Download PDF

[Bridge, Imperial Star Destroyer Dominance, nearing Mantara Sector, three days later]

"Admiral on the bridge!"

The few personnel standing on the walkway above the crew pits braced to attention briefly as their captain stepped on to the bridge. The XO walked over and made his report.

"Admiral, sir, we're still in hyperspace and nearing the edge of the sector now. All systems are at 100 per cent efficiency." Vice Admiral Piett nodded approvingly.

"Excellent. What about the rest of the group?"

"Providence, Vociferous, and Valorous all show identical status to ours," the XO reported. "The frigates and smaller units do as well. All ships report combat ready." Piett nodded.

"Very good." Then, raising his voice just slightly, "Captain has the bridge."

"Captain has the bridge, aye, sir," several voices answered in acknowledgement.

Vice Admiral Piett watched as his ship streaked through hyperspace on its way to plunder and fire upon planets and people that he'd never seen before. Service in the Imperial Navy is not for the weak or light-hearted, the admiral assured himself. A glance at his XO beside him made him smile. The latter stood resolutely staring ahead, eager for his chance to serve. The dedication and loyalty there were all that Piett needed to chase his lingering doubts. If the Empire can inspire that kind of loyalty from a man like him, then it can't be far wrong, the newest Imperial task group commander thought to himself, then settled in for the last few hours of quiet duty that he would have for a while. "Dispatch the Pacifier to Listening Post IX745 to evacuate it. The personnel on hand there should already be standing by," the admiral added, as if suddenly remembering something. Then, satisfied, he resumed watching the stars.

[Bridge, Victory-class Star Destroyer Valorous]

Captain Listran Draxus stopped his slow pacing to tug at the hem of his green uniform jacket, and smooth the strip of red and blue plastic rank squares on his breast. Below him, the hums and beeps of his ship kept the atmosphere calm, relaxed and organised. Draxus himself stood tall and erect, his shock of grey hair combed straight back, and his gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. He resumed his slow pacing up the catwalk, glancing down and ensuring that all his bridge crew were doing their jobs properly and efficiently. Thirty years in the Imperial Navy had taught him that...the importance of efficiency and accuracy. Although, he reflected, the Navy certainly wasn't what it used to be. At least now, under the leadership of the Grand Admirals, they had mostly competent commanders, but in the days of Vader and the Emperor... the Imperial captain scowled. Neither had had any idea of how to properly manage men... the only tactics they knew were those of threatening and bullying. True enough, those two have their place... but what's needed is a mixture of those with pleading, cajoling, rewarding, encouraging, ordering... every good captain knew that it was a mix of all those factors that got the job done, and got it done to the best extent possible. Captain Draxus jumped as there was a beep. His watch was over, and before he could move the bridge doors had slid open and his relief, Lieutenant Commander Trantin, had walked in and braced up in front of him. Draxus returned the gesture.

"Permission to take the bridge, sir," Trantin asked, standing at rigid attention.

"Permission granted," Draxus replied. Trantin raised his voice.

"Lieutenant Commander Trantin has the bridge." There was barely a ripple from the crew pits, but both Captain Draxus and Lieutenant Commander Trantin knew that the crew had heard them. The captain nodded once, briefly, at Trantin, then strode out.


The uniformed commander paused at the door and pressed the button. Almost immediately, his call was answered.

"Come."

The door slid open and the commander walked in. Captain Listran Draxus looked up as the commander entered.

"Evening, Kilroy," he rumbled with a nod. "Make yourself comfortable and take a seat." The commander sat in the armchair across from where Captain Draxus had his feet up on the desk, his uniform jacket hanging open and loose. Draxus took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Can I offer you anything to drink?" he asked. The other shook his head.

"No, thank you, Listran... you go ahead though." The captain flashed one of his rare grins - it split his grizzled face into a likeable, almost warm one. He nodded.

"Of course I'll go ahead." From his desk drawer he produced a glass, and a small bottle of Corellian whiskey - Whyren's Reserve. The man called Kilroy eyed it speculatively. "Well, I wish you'd said something. Corellian whiskey - and Whyren's Reserve, no less! I think I will have a drink, after all." Captain Draxus laughed.

"I'm sure you will," he said, and he proceeded to pull another glass from his desk. Kilroy glanced around his quarters as he did so. The captain's quarters on a Victory-class Star Destroyer were comparatively large, but spartan and functional. The room was devoid of any sort of decoration except for a few family portraits on one wall, and a single plant in the corner. In Kilroy's opinion, the plant looked out of place. To a large extent, the quarters looked as drab and grey as the rest of the massive ship. Kilroy started and turned back in his seat as Draxus' voice broke in on his thoughts, and he handed him his glass, full of the rich orange-brown liquid.

"And now, Commander Brasken, let us toast the Imperial Navy." Draxus laughed with his seldom heard, gravelly laugh, laced with irony. Commander Kilroy Brasken raised his glass solemnly.

"To the Imperial Navy, Captain." They drank their shots in one gulp, and Draxus sighed and belched as he took his seat. Brasken followed the captain with his eyes as he walked. The older man still walked erect and upright, his grey hair short and close cropped, with a receding hairline. The green uniform he wore was impeccable, the knee high black uniform boots polished to a dull shine. Captain Listran Draxus was one of the Imperial Navy's finest captains, and it was disgusting, Brasken reflected, that he was only in command of a Victory-class Star Destroyer. Thirty-five years of service to the Imperial Navy earnt most good captains at least the command of an Imperial-class ship, or in many cases an entire task force. A select few might gain the command of a Super Star Destroyer if they were lucky. In Brasken's opinion, Captain Draxus was one of those captains who would be suited for command of an SSD, and would be up to the task. Commander Brasken looked up to see Draxus regarding him. Finally, the other spoke.

"Have you made the main cargo bay ready yet?" Brasken nodded.

"Yes, sir." Draxus nodded.

"Good." The captain nodded approvingly. "Inform the men of what's going on. Check they're all still with the program. Any that seem to be straying, send them straight to me. We've got to keep a tight ship." He rapped his knuckles on the desk for emphasis as he said these last words. Brasken nodded.

"You've worked out the time?" Captain Draxus nodded.

"Yes. It's shortly after we arrive, after the action starts... perfect for what we need." The commander nodded.

"Right, Listran." He looked hesitant. "What if they don't go for it?"

Draxus looked at him sharply.

"What if they don't go for it? What kind of question is that? They will, trust me - they will. There have been others they've taken, and those others cost them money and resources. We shall cost them neither. Plus, where we're going, they're going to need all the help they can get. They won't turn us down. And I daresay that us destroying our own kind ought to be proof enough of our intentions." Slowly, Brasken nodded.

"Of course. I'd forgotten Admiral Harkov." A look of distaste crossed Draxus' face.

"Harkov was contemptible," he sneered. "Nothing more than a brassed-up mercenary. I am many things, but I am not a mercenary. Neither are you." He looked pointedly at Brasken, then nodded curtly. "That's it, then. I'm going to get some sleep. You should, too...you relieve Trantin in four hours." Commander Brasken nodded. "Aye, sir." He stood, and saluted his captain, who returned it crisply. Brasken about-faced and marched out, leaving Captain Draxus alone with his thoughts and the quiet hum of the ship.

[Flight Deck, Strike Carrier Wolf's Lair]

Raiven practically ran into the hangar bay, wearing his flight suit and carrying his helmet, flight bag and rifle case and skidded to a halt by his X Wing fighter. He handed off his equipment to the tech waiting impatiently at the foot of the boarding ladder.

"Aren't you forgetting something, sir?" asked the tech as the pilot climbed the ladder. "You got an R2 for this flight?"

Raiven paused halfway up the ladder and swore under his breath. Reaching into the cockpit, he fastened his rifle case to the side of the ejector seat.

"No," replied Raiven, looking around. "What about that red and white one over there?"

"Arpin?" asked the tech, incredulous. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir."

"No time to be picky. Give me a sec…"

"Umm. Sir…" said the tech as Raiven hurried across the hangar bay.

The white R2 droid with red trim was conversing quietly with a loadlifter droid.

"Hey, you - R2 droid. You busy?" asked the pilot, placing the flight helmet on his head.

The droid rolled forward and warbled a cautious negative.

"Good" said Raiven, buckling his chinstrap, "You've just been conscripted. Report to my X Wing for loading."

Ignoring the droid's jabberings, which he couldn't understand without a translator or protocol droid anyway, he ran back to his fighter.

The tech shrugged and climbed up onto the rear of the fighter to supervise the loading of the R2 unit, while Raiven busied himself with the preflight checklist. He didn't look up even when he felt the fighter rock slightly as the droid was lowered into place.

The R2 unit beeped softly, and Raiven glanced at the secondary scope that displayed the translation of his speech.

[I am R2-RPN, Industrial Automaton Astromech droid. Most people call me Arpin.]

"Pleased to meet you, Arpin. Can you handle the rest of the preflight?" said Raiven.

Without waiting for an answer, Raiven leaned out to the left of the still open fighter canopy. Raising his voice slightly to be heard over the bustle of the hangar deck, he called out to Drake, who was busy preflighting his own X Wing for the patrol.

"I suppose your droid is responsible for the reprogramming of my alarm clock, then?" asked Raiven "I slept until 10:00 hours this morning."

Drake looked around, smiling.

"Hey there, sleepy head. Don't worry about this morning, Ibero cleared it with Foxfire. He pulled your shift this morning. You needed the rest after three days of long patrols and a late night yesterday."

"I know," said Raiven, "Ibero was originally going to fly as part of this patrol, so it looks like you're stuck with me on your wing instead of him."

Drake nodded. "I see you've enlisted Arpin. How many of his appendages did you have to break off?"

"None," replied Raiven, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing." said Drake. "Don't worry about it. Trust me."

"I have a bad feeling about this," muttered Raiven to himself as the pilots returned to their preparations. "Everything OK, Arpin?" he asked, raising his voice.

[Preflight checks complete. All systems are within New Republic specifications. As it burnin' well should be - I helped maintain this fighter myself. If I'd realised it belonged to an ill-mannered oaf like you I wouldn't have bothered.]

Raiven read the reply with a nod, and looked down for a moment at the primary display screen. Then the message sunk in. He looked back up to the translation monitor again to ensure he wasn't hallucinating or anything like that. He wasn't.

"Err. Arpin. You OK back there?"

[Of course I am. I don't get sick like you overevolved monkeys do.]

Raiven sat back, confused. His reply was cut off by the deck officer.

"X Wing Patrol, Report in. You guys ready for takeoff?"

"Patrol Lead. Ready for launch," said Hardrive, who normally flew under the callsign Wolfshead 7.

"This is Drake, Wolfshead 14, ready to go."

"Sacart here, Wolfshead 17, let's move out."

"Raiven, Wolfshead 22, standing by."

"Patrol X-1, you are cleared for departure."

"You heard her, lads. Let's move out," ordered Hardrive.

Raiven eased in the repulsorlifts and edged out of the wide hangar entrance in fingertip formation with Drake.

As the X Wings powered toward their first hyperspace point, Raiven activated his comlink.

"Wolf two-two to Wolf one-four. Drake, what the hell is happening here? What's with this damn droid?"

Raiven ignored Arpin's indignant response to being described as "this damn droid" as it scrolled across the screen.

"Arpin is a, well, special, R2 unit," came Drake's reply. "He's probably not quite what you'd expect from an ordinary astromech."

[Damn right,] replied Arpin, [I'm no ordinary R2 unit.]

"Special!?!" said Raiven, addressing both Arpin and Drake, "In what way?"

"10 seconds 'till jump" said Hardrive, cutting across the conversation. "You two had better cut the chatter. Comm silence unless it's urgent once we leave hyperspace. You got that?"

"Affirmative, Lead."

"Two-two acknowledges."

[Hyperdrive ready. Jump on slaved mark. 3… 2… 1… Mark!]

The X Wing patrol threw itself into the abyss.

[Bridge, Imperial Star Destroyer Dominance, Mantara Sector]

"Helm, bring us out of hyperspace," Vice Admiral Piett ordered.

"Aye, sir," the duty helmsman acknowledged. "Reversion in three, two one…mark!" The mottled white tunnel of hyperspace gave way to starlines, then finally to the bright pinpoints of light which were stars.

"The rest of the fleet is arriving, Admiral," the XO reported. Piett nodded.

"Very good. Establish an arrowhead formation."

"Yes, sir."

The vice admiral watched with satisfaction as the sleek wedge shaped forms of his other Star Destroyers blinked into existence abreast of his own ship. Further away, and past the titanic vessels, he could barely make out the shapes of his Nebulon-B frigates and the numerous smaller escort craft that made up his task force. Now, as he watched, with military precision, the other vessels began to slide backwards as his own surged ahead of the rest, forming the lethal point of the arrowhead which would soon be striking against this sector. There was a kind of grand majesty that accompanied ships like this, Piett thought. Not merely the smaller Nebulon-B frigates, but the warships - the real warships - they carried with them an air of grandeur. Vice Admiral Piett considered Star Destroyers - even the older Victory vessels, of which he had two - to be sleekly beautiful craft. He also found the capital ships used by the New Republic ugly and distasteful, the bulky, ugly form of a Mon Calamari Cruiser springing instantly to mind. However, Piett had a healthy respect for the fighting abilities of the Mon Cal cruisers, and he knew - from painful experience - that not even the mighty Star Destroyers were infallible. The bright hull of the Imperial Star Destroyer Providence, just aft and starboard of the Dominance, had not so long ago been blackened and scarred, crippled by a barrage of torpedo and laser fire from the ships of White Squadron. Still, Norvad Piett reflected to himself, the Providence was still alive, he himself was still alive - and promoted! - and White Squadron was not. The thought gave him some measure of satisfaction.

For that was the way of war. You tried to kill the enemy and remain alive yourself. How you did so, though, was of the greatest importance to Piett. Unlike many of his peers, he actually cared how his victories were accomplished. Not merely because he was a humane adversary, preferring not to resort to cheap shots or trickery; but also because, for him, there was an elegance, an art to space warfare. Piett got a great amount of satisfaction from practicing his art - even, he had to admit, when he was defeated. Only once so far in his career had that happened, at the hands of White Squadron. At the time, of course, he had been both angry and preoccupied with saving as much of his small task group as he could. Now, however, he looked back and respected his opponent, a man he had since found out to be Captain Ralne Orris of the New Republic Navy. A worthy adversary, Orris… Piett hoped to meet him again someday. For the latter, with only a corvette, a Nebulon-B and a single starfighter squadron at his command, had forced Piett's own superior task group to the point of retreat.

But this, Piett reflected sadly, would not be the same. For this mission, there would be no opponent to fight back. No warships could be expected to come to meet Vice Admiral Piett and his task force to battle for their resources and - perhaps - their homes and their lives. It was sad, really, the vice admiral thought. A task force this size being wasted on stealing from people who effectively couldn't fight back. He shook his head, even as his XO cleared his throat to give his report.

"All ships report in formation positions, Admiral," he said calmly, although his body appeared unnaturally tense and rigid. Slowly, Vice Admiral Piett nodded.

"Very good. Commence the run against the first planet in this system," he ordered. "When we reach the branching point, break formation and dispatch the Providence, Vociferous, Valorous, and their escort ships to their own assigned runs. I'll be in my ready room. Captain Gillett has the bridge."

"Captain Gillett has the bridge," the XO echoed, as he watched his admiral stride out. Immediately he began barking orders, and slowly, majestically, the Imperial task force began to break apart. The arrow head's points began to diverge, so that they might simultaneously surround their intended target and minimise any risk - if indeed there was one - to themselves. Captain Gillett smiled with satisfaction.

"Helm, hold your course," he ordered. "Weapons, ready all turbolaser and ion cannon batteries. Signal our transport group to be ready on standby to retrieve stores from the planet. And inform Colonel Richt to have his troops standing by for a planetary assault." The orders were acknowledged and Captain Gillett again smiled tightly as his mighty task force - for at the moment it was his - sailed unchallenged through space.

[Hyperspace, En Route to Spiera System]

The mottled, multicoloured light of hyperspace shone through the cockpit canopy, imparting a somewhat surreal light on the instruments. Matches this conversation perfectly, thought Raiven.

[You call yourself a pilot? A speared Bantha could have handled that jump better.]

"Shut it, you oversized datapad!"

[Oh yeah? What're you gonna do about it? You overstuffed mammaloid!]

"I've seen better quality metal on a garbage freighter, you rustbucket…"

Raiven had discovered that Arpin didn't like politeness. Or diplomacy. Or threats. He preferred good, old-fashioned insults and sarcasm. Although the pilot was a little rusty - Alliance and Republic discipline wasn't that lax - he was soon back into the swing of things. Raiven wasn't sure, but the bitter, sarcastic edge he thought he'd spotted in Arpin's beeps and tones had almost faded, replaced by good-humoured joviality. Possibly. Perhaps he was imagining it.

"You know, I've seen better quality merchandise from a Jawa sandcrawler!"

That one caught Arpin a bit by surprise.

[Not bad. Although I'm surprised they let you fly this thing. I wouldn't trust you to pilot a repulsorlift drinks trolley!!]

"Neither would I," admitted Raiven.

Arpin actually laughed, a sort of electronic whuf-whuf-whuf noise.

[Keep it up. At this rate, I might actually merely detest you…]

"Why thanks…"

[…just before the universe ends.]

Raiven winced.

"Ouch. You know, I've seen better programming on a drinks dispenser…"

The conversation lasted for the full two hours of the hyperspace jump, until, midway through a tirade questioning the legitimacy of Raiven's birth, Arpin announced a 60 second countdown to reversion to realspace.

"Thanks Arpin. On reversion, raise the shields and arm the lasers, quad fire. Oh, and don't give me that. Just because your parents were a rubbish bin and a hi-fi…."


The fighter patrol dropped from hyperspace on the fringes of the system designated in the mission briefing as S46, the Spiera system. Probes had detected possible Imperial activity on the outermost planet, 15 minutes flight from their hyperspace exit point.

[What's up, Raiven, run out of insults? You biologicals have such limited minds…]

"Quiet a second, Arpin, I'm trying to think."

[I wondered what that smoke in the cockpit was…]

"Funny. Can your holographic system handle tightbeam laser?"

[Naturally.]

"Give me a laser link with Drake's X Wing. Beam it directly through Ledner, and patch my voice traffic through, please."

[Why should I?]

"Because I said please. And because if you don't, when we get back to the Wolf's Lair, I'll tear off your head and use it as a satellite transceiver dish. Clear?"

Arpin didn't like threats, but he got the general idea.

[Touchy, touchy. Link established. Talk away, chatterbox.]

"Drake, can you hear me?"

Drake's voice came back, sounding slightly metallic but clearly understandable.

"Raiven. Orders are for comm silence…" said Drake, looking at the status monitor, "Ah. I see - No comlink emissions, no signals for the Imperials to detect. What's up?"

"Yeah, as long as we fly straight and level so the R2s can see each other's laser transmissions. What's with this mental droid, anyway?" asked Raiven.

[Hey! Who are you calling mental, dewback-spit?]

"Arpin used to belong to a mechanic in the Orrus sector, I forget his name. He made a few modifications, including some to Arpin's communications systems. I think he had a somewhat… colourful… vocabulary, which Arpin obviously picked up. The mechanic was killed when pirates jumped the freighter he was working on. Some Republic units were nearby, and responded to the distress call. They fought the pirates off, but the freighter took such a beating the crew - and droids - had to abandon ship. It turns out that the mechanic had a clause in his will - if he died, Arpin inherited himself - no-one owns him, he works for the Republic by choice. Of course, that means we can't wipe his memory and remove the modifications, like some people have suggested."

[And his favourite colour is blue, and he likes pretty pictures… Will you two stop talking about me as if I wasn't here?]

"If I'd asked you, would you have given me a straight answer?" asked Raiven.

[Of course not. I'd just as soon kiss a Wookie.] Arpin's tone became somewhat mournful. [Oh, and his name was Harnett, by the way. He was a good man.]

Raiven nodded, soberly. "I'm sure he was, Arpin."

[Operations Room, Space Platform Stalwart, stationed in orbit over the planet Talonis]

Sergeant Yazd Wik sighed noisily and belched with a deep sense of satisfaction. His enormous bulk shifted slightly in his chair, attempting to get comfortable, while his giant hands resettled on his stomach. The trouble is, he thought to himself, nobody takes pride in their job anymore. He chuckled to himself, a deep rumbling sound, at the irony of the thought. He himself had lost pride in his job - along with his chances for advancement in it - many years ago. He'd been younger, then. Younger, and more foolish, but also more enthusiastic, less cynical. Now he sat, fattened and hardened with age, in his comfortable chair, and he pretended to monitor spacecraft moving through the system. In truth, he only monitored traffic when it suited him to do so - and that was usually only done to scare smugglers into paying him substantial bribes. The sergeant of the Talonian Militia had once been a proud young man, full of fire and full of vision. But now, this bloated, corrupt man sat in his place, existing not for what he could give to this life but rather for what he could take from it. And that, he reflected smugly, was shaping up to be quite a bit indeed. He had a good little nest egg going for when he would soon retire, enough money to get him off this rock and onto some holiday world, with a young attractive woman on each arm. Yes, Sergeant Wik had done well for himself. No thanks to the arrogant young captain who had wrecked his career fifteen years ago, he added to himself. He'd stayed a sergeant that whole time, his hopes of promotion dashed, his only motivation for staying in the service being whatever money he could extort from using his position.

Now, although he didn't yet know it, those years were going to come to an end.

Sergeant Wik had just started to doze off when his ears were pierced by a sound he hadn't heard in many long years.

The blaring klaxon of an emergency battle alert.

"Sithspawn!" he rumbled, struggling against the soporific influences of food and drink to sit upright. On his screen he could see multiple red blips.

Red blips?

Imperials! Here - although this sector had long been under the Empire's control, it was seldom, if ever, that Imperial warships ever came out this far. The occasional pirate raiding party was the only action Sergeant Yazd Wik had seen for a long time. Fumbling, he hit the comms switch.

"Defence Central, this is Monitor One Zero," he babbled excitedly. The voice at the other end, more calm and controlled than his own, might have carried a faint hint of contempt in it.

"Roger Mike One Zero," it responded. "This is Central. Go ahead."

"Imperial Alpha ships arriving in system" - Alpha was the designation which meant major warships - "they're deploying into a standard arrowhead formation now."

The voice from Central had risen an octave. However cool the speaker thought he was, even he couldn't contain his impassive monotone in light of this news.

"Copy, Mike One Zero," the speaker said. "We've just received a similar report from one of the other monitor stations. Estimate size of hostile force?" Sergeant Wik rubbed his watery eyes with grimy hands, squinting at the screen in front of him and trying to make sense of what he was seeing, like he used to be able to do exceptionally well when he was younger.

"Uhhh…okay, Central," he replied, collecting his thoughts as he spoke. "Figure four main contacts, assume Imperial Star Destroyers, class unknown. One medium sized escort ship - best guess is that it's a Nebulon-B frigate. Then there's a whole bunch of smaller craft…maybe a dozen of them visible at the moment. I can't make them out."

The voice at the other end didn't sound too happy at this sort of sketchy report, but it also realised that in light of the circumstances, it wasn't likely to get much better information from anywhere.

"Copy that, Mike One Zero," it said. "They're still in arrowhead formation? What's their target?"

"Negative, Central, they're breaking formation," Yazd Wik replied, his adrenaline building and helping to brush away the clouds that self pity, substance abuse and age had left on his mind.

"Each of the Star Destroyers is branching out, except the lead ship, which is heading straight for us. The frigate is forming up with one of the destroyers, and the smaller craft seem to be evenly dispersing to trail the warships."

"Stand by, Mike Zero One," the voice from Central intoned. "We're putting all forces on alert now - does the entire task force look like posing a threat?" Sergeant Yazd Wik gave a sound which was halfway between a laugh and a snort.

"Well, Central, I certainly don't see any other potential targets around," he offered sarcastically. The other voice went icy cold.

"Very well, Mike Zero One," it snapped. "Stand by."

And the line went dead.

(Click on the icon below to proceed to the next page)