Warsong
The Bresallian System, a barely noteworthy collection of barren planetary bodies and one barely habitable world. The sole planet in system is barely warmer than the average ice age with a high of negative six degrees celsius during the summer months. Plant and animal life is incredibly resilient making the native sentient inhabitants doubly so as a by-product. A race of near-humans, the Bresallians have evolved a pale complexion and white hair to blend in with their surroundings. Their bodies can survive even in the incredibly cold temperatures that plague the mercifully short winter months. Fairly advanced cities protected under crackling shields prosper, isolated villages made from the same ice and snow that surrounds them shine like jewels.
A proud navy stands tall and firm against the threats that seem to regularly enter their system, and their ground forces have never known defeat in ten thousand years. All of this, however, is easily found on the holonet. What is not found there is the newly arrived state secret. The shuttles bearing Bresallian Defense Force Marines flit about the massive ship like tiny fireflies. The largest Bresallian ship in system, the sole Keldabe-class battleship in their navy, stretches a solid kilometer in length. The craft that mysteriously appeared in a massive energy flare measures thirty-one hundred meters across. Three kilometers in diameter. Blister-like weapons pods on the ventral surface of the massive disk-like superstructure bare the turrets of heavy cannons and lighter point-defence cannons.
Armored blast doors conceal the hangars that would no doubt contain swarms of fighters. The structure jutting from the stern bears the bridge, durasteel shutters raised to conceal those within from the shuttles flitting about the massive ship.
"What are you hiding," Admiral Halven mutters to himself from the CIC of his flagship. The fifty year old Bresallian has served his nation in the Navy for forty years. His close trimmed beard is a pure snow white, a sign of good breeding to the Bresallians. Hard blue eyes examine the strange ship before his fleet, the uncertainty he feels inside nowhere to be seen outside. A dark blue uniform clings to his still well muscled frame doubling as an environmental suit and dress uniform for the crews of the Navy.
As the most powerful capital ship of the Bresallian Navy the Snow Lynx holds a place of honor in the order of battle. The Keldabe-class battleship possess banks of turbolasers, dozens of light laser cannons for point defense, heavy ion cannons, and two batteries of mass driver assisted missile launchers. A meter of durasteel-alloy armor forms the outer layer of armor beneath the enhanced shield system developed by the Bresallian science division. The battleship can outcompete anything that the various pirate gangs can throw at them and it would take the Hutts more than they would be willing to spend to take the system, meaning that the defence of the system depends on the Snow Lynx to be viable.
If you wish for peace prepare for war.
"Sir, I'm reading power spikes on that ship!"
A groan reverberates across the darkened chamber. Forms in a long obsolete uniform begin stirring in their crash-chairs, the normally bright consoles before them dead with the lack of power. Red hazard lights barely illuminate the slowly awakening figures.
"Somebody...where the frak are we?" a surprisingly young voice demands as its owner straightens in his command chair.
"No idea...power's down. Reactor must be on standby," a woman's voice reports from across the room.
"Someone get me the number of that bus that rammed my head," a rough voice groans to the first voice's left.
"Your mother," a slightly more amused yet still groggy voice quips.
A low hum builds in the air before lights snap on filling the room with light once more. Curses ripple through the air at the sudden bright light, none more foul than those coming from the youngest being on the bridge. The young man pushes back the pain and activates the intercom with a blind press of a button on his console.
"Engineering report."
"Reactor is back up and purring like a nexu, what the hell hit us Master Jedi?" the static garbled chief engineer's voice reports.
"First not a master, second I'll let you know as soon as I know. Nav where are we?"
"Sensors are just coming back online...holy kriff! Unknown fleet all around us!" the navigations officer reports in a slightly panicked voice before her discipline returns with a vengeance.
"Show me!" the Jedi-officer snaps pushing himself from his chair. The holotank flickers to life projecting scale models of every ship surrounding the Ironclad. His heart plummets at the sight of the seven heavily armed, for light cruisers, and the large ship in a formation that keeps all weapons oriented towards them.
"Power readings matching those of Hammerhead-cruisers on the smaller ships, that big one is packing more juice than us. Multiple small craft are dispatching boarding crews to the airlocks."
"Get the Marines moving! I want the welcoming committee alive, get weapons and shields up in case we need to fight our way out of here, get the fighters ready to sortie while you're at it! Comms get me a line to that big ship, see if we can resolve this without turning this system into a warzone." The young man takes a deep breath to steady his nerves the armored robes his mother had crafted for him rustling softly with the motion. His hands clasp behind his back, spine straightening to present the image of one in complete control. Throughout the ship the slowly stirring crew hurry to their stations bringing the mighty warship back up to full combat alert status. Pilots scramble for their flight suits and into their fighters immediately running preflight checks.
T3 utility droids roll through the halls assisting organic engineers in their tasks. Mk-VI Sentinel droids station themselves throughout the vessel augmenting the teams of Marines getting into position at every airlock. The bridge becomes a hive of controlled chaos as the bridge crew brings their house to order. In seven minutes the Ironclad, last of the Inexpugnable-class, is ready for anything the galaxy can throw at her.
"Sir, I have the unknown ship on the line."
"Put them up on screen."
Admiral Halven takes in the form of the being in control of the strange ship with hard eyes. A young human, early twenties, stares him down in armored robes that the Jedi haven't worn in a thousand years. And he is a Jedi if the lightsaber at his hip is anything to go by. Dark brown almost almond shaped eyes set above a somewhat narrow jaw covered in fair skin. Sandy brown hair cut into a high and tight military style crowns his head. Broad shoulders and narrow hips coupled with toned arms that cannot be hidden even by the loose sleeves of the robes worn beneath his armor tell of a swordsman. His weight settles on his less dominant foot so as to better draw his weapon while reacting to his enemy's own strike even when speaking over a hologram screaming of one used to battle.
Grey robes worn beneath light armor plates appear loose and comfortable. The armor itself covers only his torso and forearms making it very maneuverable. Twisting vines carved into the armor's matte black surface stretch along the edges of the plates and are inlaid with silver making them seem to take a life of their own against the black plating. All told: he cuts a stunning figure for how young he is. But right now he has a ship larger than anything they have with unknown capabilities sitting at the edge of the Admiral's home system. And that needs to be dealt with.
"GRS Ironclad to unknown vessels we mean no harm. Repeat we mean no harm," a cool, cultured voice announces. The old Admiral arches a brow in surprise at the announcement of the vessel's allegiance, no ship used by the Republic has been the size of this behemoth since the Old Republic in the Great War.
"This is Admiral D'lan Halven of the Bresallian Navy on board the Snow Lynx. I was not aware that the Republic still maintained dedicated warships after the Ruusan Reformation." The younger man stiffens ever so slightly picking up on the surprise in his tone.
"Forgive me Admiral but...what is this Ruusan Reformation?"
An hour later sees the young Jedi Knight slumped in a chair in the Ironclad's conference room across from Admiral Halven cycling through a briefing on major events that had occured in the last three thousand years. His eyes stare at the screen of the datapad blankly, his mind still wrestling with the fact that everyone beyond his ship that he knew is long dead. Including his mother. Her grave was lost millenia ago. The military he served in to stave off minor empires and burn pirate kings from their ports is gone. His mentor, Admiral Carth Onasi, is gone. His almost-sister Mission and Zaalbar are gone. Canderous Ordo is branded in the history books as Mandalore the Preserver.
The only links to his home are both disabled for repairs in his chambers. All of the ironclad control he held over his emotions falls away in the face of the reality of his situation. A purely impossible event that shatters everything that makes him whole.
"Three thousand years…" the young Jedi sighs throwing the pad onto the table. The rest of his ship's command staff is in the room with him, all just as shattered.
"What could have done this?" someone whispers as if saying it aloud would bring an even worse calamity down on their heads.
"That...distortional event around the Rakata artifact that those madmen were kriffing with, it must have triggered a dysfunctional infinity gate and tossed us across time and space," the Jedi supplies calmly. His fair complexion becomes more corpse like as he thinks on it. The sheer insanity of what they all suggest.
"I don't know how you all got here...or even if you are all who you say you are. That's a job for the politicians and the courts of the Republic. What I need to know is if you are going to be trouble for me and mine," the Admiral says. Every pair of eyes jerks to regard the officer with something bordering on disdain.
"We would never harm a Republic world Admiral. We've spent most of our service and lives dealing with those who would do so," the Jedi asserts. The older man merely nods and stands.
"That's all I absolutely needed to know."
Space is big. Everyone knows this yet many forget just how big it is. The area considered a star system is a speck in the true space that the universe encompasses. As such governments of star systems quickly learned that deep space monitoring stations are vital for both communication and early warning of possibly hostile fleets that ply the hyperlanes connecting stars. For invading powers it becomes necessary to eliminate these structures before assaulting a hostile system so as to achieve as much surprise as possible. Thus the small, stealthy, droid controlled ships of the newly formed Confederacy of Independent Systems stalk the space surrounding the Bresallian system. Seven stations manned by thirty beings each surround the sole safe passage into the Bresallian system.
Every other path into the system is cluttered with asteroid belts and ancient minefields set by the Bresallians to deter their enemies on other fronts from assaulting their home system. All seven of the stations are destroyed by the stealth ships. But the Confederates forgot to check one. Simple. Thing. The stations were not only meant to give an accurate assessment of the invading fleet...but to broadcast a constant all-clear signal. The moment the first station went down the Bresallians knew and the garrisons were warned.
Of course that's all academic for the fleet of former Trade Federation vessels screaming for the small system. The low level Neimoidian in command of the fleet sees this as his only chance to rise in the new government. Desperation fueling ambition. A dangerous combination for any situation. However, the intelligence reports are even more wrong than usual...and he has no idea. Convinced of his own fleet's superiority over what he sees as a small ineffective native fleet he doesn't bother sending reconnaissance probes.
"All ships sound General Quarters! I want a jump vector back to Bresallia Fleet Anchor and every gun loaded by the time I get there!" The Admiral storms towards the airlock while shouting at his communicator, the crew members they pass parting like the seas in recognition.
"Admiral give us the coordinates and we'll join you."
"I can't ask you to do that, not with your circumstances." The Jedi merely smiles grimly in response.
"This is the one thing that can center us right now Admiral: defending a Republic world. You'll need every hull." It only takes a moment for the older man to nod. The younger man takes a steadying breath before accessing the ship's intercom with his communicator.
"This is Captain Andranal Shan to the crew of the Ironclad: sound General Quarters. We're engaging a hostile enemy fleet that threatens a Republic world. Everyone of you knows what is expected. Remember your training and trust the man beside you. Shan out." The bridge is a hive of activity when they arrive. The department officers relieve their seconds and immediately begin bringing the ship back into a combat status. General Quarters alarms blare throughout the Ironclad. The reactor's bass hum grows stronger fueling the hundreds of systems that power the great warship. Gun turrets swivel about in a diagnostic sequence before being loaded and fed more power. The shielding system that sheaths the whole ship in a field of energy strong enough to weather the barrage of five capital ships comes alive. The four massive engines mounted to its stern flare to life propelling tens of thousands of tonnes of starship onto its new heading.
Pilots recheck their fighters before clambering in and strapping themselves down. Marines take their posts around the reactor, bridge, and med-center before settling down to wait. The Bresallian battle group completes their own preparations as they prepare to jump to their homeworld.
"Captain all preparations are complete. We're ready for jump on your mark."
"Follow the Bresallians in, I don't want someone with an itchy trigger finger to light us up because they don't recognize us."
"Affirmative. Message from Snow Lynx confirms. Fleetwide jump in five...four...three…"
Nine metal behemoths of war accelerate to physics shattering speeds. Less than a thousandth of a second later they arrive above the near perpetually winter-locked world of Bresallia. A few panicked messages are bandied back and forth from the fleet already in orbit and the Lynx before the orbital stations break their target lock on the Ironclad.
Two hours to contact…
The Bresallian fleet, a component of the Bresallian Royal Defense Force, is a force more than capable of defending their home system and escorting the few trading convoys that they send out every year. Thirteen Carrack-class light cruisers make up the escort contingent around the Snow Lynx and two Bresallian designed and produced Blizzard-class cruisers. Possessing a shape reminiscent of a rail-spike and stretching six hundred meters long it flies in the face of most starships of the age with no exposed bridge. The bridge is buried deep within the armored hull where it is safe from any external attack that wouldn't have destroyed the ship anyways. Twenty, dual turbolaser turrets line the spinal and ventral surfaces, placed so that they fire over each other, while the flanks are secured by an array of light laser cannons giving them ample point defense coverage. The bow of the vessel is equipped with two capital ship grade proton torpedo launchers, however this makes it difficult for them to carry more than a single squadron of Z-95 Headhunters in the port hangar.
The rest of the fighter screen comes from squadrons stationed on board the orbital platforms, those of the planet below, and the Snow Lynx's complement. The total number of fighters tops out at five hundred and twenty four, all of them lightly modified Z-95 Headhunters equipped with enhanced shields and more fuel efficient engines. The swarms of the Incom Corporation's favored product form into wedge formations between and behind the capital ships and escorts, standard doctrine for the Bresallians to keep them hidden from enemy fire before unleashing them on the enemy's own strike craft or to finish off crippled ships. In contrast to the light fighter complement of the Bresallian Navy's vessels the Ironclad is like a hive of insects.
One hundred and sixty eight fighters, mostly made up of the venerable Aurek-class tactical strikefighter augmented by S-250 Chela-class strikefighters, swarm from the Ironclad's hangar bays. The disciplined fliers of the Old Republic form up in ridgid ranks about the massive ship. Most of them congregate over the dorsal surface to make up for the lack of point defence armaments there while leaving the heavy weapons free to rip apart any foe that comes in range. For all the might of the defending fleet's small craft complement they cannot hope to contend with their enemy in open combat.
Admiral Halven glares at the message displayed across his command console. A declaration of war against the Republic by a conglomeration of Rim systems and mega corporations stares him down. With no Republic fleet large enough to defend it this power makes a bid for independence and ignites the first galactic war in a thousand years. And his precious Bresallia is in their sights to secure their lines. Long range sensor contacts give him a rough picture of a single blob of hostile metal steaming for his position… and estimates that far outclass their small defence fleet. He knows what's coming especially after catching sight of the Trade Federation being a part of this Confederacy.
There's a Lucrehulk in that mass heading for his home. Impossibly strong shields that can weather anything that his fleet can throw at it for a good long while and if initial reports from Bresallian Intelligence are to be believed then they have been refitted to carry more weapons, enough to outgun half his fleet before taking into account the Munificent-class frigates that are no doubt escorting it. After another hour they get an accurate reading of the enemy's frontline: only seven Munificents instead of the dozen he expected. All of them accelerating at a lazy four hundred gravities as if the system was already conquered. A fierce rage grows in his chest much like the blizzards of his homeworld. A cold, unfeeling rage that sweeps aside all in its path without remorse. The kind of rage that a man can focus into a determined focus to obliterate that which faces him.
For Andranal, this is only his second combat action at the helm yet he feels none of the uncertainty of his first. Instead it's more of a grim acceptance knowing that it's coming and he can't stop it. One can only resolve to do one's best and pray that it's enough. His eyes shut as he focuses outwards drawing on the Force. He can feel the unease sweeping through the defending fleet, the fear of those on the ground beneath the planetary shield. But the enemy fleet is strangely empty. A scant thousand beings crewing capital ships… something's wrong.
"Admiral what can you tell me about these vessel's crew requirements?"
"They're mostly droids with a few organics acting as either department heads or bridge officers. Trade Federation makes extensive use of battle droids, both B1 and B2 variants."
"A fleet of droids...what stupidity," the gunnery officer scoffs as he configures his interface for the thousandth time since they took their place near the rear of the defensive formation. A low murmur of agreement spreads through the bridge. The Captain glares at the holotank where the display changes to show the features of the approaching fleet. The Jedi's glare intensifies at the jagged shapes of the frigates closing with their battle line...and then he pales at the size of the doughnut shape following them. A rival for the Ironclad in size and outclassing her in armament the Lucrehulk is a behemoth of war...on the surface. Underneath that heavy shielding and enhanced armament is the fragile shell of a freighter just waiting to be cracked open like an egg under the bombardment of military grade cannons.
The holotank screams a warning as the first shots from the heavy bow cannons of the Munificents are sent on their way. Almost all of them aimed at either the Ironclad, the Snow Lynx, or one of the Blizzard-classes. Crimson bolts of death rip free of the defending fleet in response and battle is joined. The Force ripples as precious few outcomes become possible and the darkest of them slowly begins to lighten.
"And so it begins."