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The Reprisal of the Force
Chapter 6
Perspectives: Lieutenant Firmus Piett
Evil in the Outer Rim!
As REPUBLIC forces scramble to rearm and redeploy their new CLONE ARMY across the galaxy, Separatists under the command of COUNT DOOKU assault under-defended REPUBLIC systems.
At the head of a titanic fleet, the treasonous Sith ANAKIN SKYWALKER attempts to seize control of the vital BRAXANT RUN. As system after system falls beneath his droid army's tyrannical heel, the brave defenders of HALMAD are all that stand between the Sith Apprentice and total victory!
"Get me engineering on the line, I want a status report on the reactor!" Firmus Piett, newly-christened Lieutenant of the Republic Navy and commander of the Loyalty, barked into the chaos that was his bridge. Two dozen men and women as old as, if not younger than, him attempting to maintain the massive cruiser.
Klaxons blared tirelessly in their ears, punctuated by the occasional flash of red light that indicated some part of the damaged ship being depressurized or worse. The officers and bridge crew, many of whom had little more than a couple of weeks training, ignored the distractions as best they could. Despite the attempt, the hooked claws of despair found purchase in their hearts. It was only through their stalwart and immovable commander, the aforementioned Firmus Piett, that kept the crew from falling into total hopelessness.
His sharp commands and orders echoed above the din of battle and the occasional roar of torpedoes impacting with the deflector shields.
"Sir," One comms officer, his hair ruffled to match the crazed, almost desperate look in his eyes, shouted from his terminal, "Engineering reports the reactor is being overloaded, but they're holding!"
Firmus gave the man a sharp nod, his attention already being dragged to the next issue that endangered the ship. As Firmus moved to the weapons officer, who was trying and failing to coordinate the manned weapon hardpoints that bristled across the cruiser, his eyes drifted out of the viewport of the bridge. The empty blackness of the void stretched out endlessly before him, broken only by Halmad's distant moon and the small fleet of rebel ships, sitting mockingly outside the range of the Republic retribution while deploying their fighters to harass and probe.
It was a fortunate turn of fate that Firmus looked out as he did, for several pinpricks of tan, the telltale sign of droid starfighters, were growing increasingly larger. Where there were fighters…
"Shields, put everything to our bow! Bombers coming in!" Firmus ordered, finding the haggard young woman manning the terminal. Shouting an affirmation without turning around, the young woman set to her hurried work. A perceivable shield formed to the front of the cruiser, and not a second too late. Several glowing torpedoes erupted against the barrier, briefly blinding the crew inside the bridge. A moment later, the blinding flash passed. The crew, already well-used to such occurrences, were back to work in an instant.
"Shields holding at 83%." The officer yelled from her station, likely returning them to their standard position.
"Sensors, tell me why we didn't read those," Firmus ordered just as he reached the weapons officer, leaning over the man's shoulder. Schematics for the ship, showcasing the firing arcs and placements of the ship's weapon systems, were arrayed across three of the man's four screens. As an up-armoured variant of the Dreadnaught-class Heavy Cruiser line, nicknamed the "Civilian Battlecruiser", it bristled with a larger-than-average turbolaser complement. Were they engaged with the Seppie fleet, Firmus was confident that the Loyalty could go toe-to-toe with one of their frigates. Unfortunately, the enemy was perfectly content to remain outside their effective firing range. The anti-fighter complement of the Loyalty was thusly lacking, limited to ten laser-cannon batteries. What's worse, they were crewed by organic crewmen and thus influenced by morale.
"Emplacements are ignoring firing orders, turbolasers are blindly shooting and scoring friendlies," The officer explained, prompted by Firmus's arrival. Firmus, with a sharp nod, grabbed the man's headset and placed it over his own ears. Ordering the officer to direct the communication to the laser cannon emplacements.
"Piett to all point-defence teams, firing orders are to be enforced. Any team that fails to follow the bridge's orders without a damn good reason can consider themselves sacked and should vacate their positions immediately," Firmus's tone brooked no argument, barely letting his anger at the situation slip through into his orders. Whether he would follow through with such a threat remained to be seen, but the on-ship Marines were itching for something to do, so maybe knocking a few thick skulls would do the trick. A moment later, similar orders were sent to the turbolaser crews.
With order at least somewhat restored, Firmus redirected his attention towards the battle outside his ship. Though the cruiser was faced towards the enemy and thus making it impossible to see the neighbours from the bridge, Firmus could still feel the ongoing battle under his feet. The old dreadnaught shuddered and rocked with stray laser cannon bolts and torpedo.
And just as soon as the attack came, it ended. Firmus watched as swarms of droids and snub fighters fled from the Republic position, racing towards their motherships in the distance. A few bright lances from turbolasers or enterprising laser cannon crews chased after them, but the effect they had was minimal.
Silence returned as the crew, Firmus included, breathed easily for the first time in the last half-hour. No doubt they had suffered losses, few of the cruisers and other ships present were prepared for a sudden fighter strike. Whoever this Seppie officer was, they seemed to adopt the developing Republican doctrine of fighter strikes over capital ship brawling.
"Lieutenant Daraay, the bridge is yours," Firmus announced to the silently celebrating bridge, seeming to remind the crew that he was still present. Work resumed hurriedly as the man in question, Finon Daraay, saluted from his place near the sensor officer.
Confident in his second in command, Firmus left the bridge of his battered cruiser for his quarters. No doubt the admiral would soon want an officer's meeting and it would not do to look as if he had just gotten out of a wrestling match with a trandoshan.
There were a scant few crewmembers or security personnel wandering the halls; at least those near the bridge, in any case. An odd engineer here or a pair of lightly armed marines there were all that greeted Firmus on his blissfully calm walk.
It was not until he was in the relative sanctity of his quarters that Firmus's facade of the calm and collected commander dropped. His shoulders drooped, his posture dipped, and it felt as if his knees were to give out at any second. A half-hour of repressed panic, jubilation, and a mix of countless other emotions flooded him at once to the point that Firmus had to actively fight the tears that threatened to rise.
In the temporary academy established on Halmad, Firmus's teachers had called him a natural leader with a keen eye for tactics. His grades in exercises and theory were some of the highest in his class prior to their rapid and early deployment in defence of their new home. Firmus had seen the holovids of battles against Seppies and saw after-action resorts that weren't covered in so much red tape that it became unintelligible. Those studies of his did little to prepare him for the terror of facing hundreds of relentless droid starfighters, each one more manoeuvrable and suicidal than any Republic pilot. An organic pilot would, in most instances, never think to ram their starfighter into the bridge of a cruiser once they ran out of ammo, or while they were losing control of their craft.
Vulture Droids are swarm starfighters, typically deployed in large waves with limited direction from their core ship. Corvette (or any anti-fighter) craft should be capable of screening droid starfighters.
That was all Firmus's manuals had to say on the tactics of Vulture droids. Evidently, the Seppie officer did not subscribe to such doctrine, as the starfighters fought in small, concentrated strike teams, not a massive wave of loosely commanded craft.
Firmus ran his gloved hands through his sweat-covered hair, feeling as if he had just crawled his way out of an eight-hour simulation instead of a half-hour skirmish.
Finally, with his emotions now under control, Firmus made his way to the small sink and mirror in his room. The tap, thankfully, still worked, so Firmus was able to enjoy the coolness on his face for a second. Firmus rose, studying himself in his mirror as he set to the task of making himself presentable.
The man who stared back was not a good reflection of Firmus's true age. Barely out of his teens, Firmus had looked spry and young not half an hour ago. Now, he looked haggard, exhausted, and beaten down. His hair was in total disrepair, his hat left on some unknown technician's terminal or kicked under a chair during the battle. Firmus's face drooped significantly, the bags under his eyes standing as a stark contrast to his pale skin. Though he was not a year over twenty-one, Firmus looked and felt a decade older than that.
Alas, ruminating on the state of his ruined appearance would not make fixing it any better, so Firmus set about cleaning himself up. As Firmus groomed, a mostly pointless gesture but one that did wonders for his spirits, he read a report that had been sent to his datapad sometime recently. His spirits, which had only just begun to rise, plummeted once more as he read. Three of the turbolaser emplacements had been destroyed, an additional two disabled until a repair team could reach it. The reactor was at her limit would not survive another barrage like those it had just braved. One of the laser cannons had overheated and melted to the point of worthlessness, an overzealous gunner no doubt. An engine had suffered a meltdown and had to be deactivated until the overstretched maintenance crews could take a look. Artificial gravity had failed in the lower decks, forcing the crew to rely on pulley systems to move about.
Overall, the Loyalty had suffered greatly. She was still operational but would not survive a direct engagement with one of the enemy Frigates unscathed.
"Lieutenant Piett, please report to conference room A-1. Repeat, Lieutenant Firmus Piett to conference room A-1."
Firmus sighed as the voice coming over the intercom fell silent; it was time to face the music.
In the short few weeks, he had been in command of the Loyalty, Firmus had familiarized himself with the upper decks; those he would be spending the vast majority of his time on. The featureless, grey halls - their blandness interrupted only by the occasional light fixture in the walls or ceiling - had once seemed to blend together, yet now Firmus could travel them without so much as looking up from his datapad.
Thus, it was in a record minute and a half that Firmus found himself outside the conference room - hatless, dishevelled, and exhausted. The door opened, revealing the empty room save a massive communications table.
A moment of manipulation later and Firmus was connected to the conference call, finding himself placed alongside two dozen peers. Only a few, namely those located nearest to him, graced Firmus with a nod or small wave before returning their attention to the still-empty seat of the Admiral.
Taking a brief survey of his peers, Firmus realized that perhaps his efforts to seem prim and proper were unnecessary. Most present, barring the officers of the support craft, were in some state of unpresentability. While it was mostly lost hats, loosened uniforms, and messy hair, some had foregone their jackets in their entirety. Of his fellow officers, Firmus was probably the best dressed.
Any further rumination on that train of thought, and the unimpressed glances of a few peers, were abruptly ended when the final member of the call joined, his severe glare brooking no foolishness.
Jaa Baize, former garrison commander of Axxila turned Free Axxilan Admiral. His expression was one of deep displeasure, though Firmus surmised that might just be his default state. Baize's narrowed eyes scanned the room critically, pausing at the two empty spaces remaining unfilled.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rough as gravel and seemed to drop several octaves below what was natural.
"The Dauntless and Hierophant have been destroyed," Baize stated plainly, "Report your statuses."
A sharp glance to the right later and the collected officers gave their respective reports. To Firmus's surprise, most ships had come out of the battle significantly worse off than the Loyalty, several having lost their primary reactors or a considerable number of weapon hardpoints. Green crews with a green command staff were unsuited to work alongside each other. Considering how gutted the Axxilan staff was after their flight from Axxila, it was a wonder that there were any senior officers left. Barring Baize himself, half a dozen senior Captains remained, most of whom were scattered across the sector.
Finally, the questioning reached Firmus, who rose and addressed the gathered officers with all properness expected of someone at his standing. Firmus listed the damages - from minor scuffs to wiped out weapon platforms, even including the estimated casualty count. A few of his peers seemed split between impressed and sceptical that Firmus had escaped a fighter raid so unscathed, especially in a capital ship brawler.
The Admiral did not react to Firmus's report, turning his sharp gaze to the next officer over in a silent demand to continue. So they did, the announcements making the situation seem all the more dire. Based on Firmus's observations, only a small handful of the present ships would be capable of sustained combat, if one included the Loyalty, which still had fully-operational shields and the majority of its weapon systems.
After the last officer gave his report - he was a stuttering mess, his ship was, at best, a glorified floating weapon platform now with all its weapons on one side - Baize steepled his fingers.
"Of the fifty-three cruisers in this fleet, only twelve can be considered battle-ready and operational. Only half of the total could escape and survive the trip," Baize growled, his displeasure rapidly becoming palpable. Whether it was being directed at the officers around him or at the situation in general, Firmus couldn't rightly say.
Probably a bit of both, to be completely honest.
"Sir, what of the Golan platforms?" One of the senior officers, Captain Jallo Honall if Firmus was not mistaken, asked.
The platforms that Honall was speaking of were two massive, jet-black battle stations floating in the orbit of Halmad. Both were armed to the veritable tooth with turbo lasers and concussion missiles, nearly thrice the size of a single cruiser. Its two greatest drawbacks were the fact that it was stationary - a station that size would require one hell of a reactor to move - and its near-total lack of anti-fighter hardpoints. Its reactor was dedicated to powering its monstrous shields and anti-capital ship defences. A small complement of Z95 interceptors acted as its supplementary screening, but a Golan always needed support to deal with fighter strikes or swarms. A Z95 might be able to out-gun a Vulture Droid any day of the week, but there wasn't much a few former day-volunteers could do against a 10-to-1 disadvantage.
As if seeming to remember where he was, Baize looked up from his ruminations and continued unshaken.
"GP-43 suffered superficial damage to her shields, but GP-22 has lost her engines. She's dropping into orbit and fast. They estimate '22 will be caught in Halmad's gravitational pull and unsalvageable in 56 hours."
That news was sobering, almost every officer present was banking on those two stations being their saving graces. Both would be more than enough to duel with the Lucrehulk if it got close, and tie up enough resources for the Seppies that the Axxilans could turn the tides. The last six months of war had rapidly spread the horror stories that came with fighting Lucrehulks and their leviathan ilk. Only Kuati battlecruisers or outdated dreadnaughts seemed to even rival them in sheer tonnage, little more than a motley fleet of heavy cruisers and their pickets.
Silence fell over the collected officers, each of them greeting the news with their own minute reactions. Despite the general greenness of those present, they were Axxilan through and through. No cries of despair, sighs of defeat, or moans of loss could be heard. However, the Admiral was not quite done with his list of severe news. With a sigh that seemed to age him another decade, Baize continued,
"Orders have come down from Bandomeer, a new Jedi Commander by the name of Amonn Das has ordered that we are to regroup with the 2nd Meerian Fleet. Any ships that can't make the trip are to be scuttled and their crews moved to the remaining cruisers."
A quiet murmur had begun to rise from the officers, but nothing major or mutinous. Nothing the Admiral was saying came across as distinctly foreboding, but that silent justification felt hollow and did nothing to stop the chill that shivered up Firmus's back.
"Sir," One officer finally spoke, finding his voice. They could all hear the warble in his tone. "Sir, what of the Golan platforms? Or the ground forces?"
Or our families?
The unspoken question was on all of their minds, and the deafening silence returned as the officers watched as Baize seemed to deflate further.
"Command has deemed that holding Halmad and the Braxant Run is an impossibility at this time. Commander Das is tasked with securing Bandomeer-"
And so the uproar began. No matter how stiff the upper lip of an Axxilan was, or how disciplined they were, the thought of leaving one's family behind on an occupied planet was bound to cause trouble. Of the gathered officers, Firmus was perhaps the only one not to rise or begin yelling. A small amount of guilty relief flooded him, his family having fled the planet a few weeks earlier at his insistence. However, his heart went out to his fellow officers. The horror stories of droid occupations were more than a whispered rumour among the crew.
"Enough!" It took several attempts, but eventually, the Admiral's booming voice could be heard over the din of panicking officers present. Order, or some semblance therein, returned and allowed Baize to continue his report, "I enjoy this no more than you do, but were Axxilans, act like it!"
The man continued to give what he seemed to think was a rousing speech about how doomed they were and how they were supposed to leave their families behind, but Firmus's attention was dragged down to his console. A small, red light had begun to flash, telling of an incoming transmission elsewhere in the ship. With a grimace and glance around, Piett stopped the warning and returned his attention to the Admiral.
Only for the same flashing to start not a second later. Firmus furrowed his brows and glanced around, noting several other officers tinkering with something out of view of the hologram.
Folding, and suspecting he wouldn't be missing anything important, Firmus muted his conference call and opened the communication.
"Lieutenant, sir!" Daraay, looking worse for wear and distinctly panicked, barked out, "Bombers coming in fast on our-"
Whatever else the Lieutenant had to say was lost as the Loyalty suddenly shook. The power in the conference room, from the lights to the holograms, suddenly flickered off. Elsewhere, the rending of the superstructure screeched through the halls and along the walls. Firmus, who had been thrown from his feet, struggled to stand in the violently trembling conference room.
The shaking passed after a few moments, though the lights remained off. In the dim of the conference room, Firmus found his feet. A quick test of the console bore little fruit, as was expected, but worry began to flood Firmus's heart when he tested his communicator. His first attempted communique was to Lieutenant Daraay, the bridge officer in Firmus's place. The line wasn't just ignored, it was dead. Firmus sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening that it was just an issue with his communicator, and opened comms with engineering.
Unfortunately, the communication line opened without issue.
"Piett?! Thank the Force you're still alive!" The Master Engineer's voice called through the small handheld communicator, his words punctuated by the scream of damaged machinery and the cries of nearby engineers.
"What's the situation? The bridge isn't responding!"
"Well, I'd damn well expect them not to! Seppie bombers must've attached themselves to a hulk or something because they came out of nowhere and strafed the Loyalty with everything they had."
Firmus let out a shaky breath, stumbling into his seat. His heart went out to the crew of the bridge, their loss was not only in vain but due to the negligence of another officer no doubt, but had the Admiral spent a few minutes less playing the part of the 'rousing speaker'...
"Listen, Lieutenant, the generators are hemorrhaging energy here and half the ship's venting. I realize this may sting a whole lot, but we need to abandon ship. I can't give the order to abandon ship without yours or Daraay's say-so. Sir, please-"
"Give it," Firmus croaked, the reality of his first real combat mission hitting him with the force of a cruiser, "Abandon ship."
"Sir." Was the Engineer's last words before the communication was cut. Not a minute later, red lights fueled by the emergency generator began flashing, followed by the eerie shriek of the alarms. No voice followed as the bridge had been decimated alongside much of the chain of command, but the entire crew had at least an inkling of what the sound meant.
The Loyalty gave another worrisome lurch, that being enough to force Firmus to his feet.
With the alarms, the door to the conference room had snapped open. The hallway outside was, expectedly, devoid of life, with nary a security officer being in sight, but Firmus knew his way to the escape pods. While he had been drilled on learning their location a hundred times by now, he had never expected he would need to use them. The arrogance of youth, Firmus supposed, as he sprinted through the hallways as fast as his legs could carry him.
Escape pod bays littered the ship periodically, offering plenty of escape routes for the cruiser's sizable crew. To Firmus's mounting horror, the nearest five had all been emptied. It was when he was beginning to regret slacking on the exercise duties when he finally found the last escape pod near him just as it was making ready to launch.
"Wait!" Firmus half cried, waving his hands as he desperately tried to bring in enough air into his lungs, "Hold that pod!"
Through the roar of the ship, the blaring alarms, and the flashing lights, there was a fairly low chance that Firmus would be spotted by the crew. Luck, fortunately, appeared to be favouring the young officer as one deckhand chanced a look back and spotted his commanding officer. He caused enough of a fuss to delay the launching of the pod, which in turn allowed Firmus to slip inside.
"Good chap," Firmus hissed through pained breaths, patting the younger man's shoulders before addressing the bemused pilot, "Now launch!"
"Was getting to that!" The pilot would be forgiven his insubordination considering the circumstances. With a violent push of the throttle to his side, the escape pod lurched haphazardly out of its port and free of the Loyalty.
The rear viewport, serving as the boarding door for the escape pod, gave Firmus ample time to see the wreckage that his former ship was rapidly becoming. The side of the bridge visible to Firmus had been cratered, shards of misshapen metal and vaguely humanoid forms floating away from the dim interior. It did not take an expert to see what had happened, the hull had been blown in from the outside.
The Loyalty, a ship that would have sent pirates scrambling for their holes a decade earlier, was rendered to little more than a floating hulk in mere hours.
Firmus was not left to ponder the state of the galaxy for long, as the escape pod gave a horrible lurch.
"Get situated, we aren't out of this yet." The pilot loudly announced as he set about bringing the escape pod to life. Halmad was framed by the forward viewport and the bulkhead, growing closer with each passing moment. What debris couldn't be avoided were merely ploughed through, hence the violent shake as a larger piece of durasteel had to be knocked out of their way.
Firmus lurched across the escape pod, slipping past the other survivors as they scrambled to get locked into their seats.
"Can you get us out of the gravity well?"
"In an escape pod?!" The pilot demanded incredulously, glancing back for a moment before returning his attention to dodging encroaching debris. Firmus bit back a reply, realizing that arguing the point would serve no purpose, and began to fiddle with the escape pod's communicator.
Without the means to enter his access codes, Firmus was relegated to talking on an open channel. When he opened it, he and the occupants of the escape pod were greeted by a cacophony of disparate voices, all shouting over one another. Firmus grimaced and closed the comms, there was no way his voice would be picked out from that mess.
"How close can you get us to a major settlement?" Firmus asked after a moment of contemplation, turning his attention back to the tense pilot. The pilot seemed to ponder this query before responding, his tone unsure.
"I've got more than enough fuel to manoeuvre us into the proper trajectory, but beyond that, we're at gravity's mercy."
Patting the soldier's shoulder, Firmus made to respond. However, he was cut short by a massive flash of light, followed in turn by a violent explosion. The escape pod was thrown off its trajectory, narrowly escaping an unmagnanimous death via a smouldering bulkhead. All eyes turned to the left and beheld the ruined wreckage of a cruiser. A wing of tan droid starfighters hurled by, their cannons splashing against the shields of another ship. Battle had returned with a vengeance.
"We're a low-priority target, they won't shoot at us." The pilot announced though it appeared to be just as much to himself as it was the other occupants of the defenceless escape pod. Firmus took his word at face value but claimed a seat all the same.
A mess of other fighters, all clearly Separatist unless the Republic Navy had taken to using Supas, flashed across the battlefield. From his position as a mere observer now, Firmus was able to see the true chaos these relatively weak fighters could sow. Four or five dozen craft, a few armed with anti-capital ship weaponry, were able to force ships twenty times their mass out of formation. In some cases - an ever-increasing number - the snub craft were able to disable the larger warships. The cruisers, for all their heavy weaponry, thick hulls, and powerful shields, were ill-suited to deal with swarms of maneuverable craft. Firmus could see the genius in the Venators now, their swarms of high-quality interceptors would do the fleet well, if it survived this engagement.
Thankfully, the escape pod's acceleration towards the planet was not overly hampered by the ensuing battle, and so it soon found itself rapidly descending. What started as a few light jumps or shifts soon evolved into a cacophony of screaming metal and violent shudders, the escape pod now dragged into the inescapable gravitational pull of Halmad. It was only by meticulous design of the escape pod that the occupants were not thrown to their deaths of being melted to puddles, but that did little to soften the incoming fall.
The fall was extremely long and surprisingly short in equal parts, but the long-feared crash arrived far sooner than Firmus had hoped. The first jump, when the escape pod made landfall, was jarring and terrifying; the second through twenty-first was no better. Eventually, the escape pod managed to slow itself down enough, thanks in part to the air brakes and reverse thrusters that were still functioning, to keep constant contact with the ground. It was fortunate that their makeshift runway was devoid of obstacles and soon the craft came to a rest.
It was a dishevelled, but alive, crew that stumbled out of the rear escape hatch, lost in the middle of a wide and stretching plain. High above, the distant forms of the two Golan Platforms were still visible, their midnight black hulls standing out in the clear, blue sky.
"Set up a perimeter!" Firmus ordered, holding himself up on the side of the escape pod as he didn't trust his legs at the moment. The navy officers and crew members, armed with blaster pistols, seemed content to follow any sort of order from someone who appeared to know what they were doing. While they lacked sufficient ground-based training, the perimeter was enough that Firmus felt he could retreat back to the escape pod.
"Communications-" Firmus began, finding their impromptu "pilot" hunched over the control panel of their defunct escape pod. However, Firmus' inquiry was silenced by a very vocal curse from the man.
"Down," He stated once he had managed to get his emotions back in check, though the word was hissed through clenched teeth, "Must have been damaged in the fall. We're alone out here."
"Blast," Firmus cursed, running a hand over his face in consternation. Being without communication boded poorly for the present survivors of the Loyalty, especially with the battle raging overhead. While the vast majority of Free Axxilan assets had already been moved off-planet, there might still be the means for Firmus and his men to escape… However, without the means to discover where active evacuation was being held, Firmus could only hope they were close enough to a major population centre.
"And the maps…?" Firmus's follow-up came, hoping against hope that there was at least some good news to this cacophony of disaster. The grim-faced facade of the pilot broke somewhat as he revealed the holodisplay of the escape pod. Firmus stepped closer, finding himself looking at an extremely simplistic map showcasing towns, high-traffic highways, and tram lines in the immediate area.
"The pod's systems communicated with the local HoloNet array to get an accurate map, but this was all it could manage before we made landfall," The man explained before indicating to one of the marked points on the map: their crash site, "We're in this approximate area."
"What about major population centres? Military depots?" Firmus asked - though demanded might be a more apt term. The man winced, whether at the tone or the order Firmus did not know, and moved his fingers over to a few marked locations.
"I recognize some of these names, these are villages. Was sweet on a girl from here: Camlen. This mark says it's a 'fort', but it could be as much as a week's trip for all this damned map tells us. No distance indicators, no foot traffic, nothing."
Good news, even tempered by some equally poor news, was good all the same. They had a lead and a direction to go, even if it was only to a minor supply depot. Firmus could only hope they would reach the depot in time and communicate with the Axxilan Government-in-Exile.
Hope; hope felt short in supply.
"Grab what you can carry and be ready to move out, I'll send a couple men back to help. Get that map downloaded to a datapad if you can, or copy down the most expedient route to that fort if you can't."
"Sir," Was the pilot's response, joined by a sharp salute before the man returned to his work. Firmus, true to his word, sent a couple of the crewmembers not armed with a blaster in to assist while he went about readying the men to head out.
The sun crested the sky and neared setting on the distant horizon by the time the small troop was ready to move out, much to Firmus's chagrin. His annoyance only doubled after the group set out, when Firmus was forced to realize that neither he nor his men had any idea on how to march efficiently. They kept a rapid pace for the first hour, but being navy men, there was no way they could keep that speed. The path to the fort was thankfully fairly straight, they merely needed to keep the sun on their right shoulders for this foot of the journey (left when the next morning came), so the men merely needed to push their lacklustre cross-country abilities. Even the marines, who could boast at least some strenuous physical training, were far better suited for the artificial gravity of a starship or the lack of gravity of the void.
Firmus's respite came the following morning, with the steady march of boots on the group's tail. An infantry column of Halmadi militiamen, adorned in the greens and browns of their unit, trudged along the same path taken by the naval officers, headed in the same general direction. Part of their number, the injured and exhausted by Firmus's count, were being carried along by beast-drawn carriages - carriages! While Halmad certainly wasn't Coruscant, they at least had advanced tram systems and speeder lanes, what would necessitate the usage of drawn carriages?
After greeting their commanding officer, an ageing Major, the reason was given.
"Seppie bombers have wiped out the majority of speeder lanes and tram lines. Any speeder above two occupants is under risk of being targeted. Seppies have ignored the carriages… for the most part."
A sound reasoning, though it made the snobbish Axxilan in him cringe and whinge in complaint. After a little more convincing, Firmus was shocked to learn that the Seppies had been launching bombing raids to the surface long before the destruction of the Loyalty. The platforms, and by extension the fleet, were far more focused on defending the capital and Free Axxila refugee zones than bothering with the rest of the planet. The Seppies, smelling this weakness and hoping to isolate the capital, bombed all major lanes linked to the city. While they had yet to land troops, the state of the battle above meant it was only a matter of time.
"We were ordered to Fort Suntala until further notice. You're welcome to join us, Lieutenant, if only to allay your fears." The Major offered, indicating towards his column with a cane. Firmus nodded his thanks to the senior officer and ordered his men to fall in. It was without ceremony that the column continued on, setting a brisk pace the naval officers were ill-suited to keep. If they were expecting pity, they received none. Already, there was bad blood between the Halmadi and their Republic allies, but much of the crew of the Loyalty were Axxilan loyalists. Though Firmus had been somewhat protected among his fellow Axxilans, he knew that the Halmadi were deeply unsettled by being forced to play nanny for the Axxilan rebels, especially given the difference in culture. Axxilans - and Firmus will be the first to admit as much, albeit sheepishly - viewed their status as an outer rim planet with deep distaste. They were one of the most heavily populated, wealthiest, and politically powerful planets in the outer rim, and spent the majority of their time rubbing shoulders with the Core systems. Axxila's government had always looked down upon its neighbors and lorded its affluence over them. So, when the Free Axxilans fled Axxila, it was with deep hesitance and thorough prodding by the Republic that Halmad opened its doors. Now, the war the Axxilans had been fleeing came knocking on Halmad's doors, and the Halmad weren't nearly as martial or fanatical as the Axxilans. The militiamen looked haggard and beaten, having been force marched from wherever they were stationed previously, and sent baleful glares towards the Axxilans. An illogical thought though it was, it appeared the Halmadi blamed the Axxilans for the Separatists attacking Halmad. If or when the droid armies arrived, it would be a toss-up on whether the Halmadi would hold the line or not.
It took two more days, but the group eventually found this "Fort Suntala", made up of what appeared to be one part ferrocrete and two parts reinforced steel. Not durasteel, but genuine, classical steel. Its defences were of even worse quality, being composed of single-turreted Anti-Air cannons converted from E-Web turrets. A half-dozen group of mortars made up the artillery, though they were useless at present. Their ammo, and all ammunition in the fort, had been destroyed when the previous inhabitants deserted their positions. The computer mainframe, the comms relay, and even the door control had been scuttled when the former garrison left, leaving Firmus and his wayward allies with naught but a few walls.
The Major had the wherewithal to bring a short-ranged communicator which was reliant on a system of relay towers dotting the countryside. When they did get in communication with the capital, two days after arriving, the news was hardly good.
"The Golan Platforms have surrendered," The Major explained to his gathered officers, including Firmus who was representing the Republic military at this meeting. The man appeared to have aged a decade in the half-hour he spent speaking with the Halmadi equivalent of high command. He continued with, "Seppies have been launching precision strikes for the last thirty-six hours, completely isolating the capital and any form of organized command. Their final order before the comms failed was to hold position and await further orders."
Silence greeted the Major's words for perhaps three seconds before:
"What do you mean 'await further orders'?!"
"Who's in command?!"
"They want us to wait and die?!"
Firmus was reminded again that these were not the professional soldiers of Axxila or even the Republic's Judicial Enforcement branch. They were civilian volunteers for a militia, one that was meant to fight pirates or respond to massive riots. A fleet of warships - even ones as dysfunctional and miss-matched as those of the current Separatist commander - appearing in the orbit of their planet was not part of the job description. Firmus, either out of shock or discipline, remained silent amidst the noise. It took the Major several minutes just to calm the collected officers enough so he could speak again.
"I realize the situation looks dire, but we have our orders. Keep your heads down, don't attract those bombers' attention, and await further instruction. Am I understood?"
The men confirmed that they did, indeed, understand, but clearly none of them were very happy about it.
"Good," The Major continued, "Piett: stay; Everyone else: dismissed."
The collection of officers filed out, a few sending nasty glares in Firmus's direction as if he were at fault for the current predicament. Firmus shared their disdain for the situation, but more along the lines of how he shouldn't be here in the first place.
Finally, only the Major and Firmus remained, the former seeming to deflate even further. Firmus pitied the man, at least as much as he could, for being given command of a collection of undisciplined and directionless civilians would be an arduous task for even the most radical of officers.
"The Axxilan fleet retreated from the system three days ago, likely shortly after your landing," The Major's words came as a gut punch, even if Firmus had been expecting them. The Admiral had already been at a disadvantage; his fleet had neither the fighter screening ability nor the fighters to contest a Lucrehulk and its assorted comrades. Still, being left behind like this stung Firmus's pride.
"Then… What happens now?" Firmus hated admitting weakness; admitting he had no idea where to go or what to do. He was, for the first time in his life, truly and entirely without direction. The Republic military was nowhere to be seen, the Free Axxilan command structure had already fled, and the Halmadi were ill-suited for a full invasion. Millions of thoughts ran through Firmus's head, their tumultuous nature robbing the young Lieutenant of sleep and leaving him with heavy eyelids and fear lingering at the edges of his mind at all times.
"What happens now?" The Major asked in that gruff voice of his, its tone dripping with a dark amusement that was one part hopelessness and two parts sarcastic, "Now, we wait and see who comes out in control of the capital. You? You can do whatever you want, Piett. Stay, leave, you're outside my jurisdiction."
Piett. Not Lieutenant Piett, or Firmus, Piett.
He blames you, the exhausted, paranoid part of Firmus's mind spoke, He'll turn you over to the Seppies at the first sign of trouble.
"If it's all the same to you, Major," Firmus started with as level a voice as he could manage, licking his rapidly drying lips while looking slightly to the right of the older man's eyes, "We shall remain here. Better to… consolidate our forces."
It was as transparent a desperate lie as any other, and both men knew it. The Major knew Firmus had no leads and nowhere to go. His 'forces' were a handful of disgruntled and beaten naval soldiers, ill-suited for the cross-country journey to reach the capital. Firmus knew his best chance for survival depended on the Major suffering the presence of the Axxilans in "his" fort.
"Of course, Piett." The Major spoke lightly, his expression becoming unreadable, "That will be all."
Firmus rose from his seat, saluting the Major. The Major didn't return the movement, turning away to look at the holoscreen located behind him. Firmus did not wait around for more than a second, fleeing from the room.
The pair of militiamen waiting outside eyed him with barely disguised contempt, but Firmus paid them little mind as he retreated.
Navigating the fort was little issue, it was rectangular with only two floors. A small central building sat in the middle of the courtyard, where the barracks, mess, and conference room was located. Given that the bunks had been scuttled as well - the former occupants had destroyed the bed frames and torched the mattresses for reasons unknown - the militiamen and Axxilans were forced to sleep in the sandy courtyard.
Once outside, Firmus did a brief search for his men in the sea of bodies and carts. Alas, today appeared to be especially busy, as waves of refugees came flooding through the fort at nearly all hours. The stories they brought were the same: dropships setting down at major junctions or outside towns located strategically near major highways. Anything the bombers didn't already wipe out was being swept up by the Seppies. Clearly, news of what had happened at Naboo with the Trade Federation had spread far and wide, for very few wanted to wait around for the droids.
As if these last few months haven't been a stark reminder of the Seppies' brutality. Firmus thought to himself bitterly, watching as another motley group of drawn carriages trundled through the courtyard. The militia had tried to stem the flow at first, but they lacked the heart to stop the fleeing people from using their fort as a checkpoint. Some of the militiamen had even slipped off with the refugees, leaving their uniform emblems and distinguishing markings behind. A fourth of the militia was already MIA, and the remaining three-fourths looked ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
Only Firmus's men showed no signs of deserting, mostly because they had nowhere else to go. In the days since arriving, his men were appearing more and more defeated. Many were conscripts, and many more still had family on the planet. Firmus could empathize with the men, though he kept the fact that his family had already left quiet.
Eventually, Firmus found his men: they were gathered together in a loose circle around a bonfire, separated from the militia and as far from the caravan trains as they could get. At Firmus's approach, a few of them gave half-hearted salutes in greeting. Firmus didn't reprimand them; he didn't have the energy to.
"Bad news." It was a statement of fact, spoken by Lestru Jakar - the former escape pod pilot. Firmus gave a nod and watched with a heavy heart as his men all deflated further. Without any direction to continue, Firmus relayed what he was told by the Major. The effect was obvious, a few of the soldiers dropped their heads into their hands, one choked back a sob of disbelief.
"So, now what?" Asked Jaa Das, the youngest of their number at just seventeen. He claimed he had come from engineering, a story evidenced by his discarded boiler suit and engineering pins. How he had ended up on the other side of the Loyalty during the exodus was a mystery, one the young man was unwilling to elaborate on.
"We wait," Jakar spoke up again.
"Wait? All we've been doing is waiting! We should-" Das waspishly snapped back, his fear turning rapidly to anger and lashing out at anyone it could reach. Before Firmus could reproach the younger man, Vinca Delste of the security corps barked out a harsh laugh.
"Do what, Das? You heard the Lieutenant: Seppies have everything from here to Tumien locked down tighter than a Hutts treasure vault. The capital is isolated, the fleet is gone, and the leadership has gone dark." Delste growled from behind a thick goatee, his beady eyes boring holes into the now flushed Das. Das made a few aborted attempts at a retort before saying quietly; "I just wanna see my family…"
"We all do," Firmus decided to step into and waylay any further arguments, his cultured tone sounded far more empty, even to his ears, "But we must remain strong. Sooner or later, the capital will be able to break out and send further messages."
It was a hollow promise, closer to a lie than the truth, but at least raised the spirits of a few men. However, the more wary of their number appeared to have realized the futility of their situation, and a pervasive question flashed across their faces: "How are we going to get out of this?"
And to that, Firmus could not answer.
As it turned out, the capital managed to make a report to the entire planet in less than a day. This information was relayed to Firmus via the Major, who seemed equal parts relieved and defeated by the news he bore.
As was expected, the Halmadi government had surrendered to the Separatists, not willing to risk their capital to a prolonged siege especially when the invading force had total air superiority. The Major's militia unit was dismantled and the volunteers allowed to go their own way. Only the Major and a few of his closer comrades remained, though not to defend the fort from the Seppies. They merely wished to facilitate as safe an exchange as possible, to minimize the loss of civilian life. Firmus could respect the initiative, but it was the following order from the capital that he disliked most.
The Free Axxilan high command had not surrendered to the CIS, so all Halmadi forces were ordered to detain and hold Republic and Axxilan officials until such a time that the CIS could process them. This part was explained to Firmus and his men under blaster point, and though the Major was apologetic it had come to this, there was no choice or negotiation.
Of all the aspects of the base that remained intact from its previous inhabitants, the prison hold had been left mostly untouched. The mattresses had all been destroyed in the great barracks purge, but the doors and security systems proved mostly operational, even if they needed to be moved manually.
Firmus and his men were divided between two cells, awaiting the arrival of Seppie or Halmadi forces to 'process' them. Firmus had no illusions about what that meant for him, and though he was terrified at the notion, he prayed to whatever deity that might be listening that his men were spared the same fate.
A week, perhaps more or less, passed before reinforcements finally arrived. The Halmadi remnants under the Major kept watch over the Axxilans at almost all times of the day, but one morning they were suddenly gone. What replaced them were not battle droids, as Firmus had been expecting and secretly fearing, but Neimoidians in roughly painted grey armour and armed with cheap looking blasters. The blasters were familiar, namely because they had become ubiquitous across the outer rim after the demolition of the Trade Federation's droid army. The E-5 blaster rifle, built to be wielded by a droid and nothing else. However, the Neimoidians appeared to at least have enough experience to independently modify their blasters. Some put cloth around the forward grip so as not to be burned by the rifle's infamously poor heat sink. Some had fashioned makeshift stocks or pieced together rudimentary sights. Far more enterprising and skilled soldiers even brought around weapons barely recognizable as E-5s, what with the amount of extra parts attached and welded on.
The Neimoidians never spoke to them over the day and a half that they were present, showing rigorous discipline even when a few of Firmus's more rowdy men took to yelling insults at them.
Finally, near the end of the second day, a pair of Neimoidians came down, both armed with pikes that hummed with barely restrained energy. They spoke in their native tongue with the other guards, a foreign sound that made the aristocrat in Firmus turn his nose up in disdain.
The door slid open with a whine, and the pair of guards stepped into the cell. Their beady eyes scanned the collection of weary Axxilans before landing on Firmus.
"Lieutenant Firmus Piett?" One asked, its accent so incomprehensible that Firmus almost failed to make out what it was saying. After a moment of silent contemplation, Firmus gave a shaky nod and rose to his feet.
"I am."
"You are to come with us," The second one did not slaughter Galactic Basic as much as its partner, but the accent was still incredibly thick. Firmus, again, nodded, and stepped past the duo of guards. The other Neimoidians watched Firmus pass with glares, their expressions unfamiliar to Firmus. A few of his men whispered words of encouragement to their officer as he passed, but none of them were foolish enough to move against their guards.
The Neimoidians did not say a word as they marched Firmus through the central building. There were no windows to the outside, but the quantity of Neimoidians inside the compound told Firmus that they had already secured it. Not a single one of the Major's men were present, their final fates a mystery that would likely remain unsolved.
Firmus was brought to the very conference room where he had met with the Major all those days ago. This time, instead of being occupied by the Major and his officers, a portly Neimoidian in flowing, blue robes sat opposite the door. To its side, a battle droid adorned in yellow markings watched over the work with a blaster in hand - unmodified, obviously. The Neimoidian officer's brow was knitted in what Firmus suspected was concentration, its attention focused in its entirety on the work at hand.
Only when Firmus sat did it finally speak, not bothering to look up from its multitudinous datapads.
"Lieutenant Firmus Piett?" The Neimoidian asked.
"Yes." Firmus answered with a clipped tone, aware of the Neimoidian guards retreating back a pace but remaining in the room.
Firmus's answer did not elicit an immediate reaction from the Neimoidian, it's focus primarily on its reports or whatever enraptured it so. Finally, the Neimoidian let out a small cough and handed over a datapad to the battle droid. The droid evidently required no further direction, as it took the datapad over to Firmus and set it in front of him. Then, silently as it arrived, the droid returned to its post at the officer's side.
"Sign that, Lieutenant."
Firmus, bemused at the demand, moved the datapad closer to read over it. His heart, though he had been expecting its contents, sank to the soles of his worn boots. It was an official surrender document for all Republic and Axxilan forces on the planet, requesting the ranking officers on the surface to sign. Firmus did not have to wonder at the implications of him being qualified as a 'ranking officer of importance', enough so that he could sign an official surrender.
Five other names were listed, though four were unfamiliar to Firmus. The last one, 'Kilian', came as a surprise. Colonel Kilian had been the man behind the evacuation, evidently he had remained behind and paid the price for that decision. Though his signature was present, and Firmus had never seen it himself, the scrawl appeared shaky and minimalistic.
Ignoring the implications, Firmus knew there was only one option. This was not a request for surrender, it was a demand, and Firmus was in no position to resist. He was without a ship, without an army, and he and his men were at the tender mercies of these Neimoidian separatists.
Firmus signed his name without flourish.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." The Neimoidian announced in its accented basic, sending the droid to reclaim the datapad, "Congratulations, you are now a prisoner of the Confederacy of Independent Systems."
And with that, Firmus was escorted back to the depths of the base by his silent guards; escorted into uncharted territory. Firmus did not know what was to come next, but he silently prayed for the safety of not just he and his men, but his family and all those who had escaped the planet.
They were going to need it.