they dare to attack their lawful and rightful rulers directly!  Adair was a good Moff—he kept the population under control and ensured that the mining ships met quota on schedule!  And then they shot him out of the sky!  I would not have believed this band of rag-tag scoundrels capable of such.”

Thom took a sip of the sickly sweet local drink his host had provided—a bright pink beverage distilled from local fruits—and although he detested the soul taste, he kept any signs of that discomfort reach his face.  “How unsporting of them, Osar,” he answered as he sat down the tall, thin glass and it’s bonnet of straws and paper umbrellas.

“You are lucky, Patrice.  Your sector is quiet and you cannot comprehend the levels of troubles I have to deal with!”

“That is quite true, Osar.  Luck of the draw and all of that; what with my worlds being predominately human—whereas yours are filled to the brim with seditious and rebellious aliens.”  And my Fleet Admiral doesn’t sit on his ass all day and let little problems multiply into a crisis of titanic proportions, he thought, but did not voice.  Thom gave a sad little smile to his fellow Moff.  “It is perhaps only to be expected though; I am quite surprised that you did not see this coming.  Adair I can understand overlooking the ramifications—he wasn’t as . . . seasoned, shall we say . . . a player in the great game of intrigue as you.”

“See what coming, Patrice?  You are making no sense,” the other Moff asked in a puzzled voice, even as his chest swelled at the flattery.

“The Rebels, of course.  Come Osar, the Mon Cal and the Quarren squid-men are your best workers—and little more than slaves however free they might be in name.  The commander of the Alliance military, as you are well aware, is Akbar, a Mon Calamari himself.  A former slave of Grand Moff Tarkin.  Surely you see that this could all be his planning.”

“Yes, yes, I made that connection, Patrice,” Osar sputtered, his confused look now showing real alarm, and suggesting that he did not in fact fully understand.  “You have far more experience in war than I, however.  What do you suggest?”

Thom shook his head slowly.  “Your population is probably be feeding him intelligence . . . I would normally say that Akbar would prove too cautious to attack a Sector capital, let alone one directly on the Corellian Run.  But he must know—or suspect rather—that your Fleet is dispersed in small scattered detachments, and is ripe for defeat in detail.  On the heels of the Battle of Endor, seizing a world such as this, a world where his own people are being exploited by ORO-Corp and the Empire; why, surely you see what a threat that could pose Osar.”

“Akbar is . . . he is coming here?  He is coming with the Rebel Fleet?”

“I might well do the same were I in his . . . flippers.”  Or I might just ignore this worthless Sector and concentrate on important worlds where the balance of the Galaxy hangs uncertain.

Osar’s jaw worked and his eyes rapidly blinked.  “I . . . must reassemble the Fleet, here in orbit.  I must bring them back here to Lamaredd and stand shoulder to shoulder in defense of this world.”

“That is one option, Osar," a poor one, Thom thought.  "And doing so will open your other populated worlds—filled with their own hives of scum and villainy—to Rebel propaganda and lies.”

“What then would you suggest, Patrice?”

Thom smiled again and he lifted that hateful, horrid glass of pink goo and took another sip.  “Ahh.  As you yourself have said, Osar, my Sector is rather quiet.  Can I perhaps offer my assistance in patrolling and garrisoning some of the worlds on our border—freeing your ships of that burden so that they can concentrate in force?”

“You would do that?” Osar asked quietly.

“My dear Osar, we are alone out here on the Rim.  If we do not aid each other in our times of need, then who ever will?  I extended the same offer to Adair, but alas his pride was too great to accept my humble assistance.”

“I am not Adair," Osar answered with a sniff, "and I see no reason to refuse such a generous offer.  Which systems can your forces provide protection for?”

“Oh, Fleet Admiral Morvin and I have discussed this very subject in detail, Osar—Shavan II, Brand’s Hold, Valeraan, and Ord Tanis.  These four systems are the closest to Cyralis and will not overly extend our own forces.”

“Ord Tanis?  That system isn’t even populated, Patrice?  Is it truly necessary to garrison it?”

“Come now, Osar.  Certainly the entire planet is a heap of rubble, filled with rusted and broken equipment from the Old Republic—decades obsolete even before the Clone Wars.  Despite the fact that such . . . junk . . . is useless to you and I, pirates, smugglers, and Rebel scum may still be tempted to dig through the rubble there for parts.”

“True,” Osar mused.  “Perhaps Adair and I were mistaken to assign such a low priority to that scrap heap.”

“Water under the bridge, Osar—it was not your call at the time anyway.  You knew Adair best; he would have done his own bidding and not yours; you know this.”

“Yes.  Patrice, I . . . thank you.  I know now what I must do,” the Moff of Lamaredd Sector stood and he walked over to the thick, armored glass plates that protected against sniper fire.  “Fear must be our weapon against these disloyal creatures.  Fear and terror—Tarkin and the Emperor were right.  I shall crush their disloyalty, and put an end their espionage.”

“And I am quite certain, Osar, that you shall be as successful at that as His Majesty and the Grand Moff were.  Now,” Thom said as he too stood.  “I am pressed for time, and I must return to Cyralis.  We really must have you come for a visit someday soon, Osar.  Once you have . . . dealt with the small matter of Rebellion here, that is.”

“That would indeed be nice, a quiet vacation on a world among good loyal Imperials that I can trust.  I shall be honored to visit once I have placed these amphibians in their place.  Good bye, Moff Patrice; may you have a pleasant voyage home.”

Thom gave a half-bow and then he turned and quickly left his fellow Moff—and that foul-tasting pink brew—behind him.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:44:57 PM

Chapter Two (cont.)

“. . . that is the bare bones outline of this operation, gentlemen,” finished Fleet Captain Tylan G’deransk, commander of the Imperator-class Star Destroyer Rapacity.  “Questions?”

The nineteen other Imperial Captains and Commanders of the 573rd Battle Squadron sat around the large table in Rapacity’s briefing room.  In addition to those officers who whom Tylan had worked for two years, there were two more Captains—Pyor Sharn of the Acclamator-class assault transport Huskee and Ricard San commanding the Carrack-class light cruiser Marshoon.  Both of those ships had been attached to the 573rd from the 2899th Troop Squadron, the transport providing space for the engineers and technicians that would evaluate the factory complexes of Ord Tanis, as well as the battalion of army troopers from the 57693rd Infantry Regiment that would comprise the ground garrison.  The light cruiser was present only to provide close escort to the big troop carrier.

One of the officers—Command Phoen Nem of the Adamant-class frigate Cavalier—cleared his throat.

“Yes, Commander?” Tylan asked.

“Captain G’deransk, the squadron is tasked with providing patrols and coverage for all four of our new systems, yes?  Why then are we proceeding en masse to Ord Tanis?  Would it not be more efficient to break up the squadron and head directly for our assigned stations?  Sir.”

“Yes it would, Commander Nem.  I expect no trouble at Ord Tanis—but regardless, the depot has been abandoned for quite some time.  I want the entire squadron on hand to reduce the time required to produce a full sensor mapping of the surface.  We will also remain concentrated until the techno-geeks on Huskee disembark and reactivate the command center with power and life support.  Just in case there is an emergency.  In addition, we need to make this look as if we were not already sitting here, on the verge of our own Sector, ready to jump into Lamaredd.  Even thought Moff Patrice has obtained permission for us to provide these systems with protection, us arriving less than six hours after he met with Moff Osar is liable to raise . . . questions; especially if we were to arrive simultaneously in four systems.”

Low chuckles arose from the table, and Tylan grinned as well.

“Scanning the surface should take about a week to complete in the detail that I want.  After which, we detach Task Groups 573.2, 573.3, and 573.4 in sequence over the course of another week, to arrive in their designated systems.  Rapacity, the Interdictor cruiser Apprehension, the frigates Cavalier and Gladiator, and the corvette Bissel will remain at Ord Tanis as TG 573.1 and we will serve as the central reserve, should any of you encounter something your commands are unable to handle on their own.  Huskee and Marshoon will be returning to Cyralis to rejoin the remainder of the 2899th after we have completed the surface scans and off-loaded all their cargo for the ground base and the orbital yards.”

Captain Ta’bi Makon, the only female officer in the room leaned forward.  “You ordered that we will be exiting hyperspace in full readiness, Fleet Captain,” she stated precisely, her grey eyes glinting slightly in the lighting, but doing nothing to soften her features.  “This is a fairly routine operation—the stress on our shield generators while exiting hyperspace will take a hundred hours off their service life.”

Tylan slowly nodded.  He might not like Captain Makon, but the woman had certainly proven her ability to command the Vindicator-class heavy cruiser Onslaught.  And deep inside, Tylan suspected that her formal, aloof manner was partly caused because of his—and other officers—innate distrust of a woman in high ranks.  “You are correct, Captain Makon.  However, as Fleet Admiral Morvin so recently told all of us, we are only as good in combat as we train.  Gentlemen, ladies, we will take this time to train.  We will exit hyper with raised shields and weapons hot and manned.  We will then combat launch our entire TIE complement and proceed in battle formation into orbit.”

“And our exit coordinates will not be at the standard two hours out from Ord Tanis.  This squadron will exit hyperspace fifty thousand kilometers from standard orbit.  We will practice like we play, Commanders and Captains.  And over the next two weeks we will run drills until your crews are ready to drop.  I intend for the 573rd to be the finest Battle Squadron in Cyralis—and if any of you object to that inform me now that so I reassign you to some ground station.”

No further voices were raised and Tylan nodded briskly.

“Captain Dans’yed,” he continued, speaking to the commander of Apprehension, “there are about a dozen old defueled ships in orbital mothballs.  I want your gravity-well generators up and running the moment we are in range—they will serve as our simulated targets.  Stormtrooper details will conduct mock boarding operations as well.”

He paused and turned his gaze at each and every one of the junior officers in turn.  “If there are no further questions or issues, we will enter hyperspace in four hours.  Dismissed.”

****************************************************

Command Pared Sh’cate shook his head.  “How much of a finder’s fee did you just ask me for?”

The Hutt standing on the bridge of the Alliance armed freighter Daarian, uttered a low laugh.  “Hoo, your reaction shows you heard well enough.  Cannot your Rebel superiors use these ships?”

“They have no fuel, their reactors are dead cold, their weapons are off-line—they aren’t worth half that!”

“Then you can go elsewhere, rancor-bait.  If you can find capital ships for your Alliance any place else.”

“Look, Naboor, you don’t even own these.”

“No.  The Empire does.  But they come here but seldom; and my agents know their schedule.  You have five weeks to take them before they will even notice they are gone.”

“Five weeks?  Impossible.  You want us to fuel a Venator and three Hammerheads, scrounge up enough men for a skeleton crew, and sneak these ships out of here in the next five weeks?”

“You have five weeks from tomorrow.  After that, there will be a patrol ship in system for two days.  After which you have will seven weeks before it returns.  And if these ships leave this system before I receive my payment, the hidden charges I have placed aboard will detonate.”

“Kerishael!” one of the Rebels cursed in his native tongue.  “Hyper emergence, right on bloody top of us!”

Sh’cate and Naboor both glared at each other.  “YOU IDIOT, YOU LET YOURSELF BE TRACKED!” they both exclaimed at the same time.

“Oh, blood and martyrs,” the sensor tech whispered.  “Imperials.  Lots of freaking Imperials—I count twenty-two capital ships . . . including an Imperator.”

“Helm, get us out of here!” Sh’cate yelled, and the Action VI freighter accelerated forward.

“Three hundred plus TIEs inbound, skipper!  And, oh joy, they’ve got an Interdictor that just locked down our Hyperdrive.”

Sh’cate looked at the screen in horror.  And then she shook her head.  “Adjust your course to ram that Imperator Shao-jin.  Emergency flank,” she said quietly.

“NO, YOU FOOL!” shouted the Hutt.  “Surrender, it is our only chance to live!”

“We are all dead men walking right now, Naboor.  Punch it, Shao-jin.”

****************************************************

Tylan stood on the bridge of Rapacity as the Star Destroyer rumbled forward through hyper-space.  And then the stars quit spinning and they had emerged.

“Contact!  LIVE CONTACT!” One of the pit crew called out.  “Action VI freighter docked with the Venator-class Star Destroyer in the boneyard, Captain.”

“Well, well, well.  What do we have here?” he mused.

“All TIEs are now away, Sir.  Apprehension is training her gravity projectors on the unknown ship.”

“New orders—out Stormtroopers are to board that vessel and capture the crew for interrogation.”

“Sir!  They are disengaging from the Venator, and accelerating.  Coming to . . . a heading of 000 Mk 0 true.  Still accelerating.”

“Those are some brave men over there on that ship, boys.  Never forget that they enemy is called that for a reason.  All forward ion cannons open fire and disable that ship.  Maneuvering you may take evasive action.”

Through the bridge windows, Tylan could see the intense blue-white bolts erupt from dozens of different turrets, streaking away towards the freighter.  Most missed the far smaller ship as it desperately attempted to evade, but two caught it square and it’s shields died, the engines faltered and then failed, and it began to drift.

“Tractor beams, Sir?” asked one of the Pit Lieutenants.

“No.  They could well have a demolition charge onboard; let’s keep them at arm’s length for now.  Besides, the Spacetroopers could use a live fire exercise—inform them that I want live prisoners.”

“At once, Sir.”

Tylan placed his hands behind his back.  And he smiled at the sight of the tumbling freighter.  Then he frowned.  “Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Inform the ion gunners that their ratio of shots fired versus shots on target was unacceptable.  We will be conducting a series of gunnery exercises and woe unto them if they fail to improve.”

“At once, Sir.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:46:13 PM

Chapter Two (cont.)

“You know that those interrogation techniques are useless against a Hutt,” Naboor spat at Tylan when the Captain stepped into the cargo hold aboard Rapacity hastily converted into a prison cell.  “Information is to be bought and sold, human, not torn from the body and mind.”

“Great Naboor,” Tylan said with a sardonic bow.  “Oh how the mighty have fallen.  A crime lord of your caliber, caught red-handed in the attempt to steal Imperial property—and resell that property to the Rebellion.  I have no need to interrogate you; the Rebels are singing their own songs.”

“Hoo, hoo, hoo,” the Hutt laughed.  “Then why are you here?”

“I am trying to decide if spacing you will be enough to kill that worm-brain of yours—or if instead I should use your massive bulk to give my turbolaser gunners a bit of target practice.”

“Do not be so hasty, human.  We can deal; my life and my freedom for . . . information.”

“Why don’t we begin with your life, Great Naboor; and then, if the information is valuable enough, we can discuss your freedom.”

The Hutt laughed again.  “Your negotiating skills are exceptional—I do hope one day to repay the favor and make you my guest on Nal Hutta.”

Tylan frowned.  “I do not think you will have that opportunity, Naboor the Hutt.  Prepare to open the compartment to vacuum,” he ordered the Stormtroopers, who obediently jogged over towards the hatch.

“I have the location of all of the Rebel bases in the adjourning sectors, Captain G’deransk,” the Hutt suddenly said.  “ALL of them.  Your superiors will well reward you for removing that scum from your worlds.”

Tylan smiled.  “That might well buy your life, Naboor—your freedom will require more.”

“More?  More!  I offer you enough to gain promotions and honor, what more do you desire?”

“You offer me your life in exchange for other lives, Hutt.  And it is a bargain that I shall accept, despite my reservations.  Your freedom, however, will require . . . a more personal sacrifice.”  Tylan nodded and one Stormtrooper cautiously approached the Hutt holding an electronic manifest.

Naboor took the device and the scrolled through it, and a look of genuine alarm registered on his tremendous platter-sized eyes.  “You ask for too much, human!” he bellowed.  “This will bankrupt me!”

“Come, Naboor.  For a Hutt of power such as yourself, that cannot represent more than a tithe of your accumulated wealth—a mere tithe in exchange for your restored freedom.  It is but a modest sum of equipment and treasure which will allow you to resume your operations—in other Imperial Sectors.  You are no longer welcome in Cyralis or Lamaredd, after all.”

“A modest sum?  You are no Imperial Captain—you are a loan shark.  Perhaps I should hire you to run my credit department.  You want planetary shield generators, ground-defense ion cannons, capital ship hyperdrive motivators—starfighter hyperdrive motivators!  Imprison me, then.  I shall be alive and laughing when I am released—even if you are dead of old age.”

Tylan laughed.  “Imprison you?  Never, Great Naboor the Hutt.  Prisons can be taken, the prisoners can escape—and future Wardens can be bribed into granting you your freedom.  No, our scout ships have located a lush, primeval world, deep within wildspace.  No sentient life, no industries, no colonists or explorers to disturb you.  I shall maroon you there and leave you; deleting all references to the system in which your are stranded, isolating you for the next thousand years until you perish of causes either natural or otherwise.  Alone.  With no slaves or servants or wealth.  Until your name cannot even be recalled among the living.”  The Imperial Captain shook his head.  “After I have your sex organs removed so that you cannot birth more Hutts, that is.  You are aware that the Empire has developed a chemical process to defeat your race’s legendary regeneration.  Surely these few small items are well within your means to acquire?  So that you might avoid such a fate.”

Naboor’s eyes narrowed, and then he slumped.  “Half this amount.  No more.”

“Transfer Great Naboor to the freighter, Trooper,” Tylan said.  “Have the medical department prepare for surgery.’

“THREE-QUARTERS!” the Hutt bellowed, but Tylan said nothing as four Stormtroopers approached with force pikes, the tips sparkling with energy.

“Fine!  I will meet your terms, you miscreant human devil!” the Hutt bellowed.

“Now, was that so difficult, Great Naboor,” asked Tylan.  “Of course, you will remain our guest on Cyralis until the full payment has been delivered to us by your agents.  And Naboor?”

“What now, human?” the Hutt sullenly asked.

“The locations and disarm codes for those charges you emplaced are part and parcel of the deal—forget one and you lose not only your freedom but your life as well.”

“I will not forget this, human—nor will I ever forget you,” Naboor grumbled.

Tylan stepped up close.  “See that you do not, worm.  And if you betray us, then I shall be the worst nightmare you have ever dreamt, come to life.  Get him out of here.”

As the Stormtroopers prodded Naboor away, the Captain looked with distaste at the slime trail left behind.  “AND GET A CLEANING CREW IN HERE!” he bellowed.  “Filthy Hutts.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:48:59 PM

Chapter Three

Patrice’s guests looked nervous, and with good reason.  Aliens such as these were not normally summoned to the Headquarters of a Sector Moff in the Galactic Empire unless either the Moff wanted something very unusual—or if the alien in question was about to forever more disappear.  And this collection was most electic indeed:  a Bothan, a Gran, an Ithorian, a Mon Calamari, a Nautalon, a Rishii, a Rodian, a Sullustans, a Trandoshan, and a Twi’lek.  They all knew each other well—for collectively, these ten were the leaders of their respective species on not only the world of Cyralis, but for the entire Cluster.  They had dealt with Moff Jendar and discovered that despite his hard-line rhetoric, the previous Moff had been far more concerned with the quality of his bank accounts than in persecuting the non-human species.  Of course, if they had lacked the funds to pay off the Moff, then persecution soon enough followed in short order.

But this new Moff, this former General Patrice; he was a new and unknown quantity.  So far, the lot of the non-humans under his rule was best stated with a single word:  ignored.  There had been no crackdowns in the ghettos, no mass arrests or interrogations, no solicitations for bribes.  And then he and Admiral Morvin had arrested their own ISB; well, arrested the few who had not been shot resisting said arrest.  And in the month and a half since, there had not been even one sweep of local police through the alien quarters of Cyralis’s major cities.  It was unheard of.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened, and the bald human Moff walked briskly in.  “Sentients, you have my apologies for running behind schedule—it was not intentional.  I am quite pleased that all of you accepted my invitation to this meeting,” Thom said as he took his seat with a smile.

Somber, blank faces simply stared at him in return.  They knew they had little enough choice in accepting such an ‘invitation’.  Not in the Galactic Empire of Palpatine.

“I have asked you here to meet with me here today to inform you of several new proclamations and . . . . adjustments in Imperial law here in Cyralis.  As an Imperial Moff, I have broad discretionary powers at my disposal.  Those innate powers of my office have since only increased following the tragic and unfortunate death of the Emperor at Endor six weeks ago.  I cannot change laws for the entire Empire, sentients, but in this Cluster I can and will alter the local laws that affect us all.”

Thom paused, and a gaggle of civilian aides began passing out a sheaf of documents to each of the Moff’s guests.

“First, as of today, all laws preventing non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster from serving in the Imperial military branches and government assigned to the Cluster are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Second, all laws enshrining the discrimination and segregation of non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster in civil matters are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Third, all laws which prevent non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster from owning property or weapons are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Fourth, all laws which prevent non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster from casting ballots in local, planetary, and cluster legislation, or which prevent non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster from holding local, planetary, and cluster elected offices, are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Fifth, all taxation edicts imposed upon non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster that differ from those imposed upon human citizens are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Sixth, all laws which provide for the enslavement, servitude, and/or any other form of official legal bondage or peonage, other than that resulting from a violation of Imperial law, and the lawful imprisonment and/or execution of the individual performing the criminal act, which are applicable to humans and non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster are hereby repealed and revoked.”

“Seventh, any non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster and who are currently owned in a state of slavery or servitude, peonage or bondage, are hereby immediately and forever declared free sentients, the property of themselves alone.”

“Eighth, all laws which prevent any non-humans who reside in the Cyralis Cluster who wish to travel off-world or to other sectors of the Empire, or non-associated polities within this Galaxy, are herby repealed and revoked.”

One by one, each of the aliens seated at the table looked up at their Moff in a state of absolute shock.  Thom smiled, and he nodded.

“Understand this, sentients—I will tolerate neither rebellion nor insurrection against the lawful authorities of this sector.  Nor will I tolerate terrorism leveled against any of the citizenry of Cyralis, regardless of race.  Avoid either of those areas, and you and your peoples will find that your life has taken a sharp turn for the better.”

For several minutes, there was nothing but silence in the room, and then the Bothan spoke.  “Why?”

Thom grinned.  “Because Emperor Palpatine was surprisingly short-sighted and concerned with only his immediate wants, sentients.  He was rather like a spoiled child in that regards.  He is now gone, and I must rule this Cluster and protect all—all—of her multitude of people’s.  We will remain as part of the Empire, but there will be no more pogroms, no more slavery or serfdom, no wage-servitude or debtor’s prisons.”

“You will obey the laws.  You will perform your civil duties as is expected of all citizens of this Cluster.  Beyond that, you will have equal rights to the human population here.  And in exchange for this, I expect only that you do not seek to undermine my government.”

Eyes wide, the Mon Cal opened and closed her mouth, before words finally emerged.  “What of Lamaredd Sector?  Have you heard of what Moff Osar is doing to our people there?  The mass arrests?  The executions?”

Thom frowned and he shook his head sadly.  “Adair was bad enough, but I fear that Osar will only provoke greater hatred between our peoples.  Unfortunately, Madame Teng, I have no authority over Lamaredd—at this time.  I will promise you this—that I shall keep a close watch on the situation there; and if events threaten the safety and security of Cyralis . . . well, I shall then have no other choice then to intervene in Osar’s affairs.”

“I am certain that all of you would rather prefer a clean sweep of the government here—replacing your former Imperial overlords with the New Republic proclaimed by the Rebel Alliance.  That will not be happening.  Not in this Sector and not in Lamaredd.  Indeed,” Thom mused as he clicked a hidden button beneath the table, brining banks of monitors on the walls to life.  “I have already removed the Rebel agents from Cyralis.”

Dozens, scores, hundreds, of dead Rebels were pictured on monitors lining the walls of the room.  Several of the people at the table flinched—either because the faces were known to them or because of the graphic nature of their deaths.

“They revealed a great deal of information on the Rebel Alliance within this Sector and Lamaredd before their deaths.  But I shall grant a period of seven days—at the end of which all those who come forward and confess their crimes will be given complete and unfettered amnesty.  On the eighth day, however, I shall seize them; try them; and then I shall execute them.  The past is behind us, sentients—let us look to the future.  And I ask only that you plead with your people to accept my most generous offer.  Here is chance for a fresh start—to lay down our arms and ensure that our civilization is one worthy of the title.”

“Many of these Rebels were human—and I take no more pleasure in their deaths than I do those of your species.  Those humans who plot insurrection; they too have seven days to accept my offer of amnesty or flee.  I hope that we can once again learn to work together, and let the past bury the past.”

“If you do not believe me, and these edicts before you, sentients; if you fear that I will not keep my word, then you and your people are free to leave Cyralis.  You may travel to any destination you wish—provided, of course, you can secure passage on a ship.”

Thom stood.  “I have stated my position as plainly and simply as I am able, sentients.  It is up to you now to choose whether we will have peace and prosperity or bloody harsh war.  Make your choice.”

And with that, the Moff turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving ten very flustered individuals in his wake.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:49:35 PM

Chapter Three (cont.)

Mal Galen arose from his chair where he had watching the hidden cameras in the Conference Room as Thom entered the surveillance chamber.

“‘They revealed a great deal of information on the Rebel Alliance within this Sector and Lamaredd before their deaths,’ is what I believe that you told them.  To the best of my knowledge, the only genuine information of any value was in the heads of their leaders—who died before they could be captured,” he said.

“Director Galen, you know that.  I know that.  They do not know that.  Watch them closely.  Put surveillance on top of the people they contact once they leave.  Watch the people that their contacts in turn contact.  And perhaps we might flush out the rest of the Rebels from this Sector completely.”

“You were wasted in the Army, Moff Patrice.  It was a sad day for the Ubiqtorate when you decided on that branch instead of Intelligence.”

“What?  You don’t think the Army can be subtle?”

“In my experience?  No.  They normally cannot.”

Thom laughed.  “Just watch them.  If they decide to turn themselves in . . . fine.  If they suddenly relocate and attempt to change their identities, keep them under surveillance.  Let them think they have eluded us—and infiltrate their organization.  We may just be able to roll up their operations completely.”

“You don’t think your offer will carry much weight?”

“For some it will.  The ones who are fighting for freedom and equal rights under the law; yes, those will be satisfied.  They will be especially pleased when the time is right for us to remove Osar from power and expand our rule to the entirety of the Lamaredd Sector.  But for others, they want revenge.  Watch them, Galen.  Watch them closely and keep me informed.”

“But of course, my Moff.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:50:11 PM

Chapter Three (cont.)

Thirty-eight Shock Troopers sat at desks paying close attention to their company commander standing at the screen.  Several were taking notes—all were listening intently—as he led them through the data projected onto a wall screen.

“Troopers, this is the BlasTech Cyralis TC-15b multi-role blaster rifle which we will be using.  Although not as compact or light-weight as your standard issue E-11 carbines, the TC-15b fires a more powerful bolt and has three times the maximum range.  It is also capable of far greater accuracy across its effective range.  The base model issued includes a folding biped for greater stability and accuracy when shooting from the prone position, a collapsible—not folding—stock to reduce overall length, two power cells—one each in the fore stock and pistol grip, each able to power sixty indvidual bolts or thirty bursts—and a Tibana-gas reservoir with sufficient gas for three hundred and sixty individual bolts or one hundred and eighty-bursts.  Adjustable manual sights are included for redundancy in the event that primary sighting scope—with low-light and thermal imaging capacity—is damaged or otherwise disabled.  For greatest accuracy, the weapon fires a single high-powered bolt; however, there is a burst-fire mode that permits the rapid-emission of three slightly less powerful bolts—there is no fully automatic fire mode.”

“In addition to the base infantry model, there are three variants which will see use by the Shock Trooper Corps:  a separate sniper rifle—the TC-15c(s)—, a fully-automatic repeating squad support weapon—the TC-15d—, and a compact short-barreled carbine for close-quarters battle and for issue to officers and heavy weapons troopers—the TC-15e.”

“In addition, our Moff has seen fit to issue every Trooper in the Shock Corps and Sector Army with a DT-12 heavy blaster pistol!  This sidearm is a secondary weapon, Troopers, and it will remained holstered unless you lose your rifle to damage or run out of power or gas.”

“Over the next six hours we will cover these weapons in detail, Troopers!  And then, following lunch, you will be issued your weapons and we will practice disassembly and assembly until each of you is able to do so while blind!  We will dry fire the weapons and make certain you know every last micron of its surface—and then after evening chow we will report to the range.”

“We are zeroing in the weapons at night, Sir?” one of the Troopers asked.

“I was under the impression that Shock Troopers were an elite group of fighting me in this Army, Devalis,” the Captain answered somewhat acidly.  “The merely difficult is for Army troopers—we accomplish the impossible!  Yes, we will be operating on the range at night, without floodlights, Troopers!  And if you haven’t managed to zero in your weapons and qualify with your armor’s built in optical systems by dawn—you will be transferred to the Regular Army and out of my Shock Trooper Corps!  Is that understood?”

“SIR, YES SIR!” The platoon answered in unison.

“And just to make certain that you are indeed the best, Troopers, the meteorologists have predicted thunderstorms and cold rain for tonight, with occasional wind gusts of up to thirty kilometers per hour.”

The Captain smiled at the stoic faced men of his third platoon.  “Good.  Shall we begin?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:51:41 PM

Chapter Three (cont.)

Shock Trooper of the Third Order Gare Devalis winced as he stood in front of a small cubicle, placed just outside the mess hall.  He sighed and he pulled out his credit wand from the belt pouch where it kept it stored.

“You fellows go on ahead; I’ve got to make a call.”

“Man, those things charge you an arm and a leg—and we don’t have that long to eat chow,” one of his companions muttered.

“I know.  But I need to make it.”

“We’ll grab you a tray—just make it fast, Gare.”

The rest of the Shock Troopers filed into the mess and Gare stepped into the cubicle and insert the wand in the proper slot.

“Welcome to Galactic Hypercommunications Terminal BXK-CYR-177324292.  How may we assist you today?”

“Person-to-person transmission to Corellia PQ-734-656-8790-DAQ-17435.”

“An amount of 250 credits will charged for the first minute of transmission.  Each additional minute will result in a charge of 125 credits.  Do you wish to continue?”

Gare winced again, but he nodded his head slightly.  “Yes.”

There was a long pause, and then the trooper could hear the connection being made.  A timer began to log the elapsed time of the call.  It rang once, twice, three times, and then four times.  Come on, Gare, thought.  Finally, on the seventh ring, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Let me talk to Lorena, Rachaeon,” Gare said to his mother-in-law.

“Oh, you don’t even spare a kind word for the grandmother of your children.  Why she ever married a no-good man like you is beyond me.”

Gare bit his tongue as the seconds continued to accrue.

“Gare?  What’s wrong?” his wife asked.

“Look, Lorena, this call is costing us a fortune.  Put the apartment on the market—get what you can for the place and the furniture.  In four days, there will be a ship—the liner Celestial Dream—docked at the space-port.  I’ve got tickets for you and the kids to come out here to Cyralis and join me.”  He paused.  “It’s for the best, honey; it might be years before I can come home.”

“What?  You just want me to pack everything up and move—in four days?”

“No hon . . . you and kids get a 100-kilos for your luggage.  Sell the rest.”

“A hundred kilos?  Each?”

“Ah, total,” Gare said as the display registered another 125 credit charge.  There was a long pause.  "You there, hon?"

“We can’t just pack up and move on short notice!  The kids have school, I have work!  Have you lost your mind?”

“Look, hon; the Wars about to get bad.  Cyralis is a safe place—safe for you and the kids and I can see you here.  Corellia might not be the best place to stay.  The new Moff out here, he’s paying for us to bring our families out if we want to stay—if I go back, I’ll get drafted into some other Imperial force and sent somewhere else.”

“Well, I’ll have to get Mother and Father to sell their stuff as well.”

“Immediate family, hon!” Gare said quickly.  “Patrice is only paying for immediate family!”

“You want me to leave them here, on a planet where they are in danger—if it is too dangerous for me and the kids it is too dangerous for them!”

“Look, they will be fine, hon.  I just want you and the kids to get out of the way of any possible danger—it’s safe out here, they have good schools, and they need medical specialists like you.”

“And who will watch the kids when you are off playing soldier and I am working, Gare?  No, they are coming too, if I have to buy their tickets!  And we’ll need another ticket for the kid’s droid.”

Gare groaned.   â€œYou’re talking 15,000 credits!  At least!  We can’t afford it!”

“We’ll sell their place as well—and the kid’s aren’t giving up their Nanny Droid Mother bought them!”

Ding.  Another 125 credits were added to the call.  “Okay, fine.  Bring the whole clan—just you and the kids had best be on that ship in four days.”

“Are we travelling first-class, Gare?  I’ve always wanted to take a cruise down the Run?  But it won’t be the same without you.”

“Hon, it’s not first-class.  It’s steerage.”

There was another long pause.

“Hon?”

“You are going to owe me, Gare Devalis.”

“Okay, hon.  Look, I’ve put down a lease on a place for you and me and the kids; I don’t know where will put your parents.”

“Oh, they can stay with us until they find a place.”

Gare hit his head against the comm terminal three times in a row, and it dinged another 125 credit charge.

“Okay,” he managed to croak out.  “Look, babe, I’ve gotta to run.  Just make sure you are at the docks and you get aboard the Celestial Dream.”

“I understand, Gare.  You stay safe,” she said and then the connection terminated.

“Total charge of 625 and credits deducted.  Thank you for using Galactic Holocommunications and have a nice day.”

Gare sighed and exited the cubicle. Noticing the clock, he rushed into the mess, hoping to have enough time to eat.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:57:23 PM

Chapter Three (cont.)

“I-I can’t shake him!  He’s on my six!” Olin Payne called out as he sent his Avenger in a barrel roll, bright red blast bolts streaking past to him above and to his right.

“Reinforce your shields aft, Zeta-Four,” came the calm voice of the squadron commander.  “We are almost there.”

Olin adjusted his shield settings, and then he flinched as the fighter shook—but the shields held, absorbing and dissipating much of the power of the X-wing’s laser bolt that had struck him.  A red light began rapidly flashing on his console.

“Shields down to 17%!  He’s pounding me apart, here!”  He dumped his laser power directly into the engines and the agile fighter’s speed momentarily increased, pressing the TIE pilot back into his seat.  Olin spun left, he spun right, he climbed, he dived—but the X-wing stayed glued to his tail.  But the Rebel fighter slowed his own rate of fire as he too was forced to divert his weapons energy to the engines in order to stay locked onto the TIE.  And then a yellow-lit alarm began to flash.  “Damn!” Olin snarled.  “He’s trying for a missile lock!”

“Just a bit more, Zeta-Four,” the squadron commander said, “we’re nearly in . . . break right, break right, break right, NOW!”

Olin yanked his stick hard right and he heard the Avenger’s frame groan in protest—and the unseen hand of pseudo-gravity gripped him hard, making Olin’s vision begin to grey.

And then the X-Wing broke off at two more Avengers slashed in, their own quadruple laser mounts spitting bolts which flared against the Rebel’s shields.  Olin, chopped his engine power, and put the full output of his small reactor into the lasers—as the X-Wing and his squadron mates streaked past, he accelerated once again and added his own fire to the holocaust dancing over the Rebel pilot’s shields—and the X-Wing exploded.

And then the cockpit went dark, the controls died, and Olin could hear the hum of machinery as the simulator settled back down into its resting position.  The new, wonderful, high-visibility canopy swung up, flooding Olin with light and sound and two techs reached into his cockpit and helped him unstrap from the mock ejector seat—another feature he had never before had to deal with.

The techs helped him out of the snug cockpit, and down the ladder, unplugging his helmet connectors from the flight suit he wore and pulling the heavy piece of equipment off of his shoulders.

“Payne!” his squadron commander yelled.  “What did you think you were doing out there?”

“Engaging the enemy, sir!”

“You left your wing-man, you idiot—you don’t ever leave your wing-man.  How many times do I have to remind you of that?”

“I-I got caught up in the fight, Sir.  I split-S to take out that A-Wing, and then I just lost track of him in the furball.”

“If you were in a line TIE, or an Interceptor, Payne, you would be dead right now—so would Jin because you left him without a wing-man!  Look, boy, the shields and firepower of these new Avengers don’t mean jack if you can’t stay with your wingman.  You go out there on your lonesome, the Rebels will get you isolated, and when that happens you will be very dead, Payne.”

“I can take a few hits, Sir.  The shields are . . .”

“NO, boy.  Those shields are good only against a few glancing blows—they do not make you invincible.  X-Wings and Y-Wings have had shields ever since the Rebellion started flying them—and you think we haven’t downed them in large numbers, son?  The equipment doesn’t mean anything if you can’t fly tactically!  If you don’t think through your actions, son, you will die out there.  And the sad thing is, you are liable to get good, solid, and disciplined pilots killed at the same time!”

The squadron leader collected himself, and shook his head.  “Get into the debriefing room with the rest of the squadron, Payne—before I demote you back to flying shuttles!”

Olin Payne snapped to attention and he saluted; then he turned and began to jog towards the briefing room, and his face dropped as he saw Zach Jin—Zeta-Three, his wing-leader—shaking his head as he stood in the door frame.  “Sorry, Zach, I got caught up . . .”

“Save it rook,” the older pilot snarled.  “Your only job out there is to stay glued to my wing and protect me!  Damn, if I didn’t prefer the old way when only pilots that survived ten missions in an old TIE/ln were allowed to take out an Interceptor or Advanced for a spin.  That might cost us a few of you newbies, but at least I’d have someone I can depend on!” he growled, stepping forward and poking Olin the chest with one finger.

“This isn’t a game, Flight Officer Payne—and we aren’t in god-mode.  You screw up out there for real, and you will get yourself killed, you will get me killed, and you might just get the entire squadron killed!  Look, Olin,” the older pilot forced himself to calm down, “the only way a TIE pilot gets to retire outside of a casket is if he works with his teammates.  There is no such thing as an old and bold pilot—cautious pilots are those who live; the bold ones tend to get posthumous medals and commendations.  Now if you want to be a bold pilot, I’ll have your ass transferred to Mu Squadron so you fly gunboats.  But if you want to be an Avenger pilot, Olin, you have best learn real quick to keep your ass glued to my wing.  A wing pair has operate like one brain is commanding both fighters, Olin—we have to stay focused on the same goal, not run off and abandon our buddy just to get an easy kill or two.”

Olin looked down at the deck and he swallowed.  “I got caught up and I didn’t think, Zach.  It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I wish I could believe that, Olin,” the older pilot said as he turned and began to walk to the briefing room.  Then he stopped and turned back around to face the rookie.  “It might be easier to believe that if you didn’t leave my ass hanging in the wind in every single simulation this squadron has flown!”

The veteran pilot stormed off towards the briefing room, and Olin slowly followed.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:59:14 PM

Chapter Three (cont.)

“And in other news from the Core, the newly formed Imperial Ruling Council is dismissing rumors that two separate Imperial Fleets clashed in the Mimban system.  Director of Imperial Intelligence Ysanne Isard addressed earlier today the rumors that Fleets commanded by Moff Disran and High Admiral Yarquil engaged each other in battle at the strategic system located in the Expansion Region.”

“These rumors are nothing more than Rebel propaganda intended to destroy our citizen’s belief in the New Order, and destroy the unity that the Ruling Council is providing to the Empire in this time of crisis,” the woman with two-toned hair in the broadcast said.  “Loyal Imperial Fleet commanders and sector Moffs are not fighting each other—they are searching out and destroying Rebel forces masquerading as Imperial units.  Their campaign of manipulation and terrorism will fail—as the Rebels have always failed in the face of superior Imperial forces.”

“Representatives of the so-called New Republic government have, however, provided evidence that upwards of sixty capital warships were lost in the Battle of Mimban—and that both Moff Disran and High Admiral Yarquil were killed aboard their respective flagships.  Mon Mothma, the titular leader of the Rebel Alliance and the newly proclaimed head of the fledgling New Republic, has called the Battle of Mimban the first public sign of the rot at the heart of the Imperial System.”

“Imperial officers and political governors are now all but ignoring the central authority on Coruscant,” she said from an undisclosed location.  “Factional infighting in the two months since the death of Emperor Palpatine has reached unheard of levels of intensity, with Imperial Fleets squaring off against other Imperial Fleets.  These warlords provide all the evidence necessary to see that the Empire itself is doomed to failure, for they must resort to force to maintain their crumbling hold on system after system.”

“Neither Disran nor Yarquil could be reached for comment.”

“From the sporting world, the Galaxy has a new record-breaking mosh-ball team . . .”

“Turn that crap off,” one of the patrons at the café snarled.  “Come on, Simone, at least put it on the local news—none of that official information out of the Core can be trusted.”

A chorus of voices divided among those who wanted a new channel and those interested in the mosh-ball tournament rose up, but the server finally changed over to a local Cyralis station.

“Thank the Gods that Moff Patrice isn’t getting us bogged down in that mess,” another customer sipping his drink said.

“I’m not so sure,” a third patron said, as he frowned.  “I don’t like what he did with the aliens—he all but said they are equal to us.”

“Would you rather have the Rebels come in here and set up a government which favored the fishmen and the dog-heads?  Put them in authority over us?  He’s kept a lid on things and managed to keep our boys out of this factional fighting.”

“Are you crazy?  That guy’s a loon—look what he did to the ISB and COMPNOR!  He killed them out of hand because they supported the Empire!”

Two patrons stood up and moved away from the man who just protested, and the entire clientele of the café stared at him in amazement.

“You mean he decided to put a stop to their fanatic devotion to every last rule and regulation of the New Order, Horad,” another man said as he folded his old-fashioned paper newssheet.  “The ISB didn’t care if you were a human or an alien, a loyal Imperial or a Rebel, they would arrest you if you cracked a joke about Palpatine—and you would lose your teeth in their interrogation.  I, for one, don’t miss those bastards one bit.”

Another man piped up.  “My brother is a serving officer in the Army here—he said the ISB and COMPNOR were planning on overthrowing our civil institutions and purging the local governments of elected representatives because it was too much like what the Rebels are calling for.  Patrice stepped in and he put a stop to them.”

“By killing them?” Horad snarled.  “He should have arrested them and put them on trial—some of them might not have been guilty!”

Titters of laughter rang out through the café.  “Careful, Horad, I think many folks might feel that you are upset only because you aren’t getting paid for passing the ISB information on your neighbors anymore,” a fifth man added.

Horad glared at the new speaker.  “Are you accusing me of being an informer?  Of ratting out my friends and neighbors?”

“Did you?” the man asked, casting a look of derision and disdain on the protestor.  “Many true-believers in the New Order did—I know several good people, and their families, that disappeared after someone levied an accusation against them.  The ISB couldn’t ever admit they were wrong, so the innocent went to the gallows alongside the guilty.  We are better off that they are gone now.”

Horad stood up.  “You are all idiots—that man Patrice was drummed out of service in disgrace.  He was sent back here to exile.  He violates the law.  He is an alien-loving piece of scum—and he’s playing all of you for fools!  He’s no better than those other warlords breaking away from the Empire—he’s just more cautious.”

“So do you have any evidence of that?  Or are you just talking out of your ass again, Horad?  Six months ago, you insisted that the New Order was winning the fight against the Rebels—how did that work out for Palpatine and Vader at Endor, by the way?”

Laughter rang through the café, and Horad turned a bright shade of red.  “They were betrayed—betrayed and sabotaged by men like Patrice!  It was one . . .” Horad paused, and he shook his head bitterly, before he continued in a whisper, “it was one of those Jedi I tell you that blew up the Death Star.  The Rebels didn’t stand a chance otherwise.”

Raucous laughter rocked the café.  “Give it a rest with your Great Jedi Conspiracy theories, Horad!  The Jedi are dead and gone—and even if one managed to escape the purge, what does it say about your New Order that a single one of them could destroy the Death Star and kill both Palpatine and Vader?”

Horad shook his head and set his jaw firmly as he backed away to the door.  “You are all fools—Patrice doesn’t have our interests at heart, he has his own.  And one day, when all of you are shackled in chains to your alien masters, you will all realize I was right!”

He quickly turned around and left, howls of laughter following him into the street.
 
“Simone,” one of patrons finally gasped as he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes.  “Can I get another cup?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 03:59:48 PM

Chapter Four

Trey Vsilisk sighed as the stiff breeze bent leafy branches of vegetation into his sight line yet again.  For four weeks, the 442nd had been operating on the surface of Havelis here in the Lamaredd Sector:  along with the worlds of Tsiphone and Mardoon.  Covertly inserted in-system, the special missions teams had one purpose—ramp up ‘Rebel’ activities against the government of Moff Osar and ORO-Corp.  So far, the operations had gone off without a hitch; it was not really that far removed from normal special missions operations.  The Empire had used such false flags on worlds to convince them of the need to ask for Imperial aid and assistance.  And the tactic worked surprisingly well much of the time; people fearing for their lives and property were often willing to give up many of their liberties in exchange for security.

“Sarge?” he whispered.

“Damn it, Vsilisk,” his companion softly snarled, “don’t you ever shut that mouth?”

“We can barely see the target from here Sarge—why didn’t we find a better vantage point?”

“Look you moron, yes, there are better sites from which to observe the mining camp.  Much better hides.  And if you were defending this site, rather than attacking it, would you not be watching the really good sniper positions?”

“Yeah, but these security guys are clueless, Sarge—they don’t even patrol.”

“Do you want to take the chance they might have droid-sensors dialed in the good ground, Vsilisk?  I’d rather not—this position is okay, not great, but okay.  And they aren’t likely to be watching it.  Which makes it better than okay.”

“Okay,” answered Trey light-heartedly.  And then he grew serious.  “Movement at 2 o’clock, Sarge—vehicles laden with troops.”

The Sergeant turned his spotting scope onto the river delta below, some four kilometers distant, and he softly whistled.  “Loaded for bear, aren’t they Vsilisk?”

“Yes, sir, Sarge,” the trooper answered.  “Warbook confirms shoulder flash—3333rd COMPFORCE Regiment; looks like the entire bloody regiment, Sarge.”

“Umber Six,” the sergeant whispered into his encrypted, frequency bouncing radio, “this is OP1.  Abort, abort, abort.”

“OP1, Umber Six,” came the voice of Lieutenant L’sard.  “Situation?”

“Full regiment of COMPFORCE infantry moving into the mining camp, LT,” the Sarge replied.  “Wait one.”

The two special missions troopers watched as the open-topped repulsor-lift vehicles came to halt and the fanatically loyal and unquestioning—the brutal and unthinking—COMPFORCE troopers disembarked.

“Umber Six, they are deploying in a skirmish line and . . .” the Sergeant blinked as the distant soldiers began walking forward and firing into the buildings.  “Lord above, they are massacring the miners, Sir.”

“Understood.  Are the miners fighting back?”

“Negative, Umber Six—only the COMPFORCE is engaging.”  The crack of blaster bolts and the dull echo of distant grenade explosions reached his ears.  “They are firing the camp, LT.  Correction—they are firing the housing of the mine workers; they are avoiding the ORO facilities completely.”  A different staccato sound began to whine in the distance.  “And the ORO Security are now adding their own fire.”

“Roger that, OP1.  Withdraw and meet us at the rendezvous.”

“Copy that, Umber Six.  OP1 out.”

The sergeant shut down his helmet transmitter and slowly turned his head to look at Vsilisk, but the trooper was already packing up the spotting scope and other surveillance gear.  “Slow and easy, Vsilisk; aren’t you glad we always watch our targets for twenty-four hours before we go in?”

“I won’t be questioning that wisdom again, Sarge,” Trey answered.  “Have they completely lost their minds?  I mean there aren’t even any Rebels in that camp?”

“Looks like Osar and ORO have lost their patience with counter-insurgency, Vsilisk.  Thing is, this is liable to back-fire and create a lot more resentment—not all of those miners down there are aliens, trooper.   Some are just hard-luck, poor, humans who can’t find another line of work.  Might just lead to open armed rebellion; you can't push people that are already at the bottom of the barrel this hard and not expect a reaction.”

“Shit,” whispered Trey.  “Sarge, if they are doing this—on a third-rate mining facility that doesn’t actually produce that much . . .”

“Yeah.  I think our operations here are just about at an end, Vsilisk.  LT is gonna need to phone home.”

The last of the packed gear was now fastened onto the outside of the two men’s armor, and they began to slow-crawl backwards through the rocks and brush.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:00:29 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

“You want a drink, Kell?” Thom asked.

“Thank you, Sir,” the Fleet Admiral answered as he took a seat.

“Sir?   Rather formal this evening, aren’t we?” Thom Patrice said with a chuckle.  He placed some ice in two crystal tumblers and then poured in three fingers worth of liquor in each.  Then he picked up one in each hand and walked over to Morvin, handed him a tumbler, and sat down in his own comfortable chair, adjusting the robe he wore over his sleeping attire.

“What brings you to the Sanctum Sanctorum so late, Kell?” he asked after taking a quick sip.

“Events are moving faster than we anticipated, Sir.  I have the latest transmissions from Operation Ignition,” Kell said as he set a data-pad on the table between the two men.

“Ah.  Did Osar do something moderately stupid—or something incredibly stupid?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” Kell replied after taking a sip of the stout drink.  “I fear that we under-estimated just how unstable Osar is and exactly much influence ORO-Corp had over him—the ‘Rebel’ attacks on their mining operations have their board of directors in a furor.  Osar has declared martial law across the Sector, suspended all but the most basic rights, and unleashed his COMPFORCE units to . . . punish those who support the Rebellion.”

Thom sat down his tumbler and he scrolled through the data-pad, frowning as he read the intelligence gathered there.  He finished the document, scrolled back up and reread another section two more times, before he set down the device once more.

“And how have the actual Rebel cells reacted?” Thom asked.

Kell smiled.  “Since the first massacre escalated into a score, the Alliance units in Lamaredd have begun fighting back—our men haven’t had to do anything except sit back and observe.  Osar’s crackdown, however, hasn’t seriously hurt the Rebs in any way, Thom.  He is generating extreme hatred for his own government—and ORO-Corp.”

“Things are proceeding as we planned, Kell.  The pace may have quickened, but soon enough we will have to—for humanitarian concerns, of course—intervene and remove Osar.”

“That is why I needed to speak with you tonight, Sir.  I am well acquainted with some of Osar’s Fleet officers, as you know.  And this evening I received a coded message from one of them—Jeth Kord, commanding the Imperator-class Indefatigable.  Conditions for the miners on one of Osar’s worlds—Bandaar III—have become intolerable.   Every sentient on the planet works for ORO-Corp, and unless they are Security or Management, they are de facto slaves.  We didn’t send any of our troops there for Ignition, but we learned from the Hutt that the Rebels have their own cell on world.  With their profit margins shrinking, ORO-Corp slashed the salaries of the miners on Bandaar III in half.  The miners then revolted; they trashed the local security and took the facilities—and before the Rebels could stop them, they burned the management.”

Thom’s eyes grew wide.  “Not in effigy, I take it?”

“No.  ORO-Corp took the matter to Osar, although their execs feared losing some face in having to beg for Imperial troops to regain control.  They own that world, and it is . . . embarrassing for them to admit their own miners stole it right out from under them.  But then the miners broadcast a hyper-comm message, proclaiming that they were seceding from the Empire and announcing they were petitioning to join the New Republic.”

“Osar must have been livid,” Thom said quietly.

“Oh yes.  He has dispatched Kord’s Indefatigable to Bandaar III with orders to carry out a Base Delta Zero command.”

Thom froze; his tumbler half-way to his mouth.  His jaw opened and then closed.  He set down the tumbler.  “What was that you said, Kell?  I cannot have heard you correctly.”

“I wish you had misheard me.  Osar initiated Code Base Delta Zero to be carried out on Bandaar III.”

Thom sat back.  “ORO-Corp will withdraw their support of him—Base Delta Zero will destroy their own installations and render the surface lifeless.”

“They protested—Osar then accused them of collusion with the Rebels; the evidence being that they lost an entire planet to them.  He has since arrested the board, seized all ORO-Corp assets, and disbanded their security forces—other than those who decided to join his bully-boys.  He then announced—Sector-wide—that any of his worlds which remain in a state of rebellion and insurrection will suffer the same penalty as Bandaar III.  All armed resistance movements are to turn themselves in for processing and execution; all miners on strike are to return to work within three days.  Or else . . .”

Thom groaned, “Please tell me he didn’t?”

“Or else, he will authorize Base Delta Zero against each world in a state of insurrection in his Sector in sequence.  He concluded by saying that he would rather have one loyal world under his authority than thirty seditious worlds.”

The old General sat heavily back in his chair, and rubbed his bald head with one hand.  He picked up the tumbler and took a deep slug, and then sat down the crystal glass once more.  “We aren’t ready for Guillotine, are we?”

“Not the full Operation, no.  But we might not need the full operation—from what Kord told me, the Fleet mostly considers Osar mad.”

“How soon before he gets to Bandaar III?”

“Seventy-two hours; he can’t delay any longer.”

“Can we . . .”

“Yes.  It won’t be pretty and the boys will make mistakes they wouldn’t if we have longer, but yes, Thom, we can pull it off.  Especially if Kord and other COs in Osar’s Fleet come over to us.  We might even get some of his Army agreeing at the very least to sit this one out—I know Conal has been in contact with several Colonels and Brigadiers on the Lamaredd side of the border.”

“What do you need?”

“Moff Patrice, I request your formal authorization to launch Operation Guillotine.”

“Done.  And Kell?”

“Sir,” the Fleet Admiral replied as he and Thom stood.

“Don’t let that little shit get away.”

“Consider it done, Sir.”

Kell Morvin saluted, turned on his heel, and quickly exited Thom’s private quarters.  The Moff picked back up his tumbler, drained it, and set down the glass.  He then walked over to a wall comm-unit and pressed a button.

“Yes, Sir?” a bright and cheery voice answered from the speaker.

“Assemble the staff; I want everyone in the Conference Room in twenty minutes—and have the droids make several gallons of caf, Mik.  We’re going to have a long night, I’m afraid.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:01:03 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

The main pilot briefing room aboard the Star Destroyer Scorpion was absolutely hushed as eighty-three men stared at their Wing commander.  “That is correct, gentlemen—conditions in Lamaredd have forced Moff Patrice and Fleet Admiral Morvin to intervene.  The problem is that while many of the Imperial ships assigned to the Sector will not stand against us . . . some will.  Legally, we have no authority to intervene and remove Moff Osar from power; however, Moff Patrice has determined—and Fleet Admiral Morvin concurs—that the current state of affairs in Lamaredd is threatening to bring this region under the close scrutiny of the Rebel forces.  If they are able to seize Lamaredd we will be cut off from the remainder of the Empire.  So we are going in.”

The commander paused and he looked over the men under his command—whether they were pilots or gunners.  “The Star Destroyers Scorpion and Relentless are the only ships in the Fleet currently equipped with our new Avenger fighters and Scimitar bombers.  Both ships are going directly to Lamaredd to deal with Moff Osar and Fleet Admiral Sartan.”

“Even if the majority of Lamaredd Sector Fleet simply sits out this fight, which I doubt, gentlemen; Sartan’s ship will have to be dealt with.  That is our assignment.”

The commander lifted a hand-held remote and a holographic image appeared in the center of the room, slowly rotating.  “The Justicar, gentlemen.  She’s a brand spanking new Allegiance-class Star Destroyer, measuring 600 meters longer than our own Imperators.  A new breed of Star Destroyer just now starting to come off the building slips.  Sartan used his political connections to arrange to have the third ship of that class assigned as his Flag.  We are going to take her.”

Whispered mutters rose from the pilots, and the commander nodded.  “You heard correct, gentlemen.  We are not trying to destroy the Justicar, but instead we are going to seize her.  This wing and the one stationed aboard Relentless will launch attacks on Sartan’s vessel to disable her turrets and pave the way for our Shock Troopers to board and capture her intact.”

“Avenger pilots will be tasked with the primary mission of shepherding the Scimitars.  Once her main batteries have disabled by the bombers, Admiral Morin’s Star Destroyers and escorts will disable the vessel with ion cannons—and launch the transports that will ferry our Shock Troopers across.  Those transports must be protected, gentlemen, and that job falls to us.  TIEs from the rest of the Fleet will keep our own capital ships safe, but Lamaredd will definitely be a target rich environment.”

“And now let us examine in detail what your individual squadron’s role will be in this operation.  Alpha . . .”

Zach Jin leaned close to Olin Payne as the commander continued his briefing.  “Rook,” he whispered, “if you screw this up, I swear by all that is unholy in this universe, I will stuff your ass in a garbage masher until you are paste.”

The young pilot, quickly nodded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.  “We are fighting our own people?  Can’t we just call for help?”

“Olin, there is no help out here on the Rim.  Just do your job—and stay on my wing, damn it!  Leave the worrying for the Admirals who get paid for it.  They shouldn’t shoot you for following orders, after all.  Maybe.”

Olin just stared at his wing-leader for a moment, and then he jerked his eyes back around to the wing commander.  “Meanwhile, Epsilon will provide close defense for Theta’s Scimitars tasked with the starboard batteries.  Zeta Squadron will remain in reserve and provide assistance as needed by the other squadrons.”

The commander paused and he looked out past the rotating semi-transparent blue image of the Justicar.  “Gentlemen, we will not all be coming home from this one—but our mission is save the lives of Imperial civilians being threatened by a madman.  And this is one mission that the Scorpion Wing will successfully complete.  We have thirty-four hours before we emerge in the Lamaredd System—the simulators are programmed, gentlemen.  So let’s practice this until we get it right.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:01:35 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

“Sir.”

Captain Abril Jonas of the Glorious-class Star Destroyer Ascension turned towards the Pit Lieutenant who spook.  “Yes?”

“A large Fleet has just exited hyperspace, Sir.”

Abril frowned.  “Rebels?”

“I do not believe so, Sir.  Their transponders are flashing the identification codes of the Cyralis Sector Fleet.”

The captain walked down the steep ramp and peered at the readings—sure enough there was a sizable force of Imperial vessels, inbound for Lamaredd.  Sixty-nine ships in all:  three Imperators, four Victorys, one Immobilizer-418 Interdictor, five Vindicators, ten Strikes, ten Carracks, twelve Millenniums, six Adamants, ten Nebulon-Bs, and eight Acclamators.  Abril whistled softly.  What is Morvin playing at?  Those ships represented the bulk of his Fleet; if they are here, then he barely has enough ships left in Cyralis to patrol his own systems.

“Have we received orders from Justicar?” he asked.

“Negative, Sir.”

“Inform the Flag that we have guests, Lieutenant.”

Abril walked back up the observation platform and he tried to project a calm manner to his crew—although his stomach churned.  He pursed his lips, and then nodded to himself.  “They could be here to provide assistance, gentlemen, but I do not like that they suddenly appeared without prior warning.  Send Ascension to Action Stations—but hold our TIEs in the bay for now.”

“We do have standing orders from the Flag, Sir, that require prior approval before setting General Quarters,” another officer reminded him.

“On my authority—warm up the guns, raise our shields, and get the crew to Action Stations.”

Abril’s officers quickly turned to their tasks and throughout the massive ship alarms began to sound.

“Has Justicar replied to our signal?” he asked.

“We are instructed to stand by and await further instructions, Captain,” the communications officer said as he turned to face Ascension’s lord and master.

Abril frowned.  Damn Sartan and his need to control everything, he thought.  He moved back along the catwalk to view the sensor projection of the Lamaredd System.  Much of Sartan’s Fleet was concentrated here—but not all of it.  The Justicar herself, Ascension and her sister ship Leviathan, the Imperator-class Acrimonious, four Victorys, four Vindicators, two Dreadnoughts, eight Strikes, ten Carracks, six Bayonets, twelve Millenniums, eight Lancers, sixteen Nebulon-Bs, and sixteen corvettes.  Eighty ships to Morvin’s sixty-nine, but Morvin had no corvettes in his Order of Battle—and those small ships made up a full twenty percent of Sartan’s.

“Hail the Justicar again; I need to speak with Admiral Sartan.”

“Sir, they already said to stand by,” the comm officer interjected.

“Just do it.”

What the devil are you doing out there, Morvin?  And whatever it is, why can’t Sartan be just a bit more like you?

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:02:23 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

Rilian Osar rushed into the communications room of his Palace, nearly knocking over one of the Stormtroopers standing guard beside the door.  A blue semi-transparent image of Thom Patrice stood on the holo-projection platform, calmly waiting for him.

“Patrice!  What is the meaning of this?  I have just been told that your entire Fleet has hypered into Lamaredd!” he shouted.

“And it is a pleasure to see you again, as well, Moff Osar,” Thom said with a smile.

Osar stopped and he stared at the hologram, and then he waved one hand.  “What are they doing here?”

“It was my understanding, Osar that your . . . difficulties with the Rebels have intensified.  What can I do to help?”

“Help?”

“Yes, Osar.  After all, if we do not help each other, who will?  I thought, perhaps, that since my Sector is quiet at the moment, that at the very least I could send you my Admiral and increase your chances of actually catching the Rebels responsible.”

“You sent him to help me?” Osar asked in a puzzled voice.  “But . . . but . . . why didn’t you tell me?”

“Osar, your arrest of the executives of ORO-Corp have made clear that your problems are not limited to the actions of Rebel cells working amongst the population—I could not be certain that they haven’t tapped into your secure communications,” Patrice said in a soothing tone of voice.  “We don’t want to give your rats warning enough to jump ship, now do we?”

“Tapped my communications?  That explains everything!  How they constantly elude my men and slip away leaving only sympathizers behind!”

Thom made an agreeable noise and nodded his head.  “Yes; if they are listening in to your orders, it could explain much.  My intelligence section has managed to discover the identity of several top leaders of the Rebel cells operating within your Sector . . . Kell Morvin has the details for you, Osar.”

Osar nodded slowly.  “I-I had feared that you might have turned against me, Patrice.  It seems that I cannot turn around without bumping into another agent of the Rebellion.”

“Now why would I do that, Osar?  We both want the same thing—a strong, secure Empire where humanity can live in peace.”

“That was always the point of the New Order, Patrice; thank you.  I do not know why I assumed that you were against me.”

“It is understandable, Osar.  You are a Moff now, with great power and responsibility—your duties are a greater burden than any you have ever before borne.”

“The other Moffs—the ones in Bitrose, Gaulus, and Pelgrin Sectors—they laughed at me.  Laughed when I offered to work with them!  They haven’t laughed since I told them I was wiping the Rebel threat clean in my Sector!”

“Now that was short-sighted of them, Osar.  We all need a friend out here so far from civilization.”

“And you have been a good friend, Patrice.  With your ships we shall end this threat to the Empire.”

“Yes, Osar.  We shall soon put an end to this threat.”

“Patrice . . . I have meant to ask you—what were you thinking relaxing your laws on non-humans out there.  For a time, I worried that you might be a clandestine rebel yourself.”

“No, Osar,” Patrice laughed.  “I am too old be a Rebel.  It is the Empire that I have served all of my life—and Palpatine before there even was an Empire.  Can you keep a secret, Osar?” Thom asked as he leaned forward, conspiratorially.

“A secret?  Yes, of course, my friend.”

“It is a trap, Osar.”

“A trap?”

“A trap.”

“I don’t understand,” the Moff of Lamaredd lamented.

“You see, by loosening the leash upon their throats, I have given these non-humans the chance to prove their disloyalty to the Empire—my agents are keeping close watch upon them.  When the time is right, when they show their true nature, then I will move in and grab them and all they have made contact with, Osar.  We will round them all up in one clean sweep.”

“Oh, jolly good, Patrice,” Osar sighed.  “Why cannot my people come up with such wonderful ideas as you.  If I only had someone of your caliber, this Sector would be the finest in the Empire.”

“Why, thank you, Moff Osar,” Thom said with a bow.  “But I am afraid we must now discuss a matter of protocol.”

“Protocol?  Concerning what, exactly?”

“Kell Morvin is senior to Whartil Sartan, Osar.”

“Senior?  They are both Fleet Admirals, Patrice—and Lamaredd is Sartan’s command.”

“Ah, actually, they are not both Fleet Admirals.  I know that you kept for yourself the title of High Admiral, but I find that my duties as a Moff are too intense for me to do so.  Last week, I promoted Kell Morvin to High Admiral, so that he can deal with problems too . . . inconsequential for a man of my station.”

“Oh.  Well, that’s different then.  He does outrank Sartan.”

“Yes.  Now, we both certainly want to help your Sector out, Osar—and I have the ships and troops there to solve all of your problems once and for all.  But we need a unified chain of command in order to do so.  And since Kell outranks your Admiral . . .”

“I see your point, Patrice.  Sartan will be furious, but I am the Moff, not he.”

“Why, yes, Osar.  Yes you are indeed.”

“You man Morvin will obey my instructions, will he not?”

“You need not be concerned about that, Moff Osar.  Kell Morvin is a man that I trust with my own life—his duty is to the Empire and that is where his loyalties lie.”

Osar sighed again.  “You are so lucky to have such a blessed Sector, Patrice.  I will return him once we cleanse the Rebel scum from my worlds!”

“Osar?”

“Yes, Patrice?”

“As you said, Sartan will be furious about being superseded.  Perhaps you should send out a . . . general order to your Fleet informing them that High Admiral Kell Morvin is now the ranking officer and that they are to follow his orders—your orders—to the letter.  I do know something of how . . . obstinate . . . military officers can be if they feel slighted.  It would be a shame if some of the Rebels escape your grasp because our forces were unable to work together as one united Empire.”

“Yes . . . yes, why thank you again, Patrice.  I shall send it immediately!  And then, we can make them pay for laughing at me,” Osar growled, his eyes narrowing into slits.  Suddenly, he looked up.  “I say, Patrice, I’ve never directly issued an order to the Fleet—Sartan has always handled that.  Could you . . .”

“Osar.  My friend.  I have already taken the liberty of sending you the document.  It just needs to be signed, embossed with your seal, and your communications technicians can transmit it immediately to the Fleet.”

Osar beamed at Patrice.  “What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you, Patrice?”

“Think nothing of it, Osar.  And if you have any further problems—don’t hesitate to call.  And remember . . . I want Kell Morvin and my ships back when this over and done.”

An aide walked up to Osar with a document, which he quickly read, then signed with a flourish and stamped with his seal of office.  “Transmit that to every command in the Sector, Donnael.  Priority One, all ships and stations confirm.”

“At once, my Moff,” the aide answered with a bow.

“I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, Patrice.  Thank you again.”

Osar smiled at Patrice and Thom nodded in reply.  “And with that, dear Osar, I think my business is done here.  Enjoy yourself, my friend—after all you never know which day may be your last.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:04:42 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

“Priority One signal from Lamaredd Central Control, Sir,” a young communications technician reported as he snapped to attention and saluted Abril with his right hand as he held out the data-pad in his other.

Abril frowned and he took the device, and quickly browsed through.  His frown faded, and his eyes grew wide.

“Communications!  Was this decoded properly?” he barked.

The Comm officer in the Pit turned and sharply nodded.  “Yes, sir.  Sir; the message header requires us to confirm receipt and to acknowledge the order.”

The Captain of Ascension turned back to his bridge windows, and he placed his hands behind his back.  “Communications, confirm that we have received the order—ask Lamaredd Central Control to authenticate the order before we acknowledge.”

Abril licked his suddenly dry lips as he watched the drive flares of Morvin’s ships slowly closing the distance between his Fleet and high orbit.

“Sir.  Lamaredd Central Control authenticates the order and requests that we acknowledge the order.”

The twenty-six year veteran of the Imperial Fleet let out a breathe that he had not realized he was holding.  “Transmit our acknowledgement to Lamaredd Central Control.”

Abril’s executive officer walked up the catwalk to stand beside the older man.  “Captain, what did the order say?” he whispered.

The Captain did not answer, he merely handed his first officer the data-pad.

“What the . . . ?  Sartan will go ballistic.”

“Yes.  It is, however, a legitimate and legal order, Chang.  We will keep the crew at alert stations for five more minutes and then stand down.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“STATUS CHANGE!” A Lieutenant in the Pit barked.  “Cyralis Fleet is launching fighters!”

“Belay that order,” Abril snapped.  “Order the Squadron to combat readiness—on my authority!  Tactical, are the fighters closing on an attack vector?”

“No, Sir.  They are forming up though.”

“How many?”

“Looks like all of them.”

“Ready our own squadrons for hot-launch—upon my command only!”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

****************************************************

Fleet Admiral Whartil Sartan sneered at the holographic image of Kell Morvin.  “And I don’t care what that idiot Moff ordered, Morvin!  This is my Fleet, my Sector!”  Spittle flew from the corpulent man’s lips as he shouted at the hologram.  “Now turn those ships around and leave or I will open fire upon you!”

“You will not abide by the orders of your own Moff, Fleet Admiral Sartan?” the image asked very precisely.

“He was tricked!  Tricked!  He would never issue such an order without going through me!  Never!  If that worthless transmission even came from him!”

The hologram flickered, and the image looked off-screen and said something that was not transmitted.

“Sir!  Morvin’s ships are launching TIEs.”

Sartan’s eyes bulged with rage—and more than a little fear.  “You be will remembered as a Renegade and an Outlaw, Morvin,” he spat.

“Admiral Sartan, it is not I who is disregarding the order of his Moff today.  All ships broadcast,” he ordered off-screen.

****************************************************

A holographic image of High Admiral Morvin appeared on the bridge of Ascension.  “All Imperial Fleet personnel.  You have by now received your orders from Moff Osar.  I am not concerned with your personal feelings in this matter, your orders are clear.  I expect them to be fully obeyed.  I hereby relieve Admiral Sartan of his command, for the following violations of the Imperial Code of Military Jus . . .” the hologram scattered, and Abril turned to face the communications Lieutenant.

“Justicar is jamming the transmission, Sir.  Ah . . . Sir,” he continued as he held one hand to the comm piece in his ear, “Admiral Sartan is ordering the Fleet to immediately attack the Cyralis vessels.”

Abril Jonas nodded crisply and then he turned back to face the bridge windows.  “Squadron orders; all ships are to come to heading 115 mark 20 and accelerate at maximum thrust consistent with maintaining our squadron formation.”

Chan Palomar stared his commander.  “115 mark 20 will take us away from the fight, Sir.”

“I am aware of that, Mister Palomar.  We have our orders from the Moff—and he outranks Sartan.”

“That means Morvin is in charge, Sir . . . should we not be assisting his ships?”

“Did you hear an order to provide assistance, Mister Palomar?  I did not.”

The XO simply nodded and he turned to walk back down the catwalk, keeping a close eye on the stations below.

“Sir,” the communications Lieutenant—the frazzled communications Lieutenant—turned around once again.  “Valorian and Caprice have refused to acknowledge the Squadron orders—they are attempting to coerce other vessels to come about and assist Justicar.”

Abril frowned.  “Repeat the orders; and instruct Valorian and Caprice to acknowledge immediately.”

“No response, Sir,” the Lieutenant replied after he relayed the instructions.

“Gunnery.  Lock our starboard battery on Caprice and our port battery on Valorian.  Communications, repeat my orders and request acknowledgement again.”

“Valorian and Caprice are spinning up their shield generators and bringing weapons on-line, Sir,” the XO called out from a station at the rear of the bridge.

Damn you, Abril thought.  That is not the right answer.  “Gunnery.  Fire into Valorian and Caprice.”

“Sir . . .” the chief gunnery began in protest.

“NOW, damn you!”

A dozen heavy turbolaser bolts lashed out from turrets mounted in each side of Ascension's hull; the Carrack-class Caprice simply exploded as her unshielded hull absorbed bolts designed to rupture Star Destroyer armor.  The Dreadnought-class Valorian staggered, her hull broken and spilling atmosphere and tiny flailing figures into the vacuum.  Then the second volley of the port guns broke the old ship in half.

“Communications, broadcast to the Squadron.  This is Fleet Captain Jonas.  You will obey my orders or I will obliterate you!  Immediately come to heading 115 Mark 20 and accelerate to maximum thrust consistent to maintain formation.  Ascension out.”

The massive ship and her escorts began to accelerate away from the remainder of Sartan’s force.  Abril closed his eyes and he wordlessly mouthed a prayer for the souls of the Imperial crewmen he had just slaughtered.

“Sir, we are being hailed by Justicar,” the comm officer spoke up.

“On screen, Lieutenant.”

The main communications screen flashed to light and Abril could see the red-faced Admiral standing there.  “What are you doing, Captain Jonas?  Get back here you coward!”

“Sir, I am no longer under your command, by the express order of Moff Osar.  Accordingly . . .”

“You damned traitor!  That order is a fake!  Get back in formation at once!”

Abril’s jaw hardened.  “Admiral, the order was authenticated twice and confirmed by Lamaredd Central Control.  Baring legal orders from my new commander to the contrary, I cannot and I will not obey your instructions.”

The screen blanked, and the communications Lieutenant looked up from the pit.  “Transmission severed at the source, Sir.”

Ascension rocked hard, as several turbolasers struck her dead astern.

“Acrimonious is pursuing, Sir!  She’s firing into our stern!” another Lieutenant barked out.

“New squadron orders!  All ship’s come about—target Acrimonious and open fire as you bear!  Launch TIEs!”

The Star Destroyer banked hard to port and she slowly came around as turbolaser bolt after turbolaser bolt slammed into her hull, shaking the crew and ship.

“All ahead flank!  Increase power to forward shields!” Abril commanded as the white-painted wedge of a Star Destroyer appeared as a miniscule dot in the bridge windows.  “All ships—reset transponders to Cyralis Fleet protocols.  And communications; see if you can cut through the jamming and raise Admiral Morvin.  We may need some assistance here.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:05:27 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

Olin Payne blanched as he took up station just outboard and behind the starboard wing of Zach Jin’s Avenger.  His scanners were crowded with more than twelve hundred friendly fighters and bombers alone.  And the other side had almost as many.

“Scorpion Wing,” the comm hissed, “proceed to Way Point Four; you are authorized to carry out your assault.”

Olin banked in unison with Zach and the Avengers and Scimitars accelerated quickly along the curving path of the way points that would lead them to the flank of Sartan’s ships.  And at that moment, the scanners went crazy.

The precise and serried ranks of the enemy formation broke apart—dozens of ships and hundreds of Starfighters surged forward, opening fire on the Cyralis Fleet.  But a solid third of the enemy ships began to alter course, evading the battle.  Even as the masses of TIE fighters, interceptors, and bombers between the two Fleets merged in a furor of laser fire and the unshielded craft began to explode like popcorn, the opposing capital ships on the other side began to fire into each other!

“Zeta-Four, close up!” Zach snarled.  Olin pressed his accelerator forward and moved his Avenger in tight against his wing leader.  “Here they come!”

Three squadrons of TIE interceptors rushed down on the more advanced Cyralis fighters and brilliant beams of bright red and green laser fire began to cascade through the formation.  Olin no longer had time to think; his vision narrowed and he stayed glued to Zach’s wing as the pair swooped through space, jinking left and right and up and down, as the Avengers and Interceptors merged.

“Break left, Zeta-Four!  Split-S and scissor him!”

The two Avengers barrel rolled past the lithe little Interceptors and then they pulled up, splitting apart, two of the enemy fighters pulling high-g turns of their own in an attempt to get behind them.  One stayed behind Zack, and Olin smoothly slid in behind the Lamaredd fighter, his quad lasers spitting fire as he held down the trigger.

“Watch it Zeta-Four!” Zach thundered.  “That burst almost caught me!”

Olin swallowed and he twisted the stick and adjusted his throttle as the Interceptor broke off his attack—and then the enemy pilot’s wingman began hammering Olin’s rear shields with laser fire.  The rookie pilot panicked, and he rolled, he climbed, but the veteran TIE pilot behind him stayed on his tail—until it suddenly exploded, and Zach’s Avenger flew through the fireball.

Without thinking, Olin turned with his wing-leader and the pair of them began chasing the original TIE, their lasers catching the swift and maneuverable fighter in a vicious cross-fire that ended with a fireball.

“Good shot, Zeta-Four.  We have reached the initial point—begin attack run!”

Olin swallowed as he followed his wing leader in a long slow turn and lined up on the tremendous bulk of a Star Destroyer—and his threat receiver began to flash.  “Lancer-class flak-ship!” he barked.  “Coming up fast!”

“I see it, Zeta-Four.  Arm missiles.”

Olin switched his weapon systems from guns to the pair of missile launchers, placing his sights directly atop of the anti-starfighter escort.  A shrill tone sounded in ears as the seeker heads locked unto the target.  “Tone!”

“Fire!”

The rookie squeezed the trigger, and in sequence one after the next, the twin launchers began spitting out missiles.  One, then two, then three, and four.  Five and six and seven and eight, before the high-pitched lock alert ceased.  “Missiles away!”

Zach broke hard to the right, and Olin groaned as the g-forces pressed him deep into his ejector seat.  The sixteen missiles sped toward the frigate, and the flak-fire suddenly diminished as its guns began to target the incoming warheads.

“Scorpions scatter, now, now, now!” called out the wing commander.  Olin follow the lead of Zach as the veteran pilot climbed and poured on the engine power—and then a massive capital ship thundered past.  The Carrack’s heavy turbolasers bellowing fury and rage at the smaller frigate equipped with nothing comparable to shoot back.

Turbolaser bolts and missiles exploded against the lightly armored hull of the Lamaredd ship, and then it exploded.  “Scratch one escort!” Olin yelled.

“Don’t worry, Zeta-Four,” the rookie heard Zach say grimly.  “There are more of them.”

The next few minutes blurred for Olin as he ducked and weaved, trying to stay right beside his wing-leader.  And then he saw the white wall of the bulk of the Star Destroyer before him; he toggled his ion cannons active, and as he entered range he simply held down the trigger, spraying shimmering blue bolts into the heavily armored hull ahead of him.

“Aimed fire, Zeta-Four!  You are exhausting your capacitors!  Shields to full frontal!”

Capital turbolaser bolts soared past, but Olin’s Avenger was far smaller, far faster, and far more maneuverable than those weapons had been designed to engage.  Still, there were so many bolts tearing into the attacking fighters that some found a target—and for each one that did, the light shields provided virtually no protection; even a glancing blow shattered the Avenger or Scimitar it struck.

“Missiles away!” cried out the wing commander.  “Scorpions evade!”

A chain of explosions erupted along the flank of the Justicar as nearly seven hundred heavy concussion missiles slammed into the shields and bare hull.  But for all the hellish fury of those explosions, the Star Destroyer’s armor held; many of her weapon’s turrets, on the other hand, were now either missing or heavily damaged and the volume of its defensive fire suddenly dropped.

“Scorpion Avengers,” the wing commander broadcast.   â€œRendezvous with Shock Trooper transports and provide escort; Scimitars return to base and rearm.”

Olin took a deep breath as Zeta Squadron followed the others back towards his own Fleet.  For a brief moment, he was in the clear—and he looked at his port starboard solar panel in horror, seeing for the first time just how close he had come to death.  It was warped; half-melted by the intensity of a near miss.

“Zeta-Four,” his wing-leader said.  “You stayed with me the full time.  Good job, rook.”

“Zeta-Three,” Olin broadcast.  “We aren’t going to rearm?”

“Negative, Zeta-Four, we’ve still got lasers and ions and we don’t have time.  You done good, kid.  Now let’s get the grunts over there in one piece.”

“Aye, aye, Zeta-Three.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:05:59 PM

Chapter Four (cont.)

Kell stood on his bridge without showing any emotion as his forces closed on Sartan’s ships.  “Captain Garrett,” he said to his Flag Captain, the officer commanding the Star Destroyer Scorpion.  “Have Resolution and her squadron provide assistance to Ascension.  Scorpion and Relentless squadrons will deal with the remainder of Sartan’s Fleet.”

“At once, Sir,” the officer answered smartly, as he turned to pass the orders along.

The defection of the old Glorious-class Star Destroyer and her escorts—and two of the smaller Victory-class ships—had shifted the odds dramatically against Whartil Sartan’s forces, Kell thought.  He has to realize that he cannot win this.  Kell nodded to himself.

“Instruct Bulwark to activate her gravity well projectors, Captain Garrett.  We do not want Sartan fleeing, after all.”

Scorpion shuddered as a pair of Strike cruisers laid their turbolasers onto the flagship, but her heavy armor and shielding held.  Even before Kell could issue an order, the Flag’s escorting cruisers and frigates concentrated their fire against the two ships.  Their shields flared under the impact of scores of turbolaser bolts and then both disappeared in an eye-tearing flare of light.

“Sir, Moff Osar is hailing us.”

“On screen.”

“Admiral Morvin, what is happening?  My people say that you are fighting up there!  Why won’t Sartan answer my hails?”

“Moff Osar,” Morvin said with a slight bow.  “I regret to inform you that Admiral Sartan refused to obey your order—and that he has since attacked my forces with your Sector Fleet.”

“WHAT?” The distraught Moff wailed.

“The situation will be resolved in short order, my Moff.  Rest assured, we shall not allow the traitor Sartan an opportunity to take you hostage.”

“He threatened me?  He threatened me?” Osar asked incredulously.

“It shall not come to pass, Sir.  The Imperial Fleet will defend you and this planet from Sartan and his treasonous followers.”

“I-I . . . I must speak with Patrice.  Carry on, Admiral,” the Moff said.

Kell shook his head sadly, and then he turned his attention back to the battle.

“Sir, the first strike against Justicar has been successful—she’s lost many weapons, although our casualties were heavy,” Garrett reported.  “Our wing is returning to escort the transports to take the ship.”

“Very well, gentlemen.  Let us relieve some pressure on the fighter pilots—all ships are to close at flank speed and take the enemy under fire at close range.”

“Sir,” a Pit Lieutenant called out.  “Justicar is turning to run for light-speed.”

The admiral frowned.  “Where is Bulwark?”

“She’s closely engaged with a Victory-class, sir.  Captain Nealon reports his gravity well projectors are disabled.”

“That is a pity.  New orders—abort the Shock Trooper assault, all ships are to concentrate fire on the Justicar; we cannot allow Sartan to escape.”

A blindingly bright flash of light caught Kell’s eye, and he looked down at the screen that showed the Star Destroyer Acrimonious shatter into a million pieces of debris.  The Flag Captain smiled.  “Resolution reports a direct hit on her main reactor, Sir.”

“Well done,” Kell answered.  More explosions began to sprout across the hull of Sartan’s flagship, her answering fire becoming weaker and weaker.

“Admiral Morvin,” the Flag Captain added as he held a hand to the comm-device he wore over one ear, “the Star Destroyer Leviathan is offering her surrender.  Along with that of her escorts.”

A cheer went up on the bridge.

“Instruct Leviathan that she—and her escorts—are to power down all weapons and propulsion.  She may retain station-keeping thrusters only.  Inform her Captain that failure to comply will result in a resumption of the attack.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Kell took in a deep breath as Justicar, and Admiral Sartan aboard her, erupted in yet another massive explosion.  A second cheer echoed from the bridge.

“Captain Garrett, record a general signal to Lamaredd Fleet vessels engaging us.  Your traitor Admiral is dead, gentlemen.  I would advise you to surrender immediately if you wish to retain your own lives.  You have sixty seconds to comply.  Transmit to all ships.”

The flag captain clicked his heels and nodded to the communications officer.  The silence dragged on for several moments as the seconds slowly ticked away, and then a lone voice spoke up from the Pit.

“Sir.  All hostile vessels are powering down weapons and broadcasting their surrender.”

A third cheer went up, and Kell Morvin smiled.

“Very well.  Communications, inform Moff Patrice that we are proceeding with Phase II.  Hail the Cataphract.”

On the communications screen, the image of General Conal Ise appeared aboard his command troopship.  “Sir,” he said.

“General Ise,” Kell said warmly.  “You may land the landing force.”

“Yes, Sir,” he answered with a grin.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 04:06:41 PM

Chapter Five

Conal waited until the ramp of repulsorlift command vehicle had lowered and then he stepped out into the open, ignoring the stinging drops of rain and the thunderous cracking bolts of lightning overhead.  The spaceport tarmac was rapidly filling up with the troops that he brought to Lamaredd—the best of his own Sector Army.  From the massive holds of the grounded Acclamator-class troop ships, emerged AT-ATs, repulsorlift tanks, troop carriers, mobile artillery vehicles, and infantry units that slowly filed out and formed up.

Once arranged into discrete companies, they headed out from the port, each with their own objective to secure in the first hours of this invasion.  Conal shook his head and he smiled grimly.  No, this was not an invasion—instead it was a liberation.

The officers and NCOs of his command staff braced themselves to attention and Conal gave them a quick nod.  “Status?”

“The spaceport is secure, Sir,” came the distorted voice from one of his Colonels.  “No opposition—although local security was . . . rather taken aback when we began to disembark.  The 57693rd Infantry is already en route to secure ISB headquarters, the government quarter, and COMPNOR bases in the capital.  I attached the 777th heavy armor battalion and 404th assault walker battalion to Colonel Eliad in case he meets with resistance—along with Battery Beta of the Corps Artillery Reserve.  The 811th, 55720th, 64301st, and 99999th Infantry Regiments are spreading out across the capital tasked with maintaining civil order.”

“The 84th Legion,” another staff officer added, “reports that it has secured Lamaredd Sector Army headquarters with no casualties—General Koras says the rank-and-file troopers are more than willing to follow his orders.  The few officers who protested have been relieved of command are being held in temporary confinement.  Their battalions are now spreading out and instructing the Regular Army units stationed here to return to base immediately.”

“Very good, gentlemen.  Local COMPFORCE?”

“One Regiment, Sir.  Osar deployed the remainder to the systems of this sector with the highest incidents of Rebel activity.  Their commander is refusing to obey the order to return to base, citing that he ‘isn’t under the command of the local army’, Sir.”

Conal nodded, and the turned back towards the ramp of the distant Acclamator where precise ranks of identically armored Shock Troopers were now off-loading.  “I believe I know just the unit to dispatch and deal with that COMPFORCE Regiment, gentlemen.”

Another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, drowning out his any answer.

****************************************************

A long line of armored repulsorlift troop carriers glided into the massive square surrounding the ISB headquarters building.  Ramps mounted the rear of each vehicle dropped to the ground and scores—hundreds—of armored infantrymen quickly exited.  Colonel Eliad did not wait for his own light speeder to come to a halt, he leaped down from the hatch as it was still moving, using the momentum imparted to add a spring to his step as he climbed the marble risers leading up to the twin bronzed doors, each emblazoned with the Imperial seal.

The two guards standing post began to raise their weapons—but each came to the quick realization that he was a dead man if he did.  Instead, they snapped to attention and saluted.  Eliad did not slow down, nor did he respond, and the troopers following him pushed the guards back into the wall, holding their own weapons on them as the guards were disarmed.  Still more infantry followed him into the vast complex as the Colonel pushed the doors open.

He entered a great rotunda, tiled with mosaic patterns of marble upon the floor, with frescos on the walls depicting the Emperor in all of his glory and majesty.  The men and women within the building came to a sudden halt at the flood of armed and armored soldiers, with blasters raised—none offered any resistance.

Squads split off and entered rooms off the chamber, more climbed the curved stairs that circled the rotunda, but Eliad simply marched towards a second set of doors and rushed straight through, finding himself in an immense, ornate, and luxuriously appointed office.  A white uniformed Colonel sitting behind a desk, who had just been sharing a laugh with several other officers—all clad in the pristine white of the Imperial Security Bureau—rose to his feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled, his anger quickly transforming into fear as yet more of Eliad’s troopers followed in his wake.

“Colonel Tibben,” Eliad said loudly, “I have orders for your arrest—and the arrest of all members of the Lamaredd Imperial Security Bureau for crimes against the Empire.”

“What is this nonsense?” the ISB agent shouted.  “I have people arrested, you dolt!  It is not possible for you to walk in here and demand my arrest!  I have people like you vanished!  Get Osar on the comm!” he ordered an underling.

Eliad, who unlike the soldiers under his command was not wearing armor, only a heavy dark grey trench coat that he wore over his uniform, walked around the desk and he slammed his gloved fist into the stomach of the ISB Colonel.  Of course, the soft gloves of polished leather that he wore on his hands contained a half-kilogram of powered lead sewn into pockets between the layers of calf-skin.

Colonel Tibben gasped in agony and he folded over.  “I think you will find that many things that were once not possible have changed, Colonel Tibben,” Eliad whispered.  “Please, by all means resist; it will save the Empire the cost of your trial and execution.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Takiro on April 16, 2012, 04:10:16 PM

Damn it, another must read! ;)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Dragon Cat on April 16, 2012, 05:34:56 PM

looks good so far

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Knightmare on April 16, 2012, 05:35:16 PM

Seriously. Add more stat.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 06:10:37 PM

Quote from: Knightmare on April 16, 2012, 05:35:16 PM

Seriously. Add more stat.

Add more stat?  What am I missing?  I need a translator, please!   :)

Master Arminas

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 07:53:50 PM

Chapter Five (cont.)

One of Colonel Wellon’s youngest recruits came rushing up.  He stopped two steps away and saluted smartly—never seeming to realize that he was in full view of the Cyralis Shock Troopers dug in the low hills outside of the COMPFORCE Garrison Base.  Wellon did not admonish the recruit; instead he returned the salute.

“Message from Command, Sir!” the young man—the boy—snapped holding out a message board.

Wellon took it and he frowned as he scanned the brief and concise message.

“Damn them!” he snarled.  “These traitors have taken our Headquarters men!” he bellowed as he walked up the lines of the unarmored recruits garbed in what were once pristine white uniforms.  Now, of course, each of those uniforms was smeared with mud, stained with grass, blood, or other bodily fluids, scorched from the heat of blaster bolts, lacerated from fragments of flying debris.  “The Army has surrendered!  The ISB has surrendered!  Our leaders in COMPNOR have surrendered!  But not us!  No, never us; we who are the most loyal of the Emperor’s combat arms!”

“Soldiers of the Empire!” he yelled.  “We will restore the New Order in its Glory!  We will throw down these Rebel dogs who seek to put aliens over us!  We will repel their assault and drive them into the ocean!  We will turn the seas red with their blood!”

Three quarters of a kilometer away, Colonel Camlaan shook his head as the audio enhancers in his helmet softly repeated those words in his ears.

“QV-3348,” he said into his comm.

“Sir?” the Shock Trooper answered precisely and immediately.

“Silence that imbecile—he makes Gungans appear to be master orators and my ears can no longer take his braying.”

Already resting the prone position, his TC-15c(s) Sniper Blast Rifle supported by its own biped, QV-3348 dialed in on the strutting target.

“Wind is 7.2 kph on a bearing of 106 true,” his spotter whispered.  “Ambient temperature 17-degrees; humidity 96%; range to target 764 meters.”

“Acknowledged,” the sniper whispered as he craned his head to the side and peered into the sighting scope, the reticule turned green as the scope finished uploading the data that the spotter had announced.  QV-3348 adjusted one dial slightly, and then he slid his hand back down along the foregrip.  His right thumb released the secondary safety catch on the trigger-guard and then he began to gently release his breath as he slowly squeezed his forefinger laying atop the trigger.

“They lack faith in the New Order!  They do not believe in Doctrine!  They seek to destroy all that our beloved and gentle Emperor wrought!  They will throw down our Legacy and replace the Empire with a weak and ineffectual Republ . . .”

Colonel Wellon never got the opportunity to finish the word he was speaking when a single overcharged blaster bolt blew apart half of his skull in a fountain of blood.

The COMPFORCE recruits—the children—at this base looked with horror on their fallen commander—the man charged with training them, raising them, teaching them to be loyal minions and servants of the Emperor.  And then one of the older teens, almost ready for promotion into the ranks of real COMPFORCE units for service against the aliens, he stood; his cadet major rank tabs soaked in the blood of his Colonel.  “CHARGE!” he yelled, throwing his arm forward.  And he climbed over the broken wall and began to run across the muddy fields towards the Shock Troopers.  And in his wake came the three thousand other child-recruits of the COMPFORCE training command—each armed with a blaster carbine whose lethality did not care for the age of the man or boy pulling the trigger.

“Permission to open fire, Sir?” asked one of Camlaan’s company commanders as the COMPFORCE training regiment bogged down in the soggy field, their once highly polished boots sinking deep into the muck and mud.  But they were shooting as they came—and not one of them was bothering to aim.

What a waste, Camlaan thought.  “Mortar sections,” he ordered.  “Load riot gas and open fire.  All other personnel, you are to hold fire until my command.  They shoot worse than a Clone two days out of Carida, but everyone stay behind cover—a random bolt will kill you if hits just as sure as an aimed one.”

The three dozen crew-served mortars attached to Camlaan’s command began to cough, sending their payloads high in a ballistic arc overhead and then down into the center of the oncoming children.  Three meters above the ground, each shell detonated—but in this instance, the shells did not send forth lethal fragments or burning plasma or chemicals designed to kill or maim.  Instead, the mortar rounds dispersed riot gas, burning the eyes and ears and mouths and throats and nostrils and lungs of the children caught within the dense clouds.

The attack first faltered and then it collapsed as the COMPFORCE recruits began to gag and vomit and several of the younger ones just sank down the ground and began to cry in agony—the chemical agents were non-lethal, but remained extremely painful all the same.

The hail of random blaster bolts slowed and then stopped, and Camlaan stood.  “Make certain your blasters are set to stun.   I’ll shoot the first one of you—free birthed, quick-cloned, or Kamino-cloned—that fires a live round.  The Regiment will advance—disarm those children and place them in custody!  Move out.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 16, 2012, 11:34:11 PM

Chapter Five (cont.)

Conal watched the Lambda-class shuttle’s wing fold up as it settled down on the landing pad outside of the Moff’s Palace.  The ramp lowered and Admiral Morvin quickly descended.

“He is inside?” he asked briskly as he hurried towards the shelter of the doorway, trying to avoid the heavy downpour falling from the sky.

“Yes, Admiral—and he is . . . quite paranoid.  He claims to have a thermal detonator and is threatening to activate it if my troops enter his chambers.”

“And does he?”

Conal shrugged.  “His security detail abandoned their posts; we captured one and he confirms that are detonators stored in the Palace Armory—however, he cannot recall how many.  Whether the Moff actually possesses one or if he is bluffing . . . I do not know with any surety.”

The two men passed by a pair of Conal’s troopers posted to either side of the blast doors and they exited the cold rain.  “This way, Sir,” Conal said as he steered the Admiral to the right.

“I have a special missions squad standing by with hostage rescue training, Admiral—although since he is alone in there I am not exactly certain if hostage is the proper term.  And if he does have an armed thermal detonator, stunning him is not an option—you and Moff Patrice did insist that he be taken alive.”

“And we will, Conal.  Have faith, be optimistic, look on the bright side of the equation,” Kell said as the footfalls of the men echoed throughout the mostly empty palace.

“Oh I am, Sir.  You are here now, so if he dies it is your responsibility and not mine.  That alone brightens my day.”

“And depresses mine, thank you Conal,” Kell said in a somber voice.

“You are most welcome, Sir.”

The pair reached Osar’s private office and study adjacent to his formal working office, where around a dozen troopers waited.  Their sergeant merely nodded at the two, causing Kell to frown—and Conal chuckled.

“Standing orders, High Admiral Morvin.  This is technically a war zone after—my men do not salute in a war zone.”

Kell’s face reddened slightly.  “My apologies, Sergeant,” he said quickly.  “The rules of engagement ground-side are far different from what I am accustomed to.”

The faceless trooper merely nodded again.  “Sirs.  I have a squad posted on all entrances and exits—he is still in there and sounding crazier by the moment.”

“Open the door,” Kell ordered.  “General Ise and I are going in.  You are not to storm the chamber while we are in there—is that understood?”

“Yes Sir.”

Two of the troopers opened the door and Kell walked in, Conal trailing behind him.

“GET BACK!” Osar screamed from the far side of his desk.  “I will kill us all, I swear I will, if you do not get back!”

Kell stopped and he bowed low.  “Your Grace,” he said carefully.  “High Admiral Kell Morvin reporting—I am unarmed, Sir.”

“Morvin?  Patrice’s Morvin?  Who is that with you?”

“General Conal Ise; he is another officer in the service of Moff Patrice, Sir.  We are here to help.”

Osar panted heavily, as he tightly grasped a spherical object in his hands.  “Why have my guards fled?  There were sounds of fighting in the Palace—I’ve heard reports of your men fighting mine.  What is going on?”

“Your Grace, Moff Patrice can answer those questions better than I.  I took the liberty of having his communication piped into your office terminal, if you would activate it?”

Osar stared at the two officers for a moment and then he walked over to his comm unit and noted the flashing red light of a holocomm transmission on hold.  He pressed the button and a miniature holographic image of Thom Patrice sprang into life.

“Osar, my friend,” he said.  “It is good to see that you are well.”

“And you,” the distraught man said quietly. “What is going on, Patrice?”

The hologram shook his head and he looked down for a moment, and then he raised his head again.  “Admiral Sartan and several of your officers were planning a coup against you Osar.  Those officers have now been taken into custody, is that not correct, Admiral Morvin?”

“Yes, sir,” the Admiral answered as he snapped his heels together.  “All those involved in the plot have been arrested—or shot while resisting arrest.”

Osar looked relieved and his grasp on the powerful explosive loosened, and he fumbled with it for a moment before holding it tight once more.  Conal flinched and even Kell felt a chill run up his spine.

“So now I am safe?” Osar asked.  “We can cleanse this Sector of Rebels and get back to business and life as usual, right, Patrice?”

“Unfortunately, Osar, you are far from safe.  Admiral Morvin, have you informed the Moff of Indefatigables report?”

“No, Sir.  I have not yet had the opportunity,” Kell answered.

“What report?” Osar asked.  “Did he manage to wipe Bandaar III clean of the Rebel scum?”

“Yes,” Kell lied.  “At 0200 hours this morning, Your Grace, the Base Delta Zero protocol was employed against Bandaar III, destroying all lifeforms on the planet and rendering it uninhabitable.  There were, unfortunately, complications, I have to report.”

“Complications?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Kell continued.  “It seems that there was a Rebel scout ship in the system that recorded the lawful execution of your orders.  That recording was transmitted via holocomm to Mon Mothma, the head of the newly formed New Republic.”

“Good.  She will discover that I am not to be trifled with,” Osar said defiantly.

Patrice shook his head.  “One hour ago, Osar, she broadcast a galactic wide transmission lamenting the destruction of an entire planet.  She claims that there were no Rebels present there and that your orders represented a crime against all life in the Galaxy.  She placed a bounty on your head of twenty-five million credits—dead or alive, Osar.”

Once again, the Moff fumbled the detonator, and Conal licked his dry lips.  “She WHAT?” wailed Osar.

“Your Grace,” interjected Kell.  “Perhaps General Ise could hold that thermal detonator for you while you continue your discussion with Moff Patrice—we will return it afterward, if you wish.”

“Oh.  Well, yes; that would be kind of you, Morvin.”  Osar held out the explosive and Conal stepped forward and gingerly took it.  He examined it, and he let out a deep breath. 

“It hasn’t been armed, Sir,” he said in a very relieved tone of voice.

Osar looked up and he nodded.  “Yes, there is some safety catch on it that I wasn’t able to figure out how to unlock—you need to fix that.  What if someone needed to use one in a hurry?”

Conal simply stared, his jaw worked for a moment, and then he made himself nod and bowed slightly.  “I will get my engineers to work on it immediately, Your Grace.”

Osar smiled and he looked pleased.  “Patrice, why do you get all the good subordinates?”

The hologram of Thom cleared his throat, and Osar looked down upon Patrice as Conal took the thermal detonator to the door and handed it to the troopers standing outside.

“About this bounty, Osar . . . you are in grave danger, I fear.”

“She put twenty-five million on my head?  She can’t do that, Patrice!”

“But she has, Osar.  And that sum will bring bounty hunters of a high caliber out of the woodwork—assassins like Bossk, Dengar, Fett, IG-88, and Tark.”

“Fett is dead.  I heard that he died before Endor,” Osar protested.

Patrice laughed.  “I have heard many times that Fett was killed—I will believe it after I see the body.  That man has a way of coming back to life more often than a dehydrated plant.”

“I cannot run this Sector from a bunker!  How . . . how will I . . .” Osar sat down in his chair heavily and his face whitened.

“There is a solution, Osar,” Patrice continued.

“Tell me,” the Moff begged.

“We announce to the Galaxy that you were killed in the fighting during Sartan’s Coup.  That will ensure no hunter will come looking for you.”

Osar frowned.  “But I won’t be dead . . . will I?” he asked in a small frightened voice.

“Osar, Osar, Osar,” Patrice said as he shook his head.  “No.  I have arranged a safe haven for you and your family here on Cyralis.  And a new identity.  Rest assured, my friend, that no hunter will get past me to do either you or them harm.”

“My family?  Why would they go after my family?”

“Osar, for a bounty of this magnitude do you really believe that these hunters will not try to use your wife, use your daughter, to get to you?”

“Patrice, you cannot let them get hurt.  You simply cannot.”

“I know.  And they will not be—you have my word, Osar.”

The Moff began to cry.  “I only wanted to do my job, Patrice—why has all this happened?”

“There, there, my friend.  It will all right.  I have toured the estate where you and your loved ones will be kept safe.  It has a nice sandy beach and the climate is warm—just like Lamaredd; without the aliens, corrupt officials, or Rebels.  And there will be no bounty hunters there to pursue you.  It will be like a vacation, Osar.  And you have been rather stressed lately, haven’t you?  Eh?”

Osar wiped his face and he nodded.  “I haven’t wanted to complain,” he said, “but I hate this job.”

“Shhh.  Everything will work out for the best, my friend.  And once you are feeling better, perhaps you can help me organize my Admin section—they are nowhere near as efficient as your own.”

“Really?” the Moff asked as he blinked.  “I can go back to doing my old job that I did for Adair, for you?”

“Only if you feel up to it, Osar.  And you must get some rest first—you do not look at all well.”

“But who will take over here?  I have not appointed a Deputy . . . and I do not know who to trust."

No one spoke, and then Osar brightened.  He looked down on the hologram.  “Patrice, I know that it is much to ask of you, but could you . . . would you . . . do you think . . .”

“I would honored if you appointed to me as the Interim Moff of Lamaredd, my friend.  After all, my Admiral and General are there—and we will solve your Sector’s problems with this . . . insurrection.”

Osar sniffed.  “You are a true friend, Patrice.  I will do that right now,” he said as he activated his terminal and typed out a quick order appointing Thom Patrice as the new Deputy Moff of Lamaredd.  He touched his seal to the screen, and saved the file.  And he nodded and then he stood.

“Are my wife and daughter here?  Are they safe?”

Conal cleared his throat.  “I dispatched my best company to escort them here, Your Grace.  We have a shuttle and a fast ship standing by to take all of you to safety.  Might I escort you there?”

Osar nodded.  Then he turned back to the hologram.  “I really did do my best, Patrice.  I did.”

“I know,” the hologram said gravely.  “It is not your fault Osar.  And I will come and visit you, quite often.  Without you, my friend, we would not be where we are today.”

The former Moff took in a deep breathe through his nose and he sharply nodded.  “Well then.  I leave things in your capable hands, gentlemen.  Carry on.”  He marched to the door, and Kell nodded to Conal, who accompanied him.

“And do you have further orders for me, Thom?” Kell asked the hologram.

“Just get things on an even keel, Kell,” Thom answered with a bitter laugh.  “I am glad we did not have to kill him—it would be like strangling a puppy.  You know what to do now.”

The hologram dissipated, and Kell Morvin nodded.  Yes, the work was only just beginning.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 17, 2012, 04:13:12 AM

This is great. keep up the good work.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on April 18, 2012, 04:09:41 PM

Fantastic.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 20, 2012, 08:37:56 PM

Chapter Six

“Is this information real, Kell?  Or did we manufacture it?” Thom asked after he finished reading through the copies of various ORO-Corp internal memos.

Kell Morvin grinned broadly.  “I had considered asking Mal Galen if we could borrow one or two of his slicers, Sir—but then we started going through the actual records.  No.  These are the real deal, Thom.  The question is how do we want to use this?”

Thom Patrice nodded and he leaned back in his far-too-comfortable chair.  The memos were certainly damning on their face, for it appeared that ORO-Corp had not suffered a loss from profits in the immediate days following the Battle of Endor.  No, they had shuffled funds and hid their ill-gotten gains—and then claimed the loss of profits to squeeze out even more from the miners.  In and of itself, of course, it was merely unethical—not illegal under Imperial law.  But the subsequent memorandums and the pressure placed on protesting miners certainly were against even Palpatine’s loose corporate restrictions.  The execs had called for ‘setting an example’ and even offered a cost-benefit analysis that the production would not slow down or fail to meet quota even with the loss of fully 5% of the miners.  The memo might appear to be innocuous in nature, but for the reply.

“In light of the increased subversive activity by our employees to disrupt operations, authorization is granted for Security Branch to use lethal force in order to restore normal mining operations.  The increasing paucity of the mines on Havelis, combined with the recent deployment of the 3333rd COMPFORCE Regiment makes installations and facilities within that system ideal for implementation.”

Thom tapped his finger on the electronic data-pad as he thought and then he nodded.

“Charge all of them with mass murder, Kell.  I will be on Lamaredd again in six days and at that point in time we will convene a tribunal, hear the evidence, find them guilty, and stand them against a wall.”

Kell jerked.  “They have strong connections on Coruscant, Sir.  Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Kell, they conspired to kill sentient beings—for money.  They already had money pouring hand-over-fist, but they got greedy.  They convinced Osar to send out the COMPFORCE to crack down—and their own corruption of that organization’s officers ensured that those fanatics targeted exactly who the execs wanted eliminated.”

Thom Patrice stood, quickly followed by Kell and the three aides and assistants sitting in chairs along the wall.

“No.  They gambled and it went wrong.  And I need to send a message to all of my new civilians in Lamaredd—aliens and humans alike:  you play by the rules or you will get hammered.  Hammer them, Kell.  I want all of them interrogated under full military protocols—find out everything they know.  And then we will have a nice public trial, a sad-faced Moff as he passes sentence, and a swift execution of that sentence.”

Kell clicked his heels together.  “And ORO-Corp itself?”

“Osar did seize the entire company did he not?”

“The local offices in Lamaredd Sector, yes Sir.  But the corporation has facilities and offices throughout the Rim.”

Thom thought for a moment and then he nodded again.  "It could work in our favor, Osar seizing it.  We will reform the company as the Cyralis-Lamaredd Oreworks—the Sector government will retain a one-third interest, a second third will be offered on the public market, and the remaining third will be divided equally amongst all those miners currently working for ORO-Corp in our space.  We kill three birds with one shot, Kell.  First, we show our Sectors commitment to have just and ethical businesses operating here.  Second, we ensure that there will be a sufficient close source of metals and minerals for Ord Tanis.  And third, we give the miners themselves—aliens or humans—hope that we are not the same as the previous government.  And a stake in their own futures.”

“And Kell?”

 â€œSir?”

“Make certain the local media receives invitations to the tribunal hearings.”

“It will be done, Your Grace.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 20, 2012, 08:55:31 PM

I like him. Very efficent

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 21, 2012, 11:02:03 PM

Chapter Six (cont.)

Thom heard the ligaments in his knee pop as he knelt down onto the holo-projection platform.  I am really getting too old for this, he thought to himself.  He twisted his head, stretching the neck muscles, and then he cleared his face of all visible emotion and nodded to the technician standing by.  The young man activated the system, tied into the galaxy-spanning Holocomm network and then he rapidly left the room.

After several seconds, the lighting the room dimmed, and a massive holographic image of a woman’s face appeared, hovering in front of the old man.  Thom bowed his head and lifted his right fist to his chest.  “Madame Director, you honor me,” he said.

“General Patrice . . . what a pleasant surprise,” Ysanne Isard replied.  “My records indicate that you are dead, General—and while those of other Intelligence and Security agencies sometimes contain misinformation or disinformation, mine are normally quite accurate.”

“Perhaps your records were merely premature in anticipation of his late Imperial Majesty’s orders, Madame Director—or perhaps I should say Your Imperial Majesty?”

The auburn haired lady—other than the single streak of golden blonde hair flung over her right shoulder—laughed. “Why General Patrice, you do know how to flatter a lady.  I am but one member of the Ruling Council—presiding over this transition period.”

“Of course, Director Isard,” Thom continued as he raised his head and looked directly the dinner platter sized green eyes of the floating head.  “The Ruling Council, as a whole, governs the Empire until a legitimate successor to Palpatine can be found.  And, as a whole, with certain exceptions, the intellect of the members of that Council combined do not quite equal your own.”  Their ambition, on the other hand, probably exceeds hers, his unvoiced thoughts added silently.

“They are my puppets, General Patrice?  Is that what you are saying?”

“No, Director Isard.  They have their own goals; their own ambitions—and little if any chance of seeing them come to fruition.  Their drive might well equal yours, but their planning is sadly lacking.”

She laughed again.  “Perhaps I should recall you to Coruscant, General Patrice—appoint you as the Supreme Military Commander and offer you a seat on the Council itself.”  But then her eyes narrowed and her voice grew frosty.  “Although there may be reasons why that would not be such a good idea.”

Thom smiled and he nodded.  “I can assure you, Madame Director, I have no . . . Imperial ambitions.  I am but a loyal soldier of the Empire.”

“Really?  That is at odds with the deluge of protests that I have received from the governing board of Outer Rim Oreworks and the Moffs of Bitrose, Gaulus, and Pelgrin Sectors.  According to them, you have illegally seized power in Cyralis and Lamaredd, taken upon yourself the duties of a Moff—two, actually—seized assets belonging to a private Imperial corporation, and issued edicts and decrees that shatter the ideals of the New Order.  Are those protestors in error?”

“No, Madame Director.  They are not.  At least, they are not completely in error that is.”

“Explain, General Patrice,” she spoke harshly.

“Palpatine’s New Order went too far, Director Isard.  It caused more Rebellion than it quashed.  With his death, I have . . . corrected his errors within the Sectors under my authority.  They remain, however, loyal to the Empire.”

“That explains your purge of the ISB and COMPFORCE, General Patrice,” the hologram stated flatly.  “I have not yet heard how you came to be Moff of Cyralis and Lamaredd both.  Moff Jendar is quite . . . distressed and has begged me to spare him a Fleet to restore his Sector to . . . official rule.”

“Moff Jendar, in effect, Madame Director, abdicated his post when he abandoned Cyralis in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Endor; leaving no appointed deputy behind to carry on with as governor in his name.  Fleet Admiral Morvin, using the emergency powers granted to the ranking military officer of a Sector Group in a time of crisis by his Imperial Majesty, asked me to come out of retirement and assume the post.  My decision to merge Cyralis and Lamaredd is based on Moff Osar’s appointment to serve as his deputy before his unfortunate death at the hands of Admiral Sartan’s attempted Coup.”

Ysanne Isard frowned.  “It is most . . . unusual . . . for a serving Fleet officer to invoke that long-disused statutes, you must admit, General Patrice.  Tell me, why should I not hand a Fleet to Jendar and send him to Cyralis to reclaim his rightful appointment?”

“Because Jendar is an idiot and will probably get ships you cannot afford to lose destroyed, Madame Director.  The man’s ambitions exceed his grasp by an order of magnitude—he is a preening peacock concerned only with his own status and not with the good of the Empire as a whole.”

The woman’s eyes flash as she drew in a deep breath, and then she chuckled again.  “And what you recommend that I do in this matter, General Patrice?”

“Nothing, Director Isard.”

“Nothing?”

Thom nodded.  “We have consolidated Imperial rule over these two Sectors that slid onto the verge of Rebellion.  We remain loyal to the Empire—and to the ruling Council.  And we are far too distant from the important systems of the Core and Inner Rim for you to send a good portion of your Fleet here, where my own officers and men will defend their homes.  Should you win—and you most likely would, Madame—then you would have to garrison these Sectors, weakening your own position against . . . disloyal elements within the Imperial Army and Fleet as well as the New Republic.  Many of your worlds are already on the verge of servile insurrections among the non-humans—diverting your attention here to this the edge of the galactic rim at such a time is . . . beneath your station.”

She smiled.  “General Patrice, if you were twenty years younger and forty thousand parsecs closer, I might indeed have use for you.  I agree with your analysis,” but then she paused and her eyes narrowed.  “So long as you are remain loyal to the Empire, that is.  And what that means, in plain language, Moff Patrice, is that you are to quit poaching adjacent Sectors into your own personal fief out there.  Jendar has his . . . uses . . . here on Coruscant.  I approve your actions—for now—but tread lightly, Moff Patrice.  My arm is long and not all of the weapons at my disposal consist of Fleets and Armies.  You are not beyond my grasp should I wish it.  Remember that.”

Thom bowed his head as the hologram flickered once and then dissipated.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 22, 2012, 10:15:29 AM

Pleasant Lady She is where the expression The Iron Fist in the Velvet Glove came from.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 22, 2012, 12:36:46 PM

Chapter Six (cont.)

A dozen sour faced men were gathered around a polished table, several were shaking their heads in shock and disbelief.

“She will do nothing?” one asked.

“Iceheart will take no action against this so-called Moff.  She will do nothing to restore our lost capital, gentlemen,” the man at the head of the table said as he crushed out the embers of a deathstick in a stone container.

“Lamaredd represents less than 3.2% of our entire holdings, Piar,” a third member of ORO-Corps executive board spoke up.  “We can absorb this setback without adversely affecting profits—if we reorganize operations.”

“The profit loss is not the issue, Klar,” Piar answered solemnly.  “Lamaredd means nothing to ORO-Corp as a whole—but the precedent set by this Moff seizing our assets, murdering our executives, and setting up a competitor must be answered.  If we do not respond, we appear weak . . . and we make ourselves ripe for other powers to do the same.”

“But what can we do?  Patrice has two dozen Star Destroyers, after all!  Half of them are Victory-class, but still!  We have some ships, but even were we to concentrate them, we could not afford to send them into battle—and if Iceheart is supporting the thief, then she will not be pleased with us for destabilizing another two Sectors!”

Mutters arose around the table, and the bickering grew in volume until Piar slammed his fist down on the surface.  “Grennal, we are not talking out military intervention—our hopes of that resolution died when the Director of Intelligence and her ruling Council decided to grant this Coup legitimacy.  Sending ships against Lamaredd and Cyralis would be counter-productive—the cost in such a deployment would dwarf what we have already lost, and such an action would turn Imperial Center and other Moff’s against us.  No, we need something more . . . deniable.”

“And what then do you suggest, Piar?” a fifth executive asked calmly.

Piar smiled grimly.  “I understand that you have excellent connections with the Hutts, Joleyn.  We will deal with Patrice in the Hutt way.”

Several members of the board winced.  “That will prove . . . expensive,” one wailed.

“Not really,” Joleyn answered.  “The sum total required will be less than one-tenth of one percent of the anticipated profits of Lamaredd.  I presume, Piar, you are talking about setting a bounty on his head, are you not?”

“I am.  Two million credits for Patrice dead.”

Silence fell over the room, and several of the execs picked up their own smoldering chemical sticks and inhaled deeply.  Others were nodding in agreement.

“The Hutts will demand a finder’s fee—twenty percent at the least, Piar,” Joleyn warned.

“Acceptable.  But they are to serve as the middlemen—our name is to be kept out of the matter completely.”

“They will agree to that; they have no love for Patrice since he squeezed one of their own and forced him into a deal where they lost face and credits.”

“Can the hunters be successful?” Klar asked.  “Palpatine had vast sums on the heads of those leading the Rebellion—and they never managed to find their targets, after all.”

“There is a difference here, Klar,” Piar said slowly.  “The hunters will not have to search the known galaxy to find Patrice—we know exactly where he is.  I can authorize the action out of our petty cash reserves, but I would like a vote on the record—so that we might gauge which of us are not willing to protect our holdings.”

The vote was quick and unanimous.

“Excellent—Joleyn, make the arrangements.  And once we have confirmation of Patrice’s death make certain that rumors leak as to why he died.  That should prove to one and all that we will not tolerate such liberties.”

“And after the Moff is killed, Piar?” Klar asked.

“His successor will be Moff Jendar . . . it is already arranged, gentlemen.  He will remove this Quarren that Patrice placed in charge of our Lamaredd operations and restore unto us our property—and he has agreed to allow us to expand into Cyralis, where Patrice’s changes in the law will be revoked.”

“Jendar?  He is on Coruscant; how pray tell is he going to assume command on Patrice’s death?”

“That has been arranged, Klar.  Moff Jendar will resume his rightful station—and my brother Admiral Hassel will take the place of Morvin as his High Admiral.”

“And Iceheart has agreed to all of this?”

“Isard is not the only member of the Council—and she does not solely write binding orders executed on their behalf.  She might be willing to overlook what Patrice and Morvin have done, but others are not.  It is all legal, however; from a certain point of view.”

And one by one each of the executives nodded in agreement.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 22, 2012, 12:58:57 PM

"From A Certain Point of View" That particular phrase runs through the whole saga. Just like the phrase "And So It Begins" in the Babylon 5 saga. How much death and rebirth can two universes stand.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 22, 2012, 05:24:23 PM

Chapter Six (cont.)

The captain of the Star Destroyer Ascension sighed as he felt the dry dock supports connect against his wounded vessel’s hull.  Ahead of him he could see the massive bay doors beginning to cycle closed, and soon enough Bleredd Station—the repair hub for Lamaredd Sector—would fill the volume with atmosphere that would allow the repair droids and technicians to labor over his ship without the need for bulky environmental suits.  Abril turned and he nodded briskly to the officer standing beside him.  “Well, then.  She is your capable hands, now Commander,” he said placidly, although his stomach churned as he realized that he was no longer in command here.

“We will take good care of her, Sir,” the station engineer answered, as he took a step back and saluted smartly.  Then he turned on his heel and departed to brief his repair teams on the preliminary survey he had taken of the damage.

“Shut all systems down, people.  Personnel not assigned aboard ship during this refit, proceed to the Station and report in—you will be assigned quarters there.”  And if I am lucky, I will get a tenth of them back, as other ships scoop up the trained officers and men.

“Sir,” the Pit Lieutenant called out.  “Bleredd Command requests that you report to Hanger Bay Three immediately, Sir.  You are wanted on the Flagship.”

Abril Jonas nodded in answer, but he didn’t speak; instead he turned back around and watched the bay doors finish their cycle and seal, even as the lights on the bridge around him dimmed.

****************************************************

“Captain Abril Jonas, reporting as ordered, Sir!” Abril snapped out as he came to attention in front of Kell’s desk.  The High Admiral sitting there looked up at the middle-aged man turned out in perfect regulation fashion.  And he sat back and folded his hands across his stomach.

“Take a seat, Captain.  Would you care for some refreshment?”

“Thank you, Sir, but no.”

“I read both your damage report, Captain Jonas, and that of Commander Tharn—would it surprise you know that the two differ dramatically?”

“Commander Tharn consistently underestimates the ability of his repair teams, Sir.  I believe that Ascension can be back in service within the next ninety days.”

“Most engineers pad their estimates, but Tharn seems to think your ship will require a full year to get ready for combat.  And I do not usually see such a . . . dramatic difference between a Captain’s report and the official damage survey.  Would you care to explain?”

“I know my ship, Sir.  If we keep my crew aboard and have the assistance of Commander Tharn and his men, I can have Ascension ready for space in ninety days.”

Kell glared at the man who sat across from him.  But that glare was . . . deflected by the earnest younger man, and the High Admiral slowly nodded.  “It is against regulations, you realize—and there are other ships waiting in line that need crew.”

“Sir, I believe that this Fleet can be better served by restoring Ascension in one-quarter of the official estimated time and retaining the officers and men who know that ship best.  Not only would it get Ascension on station faster, but it would free up a berth for other damaged ships so that their repairs may begin all the sooner.  Sir.”

Kell pursed his lips.  “Tell me, Captain, why did you break way at Lamaredd?”

Abril looked Kell straight into his eyes.  “I received confirmed orders that you were in charge, High Admiral Morvin.  Admiral Sartan’s orders to attack you were illegal on their face.”

“Yes.  But you turned your ships away and did not immediately engage.  Why, Captain?”

“I . . . I hoped to avoid the entire battle, Sir,” Abril finally uttered after a long pause.

“For what purpose, Captain?  From your record and from speaking with you, I doubt that cowardice was your reason?”

Abril’s eyes flashed, and Morvin smiled slightly.  “I am no coward, Sir.  We weaken the Empire when we fight amongst ourselves—and I will see that my men are not sacrificed on that alter, regardless of who is in command; if I can prevent it.  Sir.”

Kell Morvin considered the officer for several more seconds and then he nodded.  “Very well, Commodore Jonas.  Report aboard Ascension and assemble your crew—then get to work.”

Abril started.  “Commodore?”

The High Admiral laughed.  “Moff Patrice and I have need of men like you, Abril.  I am promoting you to the rank of Commodore.  I presume that you will select Ascension for your flagship?  Unless, of course, you would prefer to refuse the promotion?”

Abril Jonas stood and he came to attention.  “No, Sir!” he barked.

“Then get back to your ship, Commodore—and collect your crew before they are picked clean by other hungry ship commanders.  And Abril?”

“Sir?”

“Ascension had best be ready to leave dock in 90 days—I have no patience for an officer who promises something he cannot deliver.  Dismissed.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 23, 2012, 09:59:55 PM

Chapter Six (cont.)

“Put him through,” Ran Karyda order his subordinate as he smoothed away the wrinkles in his business suit and took his very best salesman smile for a test ride.  In front of the executive, a hologram sprang to life, and Ran bowed his head.

“Moff Patrice, how wonderful it is to see you again,” he said—and lo, and behold, his sincerity for once was not feigned.

“Master Karyda.  Your ships have proven a wise investment—and it was your rapid and quality service that made your corporation the first on my list to contact for a new request.”

“We aim to please here at Corellian Engineering Corporation, Moff Patrice.  Quality is our byword, unlike some other shipbuilders within the Empire.”

“Quite so, Master Karyda.  Does CEC still lease its Mobile Repair Vessels?”

Ran’s grin grew wider.  “Certainly.  While the demand for such services waned in the wake of the Clone Wars, we found that after the Battle of Yavin the Imperial Fleet would often arrange for such short-term leases.  Those vessels are not . . . inexpensive, however.”

“I did not expect otherwise, Master Karyda.  Cyralis has need of one, preferably two, of your Haven-class, if any are currently available.”

The Corellian executive could hear credits clinking together in his head.  The Havens were amongst the largest Mobile Repair Vessels ever constructed, able to make repairs in distant systems to ships as large as an Imperator-class Star Destroyer.  “They are available, Your Grace.”

“Excellent.  And does CEC still provide contract services for distant stations, such as the Cyralis Sector?”

Ran almost swayed with giddiness.  “We do.  I take it that you need some technical support out there, Your Grace?”

“Master Karyda, I have at my disposal an old shipyard that was decommissioned a century ago.  My people are working on bringing it back on-line—but progress has been slow.  I would like to contract a . . . few . . . of your engineers and two Havens to assist in restoring the yards, making them operational, and training local personnel in shipyard operations.”

“That is definitely something we can do, Your Grace.  How many personnel do you believe that you need—and what sort of time frame are we looking at?”

“We have estimated that the project will require fifty thousand engineers and technicians, Master Karyda; exclusive of the crews of the MRVs, of course.  And I want—I need—those yards operational within the next six months.”

Ran froze and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  He licked his suddenly dry lips.  “Fifty thousand?  Did I hear you correctly, Your Grace?”

The hologram of Patrice smiled and he nodded.  “You did.”

“Fifty thousand engineers and technicians should be able to restore most shipyards to service within half that time—less when you consider the fabrication shops and facilities aboard the MRVs.”

Thom grinned.  “The shipyards of which I speak are not most yards, Master Karyda.  They are the orbital construction and repair elements of Ord Tanis—I believe that CEC should have the details for those facilities in your archives.”

Ran leaned forward and he typed in a search request and within moments a schematic of the Ord Tanis Depot facilities began filling his monitor.  He reduced the resolution once, and then twice, and then he leaned back and whistled.

“Fully on-line, did you say?  I am not certain that fifty thousand skill workers will be sufficient, Your Grace.  And the expense to you will be . . . very high.”

“Ah.  Yes, the price tag.  I understand your hesitation, Master Karyda.  Have you not heard that we have recently formed a separate Corporation out here, from seized assets of ORO-Corp?  Cyralis-Lamaredd Oreworks; I believe that we have an account with you.” Patrice rattled off a string of numbers and letters.

Obediently, the executive typed them in and then he sat back smiling once more.  “As usual, you have more than sufficient funds to cover the transaction.”

“Yes.  The thing is, Master Karyda, once we bring these facilities back on-line—and repair all of my damaged ships, then restore some older vessels currently in moth-balls back into service—they will prove rather time consuming and expensive to maintain.  And my two small Sectors out here on the Rim; well, we simply cannot afford to make full use of those graving docks and building slips and repair bays.  Therefore, I would like to make CEC an offer—fifty percent ownership of the Ord Tanis yards.  Of course, my Sectors would have first call on your services, but such an auxiliary facility would go far in making up the disparity in size between, oh, let us say Kuat Drive Yards, or Sienar Fleet Systems, or Rendili Stardrive and yourself.  And many of your customers—especially for your civilian lines of freighters and light transports—hail from the Outer Rim as well.  Buying into the these yards will cost CEC very little in the short term, and is far less expensive than building new facilities from scratch—especially in these perilous times with the . . . instability being witnessed in the Core.”

Ran’s mouth gaped open.  He licked his lips again, and he shook his head.  “I-I-I cannot, literally cannot agree to that, Your Grace!  Only the Board could make such a decision!”

“I understand.  But it is a matter that should be brought to the attention of your Board, yes?”

“Yes,” Ran croaked.

“Good.  Now, regardless of CEC’s final decision on buying into the Ord Tanis yards, I will be making a deal today for the MRVs and those contract engineers, Master Karyda.  Shall we start our negotiations?” Thom asked with a smirk.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 24, 2012, 01:14:15 AM

Great Writing

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 24, 2012, 05:45:36 PM

Chapter Six (cont.)

“I don’t know,” one of the execs muttered as he shook his head.  “Look, we’ve got to make certain CEC is not seen as taking anyone’s side.  As close as we are to Coruscant, I don’t want us to do anything that will have her coming in here and taking over the Board!”

“We are already the home of a powerful Imperial Fleet, Harlow,” an old man chimed in.  “If they wanted to take us over, they could—and CorSec couldn’t stop them.  We’ve walked a tightrope since the end of the Clone Wars; you know that Palpatine was never happy with how we sold and marketed our ‘civilian’ freighters and transports—or with how so many of our corvettes and frigates wound up in the hands of the Rebellion.”

“He couldn’t ever prove anything, Shamis,” Harlow protested.  “But taking over an Ordnance/Regional Depot!  It is unprecedented!”

Shamis snorted in derision.  “Palpatine didn’t need proof, boy!” the old man snapped.  “And Isard is the same—she doesn’t care what the law says or what your lawyers can argue; you are either useful or you are dead.  Palpatine found this company useful—so does Isard.  And she is not one to throw out the baby with the bathwater.”

“Enough you two,” a balding man with a hooked nose and thick white sideburns soothingly said.  “It is not exactly unprecedented—KYD was given access to an O/R Depot in the last days of the Old Republic.  And they have since been allowed to keep the yards and factories there in operation—and profit from it.  The question before us is a simple one:  is Ord Tanis worth the offer that this Moff has made?  Will it be a liability to the bottom line of CEC or a profitable investment?”  The CEO turned to face the youngest man seated at the table.  “Karyda, what are your thoughts on this project?  I ask since you brought it to our attention?”

Ran swallowed heavily and he stood.  “In the short term, brining the facilities at Ord Tanis on-line will consume more financial resources than those same facilities will generate.  But in the long-term . . . my office did a quick study that projects we will fully recoup our investment in only three years time, showing a profit from year four onwards.  Even if we restrict the yards there to building ‘civilian’ vessels, the proximity of those yards along the Rim—home to some of our best customers, gentlemen, promises quite a few sales.  If, if, we also produce military hardware for the local Imperial Sectors . . . well, gentlemen; many of the Outer Rim Sectors have seen their supplies from the Core slashed.  There is quite literally no limit to the profits CEC could make in the long-term.”

“Thank you, Karyda,” Ran’s father-in-law continued.  “CEC has always supported the Empire, gentlemen.  And it will continue to support the Empire.”  He placed a small box on the table and pressed a button and a green light began to blink.  “Having said that we have also done quite well in making old and refurbished ships available to the Rebellion  I spoke with Moff Patrice, and so long as he as first access to the yards there—and a discount upon our sales to him—he has assured me that he will more than willing to turn a blind eye to sales which do not otherwise directly affect his two Sectors.  Which will then allow CEC to move that aspect of the company to a more distant part of the Galaxy, gentlemen; and should those operations then come to the attention of Isard or other Imperial agents, well, it will be the responsibility of the local executive, not this Board.”  He nodded to the other executives at the table, and then he shut down the electronic device.

“We have a request from an Imperial Moff,” he continued.  “One that will provide CEC with continued profits and will link our Corporation closer to the Imperial Government.  Corellian Engineering Corporation is not political, gentlemen.  And we always comply with Imperial requests.”

One by one each member of the board added their own statement and their opinion of either Yea or Nay.  The preponderance of the former soon enough outweighed the latter.

“Excellent, gentlemen!  We must now decide to appoint an executive to oversee CEC operations on Ord Tanis and to bring the ship-yards and factories there back to full working condition.  I nominate my son-in-law, Ran Karyda, for this position,” he said with a smirk.

Ran jerked in his seat.  What the . . . ?  His astonishment grew as the board quickly agreed.

“Gentlemen, we are dismissed,” the father of Ran’s wife said as he stood.  Ran stayed in his seat, facing his father-in-law across the table as the rest of the board left the room.

“Something on your mind, Ran?”

“You are sending me out there, the very edge of the Galaxy?”

“Ran, Ran, Ran,” the older man said as he shook his head.  “Seniority on Corellia is not based on merit—but on profits.  You have a chance to show the Board that you are able to turn CEC Cyralis into a profit making center—after all it was your own projections that convinced them.  And should you succeed . . . well, when that happens your own seat amongst us will be assured.  Congratulations, son,” the old man said as he stood and left the room.

Oh, Marya is going to kill me, he thought.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 25, 2012, 12:39:38 AM

It is time for lots of flowers, chocolates and expensive jewelery

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 25, 2012, 01:04:44 AM

Chapter Seven

“I was beginning to doubt you, Commodore Jonas,” Kell said with a grin on his face.  “Another two minutes and seventeen seconds and you would have exceeded your promise to me of 90 days in the yard.”

“Bleredd Station is lucky, Admiral Morvin, that I did not simply train my turbolasers on the bay doors and blast my way clear.”

Kell barked out a laugh and he shook his head.  “I do not doubt in the least that you have, Abril.  How ready is she?”

“Her hull is sealed, all compartments have life-support and gravity, new slabs of armor have been cast and welded into place.  The sub-light and hyperdrives are functional; shields are functional.  All her guns work, along with her sensors.  Launch and recovery facilities are on-line, and the comm is working.  Ascension just needs to stretch her legs for a bit and work out the kinks of being cooped up in there too long.  We’ll work out the gripe sheet on station, Admiral—if you don’t mind.”

“If I don’t mind—Commodore Jonas, I never mind when an officer asks me for more work.  There is always more work, and not nearly enough ships and officers.”

Abril turned away from the High Admiral and he walked along the elevated platform to stand directly in front of the massive, armored windows of his ship’s bridge.  He heard Morvin’s boots on the deck, but did not turn as the Admiral came to a halt at his side.

“It never grows old, this view—does it Abril?” Kell whispered.

“No, Sir.  The dark of space goes on forever, lit by stars that despite their immensity are mere motes floating in the depths of eternal night.  One could stand here for the rest of his life—and never even know that somewhere, on some blue-green world orbiting one of those distant stars we are fighting amongst ourselves.” Abril’s hushed voice replied.

And Kell nodded.  “If you are confident that Ascension is ready, then I do have work for you Abril.  If you do not mind ferrying Moff Patrice to his meeting on Wrea, that is.”  Kell sighed.  “Our neighboring Moffs ignored him for the past three months, but now they ask him to come to a gathering—to discuss issues that have arisen of late.”

Abril turned to face the Admiral and he curtly nodded.  “You fear that they other Moffs have baited a trap?”

“I . . .” and Kell shook his head.  “It doesn’t feel fight, Abril—and I intend to provide the Moff with as much protection as I can safely arrange.  How are your pilots adapting to their Avengers and Scimitars, by the way?”

“They are in love with the things—it worries me that they will grow too dependent on the shields and slacken off on their own discipline,” the younger officer frowned.  “Having said that, the increase in firepower available to my pilots has proven quite remarkable in simulations.”

Kell smiled again.  “Ord Tanis just finished the first production outside of Phaulkon Station, Abril.  Give us a year and I’ll replace every TIE in the Sector.  Of course, if you want to keep your old Interceptors and TIE Bombers . . .”

“Thank you, Admiral, but no.  I think I will keep what I have,” Abril answered quickly.

“Smart man,” Kell replied.  “Moff Patrice requested that we keep his escort to a minimum—so you are not going to have a lot of ships alongside of you:  a Vindicator, two Millenniums, two Adamants, and a pair of Assassins.”

“Eight ships?” Abril asked with a raised eyebrow.  “A Battle Squadron normally consists of twenty-one vessels.”

“I had to fight tooth-and-nail for these eight.  The Moff originally planned on travelling to Wrea aboard a single Adamant.”

“And my reserves?”

“That is what I like about you, Commodore Jonas—you are as sneaky as Moff Patrice and myself some days.  I have two Imperators and their full complement of escorts, along with the rest of your squadron, holding station in deep space fifteen minutes hyperflight outside of Wrea.  If you need the cavalry, they are there and loaded for Wookie.”

“Well, then.  When is the Moff expected to come aboard?”

“In six hours, Commodore—can you and this ship be ready in time?”

“Yes, Sir,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Carry on then, Commodore.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Siden Pryde on April 25, 2012, 02:46:53 AM

Amazing.  Very well done and very enjoyable.  I have always preferred the books that focused on the rank and file instead of the Jedi, such as the Rouge Squadron series, so this is a welcome treat.  Can't wait for more.  :)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 25, 2012, 04:48:11 AM

Forget the jedi . Keep up with the Empire

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on April 27, 2012, 11:59:31 AM

Tagged.  I've never liked the SW universe beyond the Han Solo and Lando Calrissian series, but I like this one.

I think it might be the way a fragment of the empire is trying to stay together.  You know, if you change it from a SW setting, I'd buy it.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on April 27, 2012, 01:36:18 PM

Its been a cracking read so far.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 27, 2012, 02:08:10 PM

Ascension and her tiny brood emerged from hyperspace far above the verdant green of Wrea.  Almost immediately, gunboats began to stream out of her ventral hanger bay—first two, then four, and six, until a dozen of the five-winged assault ships were circling the Star Destroyer as they waited.  The shuttles came next—six in total—and the gunboats closed up in formation and all eighteen of the small parasite vessels streaked down towards the planet.

The shuttles and gunboats glided down through the thickening atmosphere relying on their sensors to see in the thick cloud cover, but at long last they broke through the ceiling and saw their destination below.  Pardain’s Hold, the capital of Wrea, spread out in all directions until the city met the jungle—and it looked alone and lonesome isolated there amongst the tall trees and triple canopy rainforest.   Still, the spaceport was keep free of any encroaching plant life and the shuttles began to descend one after the next as the gunboats took up position and circled overhead.

Four shuttles touched down at almost the exact same time, and each lowered their ramp.  Ranks of Shock Troopers descended and they lined up in formation—an entire company of troopers strong.  And then, at long last, the two remaining shuttles lowered themselves unto the landing pads, their wings folding up as the landing gear extended and the front ramps slowly opened.

Several men in civilian dress walked down one of the ramps, while still more Shock Troopers trotted out of the second shuttle.  And then Moff Patrice began to descend, the troopers snapping to attention.

It was at that moment that the bomb planted underneath the landing pad exploded.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 27, 2012, 07:34:43 PM

Uhoh Here comes trouble

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on April 28, 2012, 09:37:44 AM

Looks like it.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on April 29, 2012, 08:41:49 AM

What's that old saying Oh Yes Trouble always comes in three. So 2 more should be coming up.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 30, 2012, 08:57:25 PM

Chapter Seven (cont.)

The Shock Troopers on the perimeter of the landing pad gave way as three Moffs, each surrounded by their own guards climbed up the ramp to cast their gaze upon the still smoldering skeleton of the shuttle.

One of the armored Cyralis soldiers walked over and saluted.  “This area is not secure, Moff Krandor,” he said.

“Oh, I doubt that the Rebels will attack again—it is not their style.  Hit and fade and all of that,” the tallest, almost gaunt, Moff replied with a languid wave of his hand.

“Patrice is dead?” asked the second Moff, far shorter and more rotund squeaked.  He was perspiring quite heavily, whether from the exertion or fear, the Shock Trooper wasn’t certain.

“Of course he’s dead, you idiot!” snarled the third of the Moffs.  “For all his reputation, not even Patrice could survive an explosion of that magnitude, Voelkers.”

“So sad,” muttered the Moff of Pelgrin as he wiped his jowls once again.  “Jendar at least will be pleased, though.”

“Don’t be so certain of that Voelkers,” Moff Krandor of Bitrose added.  “Isard may well keep her pet on Coruscant and appoint a man she trusts with rule of Cyralis—and Lamaredd.”  He looked over at Moff Norian, and smiled.  “Perhaps she will even form a new Oversector and appoint a strong supporter as Grand Moff.”

Norian returned a hungry grin of his own, and the Shock Trooper shook his head.  “Sirs.  I must again ask that you return to the compound—this area is not yet safe.”

“What is your identification!” Norian snapped.  “Patrice must have let things slide if you don’t know you place!”

“Sir.  Colonel Camlann, Sir.”

“I asked for your identification code—Stormtrooper.”

“CK-8374, Sir.”

“Inform your vessel that we are investigating this assassination—they are to remain on station.  Your Stormtroopers will report to my military liaison for your duty assignments.”

“No, Sir.”

Norian’s eyes bulged out from his head, and Krandor’s jaw went slack with shock.  Even the slow-witted Voelkers drew in a deep breath.

“CK-8374, are you refusing a direct order from a superior officer?” Norian asked quietly.

“No, Sir.  Despite your rank, you are not in my chain of command—and are therefore not my superior officer.  Sir.”

Norian nodded his head slowly.  Then he turned his head to his own guards.  “Kill him,” he said.

Six blaster bolts streaked by, and Voelkers—despite his bulk—responded to half-forgotten training drills and plopped down on his face and ample belly.  Norian blinked, and he shook his head.  Those bolts had come not from his own troopers, but from the landing pad.  He turned around—his entire body this time—to see his escort lying dead.

“As I said, Sirs, this area is not safe or secure.  However, I know of a facility that is both,” Camlaan said.  “Get them aboard the shuttles quickly and quietly, men.  We are leaving.”

“Sir,” a Shock Trooper nodded as he approached without saluting.  “The gunboats are on station and Ascension's TIEs are in space and ready to provide cover if we require it.”

“Very good, CJ-2228,” Camlaan answered.  “Get them aboard and secured.  Troopers!  We are leaving!”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on April 30, 2012, 10:08:20 PM

Chapter Seven (cont.)

The shuttle lifted into the air with the three Moffs aboard, and the ramp sealed.  Then it streaked away towards the sky, escorted by the gunboats.

“You will hang for this, CK-8374!” Norian spat.  “Kidnapping a Moff—three of them!  They will tear you apart for this!”

“Doubtful, Sir,” Camlaan replied with a shrug.  “Since you refused to return to the complex, I am taking you into protective custody—for your own safety and security.”

Norian’s eyes grew wide and then he leaned forward and pointed his finger at the Shock Trooper.  “Listen to me very carefully, Colonel.  My aides are right now calling in the Fleet—you turn this shuttle around and land, and release me and my fellow Moffs, and I will think about making your death quick.”

“A delightful offer, Sir.  Alas, I am unable to comply with your order.”

“They will blow you out of the sky!”

“If they do, they kill you as well.  Somehow, I do not think that your officers have the balls for such a call.  Sir.”

Krandor spread his hands and tried a half-hearted smile.  “Colonel Camlaan, we have gotten off to a . . . difficult start.  What do you want exactly?”

“I need to discover which of you is a traitor, Sir.  One of you had to know about that attack—it was not Rebels.  I’ve fought the Rebels and a bomb on a public landing pad isn’t exactly their style, Sir.”

The eyes of Moff Voelkers grew wide and he shook his head.  “You think one of us was behind the murder of Patrice?”

“This is outrageous!” snarled Norian.  “Your Moff is dead, Stormtroopers!  You have to follow my orders now!  You must!  That is the ordained Order of things!”

“Not quite so dead as you think, Norian,” a heretofore silent Shock Trooper said as he reached up and released the catches on his helmet.  He pulled the piece of armor free, and all three of his guest’s looked at the face of Thom Patrice in surprise.

“Aren’t you dead?” asked Voelkers?

“Stop playing dumb, Biram,” Thom chuckled as he ran an armored gauntlet over his scalp.  “Damn if those helmets don’t make your head itch something fierce.”

“It is something you get used to, Sir,” said Camlaan stoically.

Moff Biram Voelkers gave Thom a genuine smile.  “Good to see you again, General,” he said in a strong voice that gave no hint of the weak-willed and slow-witted persona that he normally projected.  “I am quite glad that it wasn’t you in that shuttle.”

“What is this?” Krandor asked in bewilderment.  “If you weren’t aboard that shuttle, then who . . .”

Thom grimaced.  “My double.  He volunteered for the assignment—even for getting facial reconstructive surgery.  I am greatly angered by his death, gentlemen—and I hope for your sake that none of you had anything to do with it.”

“Now see here, Patrice!” Norian barked.  “I don’t care for you games, but you have no authority over us—none.  I will not be questioned by you.”

“I have all the authority I need right here in my arms, Moff Norian,” Thom said as he raised his blaster rifle off the deck.  “Force is the ultimate authority—a fact that you might well remember.  Biram—were either of these men involved in the attempt on my life?”

“Krandor wasn’t initially, but he was told about the plan by Norian—who was involved in the planning.  You know the Hutts have a two million credit bounty on your head that he was planning on collecting.”

“You idiot!” sputtered Norian.  Thom fired a single stun bolt into the Moff’s chest, and Norian dropped to the deck unconscious.

“He will be questioned after he wakes,” the Moff of Cyralis slowly said.

“I knew nothing before landing on Wrea,” Krandor said quietly and quickly.  “Whether or not I objected Norian was going to carry out his scheme—and if he were willing to kill one Moff, then why not two.  I was, of course, going to report his treason to Isard upon returning to Bitrose.”

“Of course you were, my lord Moff,” Thom said as he passed his blaster rifle to another Shock Trooper and leaned back against the hard metal seats of the shuttle.  “And now you are going to tell me everything you know about Norian—bear in mind that Biram Voelkers was once upon a time my chief of staff in the Grand Army of the Republic, and that he remains quite loyal to ME.  Don’t let me catch you telling lies that he knows are lies, Krandor.”

The Moff of Bitrose swallowed heavily and he nodded.  “Isard will not like you removing Norian, Patrice.  She won’t—that isn’t a threat, just a statement.”

“Oh, I am not going to remove him.  I plan on shipping him back to Coruscant—with evidence of his treason in hand for her to deal with.  And I am not going to appoint anyone to run Gaulus—she will, or his deputy will, or the two of you will,” Thom said as he drew out a rolled stick of dried leaves and placed it between his lips.  He lit the end and inhaled deeply.  “Now shall we begin our discussions on what exactly Norian is guilty of?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on May 01, 2012, 12:12:14 AM

Now this is a man with a plan.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on May 01, 2012, 09:22:40 PM

Thom groaned as he sank into his far-too-comfortable chair.  He lifted the crystal goblet and took a sip of the strong liquor, and then he smack his lips and turned his attention to his guest.

“You look absolutely horrid, Biram,” the General-turned-Moff said with a frown.  “What happened to that whipcord lean young officer I once knew?  Did you eat him?”

Biram Voelkers laughed, the folds of fat on his stomach rippling.  “Rank hath its privileges, as you well know, General.  I had climbed as high as I could in Palpatine’s Army when he summoned me to the Throne Room.  And then he appointed me as one of his Moff’s.  Scariest moment of my life—I didn’t know if he was going to have me killed or anointed.  I suspect that he thought I would show my true colors and betray him—but I was very, very careful never to cross that line, General.”

“You didn’t answer the question, Biram?  Are you even able to do your job carrying around enough mass for two more sentient beings?”

His former chief of staff waved one pudgy hand.  “Pelgrin is well-ruled, despite my . . . show of being dull and ill-suited for thinking logically.”

“Why, Biram?”

“Palpatine’s Moffs came in three types, General:  the ruthless, ambitious, and smart ones, the ruthless, ambitious, and dumb ones, and the ones who hedonistic and milk their position for everything they can to make their own lives better,” Biram took a sip of his drink.  “If I decided to be ruthless, my Sector would in the grip of Rebellion—I have many non-humans on my worlds, General.  So I played the part of a hedonist, concerned only with my own hungers and vices.”  He smiled.

“Of course, those took their own toll,” he said as he patted his belly.  “But I never planned on holding a blaster and crawling in the mud again, anyway.  And by pretending to be slow and dim, I diverted my fellows from looking upon me as a threat all these many years.  And since they knew I wasn’t ruthless or ambitious . . . they left me alone.  Never seeing just how efficiently I ran my Sector; obviously it was my subordinates doing so on my behalf.  I haven’t gone as far as you in purging the ISB, General, but my COMPNOR officials are those who would rather have a good meal and a nice rub-down than spend their days rousting out non-humans in the slums.  And for all of that, I am only a blip on the Rebellion—the New Republic’s—scanners.”

“And of course, you never once enjoyed yourself, did you Biram?” asked Thom dryly.

The fat man snorted.  “I bloody well earned what little pleasure I gained from the deal, General.  Nearly twenty years in Palpatine’s army, another ten as one of his Moffs—I paid my dues.”

“So you did.  I need to know where you stand, Biram.”

“Where I stand?  I was about to ask you the same question, General.  What are you doing out there?”

“Preserving the Empire as it could have been, Biram.”

Biram chuckled.  “Tell that to the commoners, General.  What are you playing at?”

Thom smiled.  “The Empire is rotten, as corrupt as the Old Republic ever was—if not more so.  Isard is presiding over a corpse—she’s a dead woman walking, though it might be years before she realizes it.  Ships and armies can only slow the fall of the Empire, they cannot stop it.  The momentum of history has shifted.”  Thom took another sip of his drink and he shook his head.  “You may not believe it, Biram, but I only want stability and safety out here for the men and women of my home.”

“Damn, you still have their heart-twisting charisma I remembered, General.  I can almost believe you—almost.  You could that same safety and security by proclaiming for the New Republic, but they probably would oust you.  And you cannot have that.”

“I do not trust the Rebels—this New Republic—Biram.  For now, the reprisals may not be coming, but soon enough the non-humans will want to take their equality back—and punish humans for what Palpatine did.  When that happens, I think the safest course will be to remain independent.”

“Oh?  Declaring yourself a free and independent state will garner you the worst of both worlds, General.  And you are not that dense.”

“Who said anything about declaring?” Thom replied with a chuckle.  “Cyralis, and Lamaredd, and perhaps even Pelgrin and Bitrose and Gaulus, will remain ‘loyal’ to the Empire in name.  Meanwhile, we remove the thorn that provokes the Rebels so and make for our own people a better, more stable life.  But to do that, when the time comes, I may need ships and troops—more than my own Sector can supply.”

“Ah.  And it is Pelgrin’s ships and troops that you want, then?”

“We either hang together, Biram, or we hang separately.”

“I am a survivor, General.  Remember that,” Biram said as he downed the rest of his drink and stood, grunting from the exertion.  “However, in light of the increase in instability in the region, perhaps joint maneuvers between our Sector Groups might well be in order?  Perhaps your men Morvin and Ise might supply my own Admirals and Generals with the secrets you are using to actually make Stormtroopers shoot straight.”

“And Isard, Biram?  What do you plan on telling her?”

“What she needs to know, and nothing more, General.  Understand me, Sir.  If you sink, I will be on a lifeboat.  If you succeed, then you can count on me—but until you have proven to me that you can I will associate with you, but not align.”

Thom stood as well, setting down his unfinished glass.  “I understand, Moff Voelkers—perfectly.”

“I knew you would, General.  What are you going to do about Zsinj by the way?”

The old general frowned.  “I cannot just shoot his ambassador—you are certain that he is going to demand material support?”

“I am.  That was the reason for the meeting—he is claiming jurisdiction over our sectors in his Oversector.  And he wants support for the war he is waging on the Rebels.  Support in the form of ships and men that you will need later, General.”

“He is far enough away that he will not probably respond to a rebuff—but he is prideful and arrogant enough to feel like he must respond.  I—We—do not need him nosing around this section of the Outer Rim.  Perhaps it might be time to ‘leak’ the route of his emissary’s ship to the Rebels.”

“If you trust them to do the job, General.  I do not.”

“Well, Biram, that all depends on one’s definition of ‘Rebels’, now doesn’t it?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on May 02, 2012, 12:22:07 AM

Like I said the Man with the Plan

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on May 02, 2012, 02:22:29 AM

...Hurry up and write more.

I'm bored, avoiding work, don't have anything else I want to read, and waiting to build up enough resources and monsters on FB's Backyard Monsters to punish somebody for daring to attack me.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on May 02, 2012, 07:15:52 AM

Yes more please. I am enjoying this greatly.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on May 04, 2012, 10:16:50 PM

There might be no story updates for a few days, fellows.  My great-aunt (my late grandmother's sister) is 93 and she is in the hospital.  She isn't in any pain (morphine is wonderful upon occasion), but her kidneys have completely shut down.  The doctors say it is only a matter of time, so I am likely to be tied up with family for a little while.  I will get back to this, though.  Just can't say when.

Master Arminas

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Takiro on May 05, 2012, 12:06:07 AM

Best wishes my friend.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on May 05, 2012, 08:00:22 AM

Thoughts and prayers, MA.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on May 05, 2012, 08:52:42 AM

Thoughts with you and your family.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on May 06, 2012, 08:06:29 AM

God Bless And Good Luck Prayers be with you Seyla

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on June 10, 2012, 05:17:19 AM

Good to see you are posting your Star Trek series again MA, will you be continuing this one as well?

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on June 10, 2012, 12:36:24 PM

My muse for this left me, Rainbow 6.  Hopefully it will one day return.

MA

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on June 10, 2012, 02:52:14 PM

Uh Oh Not Allowable. Time to send in the 1st.,2nd. and 3rd Fennec Light Calavry Clusters to find this lost muse and bring it back. Warriors to your Fox Class Dropships Away. (CHARGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on June 23, 2012, 07:14:12 PM

Hail and Cheers Masterarminas We have found your muse Clan Warriors spent considerable time and jumps looking but Here she is.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: NovaCameron on July 24, 2012, 04:28:49 PM

I think the issue with this is that it is in an unanchored place. It is on the Coreillian run or near it and near the mid/outer rim divide. I think the best location is a start in the Karthakk sector and have the over thrown sector be the Savareen sector on the Coreillian Run. The other Sectors can be the mid rim sectors of Vendusii, Daimar, Herdessa, and Trans-Nebular. Other Outer Rim sectors are too close to the Rebel stronghold of Ryloth.

Karthakk Sector: Llanic and Lok
Savareen Sector: Christophsis, Rodia,Tythe, Nelvann, and Orvax

Possible plot lines:

Nagai Invasion: Around this time the Nagai raders invade the galaxy and a party heads through this area.

The Lambada Sector: This sector just recently revolted against Imperial rule and is now a break-away warlord. Good target to show loyalty. This secures another sector and bring the Coalition coreward.

Hutt Complications: This area is right next to the Arkanis Sector of Tatooine fame and the edge of Hutt rule. Having a strong Imperial Coalition that can't be bought off would be unacceptable.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 11, 2012, 05:40:11 PM

Chapter Seven, Cont.

Thom Patrice stood emotionlessly on the bridge of Ascension as he watched ship after ship exit hyperspace in the distance.  He turned at the sounds of boot heels on the deck plating and nodded at Abril Jonas.  “Zsinj sent rather more ships than I would have thought,” he said softly.

And Abril nodded.  “Sensors confirm a Tector, two Imperators, four Victorys, a Gladiator, and two of the new Procursator-class Star Destroyers . . . plus escorts.”

“Ten Star Destroyers . . . he is sending me a message, Commodore.”

The Imperial officer snorted.  “He is sending everyone a message, Moff Patrice by dispatching one hundred ships for this meeting.  That he is a power with whom to be reckoned.  Not merely directed you, but at the Ruling Council on Coruscant as well.”

“True, Commodore.  I wonder, however, how much he thinned his own defenses in order to send this many of his ships so far away.”

“Does it matter?  Cyralis cannot take advantage of that . . . and he has us outnumbered more than six to one.”

Thom chuckled. “At least he is not attempting to englobe us—and if I am not mistaken, he did not bring any Interdictors with him.”

“You are correct, my Moff.  We can run for hyperspace if we must . . . and I have issued orders for every ship to keep their hyperdrives on standby with coordinates entered for the emergency rendezvous point.”

The old general turned around and smiled at the younger naval officer.  “Commodore Jonas, you really must work on letting your anxiety show . . . it does not suite a flag officer.”

“I will do better, Moff Patrice,” Abril said solemnly, and Thom chuckled again as a junior communications officer approached the two with a message board.  Abril took the board and skimmed the message before he dismissed the crewman.  “Vice Admiral Weisse, representing Grand Moff Zsinj, has graciously deigned to come aboard your flagship, my Moff.  He will be arriving via shuttle in fifteen minutes.”

“Excellent.  Let us prepare to receive the good Admiral.  Send the signal.”

“At once, my Moff.”

****************************************************

Kell Morvin smiled as he read the list of ships and (more importantly) the commanding officers of those ships which had rendezvoused with Patrice.  He highlighted a dozen names and deleted the rest before handing back the message pad to his communications officer.  “Establish a ship-to-ship encrypted conference link to the following vessels via the hypercomm, Karl.  I do believe that I will use my flagship’s conference room for this meeting—have the signal transferred there.  Quickly now . . . we haven’t much time.”

“At once, Admiral.”

****************************************************

Vice-Admiral Jon Weisse marched into the flag briefing room aboard Ascension.  A rather portly officer, he carried a swagger stick in one hand and an expression of displeasure and frustration upon his face.  That expression did not change as Thom and Abril stood in greeting.

“I am the personal representative of Grand Moff Zsinj . . . and yet, I am not greeted upon the flight deck by the men whom I have travelled so very far to speak with?  You dishonor yourselves and the Imperial Fleet, gentlemen!”

“Well,” Thom answered with a crooked smile, “being as I am not a member of the Imperial Fleet and Commodore Jonas was acting upon my instructions, I fail to see how that might be the case.  Welcome aboard Ascension, Vice-Admiral Weisse.”

Weisse snorted and he stepped down the short flight of stairs to stand behind his chair.  “I know men like you Patrice—drummed out of the service in disgrace.  It was the only luck which the Rebels had at Endor that brought you out of retirement—bear in mind, you have no friends left in the Empire.  And your actions have caused many, including Grand Moff Zsinj to question your motives.”

“My actions have been to secure Cyralis in the name of the Empire—and they have been endorsed at the highest levels by the Ruling Council.”

Weisse shrugged and he took a seat.  “An illegal ruling council, that rules in name only.  Grand Moff Zsinj, however, was personally appointed to his command of Over-Sector Quelli by Palpatine himself!”

“Yes,” Thom agreed.  “He was . . . but in case it has escaped your attention, Cyralis lies within Over-Sector Outer . . . not Quelli.”

The visiting dignitary inhaled sharply and then he laid his swagger stick upon the surface of the polished table.  “Details, Moff Patrice—those are mere details.  Grand Moff Zsinj has the legitimacy of being appointed by the Emperor.  And he is seeking to unite the entire Outer Rim as part of his command.  You have been chosen, honored, rather, to provide the Quelli Sector Fleet with the following ships, troops, and supplies.”

Thom raised one eyebrow as Weisse slid a tablet across the table.  He perused the contents and then handed it to Abril, who likewise read it.  “It is such an honor indeed to be requested to donate fully one in five of the capital ships and trained soldiers assigned to Cyralis and Lamaredd to the cause of Zsinj.  Regretfully, I must decline to be so honored, Vice-Admiral.”

“Decline?  Patrice, you do not want to make an enemy of Grand Moff Zsinj.  Nor should you wish to make one of me . . . it is well within my purview to remove you from office and appoint a more tractable officer in your place.”

“The Imperial Ruling Council might well take exception at that—so would my forces, Vice-Admiral Weisse.”

“Coruscant is far away, as are your forces.  Nothing can prevent your destruction if I choose to order it, Patrice.”

“And so it comes to threats, Sir.  I shall not be threatened, not by you or by your master.  I serve the Empire.  Not some corpulent Warlord who has taken it upon himself to expand the realms over which he was entrusted with command,” Thom said as he stood.  “Who ignores the lawful orders of the Director Isard and the Ruling Council, who has extended to the Rebel Alliance an offer of truce should they ignore his territory and concentrate instead upon the legitimate government of the Empire.  No, sir.  I shall not bend my knee to Zsinj or any other usurper of power.”

“Then you will die,” Weisse snapped as he stood and picked up his swagger stick.  He turned to leave, but the sight of four Shock Troopers with their rifles raised and trained upon him stopped him cold.

“Not today, Vice-Admiral Weisse.  Commodore Jonas . . . send the signal.”

“Transmitting now, Moff Patrice.”

“Signal?  What signal?”

Thom smiled and he pointed out the bay windows as dozens, scores, hundreds of starships suddenly emerged from hyper-space.  Weisse’s swollen face went white with shock.

“You must have stripped your sector bare!  Are you insane?”

“Vice-Admiral Weisse, I fear that your information on the forces available to High Admiral Morvin and myself is somewhat . . . dated.  As you can see from the nearly three dozen Star Destroyers arrayed surrounding your command, not to mention their escorts.  This is not even one-quarter of the ships which answer at my command,” Thom bluffed with a chuckle.  “Ships entrusted to me by Director Isard to secure Over Sector Outer for the Empire.  You threaten not one Moff, Vice-Admiral Weisse.  Zsinj threatens not just one Moff and one Sector—he threatens the Empire.  Bear in mind that our forces—Director Isard’s forces—still far outnumber your own before you issue any more threats against us.”

Weisse’s jaw worked, but not sounds emerged.  And Thom shook his head.  “Go.  Tell your master that he will receive nothing from Cyralis, from Lamaredd, from Pelgrin and Bitrose and Gaulus and a score more Sectors that owe our allegiance to Coruscant.  Nothing except our turbolaser bolts and concussion missiles should he come looking for a fight.”

The visiting officer jumped as a squadron of TIE Avengers streaked past the windows, followed by a second, and then a third, and then two dozen more.  “Oh yes,” said Thom quietly.  “Zaarin was not the only one with the specifications for that design.  Tell Zsinj to play in his own sandbox, lest he face not just Cyralis but the combined might of the Empire.”

Thom nodded at the Shock Troopers who took the Vice-Admiral by his arms and led him away from the flag briefing room, and back to his shuttle.

Abril grinned as he listened to the whispers of an earbug communicator.  “Admiral Morvin confirms that Zsinj’s ships are powering down their weapons, Moff Patrice.  And he reports that his recruitment efforts have been . . . fruitful.”

“Well done, Kell, well done,” Thom whispered.  He sat back down and flicked a communications key.  “Thank you Biram, and you as well Moff Krandor.  I owe both of you immensely for bringing your vessels here.”

“Yes, yes you do,” Biram’s voice came over the speaker.  “But we will discuss just how much later.  I do believe we have managed to take the wind of Weisse’s sails, though.  Zsinj may still seek to avenge this slight against him, you know.”

“Aye, that he might, Moff Voelkers.  But if he holds off for another two or three years, that is enough of a victory for me today.  And while he has nearly two hundred Star Destroyers at his command, he has need of them far closer to home than our region of space.  Soon enough, his ambitions will run right against those of the Rebels, and when that happens, Zsinj will not have time to spare us any more thought.”

Thom stood again and he moved to stand beside the windows where he watched as those distant ships began to enter hyperspace and streak away, far away from Cyralis.  But not all departed and Thom Patrice smiled.  “How many, Abril?”

“An Imperator, both Procursators, two Victorys, and around twenty-four lesser ships have requested permission to join the Cyralis Fleet, my Moff,” the Commodore answered with a broad smile.

“Oh, thank you Kell Morvin,” Thom chuckled softly.  “Tell them permission granted,” the Moff of Cyralis answered as the ships from Pelgrin and Bitrose began to depart in turn.  “Permission granted.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 11, 2012, 06:53:38 PM

Chapter Seven (cont.)
   
Mal Galen shook his head.  “She will realize this has been altered, Moff Patrice.  The Director has the finest slicers in the galaxy at her disposal.”

Thom laughed, and then he took a sip of his whiskey.  “You misunderstand me, Director Galen.  I do not want the data altered in the slightest . . . I want it protected from alteration.”

Mal frowned and he shook his head.  “She may take exception to your claims that she appointed you in command of Over Sector Outer, Moff Patrice.”

“Did I actually say that?”

“No, but you certainly implied it rather heavily.”

“Yes.  And Isard realizes that having a loyal subject, such as myself,” Thom said as he pointed his hands at his own chest, “is well worth not getting upset over a few white lies that serve her government.  Send her the complete, unaltered logs of my meeting with Weisse.  She might . . . appreciate how little Zsinj and his people think about her and the Ruling Council.  And she will not be happy that he was here, attempting to poach on Sectors loyal to her.”  In name, Thom thought, and only for as long as she manages to survive.  "Oh, and be sure to include your intelligence assessment of the upcoming shipment of half of our monthly starfighter production to the Core.  Let her know as well that I am mulling over sending her several refitted ships from the Tanis boneyard . . . Vainglorious-class cruisers and the like.  They will soon be serviceable, if not too impressive.”

“And the crews for those ships?”

“Kell’s acquaintances from Zsinj’s forces have enough of their officers and crew who want to return to Imperial service instead of staying here.  They will crew those ships to Coruscant.”

“Should I mention that you have collected nearly another thirty capital ships for yourself as well?”

“Really, Director Galen?  We shouldn’t overload the Director with information, now should we?”

“Of course not, Moff Patrice,” Mal answered with a thin grin.  Which evaporated as he sighed.  “I am worried about this bounty on your head—two million credits is quite sizeable.  We managed to arrest another four bounty hunters on Cyralis just before your return.  There could be more that slipped through the net.”

Thom shrugged.  “No one thought this would be either easy or safe, Director Galen.  Have you managed to back-trace the source of this bounty through the Hutts?”

“Not so far, but my agents are pursuing it.”

“And that other issue?”

“She has agreed to meet with you face to face in four weeks time.  Are you certain you want to do this?  If Director Isard discovers this, she will move heaven and earth to see you destroyed.”

“Risks must be taken.  And if we cannot show the New Republic that Cyralis and Lamaredd and Bitrose and Gaulus and Pelgrin are different from the Empire that they are fighting, then they will come here.  Not tomorrow, perhaps not even next year, but they will come.  I don’t mind getting into a scrap or two with them, but if we can avoid that entirely, and continue to build up this region of space . . . in a decade, Mal, we will be a power which they cannot conquer.”

“We do not have a decade, Moff Patrice.”

“No.  That is why we must have this meeting NOW.  So that she can convince the others we are different from the Empire of Vader and Palpatine; that we are not hell-bent on conquering the galaxy and enslaving all other lifeforms under our rule.  Speaking of which, how has our covert support of the rebels on Ryloth fared?”

“The Twi’leks were grateful for those E-11 blasters you sent them . . . not to mention the tons of other supplies and equipment.  But they were also puzzled at the conflict in your statement that no lifeform deserves a life of enslavement and your refusal to openly support them . . . only covertly.  I think they fear you are using them at the worst and being hypocritical at the best.”

“It is a legitimate fear, Director Galen.  I cannot openly support them at this time.  Ryloth remains an Imperial world, and were I to do so, Isard would once again have my head.  But I will continue to funnel used arms, explosives, equipment, and funds to them in their fight for freedom—make certain they know of my stance on that.  The Twi’leks are the most populous race in the entire galaxy, and if they become aware—in the future—that it was I, Thom Patrice, who gave them the means to earn their own freedom, they might stand up for Cyralis against the more . . . malignant species out there that desire nothing more than see humanity suffer for Palpatine's sins.”

Mal nodded.  “You are playing the long game, but should one card turn against you . . .” he shrugged.

And Thom nodded.  “Can’t be helped.  We must take this chance now for it will not come again.  Just make damned certain that our pipeline into the Twi’lek rebel camp stays blacker than a singularity.”

“It will be done, Moff Patrice,” and Mal Galen laughed.  “You know, you might just manage to provoke a confrontation between Isard and Zsinj with this message.”

“I am counting on that, Director Galen.  Or it is best to say, hoping for it, at the least.”  And Thom raised his whiskey glass one last time.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 12, 2012, 10:35:57 PM

Chapter Eight

Ran Karyda stood as two men was ushered into the spacious office of Corellian Engineering Corporation’s (Ord Tanis Division) newest Orbital Shipyards.  “Moff Patrice . . . it is an honor to finally meet you in person,” he said as he offered the older balding man his hand and shook it warmly.  “And this must be High Admiral Morvin.  It is a pleasure, Sir.”

The office had been fully restored to its former glory of the days during the Old Republic when this shipyard and foundry had produced scores of ships to fight against the Sith Empire.  Ran shook his head ruefully; he would have rather his engineers spent their time working on the construction yards and manufacturing equipment, while he supervised from one of the two Haven-class Mobile Repair Vessels which were working on systems around the clock.  But the commanders of those ships had wanted Ran out of their hair, and they had made certain that the command center had been among the first compartments to be restored to service.  And it was, Ran had to admit, breath-taking.  His office had 270-degree panoramic bay windows that allowed him to see the hustle and bustle of the tens of thousands of workers swarming over the old yards.  And while Marta had not been impressed with the living quarters, she had quickly found a rather expensive home on Cyralis itself and was becoming a major social figure on the Sector capital.  She had been surprised as how these . . . provincials . . . had reacted to the presence of a high-society woman such as herself from the Core.  Although she would never admit to Ran, she was enjoying herself out here.  So, too, was Ran himself.  It had been a long time since he had thrown himself so fully into a project, and the future profits from CEC-Cyralis all but assured him a seat on the Board in the future.

“Master Karyda,” Thom said with a wide grin.  “Your men wasted no time at all getting this place back up and running—when will you be ready to start new production?”

Ran laughed.  “We are still months away from that, Moff Patrice.  Right now, we making certain all the equipment is functional, making repairs, ensuring that the bays are clear of all obstructions and debris, and restocking empty parts lockers.  That being said, we are almost ten days ahead of schedule at the moment, and I have already given the commander of Invictus a heads-up that we can begin her restoration within a week.”

Kell smiled and he nodded.  “It will be good to get that Venator operational and on active duty service, Master Karyda.  Four months is the estimated time to get her turned-out?”

“Yes, High Admiral.  We estimate twelve weeks from the day we begin restorations to completion.  And I understand from Madame Ofar that the starfighter facilities planetside are now in full production,” he shook his head in amazement.  “She is talking about producing almost eight hundred of your new Avengers and Scimitars each month, plus another hundred or so Starwing Gunboats.  And that’s only in the one factory complex she has managed to get running again!  You’ve got another three down making small arms, and body armor, and AT-ATs, and artillery pieces, and repulsor-tanks, and the Sith only know what else.  Moff Patrice, when this system gets fully on-line, you are going to be making money hand-over-fist.”

“Well, that isn’t exactly my top priority, Master Karyda,” Thom answered with a chuckle.

“Where are my manners?” Ran asked.  “Please sit,” he said pointing to a circle of chairs around a small table.  “Drinks, gentlemen?”

“Thank you, no, Master Karyda,” answered Kell.  “We—the two of us—wanted to present you  with a few questions.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Ran.  “And you said you wanted one of our senior engineers present.”  He leaned down and pressed a stub built into the table.  “Marthe, could you send in the Master Shipwright?”

The hatch slid open and an older man—not quite as old as Thom, but not as young as Kell or Ran—entered the room.  “Gentlemen, this is Master Shipwright Joram Jayne—we call him JJ for obvious reasons,” Ran finished with a chuckle.   â€œJJ, may I introduce Moff Thom Patrice and High Admiral Kell Morvin.”

Greetings were exchanged all around and the four men sat down once more.

“Your show, Kell.  I am here so that Master Karyda knows this is authorized at the highest levels,” Thom said as he sat back.

The Admiral cleared his throat and he leaned forward.  “Master Jayne, are you the same Joram Jayne who worked on CEC Project SD-23174b?”

The shipwright chuckled.  “Aye, that was my baby from beginning to end.”

“Good.  I read your technical journal on this proposed design . . . I realize that CEC is famous for producing fast and maneuverable ships, but can you really get the acceleration and maneuverability of a Carrack-class in a Star Destroyer?  Admittedly, a small Star Destroyer, but she’s definitely worthy of that title.”

“Aye, the Strident-class will be able to keep pace with a Carrack, Admiral.  She half-way between a Victory and an Imperator in size, lacks ground troops, only carries two squadrons of fighters, but she has plenty of guns and she is—or would have been—one of the most maneuverable capital ships available to the Imperial Fleet.”

Ran frowned.  “I’ve never heard of the Strident Project?”

The shipwright chuckled.  “You weren’t involved Master Karyda in the warship side of CEC.  It is all theoretical anyway, as the Empire decided it wasn’t the direction they wanted to go.  Instead they went with upgrading the Imperators to the Block II class . . . and wasting their money on so-called ‘super’ Star Destroyers.  All built by KDY, of course, for ten times what ours would have cost.”

Kell grinned.  “I always considered CEC’s capital ships to be the finest in the Imperial Fleet—and I was heart-broken when they decided against Project SD-23174b.  Which is why we—the two of us—were wondering, can CEC Cyralis produce this ships?  Here, at the Ord Tanis Fleet Yards?”

Ran’s jaw dropped, even as JJ slowly nodded.  “We retain the design in our files, Admiral.  We could produce them, but the Empire has rejected them.”

“Well, we are distant sector and these ships are only meant for use here . . . for defensive purposes, of course.  And they will take less time to build and outfit than a full-scale Imperator, no?”

“On that you are quite right—if I even had the design schematics for an Imperator.  KDY keeps that data close at hand.”

“How quickly could you manufacture them?”

Now JJ frowned and he slowly nodded.  “Thirty-six months from keel-laying to launch; another four-to-six to work up for service.  There are a dozen slips large enough to accommodate a Stri- . . .”

“We will come up with a better name than that, Master Jayne,” Kell interrupted.

“As you wish, you are the customer.  We could work on a dozen at a time . . . so we are looking at twelve every three and years.  If we stagger the initial production . . . one new ship every three months.  But these vessels are not cheap.  Not by far.”

“I did not presume that they would be, Master Jayne,” growled Thom as he sat forward with a groan.  “Kell, are we going to need these?”

“I believe that we are my Moff.  We need some heavy ships to replace the inevitable losses we are going to suffer in this War—and we cannot depend on replacements coming in from the Core.”

Thom nodded.  “Very good.  Master Karyda, will CEC build our Fleet for us?”

Ran licked his lips.  He stared at the other three men—but there was no Board out here for him to ask permission of.  No, he was in charge.  At last he nodded.  “Provided that you come up with the funds—in advance, in hard currency—we will build your ships.  Any kind of ships you want.”

The Moff laughed.  “Master Karyda, I do enjoy doing business with you . . . and I hope to continue doing business for years to come.  Now, shall we start haggling over how much you plan to skin me for those ships?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: MechRat on November 13, 2012, 12:17:29 PM

Another fantastic story, MA! I can't wait to read more!  ;D

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 13, 2012, 07:34:34 PM

Chapter Eight (cont.)

“They apparently have learned to march well . . . but can they fight?  Will they fight?” Thom asked the Quarren standing beside him on the reviewing stand as rank of after of Bothan and Mon Calamari and Quarren and Sullustans and countless other species saluted the dignitaries as they passed in formation.

A thin hiss emerged from the mass of tentacles that made up face of Lyras Sho-kael, the first commander of the Cyralis Legion.  Until the overthrow of Moff Osar, Lyras had been a slave laboring within the underwater mines of ORO-Corp here on Lamaredd . . . but under the new regime he had rapidly rose to the point where he had been given command over the ten thousand volunteers who comprised this, the first formation of the Cyralis Sector built exclusively from non-humans.  Thom grinned as he recognized the laughter of the Quarren people.

“Try and take away their guns, Moff Patrice, and you will learn how well they can fight.  Their distant cousins have shown the Empire their courage and valor in years of Rebellion, and here now, this Legion has taken up their arms to serve you.  Only because of your actions in making them free under the law—of ending the persecution of Palpatine.”  Lyras turned his eyes back to the sentients marching below him and his mouth tentacles quivered.  “They will remain loyal as long as you finish what you have begun—they will fight for you to resist seeing their families put back in chains . . . although there are some who ask why they should serve any remnant of the Empire, and not the New Republic instead?”

Thom snorted.  “The New Republic hasn’t even sent any forces here to Lamaredd . . . not even a scout to investigate Osar’s mad reign; putting their faith in the New Republic will see their hopes dashed.  No, Lyras, they do their people best by agreeing to serve here, as part of my forces intent on defending our worlds in Cyralis and Lamaredd.  And they would be far worse off if I were replaced with someone appointed by Isard or Zsinj . . . and ORO-Corp returned to reclaim their lost property.”

“I am well aware of that, Moff Patrice,” Lyras answered.  “And so are many of those who march below.  Most of those below, in fact,” the Quarren paused and he looked Thom straight into the eyes.  “And of those on Ryloth would feel the same, I do believe.  If the rumors I have heard from Twi’lek refugees are true.”

Thom chuckled.  “Come now, Lyras.  I am a loyal officer of the Empire, acting only to preserve the peace and prosperity in my Sector.”

“Yes.  Remind me again . . . was Lamaredd within your Sector when you came here to stop Osar from killing twenty billion sentient beings?”

Thom did not answer; he did not have to answer.  Lyras shrugged.  “Isard and the Ruling Council have yet to appoint a new Moff to replace Norian . . . and it is strange how much the Gaulus Sector Fleet and Army has shrunk these past months—and conversely that Cyralis, Bitrose, and Pelgrin have grown.  Of course, with the bleeding ulcer that Ryloth has become at the heart of Gaulus, it is not surprising that so many of Norian’s former officers desired . . . safer posts.  Where they need not be concerned of having their enemies—or their own troops—roll a thermal detonator into their sleeping quarters.”  Once again, the thin hiss of Quarren laughter sounded.

The Moff of Cyralis and Lamaredd shook his head sadly.  “Unfortunately, Isard has appointed a replacement—who will be arriving quite soon with a sizeable Fleet and ground force contingent.  She has surprised me in this, for her new Moff is no mere syphocant, but a very, very dangerous man.”

The Quarren merely raised two tentacles—the equivalent of a human lifting his eyebrow—and Thom chuckled bitterly.  “Maximilian Veers—you do know of whom I speak?”

Lyras looked down at the ground and this time his hiss held no laughter at all.  “Yes.  I thought his injuries sustained in the Battle of Hoth had resulted in his dismissal from the Army?”

“No, he lost both legs, but he is still capable of command.  It was only luck that made him absent from the Battle of Endor—had he been in command of those Legions on the surface, the Empire might not be in the dire straits it is today.  But he is virtually a pariah—not many are willing to forgive him for his service under Vader’s command . . . or the fact that he survives and neither Vader nor Palpatine managed to do the same.”

“Veers . . . the rebels on Ryloth have not faced anyone of his quality—or competence.”

“No.  And that, General Sho-Kael, does not bode well for the Twi’leks.”

Both men were silent as another company passed in review beneath them.  And Thom shook his head.  “I had not expected her to do this, but Isard is full of surprises, Lyras.  I think that perhaps she is sending Veers—and the reinforcements meant for Gaulus—to keep a watchful eye on me.”

“And if that surprises you, Moff Patrice, perhaps you should be checked for signs of early senility.”

Thom laughed.  “No, it does not surprise me, that she would send someone out here to keep me under a watchful eye—only the man she chose to appoint does.  If those rumors concerning Ryloth are true,” and Thom smiled at the Quarren, “then we will need to redouble our efforts at concealing our tracks.  If, of course, they are true.  Which they are not.”

“Of course, they cannot be true, Moff Patrice.  No loyal Imperial officer—human or otherwise—would dare do such a thing.”

Thom laid his hand on the amphibian General of his newest Legion and he nodded.  “Make certain the next unit we deploy there consists only of volunteers,” he whispered.  “Ryloth is about to get a good deal more dangerous that we expected.”

Just as quietly, the Quarren answered with a blink of his two saucer shaped eyes.  “They are all volunteers—and they are willing to continue helping the Twi’leks gain their freedom.”

“Good,” Thom answered, as the last unit passed the reviewing stand, slotted itself into place, and all ten thousand of the aliens standing below assumed a position of parade rest.  “Good.  And I do believe that your Legion has exceeded my expectations, General Sho-Kael.”

“And that means, my dear Moff Patrice, that it is time for your speech,” Lyras said with another sibilant hiss of laughter.  “Remember, you too are only mortal.”

“Quiet you,” Thom whispered as he stepped forward to the microphone.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Ice Hellion on November 14, 2012, 02:48:13 PM

It seems the mighty Clan Fennec brought it back ;)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 14, 2012, 11:17:02 PM

I am experiencing some really major computer issues, so updates will be catch as catch can for the immediate future.  I am on a borrowed laptop at the moment as mine has completely quit functioning.

MA

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on November 16, 2012, 01:04:23 AM

Seyla To Clan Ice Hellion we are honored to have brought back a great visionary. Now we head into the future

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 23, 2012, 07:52:07 PM

Command Phoen Nem of the Adamant-class frigate Cavalier frowned as he considered—for the tenth time that morning!—simply turning his vessel around and jumping back into Cyralis space.  The frigate, far from the size and power of a massive Star Destroyer, had just finished maneuvering into a parking orbit two hundred and forty kilometers distant from the . . . Nem shook his, it was too ramshakle to be considered a proper station!  But, he swallowed his discomfort at the assignment and he turned away from the bridge bay windows to face the distinguished guest—his own Moff.

“Moff Patrice, we are in a stable parking orbit,” he licked his dry lips once, and then he sighed.  “Can I not convince you to take more than a single squad of Shocktroopers as your security detail?  My men will be standing by, but it will take time to launch a shuttle and ferry them across.”

“No, Commander, I gave my word that I would only have a small security detachement.  You understand your orders?”

Nem drew himself up straight and he briskly—if unhappily—nodded.  “Certainly, Moff Patrice.  We are to intiate no hostile action unless we are fired upon.  At least allow me to put a combat aerospace patrol on station, my Lord.”

Patrice considered for a moment, and then he nodded.  “Four fighters, Commander—no more than that.  And they are not to approach the station any closer than two hundred kilometers; is that understood?”

“Sir,” Nem replied as he jerked his chin to his executive officer who quickly passed along the order.  “Since I cannot persuade you to change your plans, Moff Patrice, I have only to say that your shuttle is standing by.”

Thom laughed.  “Commander, I have been shot at my entire life; the possibility that a bounty hunter after my head is aboard that station lying in ambush waiting for my arrival is rather remote, especially since my visit here is known only to a handful of trusted officers.”

“Perhaps not lying in ambush waiting for your arrival, Moff Patrice, but once word arises that you are, in person, with a very small security team, aboard that station, any bounty hunter already present might decide to collect that sizeable bounty upon your head.  And I have not had the opportunity to make certain that station is clear of any resident evils.  Sir.”

The old General smiled broadly.  “Commander Nem, you are indeed a credit to the Imperial forces and I am lucky to have an officer of your caliber along on this mission.  I’ll be fine, son.  Trust me,” Thom looked out the bay windows.  “Has the exodus started yet?”

“The moment we declared that we were an Imperial vessel and would be sending a shuttle across, my Lord.  I do not believe they trust my statement that we are not here to, how does that phrase go, ah, yes . . . shake them down.”

“Good.  The worst ones will have already fled, and the rest my detail can handle if it comes to it.  Remain alert, Commander.  Despite my having arranged this meeting, it could still wind up being a trap.”

Phoen Nem did not reply, but his expression told Thom clearly that he was thinking oh, really?  The corner of the Moff’s lips quivered, but he resisted the urge to chuckle again.  “And on that note, Commander, I will make my way to your shuttle bay.”

****************************************************

The passenger bay of the Lambda-class shuttle was silent and very spacious, for instead of forty-plus passengers, it held only Thom and a single squad of nine Shocktroopers.  Each was, like he himself, clad from head to toe in the new Cyralis Shocktrooper armor; each suit a dull charcoal color rippling with irregular patterns of flat non-reflective black, with no colorful highlights for the enemy to target.  Eight of the troopers were seated as the ninth walked from one man to the next, chatting quietly with him and double-checking the equipment each trooper carried; Thom just watched as the ninth man sat back down across from the Moff.

“Sergeant Gare Devalis,” he said softly and the shocktrooper sat up a bit straighter.

“Sir,” the faceless trooper barked through the helmet.

“So how did Admiral Morvin, General Ise, and Colonel Camlaan pick you exactly to command my security detail?”

If the trooper was dismayed at the question, his armor and helmet hid that from Thom.  “Sir, it is an honor for any Shocktrooper to be selected as the personal guard of the Imperial Moff.  Sir.”

“A great honor, and that wasn’t the question I asked, Sergeant,” Thom said as he leaned forward.  “I read your file . . . cited four times for bravery under fire beyond that required of a Storm trooper, you have several glowing recommendations for your attention to the needs of your own squad . . . and two dozen official reprimands for . . . excessive initiative and lack of proper respect to the leaders and ideals of the New Order.  Strangely enough, it was Vader himself who saved you from a firing squad.  So tell me the truth, Gare Devalis, how was that you were chosen to command my personal guard?”

Thom swore he could see the man squirm, despite the armor and he smiled.  But at last, the Shocktrooper sighed and he leaned forward.  “I drew the short straw, Moff Patrice.”

“Excuse me?”

“We Shocktroopers figure there is about a 50-50 chance you are going to get shot at in that station, if not stabbed, burnt, eaten away with corrosive chemicals, exploded, frozen in carbonite, and or cut in half by a light-saber.  So out of the Shock Company that Colonel Camlaan selected for this assignment, Captain Lorne asked for volunteers.  We, the squad leaders that is, we drew straws; I drew the short straw.  Sir.”

Thom began to laugh, a deep rolling belly laugh as the pitch of the repulsorlifts altered in preparation for landing.  “Good enough, son.  Good enough,” he said as he placed his own helmet on his head and sealed it tight.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on November 23, 2012, 09:52:12 PM

Vader knew a good man when he saw him

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 24, 2012, 06:09:26 PM

The hanger of the station was quiet and mostly empty . . . those few sentients who remained behind kept out of sight as the Imperial troopers descended the ramp.

“Five, Eight,” Gare commanded, “stay with the shuttle.”

Thom looked at the Shocktrooper beside him, and he heard the Sergeant sigh into his commlink.  “My Lord, if this is a trap, having nine men instead of seven will do absolutely nothing.  However, trap or not, leaving the shuttle behind unguarded is not a wise idea on this kind of station.  It would be a simple matter for someone to plant a bomb or a tracking beacon and we would be none the wiser.”

“The crew is aboard, Sergeant,” the Moff said . . . but his tone was one of consideration. 

“Yes, Sir.  And they will stay aboard as per standing orders—sensors are not the same as eyes, and I trust the eyes of my squad-mates far more than the shuttle’s sensor arrays.”

Thom—identical to the other Shocktroopers in appearance—nodded.  “Approved.  Let us get . . .” but he was interupted.

“Begging your pardon, my Lord, but I was not asking for approval.  I am in command of this security detail until relieved . . . and that means the squad follows my instructions whether or not they meet with your approval.  Don’t like it, Sir, get another squad.”

Thom blinked and then he chuckled.  “Sergeant, I believe I like you.  Yes, I do like you and how you think.  I will be reassigning your squad to my permanent guard; yes, that will do nicely.”

Gare stopped and he sighed again, then he shook his head.  “One, lead us off—keep your eyes open, but do not start a confrontation if at all possible,” and Thom vaguely heard muttered cursing over the comm just at the lower limit of hearing.  His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

The seven Shocktroopers and one amused Moff slowly made their way through the station’s corridors and tunnels . . . the denziens made certain to stay out of their path.  Or at least they did until the Imperial entered a small junction.  Two dozen smugglers, pirates, and scoundrels surrounded them, but the Shocktroopers were not surprised and they had their weapons raised.

“Hold!” commanded Gare.  “Citizens, we are none of your concern—back off now, and none of you will be injured or killed.”

“And why would we do that, Imp?” said one scarred human holding a blaster pistol. 

Gare shifted his aim to the speaker and he laughed.  “Three reasons, scum.  First, we are on Imperial business, and today you and your affairs are not the reason we are present—unless you make those affairs our business.  And none of you will care for the results of that mistake.  Stand down, and we will issue no inquiries about what laws you have broken, or what crimes you have committed in the past.”

“Second, we are in constant communication with our ship.  If those communications cease, she will utterly and completely destroy this facility within moments—none of you will survive, nor will anyone else on this station.”

“Third,” and Gare smiled within his helmet as he settled his targeting crosshairs directly on the bridge of the nose of the leader of the gang, “third, if you do plan on starting a dance, citizen, rest assured that you personally will be the very first one to die here today.”

The human licked his lips, but he didn’t back down.  “Just leave, Imps—we don’t want your kind here.”

“Not gonna happen, scum,” said Gare, and he squeezed the trigger sending a blast bolt through the skull of the leader, shifting his rifle to a second target.  “You die next, if all of you don’t back off now.”

“Chubba!” the Sullustan Gare’s rifle was now aimed at swore.  But he was sweating heavily—all of the gang members were as they realized just how willing to kill the Shocktroopers were.  “Your business isn’t our business—I think we have a misunderstanding here.  Back away, boys, back away.”

“Misunderstanding?” asked Gare.  “Sure, I will put it down as a misunderstanding—as long as your people stay well away from mine until our business is done.  Otherwise, I will bring the other two hundred and forty-nine of my friends across.  Understood?”

“Understood,” the Sullustan whispered, as he holstered his pistol and held up his empty hands.  “Clearly, Imp.”

Gare gestured to one side with the rifle, and the Sullustan ducked back into a hatch and vanished, with the rest of the gang scrambling in his wake.

“I thought we were not starting confrontations, Sergeant?” Thom asked.

“They started it; I finished it.  Of course, once your business is complete, I would like to request permission to come back over here and teach these scum a little bit of respect.  Sir.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Be a good live-fire exercise for the boys,” Gare continued as the point moved out once again.

“I said I’ll think about it!”

“Just saying, your Lordship.”

And Thom headed down the labyrinthine maze of tunnels surrounded by the troopers without saying another word.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 24, 2012, 08:09:10 PM

Finally, the Imperials arrived at the main promenade of the station.  The large open three-level compartment was packed with men and women of every possible species—all of whom gave the Imperials a wide berth.  Thom pointed to the entrance of a cantina and carefully, the troopers made their way through the crowd, their weapons held pointed towards the deck, but ready to be raised on a moment’s notice.

The illumination within was dim, but the music was loud . . . until the live band playing came to a thundering halt and scores of eyes locked unto the eight suits of armor.  A Rodian walked over to the entrance and he bowed slightly.  “You are expected; I will escort you to the reserved suite.”

“Have our other guests arrived, Master Pak?” Thom asked, and the Rodian nodded his snout.

“They await you within.  Complete your business please, and then leave with all haste.  My customers do not like Imperial . . . entanglements.”

The low growl of a Wookie sound an agreement to those words, but the troopers did not react, other than one keeping that very strong alien in his sight picture as they made their way through the interior.  Along the back wall there was a short corridor, with three blast doors accessing the private rooms.  The Rodian pointed at one.  “There.  There are no listening devices, I assure you.”

“Given the rates you are charging, Master Pak, there had best not be,” said Thom, who waited until one of the troopers opened the hatch and checked within.  Behind them, the music once again started up in the cantina, and the trooper nodded, entering the compartment beyond.

It was quite bare, with only a small table in the center, three chairs placed around it—two of them occupied.  Both by humans, a old man and a younger woman.  Several more humans and aliens—Gungans, primarily—stood behind them, against the far wall, all of them armed.

“Three, scan for listening and recording devices—the full works,” Gare ordered as he stood beside the door.  “Four and Seven, stand watch outside.”

The two troopers remained in the corridor and the blast door slid shut.  One of the troopers circled the room, holding a small scanner in one hand—he made certain to scan each of the people already present as well.  “Clean, sir.”

“I presume that one of you is General Patrice?” the woman asked as she stood; the man beside her also came to his feet.

Thom reached up and unsealed the helmet latches, and removed it.  “You presume correct, Senator Naberrie.”

“By the Force,” breathed the old man, “it really is you, isn’t it?  Thom Patrice, after all these years, still alive, old friend.”

“Carlist,” Thom greeted warmly, extending his hand to take that of the old Alderaanian.  Then Thom’s face fell.  “It would have been unwise to send you my condolences at the time, you understand.”

General Carlist Rieekan, one of the few veterans of the Clone Wars from Alderaan nodded as he shook Thom’s hand.  “I do.  Yes, Senator, this is Thom Patrice.  General of the Republic, General of the Empire, and Moff of the Imperial Sectors of Cyralis and Lamaredd.”

Thom extended his hand to the chairs, and the woman sat, quickly followed by Thom and Carlist.  She leaned forward.  “You asked for this meeting . . . do you prefer General, Moff, or Thom?”

The old man chuckled.  “For the moment, Senator, let us stay informal. Call me Thom.”

“And you may address me as Pooja, Thom.  There has been no Senate for many years now, not since the Emperor dissolved it.”

“Yes, it was another miscalculation by that madman Palpatine; one of many that he made over the years, Pooja.”  Thom smiled.  “That name means Prayer of Hope in the old tongue of Naboo, yes?”

“Yes it does.  And I was wondering, Thom, why you asked specifically for me—a former Senator from a world that is not in Rebellion, a woman with little political capital, to sit and discuss treason with?”

Thom laughed.  “Please, Pooja, it is an ill-kept secret that your sensibilities lie squarely with the newly formed New Republic, despite what Moff Panaka and your Queen currently might desire.  And do not sell yourself short, for it is my understanding, that you have the ear of Mon Mothma herself for events in this little corner of the galaxy.  The Twi’leks on Ryloth speak highly of you, after all.”

The woman laughed as well.  “And some very few, very high-ranking members of the Alliance to Restore the Republic on Ryloth do the same for you, Thom.  Very well, have you come to discuss bringing your Sectors over to the side of Goodness and Galactic Liberty?”

“Not on your life,” Thom said with a grin.  “Cyralis—and Lamaredd, and possible a few more Sectors—need to chart their own course.  We will not be joining the New Republic, but neither are we part of Palpatine’s Empire.”

“No,” Carlist said shaking his head, “no, you would not be.  You realize playing both ends against other can get you in a world of hurt from all directions?”

“Of course.  But Cyralis is predominately human, Carlist.  I am not going to open them up to potential sanctions because some Bothan gets his fur ruffled at what the Emperor did to them—or a Wookie.  On the other hand, I am not going to crack down on aliens the way some racist Imperial leaders want; each sentient being should have the freedom to choose his way of life for himself.  So, to answer your question, Pooja, I am here to get you to convey to Mon Mothma and her leadership an offer.”

“An offer?”

“The Rebellion and New Republic both stay out of the affairs of Cyralis—and our affiliated Sectors.  In return, I will not launch any attacks on them.  Further, I will ensure that any resident aliens are fairly treated with—as I have already done on Lamaredd and, as you know, Ryloth.  My forces will be . . . unavailable . . . to either the Ruling Council or Zsinj or other Warlords, and I am prepared to allow a limited number of ships to be procured through CEC’s Ord Tanis facility for the Fleets of the New Republic and Rebellion.  Perhaps even . . . refits and overhauls of ships.”

Pooja Naberrie sat back in her chair.  “So basically, you want to be left alone.  People do not tend to think highly of those who cannot choose a side, Thom.”

“Ah, but dear Pooja, I have chosen a side—my own.  That of my people.  And as a show of my good intentions, I have several ships which I will make available to . . . non-aligned worlds, such as New Alderaan.  A few Hammerheads, a couple of Thantras, some Forays . . . older ships, but all of which are serviceable.  For a quite reasonable price.”

“Older?  Try ancient?” snorted Carlist.

“They work, Carlist.  And no, they cannot take on a Star Destroyer by themselves, but they are available and ready for service—if you are interested.  Plus, I have one more ship, but this one is not for sale.  It is a gift to the people of New Alderaan—a War Frigate from the Clone Wars.”

Carlist Rieekan almost came out of his chair.  “WHAT?  Those were all destroyed, all but one that was subsequently lost!”

“Not all of them, it appears.  Ord Tanis had one in mothballs—which my engineers have restored to her full Clone Wars specifications; she’s operational and needs just a crew.”

“Which one was she?  And you are just giving us one of the most powerful ships of the Clone Wars?”

“I am, Carlist.  And yes, we have her original name . . . Peace is our Profession,” Thom said with a chuckle.  “And they say Alderaanians had no sense of humor!”

Both of the Rebel agents looked at each other and slowly Carlist nodded.  Pooja did as well.  “I will convey your message, Thom.  Whether or not Mon Mothma chooses to accept your proposal . . . that I cannot say.  I can tell you that she wants very much to see the complete dismantling of the Empire.  And that includes such far-flung places as your own Cyralis.”

“And your Naboo, let us not forget that Moff Panaka has an entire full-strength Sector Group within the Chommell Sector.  Six hundred capital warships, led by no fewer than two dozen Imperators and Tectors, along with one immense Bellator.  Not to mention the scores of Legions currently garrisoning Naboo and the surrounding systems.”

“True, but Chommel lies in the Mid-Rim, far from your systems even if you were offering your help in freeing us.”

Thom chuckled again.  “Not that far, Pooja.  Although, I am not yet prepared to go to war with other Imperial factions—not yet.  Hopefully, it will not come to that, but if it does, if the safety and security of Cyralis depends upon it; then the forces that I can assemble will astound the remainder of the Empire—and the New Republic.  Remember, that while I want to be neutral for as long as I can be,” and Thom’s voice became very somber, very stern, “I would suggest that you remind Mon Mothma she does not want to make an enemy of me.  She has enough of those as it is.”

Carlist winced, but Pooja just nodded at the bald statement.  “I will pass that along, Thom.  And I would remind you that Cyralis doesn’t need an active enemy at this point in time either.  And it need not be Mon Mothma . . . a word in the ears of Isard, the leak of a document pointing to your collusion with Rebels, that is all that it would take for her to dispatch a Fleet—and divide our enemies.”

“True enough.  But, you see there is one last thing I can do for Mon Mothma that Isard will never do for her.”

“Which is?”

“I can arrange for the death of Maximilian Veers,” Carlist blinked twice, the blood draining from his face, “before he crushes your Rebellion on Ryloth.  Does that make me just a little bit more acceptable as a friend as opposed to an enemy?  I’ll let her make that choice.”

Even Pooja inhaled sharply at that.  “We had heard that Veers was being appointed as the new Moff of Gaulus . . . and it does concern us greatly.  You can arrange to get to the man?  His guards are very good Thom.”

“Mine are better, Pooja.  Yes, I can get to Veers, and I can make certain that Veers dies.  But only if Mon Mothma—and her senior leadership—agrees to leave Cyralis alone.  It is kind of a quid-pro-quo deal, my dear.”

She stood.  “I will be in contact, then, Thom Patrice.  I have heard that the natural beauty of Cyralis is quite spectacular; surely none would question a loyal Imperial citizen travelling from one loyal Imperial world to another, would they?”

Thom—and Carlist—rose as well.  “No, they shouldn’t.  I will await your answer, Pooja Naberrie.  Come visit me on Cyralis when you have it.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 27, 2012, 04:23:29 PM

Thom hurried into the holographic communications chamber, tossing his overcoat to an aide before he stepped up onto the platform.  From a certain point of view, he had been lucky . . . this transmission had arrived when he was just two minutes out from his landing pad.  It would have been quite a different tale had she demanded his presence just a day earlier.  Explaining his absence from Cyralis would have forced the old General to become rather . . . inventive.  And Madame Isard no doubt suspected far too much for him to get her interested in investigating his quiet Sector along the rim.

The machinery hummed to life as Thom knelt on the pedestal and the massive holographic image of Ysanne Isard sprang into life looking down at him.  Thom bowed low, keeping the smirk from appearing on his face—she certainly is fond of the Emperor’s ego-boosting setting, he thought.  “You summoned me, Madame Director, and I am here, at your command.”

The tremendous floating head frowned.  “I do not care to be kept waiting, Moff Patrice.”

The old general bowed low once more.  “My sincerest apologies, Madame Director; I was conducting an inspection tour of troops assigned to my capital and away from the Palace when your communication came through—it shall not happen again.”

“See to it, Patrice,” she said as her eyes narrowed, and then she nodded and the harsh glare somewhat faded.  “We have received the fighters and capital ships that you sent to the Ruling Council, here on Coruscant, Patrice.  It is good that at least one of my Moffs remembers that his place is to serve the Empire—and not himself.”

“They were older ships, Madame Director, from the mothball storage at Ord Tanis; once the shipyards complete their refit, we should be able to send you more modern vessels.”

“Good.  I fear that we will have need of them—have you received news of the Battle of Bogden, yet?”

“No, Madame Director, I have not,” Thom said as he searched his memory—and then it came to him.  Bogden, the capital of the Bogden Sector, which was located in the Inner Rim along the Hydian Way; the system lay directly on the border between the territory controlled by the Ruling Council and that of Grand Moff Zsinj.  And he nodded thoughtfully as he remembered why it had stuck in his memory.  Bogden was home to a major Imperial Fleet Depot, one that dwarfed Ord Tanis even at its height during the Old Republic.  Although not tasked with ship construction, the Bogden Fleet Base had hundreds of docking slips capable of executing repairs and maintenance on vessels the size of Imperator-class Star Destroyers or smaller.  It’s immense orbital warehouses held megatons of spare parts, fuel, Tibana gas stores for turbo-lasers, ordnance, fuel, and provisions.

“The Fleet Depot; that was his objective, no?”

“It was.  He sent in a sizeable force that requested priority access to the Yards and stores; Fleet Admiral Tal refused, of course—that facility is for loyal ships only.  The acrimony between Tal and Admiral Arlamistral escalated,” she paused and then she nodded.  “It is possible that Zsinj did not set out to provoke a crisis, I have viewed the transcripts and the confrontation between these two men suggested something personal at stake.  But once the shooting began, Zsinj sent reinforcements—three hundred ships were involved upon both sides, and much of the Depot has been damaged severely.  The Ruling Council cannot allow this affront to go unanswered.”

“No, Madame Director—that would be unwise to be certain,” Thom mused and then he looked directly into the two odd-colored eyes that stared down at him and smiled.  “Send Zsinj a message, Madame Director, that the Ruling Council wishes for him to step down as head of the Quelii Oversector; tell him that you have decided to appoint him as . . . commander of the Fleet defending Imperial Center and that you are recalling him to Coruscant to assume that post.”

Isard frowned.  “He would never accept such a position—he knows that I would have him killed the moment he enters my grasp.”

“Quite true, Madame Director.  Which is why, after you have dispatched the message, address the Galaxy at large via the holocomm network; at that time, you will announce publically that Grand Moff Zsinj has been removed from his post as head of Quelii Oversector by the Ruling Council and recalled to Coruscant . . . without announcing his exact posting that you have offered Zsinj.  Broadcast this statement to every last ship under the command of Zsinj—and at the same time, include orders direct from the Ruling Council to those ships reassigning them to various Imperial Fleets throughout the Core, Inner Rim, and Expansion Regions.”

“Ah,” crooned Isard as she smiled.  “Zsinj will be furious—will any of his commanders respond to such orders?  It is highly unorthodox?”

Thom shrugged.  “They are legitimate orders from a source that ranks above Zsinj himself,” technically, he thought to himself.  “Not all of his ship commanders will heed the recall, but some will.  And with each defection, Zsinj grows weaker and you grow stronger, Madame Director.  Zsinj will be in a quandary; to the public’s eyes he has so far been simply a Grand Moff appointed by Palpatine doing his job.  But now?  After your broadcast, if he remains in place and openly defies—publically defies—Coruscant, he shows his true colors and becomes a traitor to the Imperial cause.  And if he does answer your recall, well, in that case, Madame Director, you already have your solution in hand.”

Isard’s image began to laugh.  But the laughter died away.  “What Zsinj lacks in courage, he more than makes up for in his thirst for vengeance, Moff Patrice.  If I, if the Ruling Council, issue such an order, we will be, in effect, declaring war upon Zsinj and the forces at his command.”

“Madame Director, as the attack on Bogden shows, you are already at war with Zsinj, whether or not it is recognized.  And while you are forced to keep large numbers of ships and troops facing Zsinj, the Rebels are sweeping up hundreds of systems in the Middle and Outer Rim.  Until the decision of who actually controls the Empire—you are Zsinj—is decided, our full might cannot be brought to bear at crushing this New Republic.  Zsinj is a coward, more concerned with his personal enrichment and pleasure than with the business of ruling.  I, for one, would far more prefer you as the next Empress—and this is the first step in assuming that title, Madame Director.”

“And the other Moffs, Grand Moffs, and High Admirals that do not answer my orders?  What of them, Patrice?”

“Madame Director, once you break Zsinj you will see many of those who sit upon the fence climbing over themselves in an attempt to be the first to swear fealty to you.  At heart, they are Imperials—and they want to be aligned with the winner.”

Isard laughed again and she nodded.  “Very well, Moff Patrice.  I will consider your advice—it is quite different from what the sycophants who surround me spew; perhaps we will try your method.”  She shrugged.  “If it works, then the Empire is indeed mine—the Ruling Council’s, I meant to say.  If it fails, well then, it was your advice after all.  And I shall not forget that fact.”

Thom bowed low again as the hologram faded from view.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Gabriel on November 28, 2012, 02:10:00 AM

Wow that is playing with fire

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on November 30, 2012, 01:19:44 PM

“Welcome to Cyralis, sir.  What is the nature of your travel here?” the customs agent asked.

“Business,” the human answered briskly.  “I am a courier with documents for BlasTech Cyralis,” he said as he tapped the document case.

“And the anticipated length of your stay?” the official continued as he entered the visitor’s data into the Cyralis data-banks.

“Two days . . . maybe more.  Depends on if the execs need me to return information back to the Corporate Sector.  Figured I would relax while I was out here and enjoy the scenery—not many worlds are this peaceful, these days,” he said with a smile.

The customs agent grunted as the documents came up in the system as clean.  He handed them back to the visitor and motioned to the baggage scanner.  “Place your belongings on the device, please.”

The human frowned.  “Is this something new?”

“Increased security, Master Noonan—you do know there is a bounty on our Moff’s head, yes?”

Noonan shrugged and he placed his carry-alls one-at-a-time on the scanner; each came up clean in turn.  “And the document case, please,” the customs official continued.

Scowling at the delay, he complied and once again the scanner registered nothing.

“Thank you, sir; your papers are in order and everything here checks out,” the official paused as he listened to his earbug and then nodded.  “And your ship is clean is well.  The JM-5K series are excellent personnel transports, if a little slow for a courier,” he said with a frown—and his tone clearly indicated he needed an answer.

Noonan laughed.  “That Jumpmaster is modified, as your engineering team has already told you, I am sure.  She’s a lot faster than she looks—or what her specs say.  And yes, I’ve got the proper Imperial permits for the weaponry and shields.”

“You will need to speak with the Portmaster sometime before your departure to pay for all docking and fuel fees, Master Noonan,” he said as he stamped the last document and handed it across.  “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, I intend to,” Noonan answered as he lifted his bags and headed towards the Office of the Portmaster.  The visitor appreciated the quick and efficient service therein as he paid for the privilege of docking his ship for a week, along with fresh power cells, an atmosphere refreshment, and new provisions—prices here were far lower than most of the Outer Rim, he thought, as he exited the Civilian Port Reservation. 

The city was bustling, but the streets were clean, the buildings free of graffiti, and the climate was rather pleasant, with a brilliant backdrop of snow-capped mountains in the distance.  Noonan nodded as he walked up to a private transportation summoner—something he would have expected to see only in the Corporate Sector or one of the old worlds of the Core or Expansion Regions—and he pressed the button.

Within moments, a hover car descended to the tarmac beside the summoner and one passenger door opened.  Noonan placed his bags within the vehicle and then he climbed in and sealed the door.

“Your destination?”

“I need a good place to stay during my visit, good man,” Noonan answered.  “Not too gaudy or expensive, just a play to sleep and eat during my business.”

“Right-o,” the driver answered.  “Know just the place—get you there in five minutes.”

The repulsor-lift vehicle lifted back into the air and rejoined the traffic above—far lighter traffic than the overcrowded worlds of the Core.  Noonan pulled out a comm-unit from his pocket and he dialed a number from memory.

“Yes?” a voice asked after three rings.

“Noonan.  I just got into town and will be here for a few days.  I was expecting a package—has it arrived?”

“Holding it for you—wasn’t easy or cheap to get through customs, mind you.”

“Yes, dinner would be very nice, Manjiin.  I will be by around . . . sunset?”

“Sure.  Package will be waiting,” the voice trailed off and then the call ended.

“Excellent!  See you then,” Noonan continued into the dead phone.  “Driver, I might need transportation this evening, tomorrow as well—should I use the public summoners or do you have a private one?”  At the same time he asked the question, the visitor inserted a credit-stick into the payment unit and uploaded a 100-credit tip, as well as the cost of the transport.

The driver grinned broadly as he saw the money enter his account.  He triggered a button and a small compartment opened in the passenger compartment.  “That is my companies private summoner, Sir.  Feel free to ring us any time of the day or night—it will alert me if I am on duty, otherwise one of our other drivers will respond immediately.”

“Very good,” Noonan said as he took the small device.  “Lovely world,” he finished.

“Aye, that it is.  Moff Patrice has done us right.  He’s a good man keeping us out of all that chaos and confusion.”

“So I’ve heard,” Noonan answered as the vehicle slowed and descended to stop adjacent to a quaint, modest lodge.  “This looks promising.”

“Quiet, out-of-the-way, and not too hard on the wallet, Sir,” the driver said.  “Enjoy your stay on Cyralis.”

Droids were already at the door and they took Noonan’s bags as he exited.  “I will need you in . . . two hours?”

“I will be here and waiting, Sir.”

“Good,” the bounty hunter said as he stretched.  Noonan—otherwise known throughout the galaxy as Dengar—smiled.  “Two hours then.”  And he went inside.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 01, 2012, 08:28:52 PM

Manjiin lead his guest down into the basement; the Rodian pulled away the tarp from a crate sitting next to the freight elevator.

“Here.  You can kill Patrice, can you not?” he asked eagerly.

“Any man can be killed,” Dengar replied absently as he entered a short code and the crate opened with a hiss of escaping gas.  The bounty hunter smiled as the Rodian backed away.  “Nitrogen; it is only nitrogen, Manjiin.”

Seeing that Dengar didn’t die, the Rodian forward and he whistled through his snout at the sight.  “That is one big gun,” he said softly.

“An E-Web heavy repeating blaster; normally a crew-served weapon, but . . .,” Dengar’s voice trailed off as he opened two more smaller cases and smiled.  “yes, the autonomous mount is here as well.  You have done well, Manjiin.”

“I try.  Autonomous, you said?  This is a droid?”

“There is a droid brain that will run the weapon—Patrice is no fool and his guards are far from incompetent.  I have no desire to kill the man only to be captured or killed myself.”

“Ah.  Can a droid handle this weapon?”

“The droid brain has been programmed for this task—and this task only,” Dengar said as he opened the document case and examined the small sphere of crystals and circuits.  But then he closed it.  “Installing this will be the final task.  You have managed to find an appropriate spot that meets all of my specifications, yes?”

“Yes,” the Rodian hissed.  “I was concerned about the distance, but with this weapon, that should not be a problem.”

“And you have gone over the grounds as I asked?”

“Yes, yes.  The tyrant Patrice will be addressing the people of Cyralis tomorrow and I have examined—with my own eyes!—the grounds where they will view him from.  The stage is not protected and our location is outside of their perimeter.”

“Good.  Then let us eat, and I will meet you at this address at midnight,” Dengar said as he shut and sealed the crate once more.

“What?  I am to move this myself?”

“That is why I hired you, Manjiin.  Take heart, in 24 hours you will see Patrice dead and this Sector leaderless—ripe for your planned insurrection.  And you will be a great deal richer as well.”

The Rodian stared for a moment and then he nodded.  “At midnight.  Then we both carry this crate to your new nest, Noonan.”

“Of course, my friend.  Now where’s dinner?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 01, 2012, 11:22:31 PM

The bounty hunter looked through the one-way glass that covered the wall from floor to ceiling.  He held a pair of macrobinoculars to his eyes and he frowned as he considered the target far, far away.  The suite was perfect, he had to admit.  The Rodian had chosen well based upon what he had demanded, but . . . “You did not inform me of those structures, Manjiin,” he said softly.

“Those?  Those are poles for the banners, flags, and streamers that will be flying to commemorate the first anniversary of Patrice’s coup.  They are nothing.”

Dengar turned and he glared at the Rodian.  “You have made certain of that—seen them with your own eyes?”

“I already said so!  They are nothing but ornamentation.”

The assassin took one final look and he sighed.  Well, it was too late to change course now—and if they were only poles than the plan would still work.  He set down the macrobinoculars and picked up a powered tool.  “Bring the frame,” he ordered as he knelt down and made two marks on the floor.  “Put the front legs here and here.”

Complaining the entire time, the Rodian carried the heavy frame over and Dengar fired a single bolt into the floor; he then sat down the tool and picked up a heavy wrench with which he tightened the bolts.  Then he picked up the bolt-gun and did the same to the two rear legs, and both central ones as well.

He left the tool on the floor and walked over to the case; pulling out a long coil of sticky rope-like material.  “Place it on the glass in X-patterns as I finish up here,” he ordered.

“What?” asked Manjiin.

“You cannot shoot a blaster through a window; the bolt will detonate on impact and that could damage the assembly.  This explosive will shatter the window just before the weapon fires, giving it a clear line of sight to the target.”

The Rodian jerked at the word explosive, but at a glare from Dengar he began to apply it to the window.  “Bigger, Manjiin; make those Xs bigger and mold them against the surface.”

The Rodian nodded and kept working; Dengar turned back to the crate.

Grunting, he lifted the heavy E-Web and carried it over to the powered frame, gently sliding it into place until a soft click told him it was properly seated.  Next, he attached the targeting unit and sights, then he locked the bulky and very heavy power cells into their casings.  Working quickly, he attached armored conduits that ran from the cells to the weapon and he triggered the activator.  With a hum, the lethal piece of equipment sprang to life.

Swiveling the weapon back against the wall, he test-calibrated it against the internal targeting laser of the shock frame, making minute adjustments until the two were perfectly in tune.  Finally, he walked over to the document case and removed the small droid brain, which he slid into a housing and sealed it.

“Test Noonan One,” he ordered, and the machine swiveled in a 360-degree turn, the barrel of the E-Web elevating and lowering as it went.  Dengar smiled.  “Activate Noonan Two,” he said as he turned the weapon towards the windows.  “Lock target area and confirm.”

“Locked, confirmed.”

“Prepare for target upload,” he said as he connected his comm to the device and several dozen visual images of Patrice were uploaded to the droid brain.

“Upload complete.  Target confirmed.”

 â€œInitiate Noonan Three 0.5 seconds before terminating target.”

“Noonan Three on queue for activation 0.5 seconds before target termination.”

“Remain in standby mode until 1425 hours; then go active.”

“Standby mode activated; active search and destroy mode set for 1425 hours.”

“Excellent, get your stuff, Manjiin; we are leaving,” he ordered as he extracted a cord from his belt, plugging one end into the droid brain and attaching a detonator to the second end, which he then embedded in the doughy explosives.

“Just leave the stuff and go?  What if they trace it?”

“They won’t.  The weapon has a thermal detonator programmed to ignite after the gas reservoir is exhausted.  That’s if the Imperial forces don’t destroy this entire floor first.”

“Oh.  Should I take you back to your lodge?”

“No, Manjiin; you and I are going to find a quiet little place where we can watch the ceremonies this afternoon.  Someplace where no one suspects either of us will be.  Now let’s go.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Siden Pryde on December 03, 2012, 12:21:37 PM

Good stuff.  :)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 04, 2012, 12:19:23 PM

“Noonan!  The starting ceremonies are almost complete—Patrice is scheduled to give his speech!” the Rodian called out from his seat in front of the monitor.

Dengar picked up a bottle of some mildly alcoholic drink from the refrigeration unit and he closed the door.  Unsealing the cap, he took a sip as he walked back into the study where the Rodian was staring rapt at the screen.  The assassin checked his time-piece . . . 1424 hours.  Got to say one thing about this guy, he knows how to hold to a schedule, Dengar thought as he listened to the Quarren CEO of Cyralis-Lamaredd Oreworks finished up his rousing introduction.  He grunted.  An Imperial Moff being enthusiastically introduced by a Quarren!  Who would have thought it?

The crowd—tens of thousands who filled the square below gave thunderous applause as the alien finished his speech and then Patrice strode unto the stage.

Eight leagues away, on the sixteenth floor of a building outside the security perimeter, a droid brain came to life and visually scanned the stage—it spotted its target and triggered the first command (Noonan Three) which sent an electrical impulse to the molded explosives lining the panes of window glass.  There was a sudden concussion and a roar of wind as the pressure equalized—and startled citizens below began to run as shards of glass fell like rain.  One-half second after the glass detonated, the droid opened fire.

The E-Web spat bolts of heavy plasma—intense enough to disable or destroy an Imperial tank—in a steady stream that hosed the stage . . . or rather would have if they had not been stopped by the ray shields that interposed themselves between the decorative ‘flagpoles’.  The droid brain took no notice, but continued to hammer the shields—given enough time, the bolts he fired were powerful enough to claw through.  But it was not given that time.  A TIE Avenger flying patrol overhead swooped down and locked a single concussion missile onto the gap in the office building from which the bolts were emerging, and six seconds after the droid initiated its assassination program, it was destroyed in a massive explosion that ripped through three floors of the building proper.

Dengar just took another sip of the drink and turned off the news feed.  “You told me that you checked the square—how could miss the power conduits and shield generators if you checked the square?”

The Rodian sighed.  “I got as close as I could, Noonan!  There were Imperial troops everywhere—I thought they were just ornaments!  What do we do now?  Do we try again?”

“Now?  After his security has gone to high alert?  Oh, no, Manjiin, I can no longer collect on this bounty and it is time for me to leave Cyralis.  As for you . . . you lied to me.  I can no longer trust you, Manjiin.”

The Rodian began to turn, but Dengar was faster, and holding the knife he took from the kitchen, he reached around the Rodian from behind and slit his throat.  Manjiin looked up at the bounty hunter in astonishment before he fell to the ground, bleeding out and the life slowly faded from his eyes.

Dengar took another sip and he carefully stepped around the body and placed the knife in Manjiin’s hand; then he left the small apartment and walked down the street towards his lodge.  Passing a public waste disposal unit, Dengar dropped the bottle within and stripped off thin transparent gloves that he wore.  From the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small, disposable comm-unit and activated the device.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” the voice from the other end said.

“It had to be tried,” Dengar answered.  “You are in place?”

A snort was the only answer.  “Worry about getting away clean, my friend.  The added security will only get me closer to the target.”

“Good luck,” Dengar finished as he passed a second disposal unit and dropped the comm within.  He strolled casually along the street as if nothing in the world were wrong.  It had been a long-shot, he thought with a sudden smile at the double entendre, but at the least it would provide Fett with the ability to get close.  After all, he was a product of the same cloning technology of many of the current Shocktroopers of Cyralis—genetically and physically identical to those other faceless men who formed the core of Patrice’s most loyal guards.

The assassin began to whistle as the thought of his friend, already ensconced within that perimeter as one of those many, many identical troopers.  And then he cleared his mind of those thoughts and focused on getting safely back into space—and home.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 06, 2012, 04:39:46 PM

Star Destroyer Rapacity dropped out of hyperspace nearly in standard orbit above the lovely blue-green world floating below her; she was quickly followed by the remaining nineteen ships of the 573rd Battle Squadron.  Fleet Captain Tylan G'deransk, the commander both Rapacity and the 573rd smiled as dozens of ships in orbit immediately began to scatter and panicked calls flooded the communications board.

He turned to face his executive officer.  “It would appear that we have managed to get their attention, Commander.”

“Yes, sir,” the Coruscant native replied in a crisp voice.  “All vessels are in position and are deploying their full complement of starfighters as we speak.”

“Excellent, Jon.  Have my shuttle prepared—and inform those who believe themselves in be in command below that it would be a very bad idea to fire upon me.”

“Escorts?”

“Naboor will be pleased to see me again, Commander.  Still, there is a slight chance of some miscommunication—two companies of Shock Troopers.  That should suffice.”

“Very well, Captain,” Jon Paquin said as he snapped to attention.

Tylan walked back along the ramp until he stood over the communications station in the pit below.  “Establish contact with Onslaught,” he ordered.

“Channel open, Sir,” the pit Lieutenant replied.

“Captain Makon, while I am planetside, you are in command of the 573rd.  You have your orders for all contingencies—and my trust in your abilities.  Is all in readiness?”

“Sir,” a woman’s voice answered promptly, “all ships are in position and ready.  I have reviewed all contingencies and am prepared to order the Squadron to open fire should that be necessary.”

Tylan smiled.  “Well, since my death or being held as a hostage is the basis for that particular contingency, Captain Makon, let us hope that the situation does not call for that.  The Squadron is yours, madame.”

And with a nod at his XO, he turned and left the bridge behind.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 06, 2012, 05:18:48 PM

The Great Hall was silent as Tylan walked down its length, escorted by the Twi’lek major-domo of Naboor the Hutt.  The two were flanked by Gamorrean guards—but they were in turned flanked by the highly trained Shock Troopers from his flagship.  Still, the silence from all of the Hutt’s guest was deafening; clearly none present had thought that an Imperial officer would be so brazen as to simply walk into the confines of Naboor’s palace.

At the end of the hall, the Hutt reclined upon a dais, and his eyes grew wide as he recognized Tylan.

“YOU!” he bellowed, and a ray shield snapped up into place before him as one pudgy finger pressed a button.  “I owe you nothing, human!  Nor your Moff—that debt has been paid!”

Tylan smiled.  “Indeed, and quite promptly, Great Naboor,” he said with a bow once he reached the balk line.  “I am here on other business—business that might well be profitable to you.”

“I desire no further contact with you, Captain.  But perhaps, I can treat you to my hospitality,” the Hutt snarled.

With a click and a clatter, scores of droid feet rushed into the Great Hall, all bearing weapons.

“Battle droids . . . how quaint,” Tylan said.  “Come now Naboor, none of that.  I have a proposition for you that will enrich you greatly—or end you, should you choose not to accept it.”

“Threats?  You dare threaten me here, in my own Palace, you mewling human!  I shall make you a slave!  I will have you killed and your heart restarted so that I kill you again!  And again, and again!”

“That would not be wise, Naboor,” he answered as he handed the major-domo an electronic pad.

“And why would that not be wise?” the Hutt asked.

The Twi’lek bowed low.  “My Lord Naboor, he has issued orders for his Squadron to utterly destroy this palace and the city currounding it should he—or his men—come to harm.”

The Hutt laughed.  “So, you are bold indeed, Captain G'deransk; what do you desire?  And rest assured, the price will be high.”

“A little thing, a piece of information, Great Naboor . . . who is the source of the bounty on Moff Patrice’s head?”

Naboor’s laughter boomed across the Great Hall.  “The Hutts are paying that bounty, human.  I cannot give you—or sell you—the information you desire.”

“Oh, certainly you can, worm.  Hutts would sell their own kin into slavery to see a profit—and rest assured, this will be quite profitable for you.”

“No.  Now leave.”

Tylan smiled again and he lifted his comm-unit.  “Captain Makon, execute Contingency Order Fourteen.”

The Hutt frowned, but nothing happened for several seconds, until the entire building suddenly rocked, dust floating down from the rafters as the distant BOOM of an explosion sounded.  Naboor’s eyes narrowed and one of many servants rushed in and whispered in his ear—and was promptly flung against a wall in return.

“You destroyed one of my warehouses!”

“Yes, I did, you corpulent Worm.  According to my sources, that warehouse was your main transshipment point for illegal spice—oops.  Care to reconsider your acceptance of my proposition?  Or should I continue cleaning up your illegal activities on this world?”

If Hutts were physically able to experience a stroke, Naboor would have been a good candidate at that moment in time.  “We are not within your Sector!  You cannot do this!”

“Actually, Naboor, I can.  Moff Krandor is a good friend of Moff Patrice, and he has granted my squadron permission to act here—on your world.  We are all one happy Empire, after all, working in concert to fight organized crime and the spice trade.”

Naboor said nothing and Tylan raised his comm-unit again, but then the Hutt sighed.  “The price will be heavy.”

“The price will be as I set it, Naboor.  It is a fair price,” and the Imperial officer handed the Twi’lek another data pad.  The Twi’lek glanced at it, and his eyes grew wide, and he in turn gave it to another servant to carry over to Naboor.

Upon seeing the price offered, Naboor flew into a rage and a second servant quickly died behind the ray shield.

“You . . . you . . . you offer almost nothing!  This would not be worth the information by itself, let alone the value of what you have already destroyed!”

Tylan shook his head and he spoke four more words into the comm-unit, “Execute Contingency Order Fifteen.”

Two seconds passed and another distant BOOM shook the palace.  “I believe that was your yard that illegally arms and equips smugglers with prohibited weapons and shields, worm.  Shall we continue to play this game?”

Naboor literally shook from rage, but he finally nodded.  “ORO Corp.  It was the board of directors of ORO Corp who put the bounty on Patrice’s head.  Now pay me and GO!  Never again do I want to see you in my presence!”

“Always a pleasure, Great Naboor,” Tylan said as he bowed again.  “Your account has now been credited.  Until next time, worm.”

“NEXT TIME?” Naboor croaked, as the Imperial officer—and his guards—turned on their heels and marched out of the palace.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 09, 2012, 08:36:13 PM

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!"

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 09, 2012, 10:04:07 PM

Thom Patrice looked up from the paperwork on his desk as his aide entered the office.  The Twi’lek bowed bow.  “There is an incoming transmission from Naboo, Moff Patrice, addressed to you.”

He smiled.  “Thank you, Goran, could you have Communications put it through immediately?  And could you contact Galen; I want to discuss some of his proposals I have been mulling over.  Clear, let’s say . . . two hours of my schedule this evening?  Can we arrange that?”

“Certainly, my Moff,” the Twi’lek said as he bowed again and exited the office, closing the doors behind him.

Thom closed the folder he was reading and he sat up as the holographic projector on the corner of his desk sprang to life.  He smiled at the image projected therein.

“Senator Naberrie!  What a pleasant surprise; I haven’t seen you since . . .,” Thom paused and then he nodded, “the hearings on the Akron Incident, back on Coruscant.  That was years ago, my dear.  And it is if you haven’t aged a day—how are you, my dear?”

“Oh, General and Moff Patrice, you are such a sweet flatterer.  I am actually contacting you on behalf of Queen Kylantha.  She has heard such glorious tales of what is happening in Cyralis and wonders if perhaps she might see the peace you have secured with her own eyes.  And those shipyards that is all the rumor.”

The old general laughed.  “Her Majesty is welcome to visit at any time, in fact, I will extend to her an official invitation for . . . next month?  Would that be within her schedule?”

“I believe it can be adjusted to accommodate that, Moff Patrice.  She wonders if Cyralis has excess production capacity that Naboo might purchase for its own defense—you do know that Director Isard has recalled fully half of the Legions that the Emperor had assigned to our home world.”

“I had heard rumors of that, yes.”

“Moff Panaka is rather upset—his capital squadrons were also cut, by nearly a third.”

“Well,” Thom whispered as he leaned back.  “We do have a bit of excess capacity that we will certainly make available to Queen Kylantha and Moff Panaka, if they wish to purchase it.  Ships are rather expensive, however.  I have it, I will invite both Panaka and Queen Kylantha—yourself as well, Senator—for a visit and a tour of the Ord Tanis yards.  There is a representative of Sienar Fleet Systems here who I believe might be open to a new facility in the Chommel Sector; one that will provide Chommel and Naboo with their own local starfighters.”

“That is acceptable, Moff Patrice.  I will inform the Queen of your gracious invitation and invite Moff Panaka as well.”

“Was there anything else, Senator?” Thom asked, and the holographic figure on his desk nodded.

“Actually, yes.  I understand that Veers has been appointed as Moff of Gaulus Sector—Ryloth will such a burden upon the poor man.  Is there anything that Naboo—or Cyralis—can do to assist him?”

Thom frowned and then he shook his head.  “I will, of course, make the offer to Maximilian, but he is a proud man.  I fear that the conflict on Ryloth will only increase in severity and intensity; the Rebels have not forgotten the Battle of Hoth—nor has he.  I do hate the idea of having Rebel forces operating so close to my own borders, but what is there to do except support Veers—if he will accept such aid.”

“I agree, and my friends—with whom I discuss many things—do as well.  I fear that Veers will strike hard and cause such bloodshed on Ryloth that the Rebellion will have no choice but advance in force.  It will bring the war to this Region of the Galaxy, Moff Patrice, and that saddens me.”

“I understand, completely, Senator,” Thom said with a genial smile.  “And rest assured, I shall do all within my—limited—power of preventing the Rebels from getting a foothold in this section of the Rim,” he paused and leaned back in his chair and then nodded.  “In fact, if Her Majesty and Moff Panaka can arrange to spend a week here, I think that I will call for a meeting of the leadership of several nearby Sectors—Chommel is quite close when compared to the vast majority of this Galaxy and I think, well, I believe that we loyal Sectors must at least speak to the needs of our local defenses while supporting the legitimate government of the Ruling Council on Coruscant.  Would Queen Kylantha be interested in such a summit?”

“Oh, Moff Patrice . . . there are depths to you, Sir.  Yes, I believe that Her Majesty—and Moff Panaka—would be most interested in such a meeting.”

“Very well, then.  I shall arrange for it . . . starting on the seventeenth of next month?”

Naberrie looked off to her side, and then she turned back to face the camera and smiled.  “That would fit in the schedule nicely, Moff Patrice.  Until the seventeenth, then?”

“Good-bye, my dear.  It is always a pleasure speaking with you.”

And the hologram faded.  Thom sat back in his chair and he rocked once, and then twice, and then a third time.  Then he sat up and pressed a button on his intercom.  “Goran, set aside a week starting on the seventeenth of next month—clear our full schedule for . . . shall we say ten days?  And I need the staff assembled in three hours time in the briefing room—along with Admiral Morvin and General Ise.  Inform communications to stand by; I have several calls to make.  Oh, and get back in touch with Galen—I shan’t have time to meet with him this afternoon; instead ask him to come to the Palace for dinner this evening; we will discuss his proposals then.”

“At once, Moff Patrice,” the voice came back through the speaker.  And Thom steepled together his fingers and smiled as he leaned back in his chair.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 10, 2012, 10:03:42 PM

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.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 12, 2012, 01:59:25 PM

Eight men, each wearing an identical face—though some were greyer at the temples than others—sat around a table covered in green felt and littered with multi-hued chips and lacquered plaques of playing cards.  Each of the men wore the new Phase IV body armor that Patrice had bestowed upon them, and while they concentrated on the game before them each wore a blaster, with rows of rifles and helmets racked beside the door.  At the ninth place, a droid dealer stood.

Gare Devalis looked down at his hand and he kept any expression from reaching his face—playing sabaac well was difficult enough, but most of the Clones were fiendishly clever in masking their emotions.  But he was one of the second-generation of Clones, and except for a very small handful of surviving first-genners, he well knew what to look for on the faces that mirrored his own.  He rearranged the cards and began to rifle through his chips, when he heard bootsteps enter the room through the door behind him and the sound of a throat clearing.

“Sergeant Devalis, a word, if I may,” Colonel Camlaan said, a small smile on his face.

“After this hand, sir?”

“Sergeant, none of these Clones are stupid enough to bet against that Idiot’s Array you are holding.”

Gare closed his eyes as the seven members of his squad rapidly said fold, one after the other, and he turned over the Idiot, the Two of Sabres and the Three of Sabres.  He stood with a sigh.  “Sir,” he said crisply as he pivoted on one heel to face his commanding officer.

Camlaan smiled.  “Join me in the corridor, Sergeant.”

Trusting his squad-mates to stack his winnings—just the ante and the very low sabaac pot!—he followed Camlaan into the corridor.  “Sir.”

“Sergeant, your squad is one man down, is it not?”

And Gare groaned.  “We’re fine, Colonel.  Don’t need another man.”

“That wasn’t the question—you are down one Clone?  Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Gare replied.  You bet we are; I shot the idiot in the foot myself.  And the look on the Colonel’s face said that he was well aware of it.

“You need to be at full-strength if you are part of the Moff’s Personal Guard, Devalis.  So, I thought I would introduce you to your newest Eight Man,” he said with a crooked grin as he waved his hand at a trooper standing at parade rest down the corridor.  The trooper jogged over and snapped to attention.

“DK-34732-C27 reporting as ordered, Sir!” the Clone snapped.

“C27?  Wasn’t that the final generation of loyal Kamino clones?” Gare asked.

Camlaan grinned.  “It was.”

“You found me a Kamino Clone?  Not a Spaarti Clone?  Or a free-born?”

“I did, Devalis.  DK-34732-C27 here, I call him Deke, is one of our brothers that has come home to Cyralis instead of serving the Imperial idiots out there,” he waved his hand towards the wider Galaxy somewhere outside the palace.

“He any good?”

“Better than most, Devalis.  Good enough that every one of my Battalion Commanders wanted him.”

Gare nodded, and then he groaned.  “Colonel, how are we going to fit to a ninth man into the game?  You can’t play sabaac with nine!” Which had been another reason Gare had shot his previous Eight Man.

The Colonel frowned for a moment and then he walked back into the squad room, drew his blaster, and fired one shot into the droid, which shattered into a burning, smoking wreck.  “Problem solved—one of you will have to sit out the game and deal.”

Groans rose from around the table; each Clone was well aware of just how well a Jango Clone could cheat on the deal.  Camlaan grinned.  “Consider it training in observation and perception, troopers.”  And with that, Camlaan turned and he strode off.

Gare sighed.  “Get your kit  stashed, then off helmet and deal the next hand, Deke.  And you lot!” he thundered at the squad.  “Get that piece of useless junk out of my squad bay!”

DK-34732-C27—also known as Deke—snapped to attention and answered, “Sir!” just before he carried his gear into the bay and began to put it away regulation fashion.  He was finished before the squad cleaned up the mess and put out the fire, and he racked his weapon and removed his helmet.  Sure enough, Gare noted, a copy of his own face stared back at him.  And he groaned as Deke picked up the sabaac deck and rapidly shuffled and cut it—with one hand.  Life is about to get interesting, he thought, smiling sourly at the new arrival.

And the new arrival, Deke—known to most of the Galaxy by the name of Boba Fett—smiled back in return.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 14, 2012, 01:16:04 PM

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.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 16, 2012, 05:19:30 PM

Ran Karyda held his crying wife against his chest as the latest news report from the shattered remnants of the Corellian System.  The blood had drained from his face as the incredulous reports had arrived one after the next—and he gave thanks to what ever powers existed that he had been here on Cyralis rather than his office at Ord Tanis when the news had arrived.

“In a staggering blow to the Ruling Council, forces loyal to the renegade Zsinj struck unexpectedly at the heart of the Empire in the Corellian System.  Grand Admiral Daanin, newly promoted to command the defense Fleets arrayed at this Core System, responded to the incursion with his own vessels.  The resulting titanic battle over the world of Tralus ended only with the complete mutual annihilation of both battle fleets—more than five hundred ships in total, including sixty-three Star Destroyers and Admiral Daanin’s flagship, the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer Aggressor.  Casualties on Tralus are unknown at this time, but preliminary reports are that they are substantial.  A Torpedo Sphere,” and the holographic image changed to a rotating view of one of the Empire’s terror bombardment platforms, “operating with the Warlords Fleet suffered catastrophic damage and lost control, plunging through the planet’s atmosphere to crash upon the surface—her entire load of planetary bombardment torpedoes detonating upon impact.”

“The magnitude of this disaster has stunned spokesmen for the Ruling Council, with only a brief statement being issued deploring Zsinj’s assault upon a populated world in this fashion.  Diktat Daclif Gallamby has mobilized the Corellian Security Force and the Defense Force for emergency search and rescue operations on Tralus.  Many officials here on Coruscant are questioning where the Corellian Navy was during this engagement—according to sources within the Imperial Fleet Headquarters, none of the Corellian vessels in the system participated in the Battle of Tralus, instead deploying in a defensive posture to protect the worlds of Corellia, Drall, and Selonia from attack.”

The announcer stopped for a moment, shook her head, and then she looked back at the camera.  “We are receiving word from Corellia that Imperial Liaison Officer Kirtan Loor, assigned to the Corellian Security Force has been shot and killed while resisting arrest by CorSec; he was accused of providing Zsinj’s forces with the codes to lower the planetary shields in the Corellian System, as well as the location and status of Grand Admiral Daanin’s Fleet.”

The comm unit buzzed and Ran blocked out the news as he lifted the unit.  “Karyda,” he said.

An exhausted voice on the other end spoke up.  “Ran.  I take it you’ve seen the news?”

“Yes, sir.  I am glad that you are well.”

“Many of us are not—I want to speak with Marya, but first,” and the old man paused.  “First, I am glad that she married you and that I promoted you to Cyralis.  Your home in Rellidir is . . . gone.  The entire city is gone.”  There was a pause again.  “Let me speak with my daughter, Ran.”

Without a word, Ran gave the comm-unit to his wife and she and his father-in-law spoke.  Ran stood up and he walked over to the console and shut off the news.  Then he poured a stiff drink for himself and downed it.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 16, 2012, 07:14:06 PM

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.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 16, 2012, 11:11:38 PM

“Damn,” muttered Abril Jonas as the holographic projection table showed him exactly what the scouts were reporting in the outer system.

“That is an understatement,” his executive officer, Chan Palomar, said with wry grin.

Twelve Star Destroyers (a Tector-class, three Imperator-class, a Procursator-class, a Secutor-class, and six Victory-class) plus eighty-odd escort ships, and to cap it all off, a massive, ungainly, ugly, and horrifically powerful Torpedo Sphere floated in the projection; all of them on a course that would bring them into range of the shipyards in less than hour.  And to face them, at the moment Abril had just five Star Destroyers of his own (Ascension, the Imperator-class Superb, the Victory-class Harrow and Fearless, and the Venator-class Invictus) with fifty escorts between them.  And Invictus was not fully worked up—her strike fighter group was here to train under the tutelage of their new commander; she was nowhere near ready for a fight of this magnitude.

The Commodore licked his lips and he considered the enemies approach, looking at the clock again.  It would be nearly an hour until the first of Admiral Morvin’s reinforcements arrived; and even then they would arrive in dribs and dabs as ships pulled off their normal assignments rushed to the defense of these critical yards.

“Well, gentlemen, it seems we have a tactical problem here.  They outnumber us, they outgun us.  And we cannot allow them to range on the Yards.”  Abril placed his hands behind his back and he walked around the table and the holographic projections of the commanders of the other ships assembled at Ord Tanis.  “They are expecting us to run—or to engage them within the range of the Yard’s own weapons to add to our own firepower.  That is what I would expect, given the disparity of the weight of ships and weaponry; do you agree?”

One by one, each of the other skippers—and Captain Maarek Stele—nodded in turn.  “In that case, let us do something they are not expecting.  All hands to action stations—prepare to intercept the enemy and engage him at somewhat closer range.”

“Sir?” Captain Pyrel Taan of the Superb spoke up.

“Yes, Captain Taan?”

“If we go to meet them, what will prevent them from making a micro-jump into hyper past us and into orbit?  I know that it is risky, but . . . they would have a chance of avoiding a fight with us altogether AND smashing the Yard; the factories planetside as well.”

Abril smiled.  Taan and his ship had only arrived yesterday—three days later than expected, luckily, since she had originally been scheduled for a major overhaul.  If she had been on time, it would not have been in Abril’s power to get her out of dock in time.  So he had not yet been briefed on the Ord Tanis defensive grid.

“You will note, Captain Taan, the large number of asteroids that are escorting Ord Tanis on her orbit around the star at the center of this system?”

“Yes, sir.  It was most unusual, but none are hindering traffic.”

“Each of those asteroids contains a gravity well generator, Captain.  Our opponents literally cannot come any closer in hyper-space; and trying will only burn out their drives,” the Commodore said with a feral grin.  “Tanis Command,” he broadcast, “activate the gravity projectors on a rotating cycle to keep the enemy fixed.”

The sixth set of holograms nodded and one officer looked down and then back up at Abril.  “On-line, Sir.”

“Excellent.  Captain Stele, I fear that your fighters—and ours—will take the brunt of the initial engagement.  I know that you expected time to work up your crews-. . .,” but Abril was cut off by the hologram.

“We’ll manage.  I will be flying myself at the head of the entire Wing.”

“Tan Stele, I have faith in your abilities, but perhaps we have something of an edge that Zsinj’s people are not expecting.  Besides yourself.  Chyrs?”

The hologram of the personnel stationed ground-side shifted and the Sienar Fleet Systems liaison officer smiled at Abril.  “Commodore, you mean to test my new toys?”

“Madame Ofar, I mean to use your new toys to smash these intruders into dust—if they work, that is.”

“I think they are ready, Commodore—but they have only been tested in the lab, not in actual flight.  I cannot promise they will function completely as advertised; not without more testing and lab work.”

“If they work, they work, Chyrs.  If not, we are no worse off—they won’t shoot my ships by mistake will they?”

“Not as long as your transponders are functioning,” she grimaced.  “Moff Patrice and Admiral Morvin were quite specific in that regard when they approved the project.”

“How many are ready to go?”

The holographic image smiled broadly.  “Twelve hundred, split between a thousand Type Is and two hundred Types IIs.”

Abril bared his teeth in a fierce smile.

“And just what does the young lady have twelve hundred of that might give us an edge, Commodore?” asked Maarek Stele.

“She has been experimenting with putting droid brains in the old TIE Interceptors and TIE Bombers that Cyralis is phasing out.  Care to have twelve hundred fresh fighters—without crews—hit those ships before your boys and girls go in, Maarek?”

And the Empire’s most decorated star fighter Ace smiled just as fiercely as Abril had.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 17, 2012, 12:48:09 PM

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?”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 17, 2012, 01:33:32 PM

Vice Admiral Janos Mycien snarled as his fighters ripped into the leading edge of the defenders and dozens of TIE Interceptors exploded in the first pass.  He had not expected such a large number of fighters, but his own forces had over a thousand of their own.  Morvin might outnumber him in fighters, but that would be no advantage once his capital ships ranged on the Yards and the Depot Planet.  He shook his head as still more of the defenders were shot down and then he frowned.

“Commander, why are they not evading?  Those fighters are ignoring our fire, soaking it up and they just keep on coming—it is like they are not concerned with their own deaths.”

“The TIE Avengers are evading, along with those new bombers and the gunboats, Admiral,” his executive officer answered.  “But the Interceptors and standard bombers are not . . .,” his voice trailed off.  “Admiral, could they be drones?”

“Drones?” Mycien repeated and then he cursed.  “Order our fighters to concentrate on those Avengers—they are the threat.  If the rest of that force is drones, well, our ships can handle them easily.”

And suddenly, the ordered lines of the lead interceptors split and broke, accelerating to maximum speed on an attack vector straight for Mycien’s ships.  “Admiral,” the XO began.

“I see it.  Have the escorts concentrate on the fighters—Morvin’s ships are nearly in range, and I want my full firepower focused on them.  The fighters are nothing.”

Bolts of turbo-lasers erupted from the escorts and still more explosion tore holes in the precise formations of fighters bearing down on the attackers—but still they came, their numbers reduced, but they still closed, hundreds upon hundreds of them.  The TIE Interceptors shielding the heavily laden bombers trailing behind with their own lives.  Mycien’s flagship—the Tector-class Star Destroyer Carnage—opened fire as the enemy capital ships closed the distance, and it shook as only a handful of bolts struck him back in reply.

“They are concentrating on the Torpedo Sphere, Admiral.”

“Have our Destroyers take up station on the Sphere to shield it—and hammer them.”

Mycien shook his head.  You do not have the firepower to stop me, he thought, and then he frowned.  The fighters were still advancing, and had increased their acceleration to maximum.  What the . . . and then he blanched.  “Shift all fire to the fighters!  They are kamikazes!  Shift all fire to . . .,” and Carnage lurched as the first wave slammed into her hull.  Her shields were strong, her hull armor intact, and each of the impacts was only a pinprick—but there were dozens, scores of fighters firing non-stop as they closed to smash into her hull, their own mass and velocity battering away at the shields and armor.  And then the TIE Bombers arrived, salvoing their entire payloads of missiles as they dove down into the hull and their own fiery destruction.

Carnage heaved and the lights flickered.  “Shields down!” the XO yelled.  “Main engineering reports primary reactor off-line; weapons off-line!”

Mycien looked up in horror as he saw another fighter accelerating directly towards the bridge; he didn’t have time to run as it slammed into bay windows, no longer shielded, and the bridge erupted in flame and the gale-force rush of atmosphere being drawn into the vacuum.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 17, 2012, 02:04:47 PM

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.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 17, 2012, 06:30:22 PM

Thom leaned on the edge of the holographic projection tank and he frowned as he considered what he was seeing, the words of his Fleet Admiral passing over him as he concentrated on what he saw there.

“. . . our losses, while heavy, are mostly off-set with gains in ships from Gaulus Sector and the defectors who have fled to our cause.  Master Karyda believes that we might well be able to salvage two—perhaps even three—dozen of the ships disabled in the Ord Tanis system.  But, for now, we have taken a large hit to our ability to conduct any offensive operations outside of the Cluster; though it could well have been far worse.”

“But why?” Conal Ise muttered.  “Zsinj has lost almost every ship he sent against these targets, correct?  I knew he was a vengeful man, but this?  This . . . terror campaign makes little sense.  Isard and the Ruling Council took their own losses, but they still outnumber his remaining Fleet strength—what does he have to gain?”

The Moff looked up and he nodded.  “Exactly, General Ise.  Oversector Quelli had an extremely powerful Fleet and Army presence—and he has thrown a third of that away.  But in return, he managed to disable almost a fifth of the slips at Kuat, a third of those at Corellia, almost half of Fondor, a quarter of Loronar . . . he all but destroyed the Rothana Yards in their entirety, and well over two-thirds of those at Mandalore.   Plus the strikes at smaller shipyards that were just as successful . . . Sluis Van, Sullest, Mon Cal . . . and his failed strike at Ord Tanis.  He inflicted a grievous wound on the Empire with these attacks, and he DID manage to destroy nearly as many ships as he lost; but proportionally?  He remains at a disadvantage to what Isard and the Council can send against him.  We are missing something.”

Kell shook his head.  “It could just be his pique—he’s always been known for his temper.”

“No, Kell,” Thom said softly.  “Zsinj is head-strong and vengeful, but he is also very, very smart.  He has a reason for why he struck where he did . . . it is up to us to figure out what that reason is.  Why the shipyards?”

The High Admiral frowned and he considered the map.  “As you said, Isard commands a larger force; by hitting the Yards he reduces her ability to build and repair vessels by . . . half?  While his own industry in Quelli—particularly the Corporate Sector—remains intact.”  But his voice held a hint of a question in it.

“You are wondering as well, aren’t you Admiral Morvin?” Thom asked as he smiled at his friend and Fleet Admiral.  He sighed and looked at the map again.  “Quelli has an excellent industrial base, but not of the sort needed for capital vessels.  The CSA shipyards are designed for smaller craft—their large vessels all came from Corellia and Kuat.  He cannot build new ships to replace his losses in Quelli . . . but he has enough forces to finish smashing Isard’s shipyards if he launches a second strike.  Does he not?”

“That would be difficult, Moff Patrice,” Kell said after a moment.  “Reports indicate that the Ruling Council has heavily reinforced all of the shipyards hit—except ours.  If Zsinj tries a second  strike, he will have almost nothing left to contend with Isard.”

“Ah, and where did the Council pull those reinforcements from, Kell?” Thom asked suddenly as his eyes grew bright and he stood up.

Every officer in the room, including Conal and Kell turned to stare at the projection where Thom had caused one system in particular to pulsate.

“That’s insane!” blurted Conal.  “Coruscant is the most heavily defended system in the Empire!”

“Is it, General Ise?  Where else are the ships and troops that the Ruling Council are deploying as reinforcements coming from?” asked Thom.

Kell shook his head.  “Isard is already issuing orders stripping many Sector Fleets of a good portion of their ship strength—but those forces are all fairly small and need to be assembled into a concentrated Fleet before deployment,” his voice trailed off.  “The Moff is right.  The only deployable formations of any note—for a mass reinforcement of this size—had to come from Coruscant.  She’s probably deployed eighty to eight-five percent of the Coruscant Defense Fleet.  These new ships she is stripping away from her Moffs, they are probably heading to Coruscant to make good those losses.”

“And none of them will be on station immediately, eh, Kell?” Thom asked as he shook his head, admiration for the audacious nature of what Zsinj was attempting evident on his face.

“No.  He has a window—a narrow window—in which he might be able to carry this off.”

“But the fixed defenses?” contributed newly promoted Vice Admiral Abril Jonas, his injuries from the Battle of Ord Tanis still very much in evidence with one arm slung in a cast.  “Coruscant has the heaviest fixed defenses of any system in the Empire—and those cannot be deployed.”

Kell frowned and he shook his head.  “And Zsinj knows those defenses, Abril.  He commanded Home Fleet six years ago.  He knows the weak spots, he knows where to come out of hyper, and he knows that they cannot be moved easily.  I think Moff Patrice is right—he’s going all in and throwing the dice on being able to land a knock-out blow and seize the capital for himself.  If he does that, and manages to capture and execute Isard and the Council, the Sector Moffs, Admirals, and Generals will line up behind him.”

Silence hung over the room.  Thom nodded.  “That is what he is planning—and he must be already moving.”

“Should we warn Director Isard?” Galen asked.

Thom winced.  She blamed him for the advice which had led to this—apparently the woman firmly believed that you could indeed make an omelet without cracking any eggs.  His last communication with her had been . . . cold to say the least.

But before he could reply, Kell was already shaking his head no.  “Say what you will about Zsinj; if he is anything it is a planner.  His only chance of pulling this off is to launch his assault before those ships recalled by the Council arrive—that means his Fleet is already in motion and he will probably be assaulting the capital within hours, a day or two at the most.”

“And if Zsinj and Isard grind their forces into dust over Coruscant . . . ?” Thom mused.

Kell nodded.  “It is likely that BOTH will lose.  The vast majority of the Moffs are following the Council only because they control Coruscant—if they each gut the others forces, someone else will make a play.  Teradoc, Harrsk, and Kaine being the most likely candidates for such an action.”

“That is assuming that the Empire retains any control over the capital to begin with,” Thom said with a smile.  “Where do the latest reports place the Rebel Fleet?”

"We show them massing near Kashyyk, in the Mid Rim."

“Where General Solo and Admiral Ackbar just successfully liberated the Wookie homeworld,” Thom said softly.  “Through the Perlemian Trade Route, they could be over Coruscant in a day, perhaps two.”

No one spoke, although everyone was staring at Thom and the Moff chuckled.  “Gentlemen, I do not think that they could hold Coruscant, but it is certainly a magnet to them, is it not?  And they can perhaps ensure that neither Isard and her Council nor Zsinj interferes with us any further.  If they arrive on time, that is.”

“Ackbar is too cautious,” Kell said.  “That Mon Cal knows better than to risk the bulk of the Alliance Fleet—I was frankly shocked that he stood his ground at Endor.”

“But Solo?”

And the Fleet Admiral chuckled.  “Point, Moff Patrice.”

Thom stood up straight and he nodded.  “Very well then.  Kell, see to strengthening the defenses at Ord Tanis—and Cyralis—as much as you can without weakening our overall strength for patrols in the rest of the Cluster and Lamaredd.  Abril, once again, well done out there.  I want you and Master Karyda to work on salvaging as much as we can recover and repairing our damage.  Conal, Galen, I need you two to finish up the preparations for the summit next week.”

“We are going ahead with that?” Galen asked in an incredulous voice.

“We are.  Gentlemen, the time is drawing nigh when we will be forced to make public that we are no longer part of Palpatine’s Empire—or Isard’s or Zsinj’s or anyone else’s.  The risks are high, but that comes with the uniform we wear.  And the charge laid at our feet of protecting our citizens from predation.  Let us hope that once this madness is past, that we can restore unto OUR Empire a measure of the honor that it should have had.”

And one by one, each of the men, the senior advisors to Moff Patrice, nodded their agreement.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Siden Pryde on December 19, 2012, 02:57:28 AM

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

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 23, 2012, 08:45:09 PM

The scream of artillery missiles passed by close overhead, suddenly ending in a thunderous explosion as they impacted mere blocks away.  Dust, actually flakes of the metals and mineral aggregates used in the construction of the command bunker, floated down upon officers and men as the ground shook and the walls groaned.  The holographic map display upon the table shivered and broke momentarily before reforming, but a thread of static ran through it.

“Past time to leave, Colonel,” one of the officers whispered.  “The Eriadu Authority is done for with this last push by the Rebels—maybe if Delvardus had stayed, it might be different, but he ran and he took two-thirds of the Army with him.”

 Zel “The Rancor” Johans frowned at his operations officer.  The frown was not because he disagreed with the assessment of Major Tadeus Harkin, but rather because of the white uniforms worn by several of the other officers present.  Luckily, General Kieran Loas of the Imperial Security Bureau either hadn’t heard the whisper, or he was temporarily ignoring it.  Zel held onto the table as another flight of missiles passed overhead and still more dust particles rained down upon them.  Damn Superior General Sander Delvardus, self-appointed guardian of the Eriadu Authority.  When he had broken with Imperial Center on Coruscant AND simultaneously with Grand Moff Kaine, he had managed to assemble a formidable force under his command . . . that he had since squandered. 

He fought a war of expansion against his neighbors, while cracking down even harder upon the non-human life forces of Seswenna Sector.  And that had caused the Rebels to move forward their schedule for conquering the homeworld of the deceased Grand Moff Tarkin.  The Rebels should never have stood a chance, but they had bypassed several fortress worlds to attack the capital of Eriadu directly—and Superior General (HAH!) Delvardus had panicked and fled, with his most loyal forces running along behind him.

Leaving General Loas in command of the forlorn and forsaken defense that included Johans’ own 112th Heavy Repulsortank Regiment.

“Colonel, our infantry are holding the line, but they need support.  Your Regiment has the firepower that they so desperately need to hold off the Rebel advance until our reinforcements arrive.  Accordingly, I want you to divide your command into squadrons and directly reinforce the infantry companies holding our defensive line,” Loas said bluntly.

And Zel sighed.  Aside from his brutality as the commander of the local ISB and CompForce—seventeen full regiments on this most Imperial world!—the man knew nothing of warfare.  “Sir, that is a job for walkers, not repulsorlift tanks!  We are an offensive unit,” as I have told you for three bloody weeks now, “not a defensive element.  Let me concentrate the Hammers and we can exit this urban environment, pretend to flee and then circle around and hit them from behind!  We will be the Hammer to your infantry’s anvil—we can break them!”

Loas shook his head as he stared down at the map.  “No.  Too risky.  Our enemy has speeders of his own, Colonel, and he could defeat you where my infantry cannot support you.”

“Speeders, sir.  Not TANKS.  Repulsorlift tanks are not designed for fighting within a city, Sir.  Let us do our job.”

“You are, Colonel.  You are going to reinforce the defenses and shatter the Rebels as they come!”  And Loas’ eyes narrowed.  “Unless you are refusing my orders, Colonel?”

There was another thundering crack and dust poured down from above again.  And Zel shook his head.  I should have never obeyed Delvardus when he ordered the Hammers from Brintooin to here.  And in that pause, while Zel remained silent, Loas smiled slightly.  “The Superior General is leading our reinforcements here personally.  We must only hold out for another three days before his return.”

You idiot, Zel thought.  Sander Delvardus wasn’t coming back.  Not in three days, nor in three years.  He was fleeing back to Kaine to beg forgiveness in order to save his own skin.  And something in the smile—the humorless cold smile—of the ISB General caused part of Zel’s soul to snap.

“Sir!” he said as he snapped to attention.  “I will issue the orders immediately.  All Hammer elements,” he broadcast, “execute Special Order Besh Osk.  I repeat, Special Order Besh Osk is now in effect.”

Major Harkin suddenly smiled, even as the insipid grin faded from the face of Loas.  The rest of the HQ staff drew their weapons and before the ISB officers and men could react, gunned them down—only one managed to draw his blaster pistol and he didn’t manage to get off a single shot.  Loas simply stood there, his face turning puce.

“Take him outside and hang him from a light-post, Major Harkin.  Everyone else, we are bugging out to FireHawke.  Move, people!”

Loas worked his jaw, but he never managed to get a word past his clenched teeth as Harkin dragged him outside.

“FireHawke, Hammer Six Actual,” Zel broadcast.  “Verify Special Order Besh Osk.”

“Verified, Hammer Six Actual.  We are warming up the engines and will be ready to make the run to light-speed as soon as we clear the planet.”

“Good, we don’t have a lot of time, FireHawke.  Get the boys aboard and we will worry about stowing the gear properly in transit.”

“Acknowledged.  Destination, Colonel?”

Zel stood still for a moment—even though he was a traitor and a coward, Delvardus would retain enough power in Kaine’s hierarchy that his unit would be decimated if they rejoined the forces of the Grand Moff.  And Isard had already put a price on their heads for siding with first Kaine and then Delvardus—but the Seswenna Sector was home.  A home that his men would have to leave behind them.

“Anywhere away from here,” Zel answered briskly.  “We will worry about the details later; for now we need to get clear and into hyper.”

“Can do, Hammer Six Actual.  The clock is ticking, Sir.”

“On our way, FireHawke.”

All of the vital systems in the forward command bunker were already gone from the walls and tables—stripped out by his staff as they rushed to the waiting vehicles outside.  Only the Regimental Flag remained, and Zel took it down carefully from the wall and folded it precisely, tucking it within his armored cuirass. 

“Sir,” said Tadeus.  “It is done.  Time to go, Sir.”

“Aye.  Time to go—but go where?”

His executive officer smiled.  “Remember General Conal Ise?  I had a rather interesting message from him a few weeks back—something about Cyralis not really caring why a unit joins their forces . . . and basically saying that regardless of charges leveled against them, they are willing to judge any volunteers to their forces on an individual basis.  He and that Moff of his . . . Patrice, I think . . . they are building up a major force out there on the Rim, Sir.  We could do worse.”

“We have done worse, Major.  Okay,” he trotted out of the bunker with Harkin following and climbed up the ramp of his command vehicle, the ramp closing behind the two men and the vehicle moving fast and low towards the space port.  “Once we board ship, send Ise a message and tell him that Hell’s Hammers are en route . . . and that we are willing to work out a deal.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 26, 2012, 08:28:48 PM

“Fallen brothers,” Gare Devalis toasted quietly from his seat against the wall in the dimly lit cantina.  ‘Deke’ and the six other Clones of their squad raised their own drinks in silent salute; then they drained them and threw the glasses against the wall, ignoring the protests of the serving droid.

Deke—Boba Fett—had been caught off-guard by how these Clones so differed from the ones he had known back when he served in the Five Hundred and First under Lord Vader.  There, it had been nothing but duty and constant training; here, in Cyralis, the Clones retained their sense of duty, and if anything trained harder, but when their day was done, they were no longer under military discipline.  For several days, Fett had worried that it might raise some suspicion about him, his lack of familiarity with the ease at which these troopers lived their lives outside their armor.  But, those worries had been for naught, for he had seen other defectors and volunteers gasp at the changes as well.

He shook his head and allowed himself a small smile.  After all these years, the Clones had become people—who would have thought it?  The Sergeant—Gare—had a wife and child; so did Corporal Jason and Trooper Lorne.  Trooper Malik spent his free time and credits on exquisite models, perfect in every detail, of various military and civilian vehicles and ships, while Trooper Zell had become well-known for his skill at a strange table game involving spheres and wooden sticks on a surface of smooth felt, although Trooper Petra almost matched him, but usually fell short.  Trooper Rand had confessed to Deke that he spent his time away from the unit creating living art from small shrubs, a rather surprising hobby for a former Storm trooper.  Only Corporal Madra remained dour and stoic in all things . . . but even he had a weakness for these short passes away from base.

Still, these eight men possessed a warm camaraderie which Fett had never before experienced.  And becoming actual people instead of armor-clad killing machines had not blunted their edge.  Deke took a sip of a frosted mug of a strange honey-mead, and he shook his head.  One-on-one, he could take any single one of his seven squad mates or the Sergeant.  Easily.  They had learned quickly that his skills, senses, and instincts were finely honed and because of that Fett had become the squad’s point-man.  Which presented its own problems to his aims, given the nature of those in that position to become statistics very quickly.  But Fett hadn’t protested—it would not have been in character, after all.

Together, now, together, the Clones were a very different story.  While Fett did not doubt that he could take—if not quite as easily—an entire squad of normal Stormtroopers, he knew that would not live even if he attacked this group with the element of surprise.  Luckily, perhaps, he had not been forced to try, for this squad had not yet been stationed to guard the Moff.  Instead, their days and nights (when on duty) had concentrated on drilling new techniques and tactics and unlearning old skills. 

“Never thought I would see the day when they emphasized rescuing hostages instead of just shooting our targets,” Deke said with a shake of his head.

“Bit of a sea change, eh, Deke?” asked the Sergeant as he smiled.  “Back in the days of the Old Empire, he had a whole bunch of different special operations outfits that specialized in these things.  Well, out here, though . . . we don’t have them.  And we ain’t gonna be getting them.  So Colon—excuse me, General Camlaan is making us learn how to do it right.  Which means no grenades and no disintegrations?  Right?”

“RIGHT!” Eight voices answered.

“We aren’t Stormtroopers anymore Deke, we are the Sith-damned BEST Clone troopers in the entire Galaxy,” the Sergeant continued.  “That means we’ve got be better than Palpatine’s Royal Guards, better than Storm Commandoes, better than those poor lousy bastards that served under Vader in the 501st, God rest their souls.”

Silence hung over the table for a moment, and then each clone took another drink, drained it dry, and threw the glasses against the wall, ignoring the wailing droid—except to call for another round.

“Kamino-clones, vat-clones, or freeborn, we will be better,” the Sergeant continued.  “We will prove to the Galaxy that we are better,” and then his voice trailed off as a group of men and aliens entered the cantina.  Gare stood and he dropped a cred-stick on the table.  “Next round is mine, boys.  I’ll be back,” and he walked over the newcomers.

Fett raised an eyebrow and he watched as Gare and the gaggle of scoundrels—how well the bounty hunter knew that type—began to argue, and then he saw the Sergeant tense as he was led into the corridor heading to the back rooms.

Boba Fett frowned, and he drained his glass.  “Gotta visit the little Troopers room,” he said, earning a chuckle from his squad mates.

“Just remember, yellow is good, green means you best not be wearing my pelvic armor,” Jason said with a laugh.

Fett made his way through the crowd and he ducked down the corridor to the back rooms.  As he walked down the dimly lit and tight space, he reached back to his waist band and loosened the hide-away blaster pistol he wore in a holster.  Sure enough, one of the doors was guarded by two thugs, and he could hear a rather intense conversation behind the wood.

“Where’s the latrine?” he asked, as he made himself slur his words and then stumble forward as if he were drunk—which Fett most assuredly was not.  One of the guards caught him—and received a stun bolt for his help, the second guard barely had time to grow alarmed before he too was sleeping on the grimy floor.  The music from the cantina had masked the whine of the blaster on stun, and Fett pulled a device from his belt and attached it to the door, placing a small ear-piece in his right ear.

“Look, Chaine, we had an unscheduled drill!  I couldn’t make it last night, so that’s why I’m here now.  There’s your payment and there will be another one next month!” his Sergeant said.

“Don’t work that way, soldier boy.  You came to me for a loan, and I gave you the credits you needed.  We had a deal; deal was you pay on time.  You missed your payment last night.  You broke the deal.”

Silence for a moment.

“Here’s what I am do, Gare, since I like you.  I’m gonna take this payment as earnest money.  And you have twenty-four hours to get me the same again—as a penalty against your lateness.  And never, ever, be late again.”

“I can’t get that much money on such short notice.”

“You had better, my friend, between in 24 hours and 1 second, you are going to me ANOTHER payment as an additional penalty.  Same for every day thereafter.  And don’t even think about trying to report me—loan sharking is illegal here, and you came to me.”

“That is robbery, and I am not going to pay it, Chaine.  That’s my installment, you will get your next one on schedule.”

“Gare, Gare, Gare,” the mobster laughed.  “This is my business. And you will pay.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ve a really lovely wife and a daughter.  I would hate to see anything . . . unfortunate happen to them.  I would threaten your in-laws, but if they are like my in-laws, you might thank me for knocking them out of the picture.”

“Leave them out of this—this is between you and me.”

“Gare, you brought them into this deal when you missed your payment.  But being the nice person that I am, how about this?  I will forgive your lateness and forgo the penalty . . . in exchange for Moff Patrice’s schedule and route at the upcoming summit.”

“Go to Hell, you son of a Sith.”

“Pity, soldier boy.  I think your daughter—as young and fresh and virginal as she is—will bring a good price to the slave traders.  Your choice.”

There was an inarticulate cry of rage and then the bounty hunter heard the sounds of fists striking flesh—too fast for a single clone to be landing those blows.

Fett pulled away the listening device and he sighed.  It was none of his business, damn it, he told himself.  Walk away, Boba.  Walk away, and one of the problems of this job will take care of itself.  But even as his mercenary side of his conscience was protesting, Fett was sliding a fresh power cell into the pistol grip of his blaster and he drew in a deep breath and kicked down the door.

His first three aimed shots slammed into the trio of muscled guards beating on Gare, but one was a Trandoshan and Fett put two more rapid fire bolts into that one.  Acting on instinct, he ducked and then lashed out in a vicious side-kick that put a fourth thug on the ground, rapidly followed by a double-tap of blaster bolts, and then he nailed the fifth standing behind the mobster seated at the desk.  The fifth had just managed to clear his weapon from the leather of his holster when he ate a final bolt and dropped to the ground.

“That is murder, soldier,” Chaine said in a firm voice, but the faint sweat beads on his head told a different story.  “Leave now, and I won’t call the local enforcers.”

Fett smiled.  “Your first mistake was getting greedy; you had to push for more, didn' you?  The second was thinking that someone like you could intimidate one of us—that doesn’t happen.  Your third was believing that he was alone.  He isn’t and he never will be.  There are twenty-five thousand of us here in this system—twenty-five thousand brothers.  Joined together in blood, and bonded in war, Chaine.  The fourth mistake was threatening his family—because his family is my family, and it is the family of ALL of my brothers,” Fett glanced down at Gare, who was unconscious on the floor—for a moment, he feared that the Sergeant was already dead, but then he saw the ribcage move as the clone continued to breath.  “The last mistake you will ever make was to interfere in my affairs.  My name is Boba Fett.”

The blood drained from Chaine’s face and he opened his mouth to speak, but the blaster bolt arrived before he could say a word.

Fett holstered the blaster and he thumbed his radio.  “One, this is Eight.  We’ve got a problem—back rooms.”

He knelt down beside the groaning clone and frowned as he checked the injuries.  They were mostly superficial, but Trandoshan’s hit HARD.  Three—maybe four—broken ribs, a good possibility of a concussion, and severe soft-tissue bruising.  Fett took the cred-stick from the desk—Gare’s cred-stick—and stuck it back in the Sergeant's wallet, even as Corporal Madra came through the door with a drawn blaster.  Faintly in the background, the bounty hunter could hear the droid screaming, “No blasters!  No blasters!” and he smiled.

“Sarge needs medical treatment, One.  I’ll take care of the evidence.”

The corporal nodded, his lips tight.  “Fire Team Besh, get the Sergeant out of here and to the vehicle—find us a doc.  The rest of you, clear the cantina.  Eight, what the hell happened?”

“Take too long to explain, One,” Fett said as he rifled through the desk and found what he was looking for—a data recorder for the hidden cameras.  He yanked it out,  made certain to press the button that would erase the data and tossed it over to the clone non-com.  “Everything is on there.  FIRE IN HOLE!” he yelled as he drew out an incendiary grenade from one of his pockets, popped the safety clip and dropped it inside the wooden desk filled with old-fashioned paper before closing the drawer.

“You are insane, Eight,” Madra mumbled as Fett passed him and closed the door to the office, but he just shook his head as he heard the grenade go SNAP, and then crackle of fire within.  He pulled the fire alarm as he followed his junior out of the cantina.  “I think I could learn to like you.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 27, 2012, 04:13:59 PM

Interlude

The sudden emergence of more than two thousand capital ships over Coruscant stunned the defenders of the Imperial Capital.  And the mass Fleet was led in person by none other than Grand Moff Zsinj aboard his flagship:  the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist.  Had the Coruscant Defense Fleet not deployed to reinforce the shipyards, even this force which contained over a hundred Star Destroyers would have posed little threat.  But Isard and the Ruling Council had sent out dozens of Fleets to insure the safety of those yards, reducing their defenders from over five thousand ships to little more than a fifth of that, and now Zsinj outnumbered the defenders by almost two-to-one.  To make matters worse, his ships emerged from hyperspace in one of the few sectors of the Coruscant System not heavily protected by the Golan Defense Stations placed strategically thoughout the local space to cover the most heavily used hyper exit points.

By themselves, the immobile stations would have gutted Zsinj’s Fleet—but he knew where they were and he nearly managed to avoid them all . . . except for the twenty which floated in close orbit over the capital world itself. 

High Admiral Chan-shun did his best with what he had at hand . . . but it wasn’t enough, and while the attacker was heavily concentrated, over three hundred of Chan-shun’s vessels were scattered throughout the system.   Eight hundred Imperial vessels loyal to the Council met Zsinj’s two thousand ships of war in high orbit—and the carnage began.  In heavy ships, the two were almost matched, for Chan-shun had sixty Star Destroyers of his own to face the hundred deployed by Zsinj and they were supported by the Golan III NovaGun stations floating in orbit.  But Zsinj had been nothing if not meticulous in his planning; Task Forces build around Interdictors moved out and blocked those ships further out-system from reinforcing the High Admiral.  Four Torpedo Spheres—the last four in Zsinj’s command—engaged the Golan platforms and the stations died under the hammering barrage of thousands of capital proton torpedoes.  And nothing in the Coruscant system could match the firepower and shielding of Iron Fist.

The battle was vicious, on a scale that had not been fought since the Clone Wars and the last battle over Coruscant—but the odds were too much for the Imperial forces to contend with.  Within four hours, all but a handful of loyal Imperial vessels throughout had been destroyed or disabled, along with all twenty of the stations.  Less than one hundred managed to withdraw and flee to safety.  But they had not perished alone.  Twelve hundred of Zsinj’s ships were broken and battered hulks incapable of supporting life—and none of his Torpedo Spheres had survived.  Of the eight hundred which remained, most were damaged, but Iron Fist, his Flagship was almost untouched. 

With local space clear, Grand Moff Zsinj—soon enough to be crowned as Emperor Zsinj the First!—ordered his troop carriers to begin their landings.  And that is when the plan went awry.

A new Fleet—a rebel Fleet—two hundred ships strong (smaller ships mainly, but led by a pair of captured Imperator-class Star Destroyers) emerged over Coruscant.  Commanded by General Solo, the fresh ships tore into their Imperial opponents supported by dozens of squadrons of X-Wings and Y-Wings and B-Wings and gunboats of all shapes and sizes.  And the warships and fighters were not alone, for nearly three hundred space transports—crewed by smugglers gathered together at the promise of looting the Imperial capital—trailed in their wake.

Caught by surprise, in the midst of landing his ground forces, Zsinj moved his ships into position to crush the rebel scum—and that is when the ground on Coruscant itself heaved and another nineteen kilometer long Super Star Destroyer emerged from its hiding place on the surface.  The troop carriers were past the point of no return; their shields overstressed by the heat of reentry . . . they died as Lusankya opened fire with hundreds of heavy turbolaser batteries into their vulnerable bellies. Hundreds of thousands of troops vanished along with their transports in a string of explosions across one quarter of Coruscant’s skyline. 

And Lusankya clawed for orbit as the rebels and Zsinj merged into another pitched battle.

Isard, with her chance to defeat the Grand Moff once and for all, ordered her crew to ignore the rebels and concentrate on the flagship of the Warlord—and for the first time in Imperial history, two Super Star Destroyers—both Executor-class—engaged each other at close range.

This second phase of the battle was no long-lived well-choreographed dance, but a bitter slug-fest against enemies who neither desired nor granted quarter.  Iron Fist and Lusankya spiraled around each other, their fire smashing into shields designed for just this occasion; with bolts penetrating to the heavily armored hulls.  But nothing made by sapient hands could resist such energies for long, and both flagships began to stream debris and air and lifeless bodies in their wake as they continued to pound each other into wrack and ruin.

The exhausted Imperials aboard Zsinj’s fleet held the rebels at bay—but they too were near the point of breaking, with disabled or destroyed weapons and empty flight decks and skeleton crews manning stations amid piles of the dead and dying.  Still, theirs was the battle to lose and they were on the verge of emerging victorious when a second Rebel Fleet, this one led by the Mon Cal Admiral Ackbar emerged on top of them.  Thirty-two fresh Mon Calamari Star Cruisers led this Fleet and it was simply too much for Zsinj’s crews.

They had fought for hours, their ships were in tatters, and now still more fresh enemies had arrived.  Hundreds of assault ships launched from Ackbar’s Fleet and panicked cries arose over the comm systems as the Imperial crews fought off Wookie boarders!  It was too much, and the remnants of Zsinj’s once-magnificent Fleet broke and ran.  Barely one hundred and fifty of his ships survived to escape into hyper once more, leaving the Rebels—Solo and Ackbar—in possession of Coruscant.

Except for the two flagships still locked in a death duel.  As the Rebels—the New Republic—regrouped, finally a massive explosion rocked Lusankya and the ship staggered.  Faced with the reality of her own possible demise, she ordered the vessel to run for hyper-space—but Zsinj, his plans ruined, his Fleet destroyed, he pursued her, firing into his foe’s hull the entire time even as rearmed Rebel fighter-bombers closed for their own attack runs.  Lusankya perished long before she was ready for the jump to light speed, just minutes before the Rebel fighter strike—led by Rogue Squadron—unleashed the torpedo and missile hail that destroyed Iron Fist and with it Grand Moff Zsinj.

Coruscant had fallen.  And it was the Rebels who now controlled the orbitals over the Imperial Capital.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on December 27, 2012, 06:29:27 PM

HAH!

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Warclaw on December 27, 2012, 06:56:04 PM

The Rebels have Coruscant for the moment...but can they hold it?  Do they even want to try?

my feeling is no to both questions.

the circumstances allowed them to deliver a crushing blow to the Imperial remnant factions, decapitating two of them in one go, and eliminating both Isard and Zsing,  but now that the threat to the outlying regions has diminished, the remaining Imperial remnant force can easily re-concentrate and crush what the Rebels have.

What I believe they should do is make this an in and out raid.  Grab what they can, salvage any ships available, and take whatever they can use from the surface.  Given the transport available to the rebels, vs the size of Coruscant's industrial might, whatever they take will be a token amount in the grand scheme of things, but it could be a significant boost to the rebel force, especially if chosen wisely.

And this doesn't count the public relations/morale boost this victory will give them.  As long as they don't throw it away trying to hold a planet they don't really need.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 29, 2012, 07:04:47 PM

Chapter Ten

Fett entered the office of General Camlaan and he snapped to attention.  “Trooper DK-34732-C27, reporting as ordered!” he barked.  Besides the General seated behind his desk—wearing a very stern frown—Sergeant Devalis was present, along with a second human that Fett recognized as Mal Galen, the Director of the Central Cyralis Intelligence Directorate.

Camlaan glowered at the bounty hunter who was clad in full armor—minus his helmet.  And weapons.  “Care to explain why you shot and killed eight men and burned down a cantina in the midst of the capital, DK-34732-C27?”

“Sir.  I believed that Sergeant Devalis was in grave danger, Sir.”

“And so you just barged in, past two guards stationed outside the office, managed to take everyone inside by surprise and shoot five more guards and Chaine before anyone else managed to get off a single shot in return?  THEN, you burnt down the establishment with an incendiary grenade—never mind that you should not have had either the blaster or grenade in your possession off base!  And why were you spying on your Sergeant in the first place?”

“Sir.  It was my impression that Sergeant Devalis was abducted by those men based upon his reaction to them in the cantina.  I endeavored to determine whether or not he had been abducted, at which time I heard the Sergeant being assaulted and acted accordingly to come to the aid of a comrade.  Sir.”

“Did you hear what the dispute was about, DK-34732-C27?”

“Sir.  No, sir.”

“Really?  How strange.  And the recording module you recovered was wiped clean of data.”

“Chaine must have set a dead-man’s switch upon it that wiped it when I pulled the unit, Sir.”

“How . . . prescient of him,” Camlaan growled and then he sighed.  “Stand at ease, Deke.  For the record, since I am certain you DID hear the conversation, we were trying to trace Chaine’s associates.  Sergeant Devalis was under orders to approach the man for an off-the-record loan, and then was deliberately late in his payments.”

Boba Fett made his eyes go wide, and Camlaan smiled.  Galen turned around from the window and he nodded.  “We have known for some time that Chaine was engaged as a minor loan-shark, primarily to the military.  But recently it came to our attention that he was attempting to black-mail those spacers and troopers for sensitive information—troop movements, ships in dry-dock, locations of munitions depots, . . . the route of Moff Patrice and details of his security.  A trooper came to me and confessed that he had used Chaine’s services and was now being pressed for this information,” the Director shrugged.  “We had hoped to trace back who this information was destined for.  Which your actions derailed, Trooper DK-34732-C27,” he finished sourly.

Fett let out his breath, as though he were relieved, and he turned his head to Devalis.  “So you weren’t actually in danger, Sergeant?  I am relieved, and I will accept any punishment deemed appropriate for ruining this sting, Sir,” he continued as he turned his head back to Camlaan.

“No.  There will be no punishment, Deke.  You acted to protect a member of your squad—I understand your actions and what drove you to take them.  No charges or summary punishment will be issued against you.  As long as you do not make a habit of shooting six civilians, destroying a business establishment, and leaving two more civilians behind to burn in the conflagration that you set.  Sergeant Devalis has been authorized to inform his squad of the details—it was clearly a mistake NOT to include all of you in this from the beginning,” he finished in a sour tone, clearly directed at the Intelligence Director.

“Information must be kept close to the vest, General.  But yes,” Galen said as he waved one hand in acknowledgement of Camlaan’s point.  “As close as your Shock Troopers are, I should have made allowances to inform them ahead of time to prevent this type of . . . precipitous action.  That mistake will not occur again.”

Camlaan nodded.  “In any case, Sergeant, your role in this operation is finished.  You and Trooper DK-34732-C27 are dismissed.”

Both Fett and Devalis snapped back to attention and saluted crisply; a salute which Camlaan returned.  The two men turned and exited the General’s office and marched down the corridors of the Palace Garrison complex.  Fett came a halt as he realized that his Sergeant had stopped and was looking in an empty room.  “Follow me,” Gare said quietly and the bounty hunter stepped inside.  Gare shut the door, and then closed the blast hatch over the sliding entryway.

“First, thank you, Deke.  Had I actually been in danger, you would have saved my life.  Second . . . I was not quite unconscious when you gave your true identity to Chaine . . . Boba Fett.”

Fett sighed.  But Gare hadn’t moved and he waited until the Sergeant nodded.  “There is only one reason you are here—and I cannot allow you to get any closer to the Moff.  Now before you try to kill me,” and Gare smiled, “I have prepared a full report on file that will be delivered in the event of my death to General Camlaan, or in 25 hours from now, whichever comes first.  So if you kill me, your mission is still blown.”

“And you think I am going to just walk into one of your detention cells without a fight, Gare?” Fett asked quietly.

“No,” the clone said with a sigh.  “That is why I giving you a 24-hour pass.  I don’t care where you go, what you do, or who you kill—as long as you are not on Cyralis and targeting my Moff at the end of that time, Deke.  It’s a damn shame, because you are a fine trooper—just like all the clones that came from your father’s template.”

Fett just stared at the Trooper before him, as Gare laid one hand on his shoulder.  “I hate losing you, but I won’t allow you to kill my Moff—or my men.  And I know that you don’t want to have to do the later, Deke.  Just know this—regardless of what we might be in the Galaxy at-large, how feared we are, how expendable we are, here, in Cyralis, we have been given the chance to be more than expendable weapons.  We are being given the opportunity—all of us, not just a lucky few—of becoming real live human beings, Deke.  And that happened only because of General the Moff Patrice.  Ask yourself is this bounty really worth collecting?  Is it?  Because if you think it is, I will fight you,” Gare smiled wanly.  “You will kill me, of course, but I will fight you.  And so will every clone on this planet.  You dream of Mandalore, I have been told.  This world, our leader . . . Deke, to us, this is our Mandalore.”

And Gare stepped back.  Fett just stood there in total shock for several moments and then he nodded.  Gare unsealed the door, and without another word Fett left him behind.

“Good travels, Fett,” Gare whispered as he stepped into the corridor and watched the trooper make his way through the sparse crowd.  “Good travels and a long life.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: muttley on December 30, 2012, 12:37:41 PM

Nice

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on December 31, 2012, 02:46:20 PM

“This facility is most impressive, Moff Patrice,” Queen Kylantha said with a slight bow towards the old man; she turned her gaze back to the expansive windows of the Observation Deck of the Ord Tanis Shipyards.  “Those are Star Destroyers, are they not?”

“Indeed they are, my Queen,” Moff Panaka replied before Patrice could utter a word.  “I do not recognize the class, however, Moff Patrice.  And I know my ships well.”

“That is a new class of Star Destroyer, Moff Panaka,” Thom said with a smile.  “New ships for new times, after all.  We have designated them as the Stalwart-class,” he gestured towards a holographic display.  “If the Queen wishes to see what they will appear as when complete . . .,” his voice trailed off, and the Queen of Naboo nodded regally.

“She would indeed,” Kylantha answered.  The projection revealed a slowly rotating design of CEC’s fast Star Destroyer and Panaka whistled.  “That is a lot of forward firepower, Patrice—Corellian?”

“An in-house design by CEC-Cyralis.  We project that she will be as fast and maneuverable in real-space as a Carrack-class light cruiser, yet possess nearly as much firepower as an Imperator-class Star Destroyer, on a smaller frame.”

Panaka frowned.  “By that scale she is a good bit smaller than an Imperator; what did you have to sacrifice?  And those guns have to be lighter than the heavy turbolasers of the Imperators.”

“She’s designed for local defensive operations—not offensive campaigns.  She carries just twenty-four TIE Avengers and four shuttles in her hanger bay and her troop complement is limited to one company of Shock Troopers.  The remainder of her internal volume is given over to shielding, armored bulkheads, and weapon systems.  And yes, her guns are lighter, but she is to be outfitted with twice as many as Imperator-I, plus an overlapping battery of anti-starfighter armaments that makes a Lancer- or Tartan-class weep in shame.  And taking a page from the old Victory-class, she carries six heavy anti-ship proton torpedo launchers arrayed to either side of the prow, along with two dozen star-fighter scale concussion missle tubes interspaced with her trench guns.  Overall, she carries eleven quad turbolaser turrets on the center line, six heavy ion cannon set in the trenches, another twenty-four twin  turbolasers in the trenches, six heavy twin tubolasers set in the trenches, the six capital torpedo tubes I menioned earlier, twenty-four light missle tubes, forty-eight quad anti-fighter laser turrets, and and four tractor beams.”

“I can see where that might be useful—but why not just build Imperators?” Senator Pooja Naberrie asked, as the Queen nodded her head indicating that she had the question in mind.

“Several reasons, Your Majesty, Senator.  First of all, KDY would rather upset if I simply started producing their design out here without purchasing them from their own shipyards,” Patrice said with a chuckle, and Panaka barked out a laugh as well.  Kuat was renowned for the ferocity at which they defended their intellectual property—and was one of the few interstellar conglomerates which could pose a threat to any individual sector.  “Second, Master Karyda,” and the CEC executive bowed again, his best customer smile fixed on his face, “assures me that in the time it would take to complete and fit out two Imperator-class vessels, he can deliver five of our new Stalwarts.  Third, each of these ships will require a crew—including flight crews and troops—of just twelve thousand officers and men, compared to the forty-seven thousand plus aboard an Imperator.”  Thom paused and he shook his head.  “Cyralis has a great many people among the planets of this Sector, Your Majesty, but trained officers and crews for warships are not an inexhaustible resource.  We must reduce the manpower requirements for our ships to meet our obligations in the future—after all, we do not have replacement crewmen coming from the Core any longer.  And in the wake of the Battle at Coruscant, I doubt that any will be sent in the near future—to any of our Sectors.  And the fourth reason is that while Cyralis is a wealthy Sector—Lamaredd as well—the chaos of this Civil War has caused economic disruptions with  corresponding drop in revenue, which means we must carefully allocate our resources to what best serves our needs.  I can build and maintain four Stalwarts for the cost associated with a single Imperator.  And that is well worth a slight reduction in individual capabilities.”

While the New Republic had momentarily seized the capital, they quickly discovered that they were unable to hold the system.  Grand Moff Kaine—titular leader of Oversector Outer—and those who followed him had swooped in and driven them off; and then the infighting began at a truly hectic pace.  Reinforcements summoned by Isard and the Council before their defeat arrived and once again Imperial fought Imperial in space over the Capital world.  Two dozen Moffs and Admirals had laid claim to the throne—and each had engaged in a vicious no-holds barred death match for control of the capital.  Kaine could have held the planet, but he was too smart to even try in the face of his opposition—he had withdrawn his Fleets in good order and with minimal casualties and instead struck out at the holdings Zsinj had left behind.  From his central headquarters in what had become known as the Pentastar Alliance, he had taken nearly a third of the systems once loyal to Grand Moff Zsinj—and by far the lion’s share of his surviving ships and troops.

Several powerful Warlords—Teradoc, Harrsk, and Delvardus among them—had answered Kaine's call and formed a new Council based on Yaga Minor.  Encompassing worlds as far distant as Bilbringi, Ord Trasi, Serenno, and Carida, the self-styled ‘Imperial Remnant’ claimed to be the legitimate successor of Palpatine’s New Order . . . but unlike most such successors, it appeared (for the moment) content with securing its borders and not launching new campaigns of expansion.

The New Republic might have had to withdraw from Coruscant, but the squabbling of Imperial officers was allowing them to expand geometrically in other areas.  Indeed, the expansion of worlds professing fealty to Mon Mothma had all but severed the Corellian Run—and contact with the Imperial Rim from surviving Imperial Sectors in the Core and Colonies.

Panaka frowned, “They are imbeciles, Patrice.  All of them.  And because of their ambition the Empire will fall,” the Moff’s voice was bitter, and Patrice understood full well how the man felt.  Panaka was not well loved by his people—many of whom considered his service with the Empire a betrayal of his former Queen—Amidala.  And the Rebels—the New Republic—had not forgiven him for siding with Palpatine; if they won control of Naboo and the Chommell Sector, he would have to flee to remain alive.

“They are, Panaka,” Thom said soothingly.  “And because they have thrown away the Empire, the time is coming when we, the Moffs of the Rim, must unite together to hold at bay the chaos engulfing this Galaxy.  Together, we can preserve our way of life—and our beloved worlds.  Separately, we will be consumed by the alien-loving Rebels and made to pay for Palpatine’s sins.”

The dark-skinned Moff jerked his head up and his eyes flashed, but Thom pressed on.  “Don’t lie to yourself, Moff Panaka—you know well that Palpatine and his methods created more Rebellion than they ever quashed.  That isn’t to say that the Empire wasn’t a force for good—it was.  And it can be again.  But do not rewrite history to paint the Emperor as anything other than he was—an arrogant, ambitious, power-seeking, megalomaniac that sought to control everything and everyone using the harshest methods possible.”

“Quite right, Moff Patrice,” the Queen said as she laid her hand on Panaka’s arm.  “It is imperative that we address reality as it is; and not how we might desire it to be.”

Thom bowed low.  “Her Majesty is as wise as she is serene and lovely.  Master Karyda has arranged a tour of the Yard; I regret that I will be occupied in preparing for the summit which begins tomorrow, so I must take my absence and return to Cyralis.  Senator Naberrie, I believe that you are returning as well to prepare the Queen’s lodging?”

“I am, Moff Patrice.  Was that an invitation to share a shuttle?”

“I would be honored, my dear—if the Queen permits it?”

“Of course,” Kylantha answered.  “Come, Panaka—let us ferret out the secrets of Corellia from this handsome young man.”

Ran Karyda blushed and smiled his best saleman’s grin.  “This way, Your Majesty, Moff Panaka.  Ord Tanis is one of the oldest shipyards in the Outer Rim Reg-. . .,” his voice trailing off as the sliding doors closed behind the Queen and her party.

Thom held out one arm, and the Senator took it.  “Such courtesy and chivalry—I thought that was long dead.”

“Many things once thought dead still live on the Outer Rim, my dear,” Thom answered as they began to walk towards the shuttle bays—surrounded by Thom’s trooper escort at a discrete distance ahead and behind.  “Have you an answer for me?” he whispered.

“I do.  Mon Mothma says if you arrange for Veers to no longer command the assault on Ryloth, she will leave Cyralis—and Lamaredd—alone.  But she is concerned that your grasp exceeds your ability with this summit.  That you might wind up posing a threat to the survival of the New Republic, Thom.”

“In other words, she doesn’t mind if two small and insignificant Sectors remain neutral—but thirty?  That are nominally part of the Empire?  The Bothans and Rodians are pushing her aren’t they?  Their home worlds lie not far away, and their leadership is scared to death of what I might do.”

“There is an . . . element . . . among Mon Mothma’s advisors who believe that any compromise which leaves part of the Empire—whether in name only or otherwise—to be a mistake.  And while they applaud your change in the laws of Cyralis, they are vehemently opposed to retaining any of the Imperial trappings that you have wrapped yourself in.”

“Make no mistake, Pooja.  I believe in the Empire—the Old Republic was corrupt and your New Republic will do nothing more than repeat the sins of its fathers.  We must have central control to a greater extent than a bloated Senate that agrees on nothing.  Individual systems should be allowed a greater freedom in determining their own course, but at levels above that?  The times require a leader, not a debating society.”

“Let us set this aside for now,” the young former Senator from Naboo replied.  “Do you believe that you can unite thirty-six Sectors under your rule?”

“Of course not.  There are too many players, all of whom have their own ambitions.  I do think that Bitrose, Pelgrin, Dalchon, and Gaulus—after Veers meets with his tragic fate—will come onboard.  Arkanis is a hot-bed of Rebel activity that has all but declared itself for the New Republic and Moff Anar in Savareen is too blatantly a specist to allow my reforms; which is a pity because he will be deposed within the year if he does not, probably by a Rebel special operations team.  Moff Ravik in Tolonda is insane.”

Patrice shook his head.  “The man is gone around one bend to many, and many of his officers know it—I might well be forced to intervene there and remove Ravik regardless of his decision; leaving him alone might be worse than a short war.”

Pooja shuddered.  “I agree; Ravik scares me—I’ve heard rumors he worships a Death Cult.”

“That is the least of his insanities, my dear.  Karthakk, Kibilini, and Cadavine are open to the idea of joining a larger union; if only to keep their Moffs in power.  But there is a strong rebel presence in Karthakk, and that might bring us into conflict with Mon Mothma if Moff Charlys joins."

"Ryndellian is very interested in an alliance, if not an outright union.  Admiral Lynisan has assumed control after his Moff abandoned the capital last year.  He and Kell have been having candid and fruitful talks; that would give us a toe-hold on the Middle Rim and brings us to . . . Alui and Chommell.  If Alui doesn't join, we will not have a corridor to Chommell and Naboo; at the moment, however, I think the odds are fifty-fifty that Moff Eisley will choose to stand with us.  He's a veteran of the Clone Wars and despairs at the current levels of chaos and insurrection.  Panaka?  His decision will depend on you and the Queen, I think, Pooja."

She nodded as they reached the blast doors to the shuttle hanger, the Shock Troopers standing as an honor guard to either side.  “Leave Panaka to me and the Queen, Thom.  Her Majesty is . . . intrigued by the idea, and she is rather more questioning of the New Republic than I.  I will do what is best for Naboo, however.”

“That I do not question.”

"Of the rest?  Astal, Bajic, and Juris might join; their leaders are sitting on the fence and want to see how the summit plays out.  Lol, Dail, Portmoak, Cor'ric, Sarin, The Hook Nebula, Sanbra, Toblain, Tamarin, Svivreni, Khuiumin, Parmel, Quence, Parmic, Sjuimis, The Torch Nebula, Thuris, Skine, Merel, and Samix . . . their leaders are big fish in a small pond, or they have a large Rebel presence, or they have ambitions that do not allow them to see themselves as subordinates or even equals.  Worst case scenario for Mon Mothma is that fourteen other Sectors join with Cyralis-Lamaredd.  For the rest to agree would take a Jedi using mind-control.”

“Less than half,” Pooja mused.  “That agrees fairly well with my own evaluation—and it will make Mon Mothma slightly happier than if they all joined.  But what of Ryloth?  It will be squarely within your territory?”

“Senator Naberrie, tell Mon Mothma not to worry herself about Ryloth.  The Twi’lek leadership and I have discussed this matter and they have endorsed my suggestion—that is all she needs to know at this time.”

“She will not be pleased if the Twi’lek homeworld remains part of the Empire—even this small rump of an Empire, Thom.”

“Politics is the art of the possible, my dear.  Remind Mon Mothma of that,” Thom stopped at the base the shuttle ramp.  “And I presume that you mean to grill me for the remainder of the flight back to Cyralis?”

“Unless you have a better suggestion of how to spend the time,” Pooja said with a laugh and a wink as she walked up the ramp with a sashay of her hips.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 01, 2013, 03:19:13 PM

Thom smiled as his guests gawked at the assembled Star Destroyers stationed in orbit above Cyralis.  He had deliberately chosen this station so that they could see with their own eyes the Fleet he had assembled here.  Well, the heavy ships that he and Biram Voelkers and Lars Krandor had assembled.  Most Sectors—especially this distant on the Rim—had six or perhaps seven Star Destroyers.  Only those Moffs with major Fleet bases routinely saw such a collection as Patrice had assembled here in orbit—despite the objections of Kell Morvin.  Sixteen “true” Star Destroyers and a further eleven of the smaller Victory-class had been pulled away from their normal assignments for just this occasion.  That was almost half of the entire active complement of the Cyralis, Pelgrin, and Bitrose Fleets, and Kell had warned that the remainder would be stretched thin during this summit.

But the crown jewel, the part which had caused jaws to drop in astonishment was the command ship at the center of that formation.  Thom smiled.  The 7.2 kilometer long Illustrious, a Bellator-class Super Star Destroyer, had arrived in Cyralis just eleven days ago.  Her commanding officer—Fleet Captain Gordon Ryn—had been assigned to the Fleet at Corellia, but the ship had survived the battle that raged over the shipyards orbiting Tralus.  She had survived that battle because Admiral Jin Hassem had told the crew he had special orders from the Ruling Council for a special operation two weeks before Zsinj launched his coordinated strikes.

Illustrious travelled under communications black-out to the Sevastol Sector in the Mid-Rim, and there she carried out a dozen raids in just eight days upon the worlds of that war-torn expanse.  A back-water region with almost no significant industry, Sevastol had been contended by the Empire and the Rebels before the Battle of Endor—but after the death of Palpatine, nearly all of the forces fighting there (on both sides) had been withdrawn.  There had been far more valuable systems to be concerned with . . . and peace settled on the worlds and peoples of Sevastol for nearly a year.  Until Hassem and Illustrious arrived.

His raids tore through the light ships—Imperial and Rebel alike—left to defend the worlds and his Stormtroopers had gathered almost ten thousand prisoners; Hassem insisted that the prisoners were ‘Rebel agents’.  Of course, Ryn and the majority of Hassem’s officers questioned their status as such, as almost every one of those taken were young women—human and Twi’lek predominately.  That was when Hassem plotted course to an uninhabited system in the Outer Rim.  Upon arriving, he informed the crew that he had been anointed by the Council as the caretaker of the Empire until the Emperor returned—and he had been given a vision by Palpatine himself.  The prisoners were to become his wives—all ten thousand of them—and the crew of Illustrious would make this world their home, from which the Emperor would be Reborn from among Hassem’s children.  In time, their home-in-exile (a barely habitable world of tainted air and marshlands) would rise as the new capital for the Emperor and the core of a new Empire.

Ryn shot the mad-man in the back even as the Admiral announced that he planned to land the ship on the surface and disassemble it to build their new society and homes.

That was when he—and the other senior officers—learned that the Council had declared them as mutineers and that the Imperial Fleet was searching for them, with orders to destroy the ship and execute the crew.  Having nowhere else left to turn, Captain Ryn assumed command and he made his way cautiously to Cyralis, in the hopes that a former commanding officer named Kell Morvin might accept him in the service of Moff Patrice.

And Kell certainly did.  Now the High Admiral flew his flag from the bridge of the newly arrived Illustrious.  And the expressions of jealousy and awe upon the faces of his guests was a joy to the old General’s heart.

“I still think we pulled away too much from the border my Moff,” Kell whispered as he walked up to stand beside Patrice. 

“I hope you aren’t expressing that sentiment among the guests,” Thom chuckled.

“No, my Moff.  In fact, I have informed your guests that this is the normal garrison for Cyralis—and that we have an additional sixty Star Destroyers of all types defending Cyralis, Lamaredd, Pelgrin, and Bitrose.  I am not quite certain they believe me,” he said with a sigh.  “My thespian talents are solely underused in Fleet command; I may have become too rusty to have carried it off convincingly.”

“As long as they think it a credible possibility that is good enough for our purposes.  Do you agree?”

“Aye, I do.  And if we actually had eighty-eight Star Destroyers to garrison these four Sectors, I wouldn’t worry.  Instead we have thirty-three plus those assembled here—nineteen of those absent being Victory-class.”

“And all of their escorts,” Thom answered.  “As you yourself suggested, the weight of the ships here blinds most of them to what is missing.  We have twenty-eight Star Destroyers in orbit—but barely fifty escorts.  The rest of our lighter-weight ships are stationed to protect this Cluster, Lamaredd, Pelgrin, and Bitrose.  Not to mention our heavy Fleet presence at Ord Tanis.”

“Not heavy enough,” Kell said with another sigh.

“Look on the bright side, Kell.  A year ago you commanded fifteen Star Destroyers and one hundred seventy-three escorts and cruisers.  Today, you command sixty-one Star Destroyers and in excess of seven hundred and fifty lesser ships.”

“Aye, with four times the area to garrison and defend.”

“Kell, you would bitch if they hung you with a golden noose, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” he answered with a smirk.  “I’m an Admiral, Thom.  It’s my job to be pessimistic and cautious.  To see DOOOOM hiding behind every moon and asteroid.  Because maybe then, when the shit hits the fan, I’ll have deployed my forces to meet them as best we can.”

“True,” said Thom.  “And a damn fine Admiral you have made, Kell Morvin.  Have the last of our guests arrived?”

“There is one final shuttle on approach—it should be docking within the next ten minutes.  The other forty-three delegations are present.”

“Forty-three?  I thought we invited thirty-six?”

“Some apparently invited their neighbors, but there is enough food and drink on the buffet table to go around.  And I am certain a few are only here to inform their masters of what happens at this summit—some of these Moffs are in the pockets of the Hutts and other Crime Syndicates.”

“Which delegation is late?”

“The personal representative of Director Isard, my Moff,” Kell paused.  “One Inquisitor Lanu Pasiq.”

Thom winced.  “Make your way over to General Camlaan and inform him of this—make certain he has the Special Unit standing by.”

“I already have, my Moff—and they are.”

“Well then.  It appears as if the game is afoot,” Thom said with a slight smirk.  “Events like this—risks like this—remind me I am alive and not laying in some cold grave on a remote world.”

“Speaking of risks, he arrived two hours ago.  I have him sequestered in the Palace until you have a chance to meet him face-to-face; he is rather impressive.  Reminds me of you in many ways.  A younger you, if not by much.”

“Yes, I was very surprised when Pooja made that suggestion—even more so that he accepted my offer to meet.  But if we can convince him to throw his weight behind what we are doing . . .,”

Kell smiled—no grin, this, but a fierce smile of bare teeth.  “Aye.  If he does, we can cut away the gangrene of the corpse of the rest of the Empire, and formally establish the Empire of the Rim.  If he doesn’t . . .,”

“. . . then we make do.  Like we always do.  Give me five minutes,” Thom said as he spied the hover chair-bound Veers making his way through the crowd.  “I want a word in private with Maximilian before we officially begin the summit.”

“Just like an infantryman—you jus have to see the eyes of your targets before you pull the trigger,” Kell muttered.

And Thom laughed.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 01, 2013, 06:01:38 PM

Conversation in the observation deck came to an abrupt halt as the two Shock Troopers stationed at the entrance were suddenly lifted into the air and flung into bulkheads a dozen meters away. 

SNAP-HISS.  The assembled Moffs and Generals and Admirals and their aides and consorts alike parted in a terrified reaction to that crimson blade that ignited in the doorway.  And from where he and General Veers were engaged in conversation, Thom Patrice just shook his head at the young woman standing in the entrance-way.

As so many of those present did, the newest arrival wore an Imperial uniform—but this uniform was blood red from the high collar to the polished boots, over which a crimson, sable, and gold hooded cloak was worn.  One gloved hand rose, took hold of the edge of the hood, and lowered it, revealing an attractive, if harsh, face with long dark hair and harsh eyes.

“I am Inquisitor Lanu Pasiq, and am here in service of the Empire.”

“As are we all, Inquisitor,” Thom said as he stepped forward, his face stern with suppressed anger.  “What is the meaning of this?  You are here as an observer—deactivate that weapon at once, and in honor of Director Isard’s memory, I shall not have you arrested.”

A gasp went through the crowd.  No one in the Empire spoke in that manner to one of the Emperor’s chosen Inquisitor’s—trained in the arts of the Sith by the none other than Vader himself.

“Is that what she told you?” Pasiq laughed.  “She told me that it was your advice which led her into confrontation with Zsinj—that it was you who failed her.  And the price of failure, Moff Patrice is quite high.”

“You are here to arrest me then?”

“My dear Moff, I am here to take your head and return it to my Empress,” she cooed.

“If you have been paying any attention to the news from Coruscant, Director Isard is dead, Inquisitor.  And there are many—in this very room even—who would take exception with her assumption of Palpatine’s throne.”

“Yes, of course, you wish to believe that, Moff Patrice; that she is dead.  That will make her return all the more sweet when her enemies reveal themselves.”

And whispers of conversations raced around the room.  But Thom laughed.  “If Isard is dead or if she is alive—she no longer holds any power, girl.  She has lost Coruscant and she has lost the Fleets that would have obeyed her—she has nothing.  If she lives, which knowing your kind, might well be just another lie told to sow discontent.”

She lifted her chin and snarled—literally snarled—at Thom.  “I find your lack of faith most disturbing,” she said as one hand shot out in a claw-like gesture.

Thom gasped as unseen forces clamped down on his throat and lifted him into the air, and the guests pressed even further back against the walls and great expanses of windows.

“Release him, Inquisitor,” the command was issued quietly, but everyone in the room felt the presence behind that voice.  They parted again, and a Fleet officer walked forward; like the woman his hair was black, but where her face was contorted in anger and hate, his was serene. 

Pasiq blinked upon seeing him and Thom fell to the deck, gasping as he draw in a breath of fresh air.  “Tan Stele . . . I see that you have abandoned your duty.  The Inquisitorius was much displeased with your sudden vanishing act—but perhaps we can convince them to forgive you if you return with me.”

“Those jackals?  Lanu, they serve only themselves—just as Isard and Zsinj did.  They care for nothing but their own personal power and advancement.  They are the reason that the Galaxy is being torn apart, because they refuse to sacrifice anything for the greater good of the people of this Galaxy—they want control over all life, even if they have to kill half the Galaxy to obtain it.”

“Stand aside Emperor’s Hand,” she said with a smile. “You are no match for me—and you know it.  Stand aside, and I will leave you be as I depart with this traitor’s head.”

“The title was Emperor’s Reach, Inquisitor—and you underestimate me and those I lead today at your peril.  As for Moff Patrice?  I serve him willingly, child.  I have given him my fealty because he is a better person than Palpatine, Isard, Zsinj, Kaine, or your Inquisitorius could ever dream of being.  You will have to come through me to have him.”

She laughed again and grinned maliciously.  “So be it.  Vader knew you—he knew that desired no training in our ways.”

“The Emperor was not concerned with my desires, and train me by his own hand he did, child.  While he sought to teach me of the Dark Side, he could not force me to walk that path; I remain myself, Inquisitor.  I warn you again, test me at your own peril.”

Pasiq lowered her light-saber blade slightly and then she assumed a posture that heralded an attack.  Stele shook his head and he sighed.  He nodded.  “Take her,” he said.

Panels on the interior walls dropped; behind them were arrayed lines of Shock Troopers with weapons raised.  The Inquisitor spun and her light-saber whirled to deflect the blaster bolts—but there were no blaster bolts.  A hail-storm of saberdarts flew through the air as the archaic projectile weapons whined and spat rapid-fire aimed shots, burning through the contents of their magazines.  Her blade slashed a dozen—a score, even more—from the air, but it could not hit all of them.  Her eyes wide with shock and anger, she flung her arm and a wave of telekinetic force erupted out, knocking the troopers back and down—but dozens of darts had already penetrated her flesh, delivering their toxic payloads.

She gasped and she swayed and suddenly felt lightheaded.

SNAP-HISS.  And a second lightsaber blade—of a red so dark it was nearly black—appeared in Stele’s gloved hand.  “I warned you not to underestimate me, Inquisitor.  I am not a Sith.  I am not a Jedi.  And I do not fight fair duels,” Maarek Stele said softly as he walked forward.

Her vision graying, she flung out her hand once again and her lightsaber streaked away, the crimson blade remaining active as it dove unerringly for Stele’s heart—but with a wave of his hand, the former Emperor’s Reach diverted its course—and Maximilian Veers screamed as the lightsaber buried itself in his chest.

Stele looked at his hand and then at the cooling corpse of the once crippled and now dead Imperial General.  “Oops,” he said.  “Bit out of practice, sorry about that.”  And then he walked forward.  The lightsaber flashed once, and the headless body of Inquisitor Pasiq fell to the deck, her head rolling towards the crowd, her open eyes staring as the light slowly faded away.

“I am Maarek Stele, and I serve Moff Thom Patrice.  Choose your futures wisely at this summit, my Moffs.  The Moff and Admiral Morvin have allowed me the opportunity to teach their pilots how to make a TIE dance.  And they are fast learners.  I sincerely hope that you do not choose a course of action that will result in me and my pilots coming for you on one dark night.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 02, 2013, 08:50:44 PM

“This is insane, Patrice!” Moff Barell of the Hook Nebula barked as he shook his head.  “Were we to join in this insanity, we will all be destroyed!  Do you truly believe that Mon Mothma, or Grand Moff Kaine, or the Hutts will just allow us to break ties with the Empire!  We will be attacked from all sides!”

“What Empire, Barell?” asked Admiral Lynisan of Ryndellian.  “The events of these past eighteen months have shown us that Palpatine’s Empire is finished.  The Emperor had no heir, he had no successor—and the Rebels are just sweeping up entire Sectors as we fight each other.  I cannot say that I agree with everything Patrice has proposed—his Declaration of Universal Rights for all Sentient Beings for one.  But can you stand there and say that it is honestly worse than having the Rebels take over?  Can you?”

The Moffs gathered in the chamber of Patrice’s palace in Cyralis began to argue and bicker again, but Patrice just sat silent and he watched them.  Already the fracture lines were showing—twenty leaders present had shown their willingness to discuss Unification. Hyk Indra of Dalchon, Charlys of Karthakk, Loran of Kiblini, Paulus of Cadavine, Admiral Lynisan of Ryndellian, Eisley of Alui, Torne of Astal, Kintaro of Bajic, and Hartee of Juris being the ones he had expected—and they had fallen into place.  Voelkers of Pelgrin and Krandor of Bitrose had also stood up for his proposal—Biram because he had decided the time had arrived to fish instead of cutting bait, and Krandor because he feared the Rebels.  These eleven Patrice had planned upon.

But Undine of Vendusii?  Gannon of Daimar?  General Jasan of Lol?  Vimaar of Dail?  Ammar of Portmoak?  Admiral Pym of Cor’ric?  Patrice had been astounded when these six leaders in the Mid and Outer Rim declared themselves for this Union.  And in a surprising move, Alexander Julstan of Arkanis had pledged his support and worlds—in exchange for ending the rebel advance upon his worlds.  Furthermore, finding himself surrounded on all sides by Moff and Admirals that were arguing for Patrice’s Union, even Anar of Savareen had let go of his caution and hesitation.  And in a move that had shocked every high official present, the late General Veer’s Deputy—Anton Shal—had said that he lost faith in Coruscant, and that Gaulus would follow Patrice, a leader who had proven himself.

Moff Ravik, his Tolonda Sector now surrounded on three sides by neighbors that were supporting the old General, and on the fourth by the unknown regions of Wild Space, he had stormed out of the summit in full fury.  Aggravated no doubt by the decision of the leaders present not to accept (or believe) his claims that Palpatine had appointed him as Grand Moff—as their ruler.  Thom had quietly nodded to Mal Galen and the Intelligence Director had followed Ravik out from the conference.  It had to be done; Ravik was insane and he could not be permitted to retain control of a Fleet in the heart of the soon-to-form Empire of the Rim.  Thom didn’t like it, but his likes and dislikes had long since failed to keep him from doing his duty.

Another twenty-one Moffs and Generals and Admirals stood in opposition—not as vehemently as Ravik, perhaps, but they had made clear that they would not be joining.  And that did not bode well for those twenty-one when the New Republic turned its eyes to this corner of the Galaxy.

Only Moff Panaka of Chommell had yet to speak.  For the five days that this summit had consumed, Panaka had not said a single word.  He held his tongue—and Thom could not read him.  Or the Queen seated beside him. 

“We have only to remain loyal to the New Order and maintain control over own charges!” Moff Quain of Sanbra shouted.  “Rule has always come from the Core—it will do so again!  And when this Succession Crisis has been sorted out, we will fall in line behind the man who assumes the Imperial Throne.  Anything else is treason, gentlemen!  Bloody treason!”

“You imbecile!” responded Admiral Pym.  “If this fighting on Coruscant continues, there won’t be an Imperial Throne!  If all of us, here, now, in this chamber band together we will control more of the Galaxy than the Hutts!  Who, if I might remind my fellow officers, enjoyed the status of Autonomy even under the rule of Palpatine!  Why?  Why did the Emperor allow them this?  Because he knew it would have cost him too many ships, too many troops, too many years to conquer.  If we unite here on the Rim, then no matter who eventually wins control of Coruscant, WE will have our autonomy.  And we can preserve for ourselves the best parts of the Empire and hang the rest!”  That last he meant quite literally, for he had taken a page from Kell Morvin’s playbook and executed every last member of the ISB and CompForce within Cor’ric Sector before he departed for this summit.

And in reaction to the insult, Quain began to yell—and he wasn’t alone.  A dozen Moffs where shouting to be heard and Patrice shook his head . . . and then he drew in his breath as Moff Panaka finally stood—one hand raised in a quieting motion.

Slowly, the chamber drew quiet and still.  He lowered his hand and the silence reigned over the room.  “Palpatine came from Naboo—in Chommell.  He was a son of Naboo.  All of you here know me—you know that I gave him my full support.  I gave the Empire my support.  But I am reminded by my Queen that there was another voice, a voice which stood against many of the Emperor’s future policies.  A voice that was buried far too soon,” and Panaka bowed his head.  “The Empire has fallen, my friends.  Palpatine is dead.  We must now look to the future and there are three paths forward.”

“One is where we continue as we are.  Squabbling and bickering amongst ourselves, until we find that our Fleets are gone, our Armies have deserted, and firing squad of alien scum stands facing us with a pock-marked wall at our backs.  Make no mistake—Mon Mothma will come for you—she hates the Empire.  And her strongest supports hate the Empire, and as Palpatine showed us, hate can make you strong!”

“He showed us as well that hate can corrupt.  His policies created this War.  His control over every system and every Sector had to be absolute—and that is what gave Mon Mothma and her rebels a victory in propaganda.  Many of the Rebels have no idea for what they are fighting for—except to throw down the Empire.  What will replace it?  Look at her own words—there will be return to a Chancellor of the Old Republic; the victors will rule over the deposed.  And we will be deposed.”

“The second choice is that we stand behind a single leader.  That we united to preserve the Empire as it is—to preserve the system without change and continue the policies that have brought us low.  That is the future that Isard and Zsinj represented—what Kaine and those Warlords that follow him represent.  A future of unending war between this New Republic that the Rebels are forming and the Empire, with the Galaxy torn between us.  For twenty years now, they have fought—an entire generation has fought against the Emperor.  And if we walk down this path we will be fighting for generations yet to come.  I remember well the time when Naboo was occupied by tyrants—I fought for a free Naboo in service to my Queen.  I will not see Naboo occupied again, her people suffer under the attrition of war that cannot be won and a peace that cannot be maintained.”

“The third option is here today.  I have thought on this matter intensely—I have searched my soul, my fellow Moffs.  And, as others have said, I believe that Patrice goes too far in his reforms of the Empire—but we must try something.  If not these reforms—which will leave us in command of our homes—then we accept either war everlasting or surrender.  I cannot surrender.  I will not see Naboo’s children go to war for generation after generation—for nothing.  All things in life change, my Moffs.  Only the dead are preserved.  And we plan on living our lives, we must change as well.  Chommel will join with this new government that Thom Patrice has proposed.  And I will add my Fleets and my Armies to him to preserve our worlds.  So that we may have peace in our lifetimes.”

And Panaka sat back down in the silence of the chamber, a tear leaking from one eye. 

Thom stood.  “The time has come to make your decision.  Mine is made.  The question is:  who has the courage to chart a new course?  If you cannot, then I bid you farewell—and good luck.  Those who choose to remain . . . there are matters that must be decided upon in the formation of our new realm.”

“This summit is now adjourned.  Those who have chosen to join our new Empire of the Rim, we will reconvene in one hours time.  To the rest, I bid you safe travels.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 02, 2013, 11:00:37 PM

One hour later, Thom stood.  And only twenty-one other delegations had remained.  He smiled.  More than he had thought. 

“Now we come to the crux, gentlemen.  What form shall our new government take?”

Panaka laughed.  “You mean you haven’t given this any thought, Thom?”  The other Moffs joined in the chuckles. 

Thom smiled.  “Actually, I have.  Where Palpatine went wrong was in concentrating so much power within himself.  The Republic erred is having too much power concentrated in the Senate—where consensus was required for any action.  We must walk the line between the two with the Imperial Union of the Rim.”

Several Moffs nodded as the considered the title.  One by one, signified their agreement.  “While there are several issues on which we must agree will govern us all—that all sentient life is to receive equal rights and liberties under the law, being most central—I do not wish to return to having all power concentrated in the hands of a single man.  Neither should you.”

Thom began to pace.  Each of our Sectors will possess a limited amount of autonomy—provided that we comply with the principles I laid out earlier at the summit.  Instead of a Senate with one representative per world, each of our Sectors will have two Senators chosen by the means each Sector chooses.  They will serve terms of ten years apiece, once we pass the ten year mark, that it.  The original Senators will draw lots to determine who serves a shorter term in office.  For myself, I have already decided that the people of Cyralis—to include the former worlds of Lamaredd—will have a vote on that Senator.  Some of you might instead choose to appoint your Senator or even take the post yourself.”

More laughter.

“These forty-six Senators will form the governing body of the Imperial Union.”

“Forty-six?” asked Biram Voelkers.  “We number twenty-one—Cyralis makes for twenty-two.  With two Senators per Sector that makes forty-four.  Have you misapplied your arithmetic, Thom?”

“Moff Ravik presents a clear and present danger to the safety of the Imperial Union of the Rim,” Thom said quietly . . . and silence hovered over the room.  “I suggest that upon the organization of our government that we move against him in strength and remove him from office, replacing him with a person of our choice and incorporating Tolonda into the Imperial Union as a member Sector.”

General Jasan snorted.  “The man is a raving lunatic—and if he removed from my border, I will certainly sleep better.  I agree.”

The others voiced their approval and Thom nodded.  “Very good.  We can iron out most the remaining details while we appoint—or elect—our Senators and adjust the laws in our Sectors to meet the minimum requirements of what I presented earlier at the summit.  Except for two that must be resolved now.”

“First, the Army and Fleet of the Imperial Union must be consolidated.  Now,” Thom continued even as several of delegates present protested, “I am not speaking of stripping away your Sector’s abilities to defend themselves.  But we must each provide forces to a Consolidated Armed Forces of the Union.  Forming that organization will be our first task—and the CAF will have as its first mission the elimination of Moff Ravik.”

Now, the smiles were gone, but Panaka stood.  “We cannot have it both ways—either we each retain our forces, or we have a national force that serves ALL of us.  If each of you agree to give up fifty ships—at least five of them being Star Destroyers—I pledge that Chommell will reduce our forces to one hundred and warships contributing the remainder to the CAF.  Provided that Gaulus and Cyralis do the same.”

“Cyralis has no objection to that, Moff Panaka.”

“Nor does Gaulus,” said Admiral Anton Shal.

“Good,” continued Panaka.  “We three have the largest forces in this region—that balances each sector and will provide our Combined Fleet with at a minimum force of 2,200 ships,” Panaka smiled, “including somewhere around 150 Star Destroyers.  We will still each retain enough soldiers and ships to defend our Sectors, while the Consolidated Fleet can deploy from strategic hubs to meet any incursions.  Or undergo offensive operations as it may be required to perform.”

Slowly, the remaining leaders voiced their—somewhat reluctant approval and Panaka sat.

“That brings us to the second point—who will lead our government?”

“Come now, Patrice,” said Moff Gannon.  “Don’t tell us that you are not going to stand for that post—I am just wondering what your title will be?”

Thom shook his head.  “I am content to rule over Cyralis—that is all that I desire.  I propose that we show the Galaxy that we are not the same as Palpatine.  I propose we establish a new government that will provide a Steward for our people—a Steward that has honor, courage, principles of character, and will lend to this Imperial Union that one trait which has for so long eluded the Empire.”

“Legitimacy, gentlemen.  We must prove that we are the legitimate government in a fashion that causes Mon Mothma to gnash her teeth in frustration; one that does not cause our former Imperial brethren to fear.  We will establish the rule of law for the better of our people—not just for a chosen few.  And to do that, I have asked the a person here today who I believe will best represent us on the Galactic stage.”

Thom nodded to Kell Morvin who walked over to a nearby door. 

“Gentlemen, I nominate for the post of Lord Steward of the Imperial Union of the Rim,” Thom said as Kell opened the door and a man strode inside, “Garm bel Iblis.  Former Senator of Corellia—hero of the Clone Wars—founding father of the Rebel Alliance.”

And utter silence—shocked silence—filled the room as Senator bel Iblis walked in.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 03, 2013, 12:20:19 AM

Five days earlier . . .

“This is a trap, I know it is a trap,” muttered the woman with long black hair as she paced back and forth.  The other two women in the room just sighed.

“Is she always like this, Irenez?” asked Pooja Naberrie from where she sat.

“More often than not, Senator.  Sena, will you please SIT?  You are making my legs tired just looking at you.”

Sena Leikvold Midanyl stopped and glared at the woman who was technically her superior.  “I am certain that Senator Naberrie has not betrayed us—but I know nothing of this man beyond rumor and we should never have come here!” she snapped, her violet eyes flashing.

“Enough, Sena,” a voice came from the room to the second suite.  “They can hear you in the other wing of this palace, I am quite certain.”  Garm bel Iblis walked into the room and he smiled at the former Senator of Naboo.  “Pooja, come, give an old man a hug.”

She rose and walked over to the tall Corellian—his long hair braided in an intricate weave, the few strands of black among the silver only adding to his magnetism.  His cheeks were clean-shaven, but the mustache and goatee—both silvery-white as well—lent him the air of a desperado, a scoundrel. 

“Garm, dear.  It has been too long,” she whispered as she hugged him tight.

“You think this one is worth it?” he asked.  “I hate giving up the deceit of my death for a false cause—and while the Thom Patrice I knew was a good man,” the deep voice of the Senator paused and then he sighed.  “Let us just say Palpatine had a habit of corrupting all around him.”

“He did, Garm.  But I think that you will find that your ideas and those of Patrice have much congruity.  As much as  I respect Mon Mothma—and act for her upon occasion—her treatment of you has been . . . reckless.  Hear what he has to say, Garm—he promised safe conduct for all three of you.  And he is a man of his word.”

“Why else do you think I am here—to listen.  Agreeing will take quite a bit more effort.”

“Then shall we begin,” said Thom as the door to the Palace corridor slid open.  The two women with bel Iblis tensed and Thom smiled; he turned around.  “Wait outside—there is nothing I need fear in this room,” he instructed his Shock Trooper detail.

“Sir,” the clone answered, stepping back into the hallway.

Thom turned back around and he smiled.  “Aren’t you dead?”

The Corellian barked a snort of laughter.  “Rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.  Thom Patrice, as I live and breathe.  You got old.  And, although it was hard indeed for you to accomplish, your ugliness has only increased as your hair line has receded.”

“Time stands still for no man, you low-down, sabaac-cheating, Wookie-loving, nerf-herder,” Thom smiled.  “I do like the mustache and goatee—they make you appear less like a court jester.”

“Sit, Thom,” the former Senator said as he sat down.  “My aides—Irenez and Sena.  I believe that you already know Senator Naberrie.”

“Charmed, madames,” Thom said with a bow as he took a seat.

“Pooja seems to think that you and I need to talk.  But we are on opposite sides of this; I want the Empire destroyed—you want it saved.  Tell me why I should listen to you.”

“That would be because Palpatine was a homicidal sociopathic monster who didn’t have the least idea of how to actually govern beyond terror and fear.  Oh, he once did.  He played politics like you play sabaac—you know that well.  But absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

“And yet, you want to perpetuate the same system he created.”

“And you want to rebuild the system he came to power within.  Senator, I am no Palpatine.  And I do not desire absolute power.  But, the Emperor was correct in one fashion—the Republic was far too cumbersome and the Senate was hopelessly crippled.  What I want to do is take the best of both and leave behind the worst.”

“With yourself at the helm, Thom.  You are setting yourself up to become Palpatine.”

Thom smiled.  “No.  I am not going to take that post, Garm bel Iblis—you are.”

The old Corellian jerked and both of the women gasped—but Senator Naberrie remained calm.  She had already been briefed.

Thom nodded gravely.  “I want you—a founding father of the Rebel Alliance—to become the first Lord Steward of the Imperial Union of the Rim, Garm.  A Steward—not an Emperor, not a Chancellor—fighting to protect the rights of all of his people, be they human or otherwise.  I need a man who possesses the strength of character and the courage of his convictions that led him to fight Palpatine from the beginning of the Emperor’s reign.  Openly fought him.  Who sacrificed his entire life to see that Palpatine’s rule was ended and finished.  That man is you, Garm bel Iblis.”

“Thom, you cannot be serious.  I have fought Imperials my whole life.  Now, you want me to lead them.”

“I am dead serious, Garm.  Pooja has told me why you went underground—and I agree.  Mon Mothma is an idealist—you are not.  You operate grounded in reality.  And idealism makes her a threat to liberty.  Oh, she won’t start by shooting down people who disagree with her—wait, she has!”

“Her tolerance for all life only extends to those who support the Rebel Alliance.  She will not stop until every person who wants the Empire to exist is put on trial and given to the masses.  There are worlds out there where her New Republic has forbidden any former soldiers or spacers from serving in government or the military; she has disenfranchised millions in her quest to free those Palpatine held in bondage.”

Thom paused and he sighed.  “You know that she is rash, Garm.  She doesn’t listen to others because she doesn’t see others as equal to her.  In that, she is far more like Palpatine than I am.  Or you are.  I want you here to lead MY people—to grant them safety and security.  We in Cyralis have already granted equal rights under the law to all sentient beings; I intend for the Union to do the same in every Sector which joins.  We—you and I and the Empire as it could have and should have been—can provide a counter-balance against her New Republic, if she goes down the path that Palpatine trod.”

Thom sat back and the old Corellian did as well, a stunned look on his astonished face.  “I, . . .,” he began, but Thom stood.

“I don’t want an answer today, Senator bel Iblis.  I want you to think on this long and hard.  Senator Naberrie has the full run of my Palace—indeed the entire planet.  She will take you anywhere you wish to go.  Speak with anyone you want to.  Any species you want to.  Find for yourself the truth of what she and I are trying to save out here.  And then tell me if you want to see all of this thrown away because of the arrogance of that woman.”

Thom bowed his head towards the ladies.  “I hope that all four of you will join me for dinner this evening.  It may be late depending on the delegations and how long they continue to argue.  Good day,” he said as he turned and exited the room.

“A little warning would have been nice!” Serena snapped at Pooja who shook her head.

“My dear, this type of offer, a warning would not have been wise.  Besides, I want to get a picture of Garm utterly speechless.  This is liable to be my only opportunity until after he is dead,” the Naboo native replied with a flutter of her eyelids.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 03, 2013, 01:30:16 PM

The distinctive crash of the fragile cup shattering as it hit the floor brought the guards into her office at a run, and their leader thumbed his radio as he saw the shocked pale face of Mon Mothma, the newly installed Chief of State of the New Republic.  “Medical staff to the Chief of State’s office, stat!” he barked.  But the leader of the Alliance to Restore the Galactic Republic did not appear to hear him—she just stared at the news holo still playing, with a flashing LIVE—BREAKING NEWS header scrolling across the bottom.

There was a man on the screen—a man that the security Lieutenant found vaguely familiar, as if he should know him.  Mon Mothma swayed, her mouth slightly open and then she sat in her chair once more, ignoring the shards of glass and ceramic at her feet—and the spilled beverage that had soaked her robes.

“. . . my fight has always been against Palpatine—against his excesses, his laws which stripped so many peoples of this Galaxy of their rights.  And I will continue to fight as the Lord Steward of the Imperial Union of the Rim against those who seek to carry on in Palpatine’s shadow—those who crave power for the sake of power, who use the law to remove the rights of others to live their lives in peace and liberty; I and those who I have now been entrusted with the honor of leading will fight to restore to this Galaxy equal rights for all living species—equal rights under the law.  We will throw down the corruption of Palpatine’s most heinous followers and we will peace to the Galaxy.”

“We cannot do this by demonizing every man and woman who wore the uniform of an Imperial soldier, spacer, Fleet officer, Stormtrooper, and civil servant—to do that would be to continue the evil that the Emperor wrought upon us all.  He laughs at us from beyond the grave, for we perpetuate the cycle of violence and hate and anger and fear.  We cannot change the past, we can only look to our future.”

“And that future must include humans who once wore the Imperial uniform.  We will punish those who committed atrocities—we will NOT punish those who acted in honor and fought against the New Order in their own way.  With the establishment of the Imperial Union of the Rim, we announce that as of this moment in history, we will no longer be shackled by the past—we will move forward.  Forging this new Union between all species, between all political beliefs, so that our people—OUR PEOPLE—may live their lives in peace and security, their rights assured under our laws.”

“Twenty-two Sectors have pledged themselves to this cause, citizens of the Galaxy.  Twenty-two brave Moffs have stepped forward and said that the times must CHANGE.  And they will.”

“In proof of that, I, Lord Steward Garm bel Iblis of the Imperial Union of the Rim, have ordered that all Union forces—and the Gaulus Sector forces under Moff Anton Shal—to immediate leave the Ryloth system,” Garm paused and his face grew sad.  “Palpatine kept the people of Twi’lek in servitude.  It was a crime which has shamed us all.  Slavery will not be tolerated in the Union.  I declare this day that Ryloth is a free and independent world, owing no allegiance to my own Union or to any other Power in this Galaxy.  To the Twi’lek people, I extend to you my hand in friendship—the Union will do all that you ask to rebuild Ryloth, to repair the damage not only to your world, but to the trust and camaraderie that once existed between humans and Twi’leks.”

“And to those—be they unrepentant Imperials or criminals in service to the Syndicates or minions of the Hutts—who would once again enslave the Twi’lek people, know this:  any action against Ryloth will be considered by the Union to be an action against us.  Test us on this at your own peril.”

“Our road ahead will not be an easy one—for the hate which has grown over the last twenty years will not be easily set aside.  Not for humans, nor for Wookies, nor for Twi’leks, or Sullustans, or Bothans, or any of the other living sapient species of this Galaxy.   It will not be easy to set aside that hate and that anger, but we must.  If we do not, we become the thing we fight.  Just as the Emperor was wrong in depriving every species of their rights under the law for not being human, we would be wrong in painting every soul who served the Empire as a black-hearted monster.”

“The Union will not walk that path—we have established our own Senate.  We will enact our own Laws.  And we will defend the freedom and liberty and rights of ALL people across this Galaxy.  And to this, I and the twenty-two Moff who have signed today this Charter, this Declaration of Universal Rights, we pledge unto you our honor, our lives, and our sacred treasures.”

“I am Garm bel Iblis, who founded the Alliance to the Restore the Republic.  Who fought the Emperor from within the Senate and then with force of arms.  And today, I tell you all there is the third way.  This Union will walk that path, and we welcome all who seek to join with us, in friendship and in peace.  But for those who would seek to do us harm, be warned!  We will fight.  All of us—human and non-human alike.”

The holo-cam turned to a massive crowd of cheering people—human and alien—as fireworks erupted overhead and a flight of TIE Avengers streaked by low in the sky.

And Mon Mothma heard a Corellian curse from the door.  She turned her head to see Han and Leia Solo standing there, their faces just as drained as hers.  Han shook his head in disbelief.  “Senator bel Iblis—but he’s dead.  He’s DEAD.”

“Mon Mothma?” said Leia gently as she placed her hand on the older woman’s shoulder.  “Mon Mothma?”

And the Chief of State’s eyes slowly cleared and she shuddered.  “I believe that we might have a problem, Leia.  Assemble the staff—and ask General Cracken to attend.  I want to know why we were not aware of this before it became public knowledge.”

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: MechRat on January 03, 2013, 05:05:46 PM

Woohoo! Now it really gets interesting!  ;D I can't wait to read more!

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on January 04, 2013, 12:39:00 AM

...Oh, I don't know.  This would be an excellent place to stop.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: MechRat on January 04, 2013, 09:13:15 AM

Quote from: Red Pins on January 04, 2013, 12:39:00 AM

...Oh, I don't know.  This would be an excellent place to stop.

Nooooooo!!!! Don't even suggest that!  :o

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 04, 2013, 12:42:09 PM

“Your bounty has not been collected, Piar,” snarled former Moff Jendar as the two men walked through the quiet corridors of ORO-Corp’s executive retreat on Kelada.  “And now this Sith-damned bel Iblis has returned from the dead—incorporating MY worlds into this abomination of his!”

“There have been setbacks, Moff Jendar.  Or have you not noticed that the Ruling Council no longer exist?  According to my latest reports, there is an agent in place that will be removing Patrice very shortly,” Piar replied.

“Really?  He survived your last attempt!”

“That was a feint to allow our hunter to get into position.  Patrice is as good as dead,” the CEO said as they reached the board room and entered—and both men came to an abrupt halt.

Jendar gagged, his face turning a pale pasty white at the sight, and Piar simply stared at the pile of heads—HEADS—stacked in the middle of the conference table in an irregular pyramid.

“Oh, look, the main attraction has arrived,” said one of the black-clad heavily-armed intruders as he juggled three heads.

Piar swayed at the macabre sight, even as another of the soldiers shook his head.  “Put the heads down, Vsilisk,” he said.

“Sure, LT,” the first soldier answered, as he caught two, and the third hit the floor and rolled over to stop against the Piar’s polished boots—the lifeless open eyes of his brother, Admiral Hassel, stared up at the CEO.

Jendar fell to his knees and retched—the aroma of the filth that he vomited up only added to the nausea that Piar felt.

“Good of you to join to us, Master Piar—and Moff Jendar.  We come bearing a message for you, Master Piar.”

“A-a message,” Piar stuttered as he hit his panic button in his pocket.

“Our jamming devices will keep your guards from responding—and if you have managed to obtain the means to defeat them, well, the rest of the battalion will make short work of them,” the leader of the soldiers said.  “Why don’t you have a seat, Master Piar,” he said as he patted the back of one of the chairs.  And then he nodded to his men.

Rough hands grabbed both Piar and Jendar and forced them down into the seats, and the leader sat on the edge of the table next to the CEO.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Piar.  We don’t like it when some butt-hurt civilian decides to put a price on the head of the man we follow.  Don’t like it at all.  Now,” he continued with a smile, “I’m sure that you—as ORO-Corp’s Chief Executive Officer—knew nothing about this bounty that has been laid on Moff Patrice.  Quite certain that you would well know the price that such a bounty would bring home upon all of those involved.  So we are here to give you another chance, Piar.”

“A-a chance?”

“Yes.  Second chances are so fleeting in this life, don’t you think?  It is simple—you withdraw the bounty and you leave Moff Patrice, the Imperial Union, and Cyralis alone.  Cut your loses—you can do a cost benefit analysis on what will happen if you persist, eh?”

“You killed them,” he whispered, seeing the heads of his closest friends and allies—Klar, Grennal, Joleyn—stacked among the others.

“Pay attention, Master Piar,” that soft voice said.  And Piar looked back up at the smiling soldier.  “Better.  Withdraw your bounty and cut your losses.  This is the only warning you are ever going to receive.  Don’t make me have to come back here a second time.  Understand?”

Piar—his throat painfully dry—just nodded.

“Good!  And you have done us a favor—Moff Jendar, it is such a pleasure to see you again.  Did you know that there is a warrant out for your arrest?  Desertion in the face of the enemy?  In a time of crisis?  Oh, we should be grateful that you decided to seek your fortune on Coruscant—how’s that working out for you?”

The soldiers laughed and their leader shook his head.  Piar sniffed the air and looked askance at Jendar—who had just urinated upon himself.

The leader sighed.  “I hate the smell of fear-piss, Jendar.  Luckily, we don’t need your entire body—just the head.  Vsilisk?”

The soldier who had been juggling the heads grinned and he drew his knife.  Jendar screamed and bolted for the door, but another trooper tripped him.  “Not so fast, Moff Jendar—you don’t know how LONG I have wanted to do this,” Vsilisk said.

Piar closed his eyes and looked away as Jendar’s screams escalated and were cut off—he winced at that thought—abruptly.  There was a dull wet thud, and the stench of coppery blood in the air.  And then the soldier—this Vsilisk—was standing in front of him hold Jendar’s head by the hair, as the blood dripped down from the severed neck.

Their leader rapped his gloved fist on the table and Piar turned back around to face him.  “Don’t make me come back.”

And then he stood.  “The Moff will want to see Admiral Hassel as well—bag him along with Jendar.  Leave the rest; Master Piar will handle the clean-up.”

With that, the soldiers left, and Master Piar began to cry.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 05, 2013, 12:40:01 PM

“Thom, are you certain this is what you want?” Kell asked softly.  The newly appointed Grand Admiral of the Fleet wore standard Imperial Greys—he and Thom and bel Iblis had decided that a separate uniform was unnecessary for the highest rank in the new Union military structure.  Only the insignia had changed.  Kell had balked at the promotion, however, even thought it represented all that he had ever desired—complete and total authority over all of the Consolidated Armed Forces of the Rim, answering only to the Lord Steward and the newly convened Union Senate. 

“You know why we went down this course, Thom.  To keep Cyralis safe.  That has been done.  I am content at being Moff of the Cyralis Sector—I don’t need the vanity of being Lord Steward.”

“You did accept the nomination for Deputy Steward, however—which makes you not only a Moff, but gives you the tie-breaking vote in the Senate.  And bel Iblis’s successor if anything happens to him.”

“A vote that will only be counted if there is a tie, Kell.  And yes, it is imperative that we have an official and recognized line of succession—that’s what got us into this entire mess when the Emperor died to begin with.  Not even the New Republic has clarified who would take over if Mon Mothma died; they would have to elect a new Chief of State—I believe that is the title she finally settled upon.  But since I really don’t want the job, I’m glad that I could talk you into taking up Garm’s offer to hammer the CAF into one unified force.”

Kell sighed.  “Damn if I wouldn’t feel better if you were in charge—but I know why you did this.  At least the Lord Steward isn’t as much of an idealist as I feared.”

Thom laughed.  “He’s Corellian!  A Corellian idealist?  Come on, Kell.  That would be akin to a . . . Bothan philanthropist.  Or a kinder, gentler Lord of the Sith.  Just you hammer the CAF into shape and fast—this war is far from over, I fear.”

“Aye.  Kaine—and just about every Warlord out there—has declared us Rebels and Traitors, and announced that would reduce the Union to charred cinders.  And the Rebels?” he shook his head.

“New Republic, Kell,” Thom chided.  “The New Republic is waiting to see if we fall apart so that they can swoop in and remove the last trappings of Imperial rule from our worlds.  Oh, Mon Mothma did the only thing she could when she made that announcement recognizing our independence and congratulating her comrade-in-arms bel Iblis on his tireless efforts at ‘freeing’ the Twi’lek, but never forget she wants us to fail.  We are a threat to her dream of restoring the Republic across the entire Galaxy.”

“I understand that Borsk Fey’lya was furious—he feels that the Lord Steward has betrayed him.  And he doesn’t like that we might potentially wind up sitting on the border of Bothan space.”

Thom smiled.  “He’s a dangerous player, Kell—he knows the game well.  Tell your analysts not to underestimate him—or his spies.”

Kell nodded and he looked around at the space-port that had been his home for so many years.  “I cannot believe that you suggested that the new government capital be established so far from here.  Cyralis is far better protected—with fewer attack routes inbound—than Naboo.”

“Cyralis is a bit player on the stage—Naboo, like Garm bel Iblis—brings us respect and legitimacy on the Galactic level, Kell.  And yes, there is but a single hyperlane charted to Cyralis—but that cuts both ways.  Naboo will serve us well as the capital—and the native Gungans will show the Galaxy that we are SERIOUS about equal rights for all.”

“More than Ryloth already has?”

Thom grinned.  The Twi’leks on Ryloth had accepted the offer made by bel Iblis—authored by Thom—whole-heartedly.  No Union forces remained on Ryloth, although one of Kell’s squadrons protected the orbitals, and they were quickly rebuilding their homeworld.  The slave traders had been taken into custody and public trials rapidly convened, broadcasting their crimes and sentences to the entire Galaxy.  They hadn’t joined the Union—but then the unthinkable (from Mon Mothma’s viewpoint) had occurred; they hadn’t joined the New Republic either.  Instead, the government on Ryloth had declared their independence as a Free System—and Garm had immediately recognized them and pledged Union aid to defend them.

And while the Galaxy at large was not aware that it had been THOM who funneled aid and arms to the Twi’lek rebels on Ryloth, the new government there knew it well. 

“They will have a stroke when our latest announcement goes out, Kell.  You aren’t upset about losing some of your men to the reformed Union Rangers, are you?”

“No,” the Grand Admiral said with a grin.  “I’ve always said that the Fleet shouldn’t be charged with enforcing the law—just keeping the peace and winning wars.  I’m damn grateful you and bel Iblis are pushing to convert the Sector Rangers into a true national law enforcement program.”

That had been one of the areas were Garm and Thom had seen perfectly eye-to-eye.  The underfunded, understrength Sector Rangers had existed since the days of the Old Republic—and even Palpatine had mostly left them alone.  But they had never had the budgets to make a difference, as the Republic had relied on the Jedi Knights and the Empire upon the Fleet.

Sweeping changes were now in the works, and the existing structure of the Rangers was receiving an influx of funding and new ships and recruits—their mission to enforce the laws of the Union.  To put an end to the slave trade.  To curtail smuggling.  And the criminal elements which had free reign for so long in the Empire and Old Republic before it were soon to become endangered species.

No, the syndicates and the Hutts were not at all pleased with either Thom or Garm bel Iblis over this.

“All we need is time, Kell,” Thom whispered as he clasped the hand of his friend.  “Just a little time with peace on these worlds, and we will transform the Galaxy.”

“Ask of me what you will and it shall be granted; all save time, for time is the one thing that no man can grant,” Kell quoted an ancient General of the Old Republic.

Thom sighed.  “True.  Your ship—your Fleet—is waiting, Grand Admiral Morvin.”

“Take care, Thom,” Kell said with a firm nod.  And then, without another word, he turned and marched to his shuttle.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: masterarminas on January 05, 2013, 01:04:43 PM

Epilogue

The crimson-robed human entered chamber at the spire of the Imperial Citadel.  Panes of armored windows on all sides of the Grand Chamber gave a view of the cities and skies of Byss; the hidden world charged as the repository of all that the Emperor had accomplished.  He knew why he was here—the dreams.  The dreams that had infected his sleep, the glorious dreams that promised there was a new morning to come.  He walked over to the perfect circle in the center of the chamber and he knelt as armored visors shut out the light from outside and he opened himself to the Force.

“Master,” he called unto the spirits.  “Answer my call, Lord and Emperor.  Hear me, O Darth Sidious the Supreme!” he shouted into the darkness.

And the darkness answered.  The force adept smiled and he bowed his head low.  “All is prepared for your return, my Lord.  We await your spirit,” and he stood.  The lights slowly raised and he walked calmly towards the doors.  All will be in readiness—the ships, the troops, the clones, my master.

************************************************

The Star Destroyer Chimaera cruised slowly on patrol in the systems bordering the Unknown Regions.   Her commanding officer frowned as he looked upon the sensors that read nothing.  He was in the correct coordinates, after all.  But whoever had sent that signal—that so intriguing signal—was not here.  Gilad Pellaeon sighed.  Perhaps it had been too much to hope for that something would come of this fool’s errand.

“Sir,” a sensor tech reported.  “Imperial shuttle emerging from cloak ahead of us.”

Pellaeon jerked.  A shuttle?  With a cloak?  “Identify and confirm transponder,” he ordered.

“Transponder confirmed; Delta-class shuttle—she’s transmitting the proper codes.”

“Open a channel,” he ordered.  “Unknown shuttle, this is Captain Pellaeon of the Star Destroyer Chimaera.  Identify yourself immediately.”

On a monitor screen, the static cleared and a video image appeared, and Pellaeon almost swayed.  “Chimaera, I am Grand Admiral Thrawn—and we have much to discuss.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on January 05, 2013, 02:41:35 PM

Wonderful!

I like the way you closed it off - sort of  ::) - but it would have been such a giggle to end it with Mon Mothma's near heart attack.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Rainbow 6 on January 05, 2013, 04:02:58 PM

Nice installment, can't wait for the next book now.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Red Pins on January 05, 2013, 07:53:54 PM

...Yes!  The Scorpio Ascendant story could be finished.

...Or, I could pass along the specifics of my AU... ::)

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Siden Pryde on January 06, 2013, 03:06:10 AM

Sweet.  Overall, this was an excellent and enjoyable tale.  Better than the majority of the official Star Wars fiction IMO.  Could use a little proofreading in some places, but I have no complaints.

Title: Re: Star Wars: Broken Empire
Post by: Knightmare on January 11, 2013, 11:23:00 AM

I finally had the opportunity to finish reading this. I'm sad it's finished. Seems to me like it was just getting started... ::sad face::