Author's Note: No, I don't own Star Wars. If I did, I would be lounging around in sunny California with a fancy drink in one hand and my notebook in the other, writing a canon SW novel. Instead, I'm working on this fanfic, featuring a Bothan admiral of the Old Republic fleet (who was absolutely not influenced in any way by Thrawn). Go on, read and review!

Admiral Krey'lan stood implacably at the forward viewport, hands clasped at the small of his back. Around him, the bridge crew of the Republic Destroyer Farfalla worked in relative silence, accustomed to their captain's quirks. He was no Jedi, but he more than made up for his lack of Force-sensitivity with his natural Bothan prey-sensitivity. Krey'lan had an uncanny knack for thinking like the enemy, knowing precisely where they would be and what they would be.

"Lieutenant Scralen," the admiral purred across the bridge, deep voice effortlessly audible without his so much as turning around. "Where does this route leave hyperspace?"

The Farfalla's flag officer turned his eyes up to Krey'lan without lifting his head from the console, giving him a false air of disapproval. "Warping just outside orbit on Klatooine, sir. Night side. I can get precise coordinates if you need them."

"Do so." Some commanders might have been shocked by Scralen's seeming irreverence, but Krey'lan knew it stemmed from great devotion to duty rather than a rebellious nature.

"Warp completes in ten," the navigation officer announced. "Nine. Eight."

Krey'lan's commands console chimed, and finally he turned away from the view of hyperspace, fur rippling in meditative thoughtfulness as he contemplatedd the screen. "Helm, prepare to divert power to aft engines. Rotate to 210-point."

"Five. Four."

"Charge long-range ion cannons. Fire on my mark."

"One."

The Farfalla shuddered beneath Krey'lan's feet as it emerged from hyperspace, the dying desert world of Klatooine looming to port.

"Mark."

With complete, silent efficiency, the collosal Destroyer began to rotate toward the planet. Krey'lan felt the welcome hum of the fore ion cannons charging, spitting through a ten-second sweep before the sip even completed its turn.

"Hostiles detected, admiral," Lieutenant Scralen called. "Two Picket-class battleships, a Thranta-class armed frigate, and three wings of mixed starfighters. All of them are broadcasting Confederation ID."

"Damage report?" he asked calmly.

"Err … multiple fighters and one picket ship reporting damage. Non-critical, but their shields are beaten." Scralen paused, pressing one finger to his earpiece. "We surprised them, sir. The frigate is open to vacuum. Fire control requesting permission to engage."

"Declined," Krey'lan told him immediately. "Long-range ion blasts only. Target weapons blisters on the battleships."

The flag officer's mouth compressed just perceptibly, this time in true disapproval, but he was disciplined enough to relay the order without question.

"Fighters incoming!" Ensign Shaum, the sensor officer, barked. "Seven M1 Scythes at sector 49-3, vector Alderaan-Alderaan-Lime."

"Mark 1?" Kreylan's small fangs bared in a small, vicious smile. "The Separatists out here must be stretched quite thin. Let them come, ensign."

Shaum blinked disbelievingly. "They may be old tech, sir, but those Scythes are more than capable of a strafing run. They could critically damage our—"

Lieutenant Scralen cut him off with a harsh glance. "The admiral knows what he's doing, ensign. Relay the orders."

Quelled, Shaum returned to his console. "Fighters will hit in T minus forty seconds, sir."

"Excellent. Lieutenant Scralen, you may now engage. Concentrate our fire on the frigate."

The long-range turbolasers opened up all at once, raining fire down on the already heavily-damaged ship. Lacking shields and a large portion of hull, it fragmented almost immediately, sending white-hot shrapnel flying in all directions. The starfighter wings still clustered around the frigate were too slow to escape the explosion; they were tossed aside by the shock wave, formations devastated as countless Scythes exploded into nothing.

A moment later, Shaum turned back to Krey'lan with something close to awe in his eyes. "Starfighters breaking off, sir!"

The admiral had good grace enough not to press the matter in the middle of a battle. Instead, he stepped forward to stand beside Scralen, tapping the system map with one finger. "They will rendezvous here, in an attempt to protect their commanding officers on the battleships. These Nikto are quite predictable."

"Indeed, sir," the flag officer replied with a tight smile of his own. "Fire control, starfighters will be making a last stand at sector 61-5. Long-range turbolasers, thirty-second sweep."

And thirty seconds later, it was done. M1 Scythes, while fast, were nowhere near swift enough to evade the Farfalla's tracking assault; the picket ships could lay down only marginal covering fire with half their systems disabled, and before they could rotate far enough to target with their remaining heavy weaponry, the Farfalla had blown them apart.

Admiral Krey'lan settled back into his command chair, his fur still smooth. The battle had not rattled him in the slightest. "All systems, stand down. Fire control, stay alert, all weapons stand by. Now … we wait."