Exodus

by Smeghead

The Empire is dying a lingering death... until a copy of the mission report from the Outbound Flight project appears. A more detailed summary is at the start of the story

3. Exodus Part 3

Title: Exodus Part Three
Author: Robert Cox
Author E-mail: smeghead@ix.net.au
Category: New Republic
Keywoards: Luke Corran Pellaeon
Spoilers: None that I can think of right now. :)
Rating: NC-17. A couple of bad words. Non-graphic depictions of violence.
Summary: The Imperial Fleet has reached Terra, only to receive a number of nasty shocks. Several pitched battle break out as the Imperials establish a foothold and begin the campaign to conquer Terra. Daala brings reinforcements in the form of the remnants of her task force. The Errant Venture arrives, and the Rogues and Jedi manage to reach Terra, where they find another surprise...
Disclaimer: You know the drill... based on characters and situations created by George Lucas, and copyrighted to
him and LFL, and all the other profic authors out there. I'm not making any money out of this, yadda yadda.
Author's note: You may notice that I've given concussion missiles and proton torpedoes a range just a tad (about twenty-five times, if you want to be pedantic :) longer than in the X-wing/TIE fighter games. I just find it somewhat impossible to believe that with the technology level that appears in the Star Wars universe that their missiles only have a range of about two kilometres. Whereas, here and now, we can build air-to-air missiles with a range approaching two hundred kilomtres.

---

EXODUS - Part Three
by Robert Cox (smeghead@ix.net.au)

The story rolls on, and it seems to be taking on a life of its own now. I have no idea when I'll get it finished.

Let's just get on with it, huh?

EXODUS - Part Three

PELLAEON HAS NOW ARRIVED IN THE SOL SYSTEM, AND IS
DEPLOYING HIS FORCES TO MAKE A FORCED LANDING. HE IS CONFIDENT
THAT HE CAN SECURE A VICTORY BEFORE THE NEW REPUBLIC CAN
INTERVENE.

ADMIRAL DAALA, WHO IS ON HER WAY TO JOIN HIM WITH THE
REMNANTS OF HER TASK FORCE, IS NOW ONLY THREE DAYS BEHIND PELLAEON.
THE ERRANT VENTURE, AN IMPERIAL-CLASS STAR DESTROYER
MARK II, WITH JEDI MASTER LUKE SKYWALKER AND COLONEL CORRAN
HORN ABOARD, IS NOW ONLY A WEEK AWAY.

MEANWHILE, PELLAEON'S ARRIVAL AT TERRA HAS NOT GONE
UNNOTICED...

Deep within the innards of Cheyenne Mountain lay a network of heavily reinforced bunkers. This was the headquarters of NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defence Command, tasked with the defence of American and Canadian air defence during the Cold War years. It had sattelites over the Soviet and Chinese ICBM fields, ready to sound an alert if missiles were launched. Fortunately, this had not occured. Now its radars swept the orbits about Earth, keeping a tally of the ever-increasing amount of objects in orbit, making sure that no debris was on an intercept course with a satellite, or worse,
a manned spacecraft.

Therefore, it was the first installation on Earth to detect Pellaeon's fleet when it arrived in orbit.

Major Ken White, USAF, was just beginning his shift as watch officer. Watch officer duty at NORAD was quiet these days, but during the Cold War, it had been a tense job. There had even been a flurry of excitement during the Gulf War when Iraq launched SCUD missiles at Saudi Arabia and Israel.

He glanced down at the room below him, making a quick inspection of the technicians on duty. Suddenly, one of them sat bolt upright. White idly wondered what would cause the technical sergeant to react like that. Maybe it was another piece of orbiting junk about to impact with the Mir station?

His intercom beeped, and an excited voice burst forth. "Sir, we have a situation. A possible Hovering Angel, sir."

White felt a chill. Despite the official line that all UFO sightings were natural phenonema, there had been several unexplained contacts. Hovering Angel was the code for that event, just like Fallen Angel was the code for an alien crash/landing.

The repeater screen on his wall flickered and lit up, displaying the main radar screen. There were thousands of contacts, but they disappeared as they were squelched. Leaving about one hundred and fifty unidentified contacts. "Sergeant, is there a possibility that this is a glitch in the system?" White asked. Please, God, let this be a bug.

"Not a chance, sir. I ran the diagnostics before I called you about it. These are real."

"Bloody hell," White muttered, too low for the intercom to pick up. "Very well, sergeant. Continue to monitor the Angels. I'll imform the relevant people."

He cut the connection, and sat back in his chair. After a moment of contemplation, he unlocked a drawer and opened it. He pulled out a folder, which was bordered by red and white tape, and was labelled "TOP SECRET - HOVERING ANGEL". Opening it, he read through the checklist that was the first page. The first item was, "Confirm contacts." Well, he had done that to the best of his ability. The second item was, "Notify NCA." NCA was a jargonspeak term for National Command Authority. In other words, the President of the United States of America.

White checked his watch. At least he wouldn't be jolting the President out of bed with this news. He hesitated, knowing that he was gambling his career on this call. You didn't call the President without a very good reason. He picked up the red phone that was the direct line to the White House. When an operator answered with the standard, "White House Signals," he took a deep breath before replying.

"This is the watch officer at NORAD HQ. I need to speak with the President. We have a probable Hovering Angel."

* * * *

Pellaeon watched from the command chair on the Chimaera's bridge as the communications techicians set up their equipment. Since Terra relied on electromagntic waves for its communications, he couldn't use the array of communications equipment that he normally would.

The senior tech looked up and said, "Ready, sir. We've been scanning and have programmed the frequencies into the transmitter. Several of the major local languages have also been programmed into the translator."

Pellaeon nodded and signalled the tech to begin the broadcast. A red light winked on on the recorder, and he began, "I am Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, and in the name of the Empire, I formally demand the surrender of Earth to Imperial forces..."

* * * *

Rick was doing some late-night channel-surfing, flipping from channel to channel in the hopes of finding something decent to watch. Tash had given up about an hour ago, and was now fast asleep and snoring softly.

Suddenly, the image flickered, and the image of a middle-aged man in some sort of grey uniform with red and blue squares on his chest appeared. What the hell? Rick thought. Have I flipped to some sort of wierd sci-fi channel or something?

"I am Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, and in the name of the Empire, I formally demand the surrender of Earth to Inperial forces now orbiting your planet," he began. Somehow I doubt that this is a TV show, Rick thought, noting that the man's lips weren't quite in sync with what he was saying.

"Hey, Tash!" he called out. "Check this out!"

"What is it, Rick?" she asked sleepily, coming into the lounge room. She suddenly became wide awake when she saw what was on the screen. Pellaeon was continuing. "The terms for your planet's surrender are simple: stand down your military forces and allow my troops to land and take up positions. "You have twenty-four hours to comply. Failure will result in the harshest possible measures." Pellaeon's image flickered, and vanished from the screen.

Just then, the phone rang.

* * * *

The United Nations was in an uproar. An emergency meeting had been hastily called to discuss what reply to give to Pellaeon's demand. The American ambassador stood up. "The United States of America will ignore the surrender demands, and will fight with all resources. Our strategic weapons will, of course, remain under national control and will only be used as weapons of last resort.

"We encourage other nations to join us in defending our planet. To this end, we propose Resolution 359/98: that a headquarters be set up, comprising senior military officers from all countries, to co-ordinate the defense of our planet." He sat down, and the Russian ambassador stood up.

"The Russian Republic concurs, and we will also fight, alone if necessary." Other ambassadors voiced their agreement. As the British ambassador put it, "Better to die on your feet than live on your knees."

A vote was called on the resolution, and it passed. Unanimously.

* * * *

"Board is green. We are ready to go," an Air Force officer said after giving the console in front of him one last scan.

"Concur," the other officer said. They were sitting in a Peacekeeper silo. There weren't as many of them as there were only a few years ago. The START and START II treaties had seen to that.

It had been decided that the launching of ICBMs at the Imperial fleet would be the best answer to Pellaron's message. A few Ohio-, Delta- and Typhoon-class SSBNs would add their SLBMs. "Operation SKY HAMMER will commence on my mark," said Major White from NORAD HQ. NORAD had been chosen to co-ordinate the operation, due to the space-tracking radars under its command. "Five... four... three... two... one... Mark. Inititate."

The two officers twisted their keys, and sat back. No-one was really sure how many missiles would actually work, since they had been sitting there for the last ten years. To the delight of everyone, all of the missiles lifted from their silos and streaked up towards the fleet. From Russia and the SSBNs, more missiles were added.

Earth was sending its reply.

* * * *

"Admiral! Sensors indicate the launching of missiles from the planet's surface!" a sensor tech shouted.

"WHAT?" Pellaeon shouted, totally surprised.

"Infra-red sensors detect launches from the surface. Tentatively identified as missiles."

The Outbound Flight Data indicated that the Terrans didn't have this level of technology. But then again, it was written fifty years ago. The screen in front of him flickered, as the launch sites were plotted. "Destroy those sites," Pellaeon snapped.

"Yes, sir," the weapons officer replied, but before he could announce that he had achieved weapons lock, he was interrupted by the sensor tech.

"INBOUNDS!!! We have multiple inbounds! Five... six... seven... eight... approxmiately one thousand inbounds!"

Pellaeon's jaw sagged, but he quicky recovered. "Target the inbounds and open fire!" he barked.

"Yes, sir," the weapons officer said. "We have lock... firing now."

It was a mathematical process. The targeting computers on each Imperial craft easily acheived lock, and Lancer-class frigates moved into a position where their specialised anti-fighter/anti-missile batteries cought be brought to bear. The Lancers were the first to open fire on the incoming warheads.

They took their toll, but there were simply too many inbounds. Other ships joined the barrage, and more warheads were vapourised. About one-quarter of the incoming warheads survived the defensive barrage to slam into the Imperial fleet. After that, the laws of physics took over.

In a matter of nanoseconds, the reactions had taken place. Waves of heat and pressure slammed against the ships' shields like the shockwaves from multiple mini-supernovae, with temperatures and pressures rivalling that of a healthy stellar core. The results were as predictable as they were dramatic.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the EMP - Electro-Magnetic Pulse - generated by each exploding warhead rippled out at the speed of light, acting like ion cannons, and crippling the electrical systems of every ship that hadn't been destroyed.

Pellaeon watched in horror as one of his Executor-class vessels absorbed about a dozen warheads. That proved to be far too much for its shields to handle. With its shields down, it was easy prey for the next wave of half-a-dozen warheads, which ripped into its unprotected hull.

Even an eight-kilometre long Super Star Destroyer cannot take three megatons of explosive force. Vast areas of the ship simply vapourised, and atmosphere rushed out in torrents. When the explosions had died down, allowing the viewscreen to revert to its former setting, all that coud be sen of the Devastator was a few half-molten scraps of metal. Pellaeon slumped in his chair. He had seen the Executor die at Endor, but he didn't think it was possible for an Executor-class vessel to simply... vanish.

Around him, he heard the exclamations of shock and surprise as the bridge crew struggled to deal with what they were seeing. Oddly, this served to steady Pellaeon. He was an officer in the Imperial Navy, and he had to provide an example.

"Damage report?" he barked. "Minor damage to electrical systems, but that should be fixed within minutes," his damage control officer said as he scanned his board, regaining control of himself.

"Losses?"

"The Devastator, four Imperial-class vessels, ten Victory-class vessels, and about twenty smaller ships," the sensor chief said.

Pellaeon could feel the shock coming back. One-tenth. We've lost one tenth of our force already, and we haven't even landed. "Weapons!" he snapped "Lock onto the cities nearest the missile launch sites!"

The weapons officer pressed a few buttons on his board. A hologram winked into life above his board, and split into two, showing two different parts of the plant's surface. The targeting crosshairs were over two urban areas. One was called 'Salt Lake City', the other one 'Vladivostok'.

"Fire!" Pellaeon ordered.

* * * *

The Rogues, Luke Skywalker and the other Jedi, and Mirax were gathered together in one of the training areas. The lesson for today was languages. All the people who were going to make planetfall were learning English, so that they could communicate with the locals.

Most of them had at least a working knowledge, and some were getting quite fluent. It wasn't that hard, really - the words themselves were pretty simple, but it was the grammar that was proving to be the main sticking point. To make sure the lessons stuck, all conversations were now in English.

Corran was studying his datapad intently, absorbing information at a rapid rate, when all of a sudden, he felt a sharp pain rip through him. He clutched his stomach and groaned, wondering what was happening.

That wave of pain had just passed when a second wave, more intense than the first, washed over him. It proved to be too much for him to handle, and he gratefully lapsed into unconciousness.

* * * *

Rick, who was also a corporal in the Australian Army Reserve, was sitting in the boozer, watching the television and trying to figure out what was going on, while working his way through a can of coke. Someone had showed commendable initiative, knowing that they were going to be mobilised sooner or later, and had decided to gather everyone in the company together. He was debating the possibilities with one of his fellow corporals, when suddenly he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. The other corporal noticed this, and asked anxiously, "Hey, Rick, are you okay?"

Rick nodded weakly. He had no idea what had just happened, or why. He was about to say something, when the same invisible gorilla that had punched him in the stomach decided to hit him in the head, and he blacked out.

On the television, unnoticed in the sudden chaos, the announcer was saying, "In breaking news, government spokesmen of the United States and the Russian Republic have just announced that they have launched nuclear-tipped missiles at the Imperial fleet in orbit..."

She broke off as a piece of paper was slid across her desk. She quickly read it, and her face went pale. "Ladies and gentlemen, something truly horrible has happened. The cities of Salt Lake City and Vladivostok are reported to have been fired upon from orbit and completely destroyed. Casualties are said to be in the millions..."

[Alright, I confess - Rick is Force-sensitive. While he wouldn't be able to feel the effects of violent death through the Force as much as, say, Luke or Corran, when millions of people are killed, even a completely untrained person should be able to notice it. Which makes me wonder why Luke didn't feel the deaths of billions when Alderaan was destroyed...]

* * * *

Corran opened his eyes to find himself in the Errant Venture's primary sick bay. He turned his head to the right to find Mirax sitting there, concern clearly written on her face. When she saw that he was awake, she said, "Corran! Don't you ever do that to me again!" Although her tone suggested annoyance, he could tell that she was relieved to see that he was unhurt. Any reply Corran might have made was abruptly cut off when Mirax decided to kiss him.

When the need to breathe had ended the kiss, Corran turned his head in the other direction to see Luke sitting in a chair, looking rather weak. "Wha... What happened?" Corran managed to ask. "All of a sudden it felt like someone had just slapped a sonic projector against my head."

"I'm not sure... but it felt like millions of voices crying out in terror - and then being silenced abruptly..." Luke's voice trailed off as he remembered old Ben Kenobi's reaction when Alderaan had been destroyed. "I felt a great disturbance in the Force... as if millions of voices were suddenly crying out in terror and were abruply silenced. I fear something terrible has happened." Had Pellaeon destroyed Terra? Impossible - he didn't have a Death Star or another similar superweapon. Besdies, he wanted to capture it intact. But the feel of death through the Force was unmistakeable.

A chill ran through Luke. He knew that millions of sentient beings had just met a violent death... and all he could do was try to recover from the shockwave in the Force that had resulted.

* * * *

Pellaeon watched the turbolaser beams obliterated the two cities. So the Terrans wanted to play rough? Fine. He could handle rough. In fact, he could probably teach the Terrans new standards of rough. "Send down the first wave of assault shuttles," he ordered. The invasion of Terra had begun.

* * * *

General Turr Phennir adjusted the controls of his TIE Defender, trying to get the best resolution for his scanners. His fighter group of TIE Defenders and TIE Advanceds was the advance guard for the assault wave of landing shuttles. The devastating Terran response to Admiral Pellaeon's ulitmatum had surprised him - and worried him. What other surprises were in store for the Imperial forces?

At least his fighters were shielded, which allowed them to take more hits before they were destroyed. Phennir had always wondered why TIE fighters hadn't been shielded. All Rebel fighters were shielded, which anulled any manoeuverability advantage that TIEs had. The shock that he had gotten when the Terrans had launched their attack at the fleet was second only to the one he had received when he heard that Colonel Baron Soontir Fel had defected to the Rebels. The Empire's greatest fighter ace, defecting!

Fel had sent him a message explaining his reasons, and extending an invitation to defect as well, along with a promise of a place in Rogue Squadron, the same unit that had defeated the 181st at Brentaal IV. Phennir sympathised with Fel, but had remained with the Empire. He had come close to defecting when Isard had taken over, but after her death at Thyferra, and when Thrawn took over, he had stayed loyal. Since then, he had wondered why... He smiled grimly to himself as he watched one of his Advanceds slip back into formation after wobbling slightly as they entered atmosphere.

According to a story that Fel had told him on Brentaal, Fel had been the one responsible for the design of the TIE Advanced...

* * * *

Major Fel climbed out of the TIE Interceptor simulator. He had just mopped up an entire squadron of cadets single-handedly. Admittedly, it was a bit rough to throw cadets who had just been introduced to the TIE up against a seasoned veteran, but it was an unfair galaxy all round.

He was in the process of moving to where the cadets were gathering, intending to point out their mistakes and how they could be rectified, when he spotted a large figure dressed in midnight-black armour approaching him. Fel felt a sudden spike of fear. Vader! Why is he here? Surely it has nothing to do with the Rand Ecliptic debacle? I hope not... Three of his best students defecting to the Rebels! He had been told to forget any hopes of being posted to the new Death Star, which was seen as punishment enough - or so Fel hoped.

Vader surprised everyone, though, when he said, "It has been brought to my attention that there is a pilot of exceptional skill stationed here. Where is this pilot?"

The other pilots in the simulator complex shuffled their feet nervously. With a mixture of fear and curiousity, Fel stepped forward. Attracting the Dark Lord of the Sith's personal attention meant either one of two outcomes, diametrically opposed to each other.

You could find your rank increasing at a rate much faster than you thought possible, or you could find yourself writhing on the floor, desperately trying to breathe as Vader used the Force to crush your throat.

"What is your name, Major?" Vader asked.

"Soontir Fel, Lord," he replied, trying to quell his fear. It didn't seem that Vader was about to kill him...

"I am in the process of assembling an elite squadron to match the unexpectedly high skill levels that Rebel pilots have shown. I wish to test your level of skill, to ascertain whether or not you should be a part of this squadron."

"I... would be most honoured, Lord," Fel had stammered. Serve in Darth Vader's personal fighter squadron? After the defection of Klivan, Darklighter, and Janson, he thought his career had been effectively ended. Not only was he not being posted to the Death Star, he knew that his days as an instructor at the Academy were numbered, and down to single digits. Vader said nothing, but began walking in the direction of the simulators.

Fel trotted to catch up to him, while behind him, the cadets and simulator operators scattered to the control room. Fel was willing to bet every last credit he had that there was going to be a large crowd clustered around the repeater displays, watching and probably placing bets on who was going to win. Irrationally, Fel wondered what odds he would get...

His musings were interrupted when Vader said, "Hold nothing back, Major. I want to see how good you can be." Those words, said in a tone of one fighter pilot to another, surprised Fel. Hold nothing back? I didn't intend to hold anything back, he thought as he pulled his helmet on and prepared for the toughest duel of his life.

Half an hour later, drenched in sweat and tired almost to the point of exhaustion, Fel almost crawled from his simulator. He had to be assisted, but he didn't notice the hands helping him. I won! I beat Darth Vader in a one-on-one duel! That has never happened before!

Vader said nothing, but merely stalked out of the complex, leaving a message in Fel's mind. Outstanding performance, Major. I shall be back for a rematch...

Fel won that one as well. A few days later, he heard from a friend who was an engineer with Sienar Fleet Systems that Lord Vader had submitted a design for a totally new series of TIE fighter... one that had shields.

* * * *

Phennir was jolted from reminiscing when his threat-detector beeped, signalling that it had picked up electromagnetic signals which, based on their frequency, seemed to be search radars. The detector beeped again, higher-pitched, as the frequency changed, announcing that they had been picked up and were being tracked. So they intend to make us fight to make groundfall, Phennir thought. That's fine with me. I'm good at that. He snapped a few quick orders and his fighter group changed from escort formation to an attack formation.

* * * *

Commander Matt Adamson, CO of VF-84 "Jolly Rogers", reefed his F-14D Super Tomcat up in a hard climb, endeavouring to intercept the Imperial fighters and transports on their way to landing sites. His backseater called, "Judy! We have solid lock!" as their powerful AWG-9 radar easily found a target. "Ready with Phoenix."

Let's start this party, Adamson thought as he fired a pair of Phoenixes at the lead Imperial fighter. "Fox One," he announced over the radio, and watched the two blips race towards his target, joined by a swarm of similar blips as the rest of the 'Jolly's fired their missiles.

* * * *

A high-pitched warbling tone announced to Phennir and the other Imperial pilots that they had incoming missiles. What? Phennir thought, checking the range to the fighters that had launched the missiles, and finding it to be one hundred and eighty kilometres. They have missiles that outrange ours!

That was a significant advantage. Phennir hoped that there would be no more nasty surprises waiting for them when they hit the ground. But they had to reach the ground first. A quick glance told Phennir that there were two missiles aimed at his fighter. While he was fairly confident that his shields would be able to withstand the impact, he didn't want to test that theory unless he had to.

"Incoming! Evade!" he ordered his fighter group as he commenced evasive manouevers that would shake the surprisingly persistent lock the Terran fighters had on him.

Phennir somehow dodged one of the missiles, but the other one slammed into his shields with an explosion that rocked his fighter. Shields down twenty percent, Phennir thought as he checked his damage indicators. Scanning for the rest of his fighter group, he noticed that two Defenders and three Advanceds hadn't been so lucky, managing to dodge one missile to blunder into many others. Their shields down, they had fallen prey before they could react. The unshielded Starfighters and Interceptors had taken a hammering. Hampered by their atmospheric manoeuverability restrcitions - they flew like lumps of durasteel - and their lack of shields, their numbers had been cut by one quarter.

A steady chirping from his sensor unit told Phennir that the Terran fighters were closing rapidly, obviously intending to make a pass at the transports that he was escorting. He advanced his own throttles to the stops, jinking about in a random course that would make him difficult to hit by missiles. Arming his concussion missiles, he watched the numbers on his rangefinder scroll down at a rapid rate.

* * * *

"Splash twenty," the report from the nearby E-3 Sentry stated. Adamson was slightly disappointed with the result. We fired at least a couple of hundred missiles, for only twenty kills? Something is not quite right in the state of Denmark...

Well, he still had two more Phoenixes. And two Scorpions. And two Sidewinders. And his cannon, if it came to that. Quite a respectable amount of firepower... by Earthly standards, anyway. How it would stack up against these invaders was anyone's guess, but going on how the first volley had gone, it wouldn't be too impressive.

That was no excuse, though. This is what he was paid for. He locked up the lead Imperial fighter. "Fox One," he announced again, as he fired his last two Phoenixes at an enemy which, for reasons known only to God and themselves, had yet to return fire.

* * * *

Phennir glared at the sensor scope as if it was responsible for what it was reporting. More of those surprisingly long-range missiles were streaking in at his fighter group. The scope beeped again, announcing that it had acquired a target and was beginning the lock-on process. The second Terran volley achieved less than the first one, since the Imperial pilots had learned that a combination of radical manouevering and liberal use of decoys had moderate sucess in decoying the missiles into veering away from the Imperial fighters.

The targeting reticule went red, and a steady keening tone filled Phennir's ears. "Missiles away," he announced as he hit the firing stud to send two concussion missiles on their way.

* * * *

There was little warning. One second, they were drving hard to get into Scorpion range - and almost there, too - and the next, Adamson watched his squadron virtually disintegrate around him. Only two survivors were left from what had been a full-strength squadron.

D'hell? Those missiles sure pack a punch! Adamson thought somewhat dazedly. Then he realised. Missiles trade weight for range. Our Phoenixes outrange anything they have, but have lighter warheads.

"Scorpion lock-on!" his backseater shouted, jolting Adamson back to reality.

"Fox one, and here's hoping the third time really is the charm," Adamson said as he fied his two Scorpions at a target he hoped would be killed by them.

This volley did better since, unlike the Phoenix, the Scorpion was powered all the way into the target, making evasion more difficult. The return Imperial fire ripped another swathe through the defenders, and only the fact that the Imperials were outnumbered by a considerable margin prevented the battle from ending there and then.

The Air Force pilots rippled off their remaining Scorpions, which was returned by another volley of concussion missiles and proton torpedoes. Another seriously lopsided exchange. Things were starting to look very grim...

* * * *

Phennir drew the same conclusions that Adamson did. We're outranged, but they're outgunned. The locals' missiles were obviously optimised for fighter-to-fighter combat, whereas proton torpedoes and concussion missiles had been designed to do damage to capital ships. Phennir had always subscribed to the theory that putting weapons designed as anti-capship on fighters was a mark of desperation. It was a simple rule of combat that the best thing for killing a capital ship was another capital ship. The fact that all New Republic fighters carried them was a probably a holdover from the days of the Rebellion, when they had had nowhere near enough capital ships.

A brief message crackled in his helmet. The shuttles and assault carriers were preparing to land. His mission to prevent Terran fighters from interdicting the landings had been successful. His new mission was now air superiority, and to escort the bombers on their missions. He could start on the air superiority bit right now.

* * * *

Adamson cursed bitterly to himself - after making sure that he wasn't expressing his opinions over the radio. They had gotten so wrapped up in the dogfight that they had forgotten about the landing craft. The fighters couldn't take ground, but the troops aboard those craft could.

He put that thought out of his mind, as the Imperials were now closing on him, obviously intending to begin air superiority missions. Fighters may not be able to take and hold ground, but they helped make it a lot easier for the ground forces...

* * * *

Having expended all their missiles, the Imperial fighters were now closing to laser range. They were advancing somewhat cautiously, as the Terran fighters seemed to be far more manoueverable - something that made perfect sense to Phennir. After all, these fighters were limited to atmospeheric operations, and a lot of design effort had obviously gone into making them as aerodynamic as possible. It was easy to tell that they were fighters, as they had the graceful lines that marked them as predators. Phennir wondered how they handled.

Well, these predators were now about to meet another predator - one higher up in the food chain.

He closed in on one of the lead fighters, a large craft with two vertical - stablisers, obviously - sticking up at the rear. There seemed to be some sort of insignia painted on them, a skull and crossbones on a black background. Squadron insignia, obviously.

Suddenly, and without his threat-recevier making a sound, two flashes appeared from under the fighter's wings. Small specks, which left near-invisible exhaust trails, raced towards his Defender... and there was no time to avoid them.

The fighter rocked under the impact, but far less than when the other missile had hit. Short-range missiles, Phennir realised. Small warheads.

He armed his lasers and settled the fighter in the targeting reticule. It flashed green, but before he could fire, it slid neatly out of it again. Phennir grinned a predator's grin. The Terran was obviously a skilled pilot. This was bound to be interesting. The last time he had faced off with a truly skilled pilot was at Brentaal. He had thought that it was Wedge Antilles, but later learned that it had been Antilles' second-in-command, Tycho Celchu. Not that it mattered, since he had been ordered to break off the duel before it had really started.

Not this time...

* * * *

Adamson was cursing again, this time at the puny warhead on the Sidewinder - totally ignoring the fact that he had once held the opinion that the Sidewinder was a brilliant missile for close-in work that was just too far away for a cannon to do any good.

Suddenly, his RWR shrilled at him, and he sideslipped to get out of the forward arc of the Imperial that was closing on him. Adamson checked his weapons display. No missiles left, which left cannon. He wasn't too sure about how effective the 20mm rounds would be against the fighters, but he was about to find out by experiment.

The fighter that had seemed to single him out was now coming into visual range. Adamson was keen to see what it looked like. The image clarified...

"What the hell is that?" his backseater asked, totally incredulous.

"I have no idea, Jack," Adamson replied, just as flabbergasted. It appeared to be a ball with three panels sticking out of it at equal angles from each other. The panels were bent up at the edges. It looked rather ugly to Adamson, who was used to the aerodynamic lines of the Tomcat and the like. This thing looked like...

"I bet it flies like a brick," he muttered disparingly, then paused as an idea hit him. Of course! In space, there was no drag, so you could build in whatever shape took your fancy. Maybe even allow for a better placement of weapons...

Adamson shook himself. He could think about it later. Right now, he had to survive this encounter.

Did it carry short-range missiles like the Sidewinder? Somehow, he doubted it. And if it carried more of those devastating missiles, he was probably within the minimum range for them anyway. Which left...

A radar-controlled gunsight. The Tomcat had something similar, but the pilot still had to work a bit. Adamson didn't fully trust them, anyway. They always assumed that the target was going to keep on the same course, and they never did. Flicking his weapon selector switch to 'cannon', he took a deep breath and prepared for the fight of his life.

* * * *

Phennir was suitably impressed by the Terran's skill. Three times, he had managed to get the enemy fighter into his sight, and three times, it had skipped away before he could fire. The Terran had even managed to get into his rear arc once, and the Defender had rocked under a series of impacts.

Not lasers, but extremely rapid-firing projectile weapons. Which was good and bad. They did less damage per hit than lasers, but since they fired far more rapidly, a lot more hits were scored.

He was also hampered by the fact that he was less manoeuverable than his opponent. His shields made up for it somewhat, but if the Terran managed to get behind him, and stay there long enough to overwhelm his shields...

Well, he just had to make sure that that never happened, then. He banked hard, and slid into firing position for the fourth time. Before the sight blinked green, he pressed the firing stud, hoping that he'd actually hit something, but at the exact same time, the Terran did that slip/slide thing again, and the beam missed - but not by much.

* * * *

The green bolt slid past the canopy, causing the termperature to spike suddenly.

"SHHHHIIIIIT!" the backseater screamed, obviously rattled. "What the hell was that?"

"Laser of some kind," Adamson replied, only marginally calmer himself. If a miss had heated the cockpit up like that, a hit would have...

Better not think about that. Adamson knew that he was a fairly good pilot - he'd topped the Top Gun course, and that was probably the hardest course in the Navy - and this guy was at least as good as he was. He had to concentrate if he was going to survive, let alone win.

The Imperial was now dropping on his tail again. Adamson flicked a switch on his throttle. I wonder how he reacts to this, Adamson thought.

* * * *

Phennir lined the Terran up again as his fighter straightened up for a moment, but before he could fire, small protrusions appeared on the wings. What? Suddenly, Phennir was jinking sharply to avoid slamming into the rear of the Terran. Reverse-throttle hop, he realised. Which means... Sure enough, the Defender shook under a series of hammerblow impacts. A thin whine became audible, indicating that the shield generators were unhappy with the amount of kinetic energy that they were being asked to compensate for.

A quick glance told Phennir that he was in trouble. Shields in the red. Gotta move. But before he could, an electronic crackle and an even more violent series of impacts told him that his shields were down. A sudden draft of air told him that his hull intergrity had been compromised.

Damn, this guy is very good. But so was Phennir. Under Fel, the 181st had had a fearsome reputation - a well-earned reputation. Phennir hadn't made it to second-in-command based on his good looks.

Two can play the reverse-throttle hop game, he thought as he thumbed a control. Within a second, the Terran fighter appeared in his gunsight. Just as he hit the trigger, it dived sharply away, causing the shot to only be a 'damage', rather than 'kill'.

A quick glance at damage control and fuel guages told him that he didn't have time to play. There was only barely enough fuel to return to his ship, and the damaged panels could come off at any time.

Phennir threw a salute at the departing Terran, who was driving away from the dogfight as fast as possible, trailing smoke. The pilot had been an equal, and would have fitted in well in the 181st.

* * * *

Adamson was startled when the Imperial fighter appeared to stop dead in mid-air, forcing him to stop firing and move past it. As he was slamming the stick forward to get out of the danger arc, it felt as if a large boot had slammed into the rear of his Tomcat.

"SHIT!! Number-one engine out! Fire light lit!" the backseater screamed. "Fuel handle pulled! Engine power cut! Extinguisher activated!" There was a long moment's pause, then, "Fire light out. I suggest we make like the good shepherd and get the flock out of here."

"Can't argue there," Adamson said. "Which way?"

"Okay... nearest strip is... Mountain Home." The steering cue on the HUD swung to the right, indicating which way Adamson should turn.

"Zoomies, huh? Think they'll feed us and put us up for the night?"

"Hope so. They eat a lot better than us."

"And their rooms are nicer, too."

* * * *

Rick was the first to spot them. The battalion convoy had stopped to refuel, and everyone was taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch their legs and relax. Suddenly, Rick felt a tingle in the back of his mind, and instinctively looked up. He saw contrails swirling about in totally random patterns, punctauted by dirty grey puffs. Somehow, he knew that an intensive dogfight was going on above him, and that the Royal Australian Air Force was fighting for its life... and coming off second best.

By this time, everyone else's attention had been drawn to the duel, and someone asked, "What's going on?"

Even though that question had been aimed at no-one in particular, Rick decided to answer. "The Imperials are making their landing. And the RAAF-ies are trying to stop them." He shook his head before continuing, "Somehow I doubt that they're having much luck."

"Good call, Rick," came a voice from behind them. Rick glanced over his shoulder to see his company commander standing behind him. "We've just gotten the word. The landing site has been plotted, and it's about eighty kilometres west of Orange - which is where we're going right now." He grinned feraly. "So what are we waiting for?"

* * * *

Wing Commander Ben Hogan was beginning to despair. They had engaged the Imperials about ten minutes ago, and they had all but lost the battle in that time. Their first salvo had achieved some results, but since then, then initaitive had slipped completely from their grasp. And to make matter worse, some of the ships seemed to be shielded in some way, making it all but impossible to shoot them down. It was those ships that had done the majority of the damage, with any RAAF fighter that closed to try to do some damage to it being blasted out of the sky by some sort of laser.

If we can't use our cannon, what can we do? he wondered, noting that he was completely out of missiles. Ganging up on one was not an option, as the other Imperial ships in the formation simply blasted the attackers from the flanks and rear.

As he expended the last of his cannon ammunition on one of the fighters, he hoped that the Army was on the ball. The Air Force had done all they could, and that hadn't been enough...

* * * *

Pellaeon was flicking through the first after-action reports, hoping for good news. There had already been some rather nasty surprises. First was the missiles launched at them. The scientists were still specualting as to what they were, but the preliminary reports hinted at some sort of thermonuclear reaction, akin to that which powered the Star Destroyers' engines.

Which explained their destructive force. Pellaeon had seen fusion reactors overload before, and the results were always devastating. The other major surprise was the fierce struggle that the Terrans had put up to oppose the landings. Pellaeon had led the conquest of worlds that had capitulated far quicker than this one, even with a higher level of technology.

Or did the Terrans have a level of technology equal to that of his own? So far, all that they had encountered were atmospheric craft. What if they had transatmopheric craft waiting in standby, ready to pounce? That would be very bad indeed. Suddenly Pellaeon recalled that the atmospheric craft were unshielded. A slim reed to be sure, but he felt that, with perserverance, he would win through.

He came to the casualties and estimated kills section, and frowned. Admittedly, there was a twenty-to-one kill ratio in his favour, his fighters having shot down approximately three thousand Terran fighters in exchange for one hundred and fifty of his own - and the vast majority of them being unshielded Starfighters and Interceptors - but the Terrans had a major advantage over him.

They could replace their losses.

It was as simple as that. He had to conquer this planet before his losses climbed too high. But that was not an over-riding concern at present, just something that he should remain aware of. Right now, he had to ensure that he sat back and resisted the temptation to meddle. Micromanaging the assault would only hamper it. He just drafted the outlines of long-term plans. His staff added flesh to it, and subordinate commanders fitted their units' own individual plans into it. If all went well, the end result should be a polished piece of planning that would hold the key to the conquest of Terra.

But something always went wrong. Pellaeon remembered something from the Naval Academy, 'You can plan all you like, even down to the service numbers of each individual trooper to be involved if that is your wish, but you must always be prepared to react to unforseen circumstances. Flexibility, gentlemen, is the key to winning in a modern war. If you are more flexible than your opponent, you will soon wrest the initiative from him. Victory should follow,' the instructor had paused to scan the lecture room before grinning suddenly, 'barring any unforseen circumstances.'

Words to live by, Pellaeon decided. 'Be ready for anything' was the unoffical motto of the Imperial Fleet.

* * * *

Rick was nervous, and rapidly moving to terrified. The fact that his section was the lead section for the company, probably the battalion as well, didn't help at all. The fact that there were only two people, his section's scouts, closer to the bad guys than him made it worse.

One part of his mind was screaming that this was total idocy, but the rest of his brain ganged up on the pessimistic part and pounded it into submission. He was doing something important, and didn't need to be plagued with doubts.

He scanned around him, and grinned mirthlessly. On training exercises, he'd had to badger his section not to bunch up, and make sure to look to the people in front and behind them to make sure no imformation was being missed. Now that they were doing it for real, everything was going smoothly, almost as if by magic. All of a sudden, Rick felt a growing sense of unease, even worse than it had been before. He wrote it off to the fact that he was now going into combat for real.

Which was a mistake, since just then heavy firing broke out from in front of him.

* * * *

Lieutenant Stour Helir was watching the Terran infantry approach his position with interest. They appeared to be competent enough, moving forward in a fairly spread-out formation, and carefully searching around them.

Now he would see how well they reacted to being under fire.

His cobbled-together scout unit, consisting of four AT-ST scout walkers and two dozen recon stromtroopers mounted on hover bikes, was posted at one of the more likely approach routes leading to the landing zone to prevent the Terrans from infiltrating raiding parties or artillery observers into range of the vulnerable landing operations. He passed on the order to fire, and watched as the laser bolts lanced out at the approaching enemy.

He was not surprised with the results. The Terrans scattered for cover so fast it seemed that they had disappeared, leaving behind two bodies of soldiers who weren't quite quick enough.

"Control, this is Scout Seven. Contact with enemy ground forces. Estimate platoon-sized unit. Engaging now, over," Helir reported tersely.

"Acknowledged, Seven," the reply came back.

Helir ordered the driver of his walker to move forward, and then ordered the recon trooper commander to sweep wide around the flanks. This shouldn't take too long.

* * * *

"Bloody hell!" Rick snarled, risking a quick glance at where the fire had come from, then looking towards where his two casualties lay. Somehow, he knew that one of them was still alive, and his conscience nagged at him to make a pickup. All around him, the other members of his section were busy returning fire, aiming at where the Imperial fire was coming from. The enemy fire remained as heavy as ever, which led Rick to belive that his men's fire was having no effect.

He came to a sudden decision. There was a wounded mate out there. Australians never leave a mate in trouble. Slinging his rifle, he gathered his courage and dashed out towards the wounded soldier. The rest of the section, seeing what he was doing, intensified their rate of fire to cover him.

He grabbed both by the collar and started dragging them back towards cover. By some miracle, he actually made it. A quick glance told him that one of them was dead, with half of his chest vapourised, and the rest charred and blackened. The other one was moaning softly, a large chunk taken from his left leg.

Suddenly, Rick heard a high-pitched whine, which was surprising enough to make him divert his attention away from his first-aid efforts and look for the source of the sound.

Half-a-dozen white-clad figures burst into view, mounted on some bike-like device that floated about a metre off the ground. Rick had no idea what they were, but they looked impressive enough. His machine gunner had other ideas, and a stream of tracers connected with the lead rider, who tumbled backwards off the rear of his bike and hit the ground hard.

Rick was elated. His men had struck back! Then his heart sank as he saw the Imperial solider clamber back to his feet, obviously hurt more by the impact with the ground than being hit by several bullets. That white stuff must be armour of some kind, he realised glumly. And nothing we can throw at them even slows them down.

He was just about to order his section to pull back - they were obviously outgunned and probably outnumbered - when he heard heavy impacts with the ground, and several boxy shapes came into view. 'Mechs? If not that, then what the hell are they?

They were simply large metal boxes on legs, with what were obviously weapons emplacements slung underneath and mounted on the sides. Two openings were sited where eyes would have been.

Instinctively, Rick aimed his rifle and snapped off a hasty burst. Most of the shots bounced off the armour around the openings, but a few found their mark. Alright, Rick thought.Now all I have to do is find something that'll be more effective. He searched around, and he spotted the grenade launcher that was carried by one of the riflemen.

Grabbing it and all the grenades he could find, he cracked it open and loaded it with swift, sure movements. Estimating the required evelvation, he aimed and fired. Without waiting to see what effect it had, he reloaded and fired again.

* * * *

Helir was pleased with his unit's performance. They were moving forward, and everything the Terrans threw at them seemed to have little effect.

Suddenly, a gout of dirty grey smoke burst from the viewports of the AT-ST next to his, followed by the small explosion as the capacitors for its weapons exploded, then the main power cell overloaded, destroying the Walker. To say that Helir was merely surpised would be a massive understatement. Shocked and stunned would be a more accurate description, since the intel brief that he had received before landing had confidently stated that the Terrans had no weapons that could put a Walker - even the comparatively lightly-armoured AT-ST - in real danger.

Once again, the intel boys are not very intelligent, Helir thought bitterly. To make matters worse, whatever weapon that had destroyed the Walker had left no sign of where it had been fired from, which meant that Helir couldn't get revenge by hosing down the area. Just then, he spotted more infantry racing towards the fighting, obviously trying to reinforce their beleaguered comrades. That was something he could do something about. Leaving the other two surviving Walkers to keep the rest of the infantry pinned down, he turned his own Walker's guns on the arriving reinforcements.

* * * *

About friggin' time, Rick thought, as the rest of the platoon rushed in to help.

Just then, laser beams swept through the formation, dropping bodies in their wake. Rick had a sinking feeling that both the platoon commander and the platoon sergeant had went down - hard, meaning that they weren't likely to get back up - in that burst. Which made him acting platoon commander, as he was the senior corporal in the platoon. What a way to get a promotion, he thought.

Well, it was a fairly simple choice as to what to do now. Stay - and probably die to the last man, which was not something he looked forward to. Or bug out, and bring back at least some of the platoon. Rick wisely opted for choice number two. As he took cautious glances around to determine where everyone was, he was distracted by that high-pitched whine again. He spun around, just in time to see...

One of those bike things again, but it was aimed directly at him this time. Acting purely on instinct, he stepped to one side, flipped his rifle end-for-end so he was gripping it by the barrel (wincing slightly at the heat that came through the leather gym gloves he was wearing), and played a hook shot that Adam Gilchrist would be proud of.

It connected with his target - the driver - and sent him tumbling from the back. Rick also staggered back somewhat - the impact velocity had been somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred kilometres per hour. One glance told Rick that the rifle was wrecked - most of the butt from the magazine back was missing. He scooped up the Imperial trooper's weapon and took a quick glance at it. Slightly bigger than submachine-gun-sized, with a mazagine - power pack, actually - sticking out from the side.

A low-voiced groan snapped him from his examination, reminding him of the trooper he'd flattened. The armour over his chest seemed to have absorbed the impact amazingly well, but the shock probably had at least bruised a couple of ribs. Maybe broken them, Rick thought. Another thought occurred to him. Hey, I've just bagged a PW.

With swift, sure movements, he stripped the trooper's equipment belt from him. Then he gave an order he didn't like, but had to give anyway. "BACK!" he shouted. "PULL BACK!" Turning to the trooper, he gestured with the weapon and said, "Okay, buddy. Move it." He wasn't too sure if the Imperial understood English, but the gesture was an unmistakeable Get moving.

As the Imperial trooper started to haul himself to his feet, Rick heard that high-pitched whine again...

Looking over his shoulder, he saw two more troopers on those weird floating bikes aimed straight at him. Spinning around, he instinctively aimed and pulled the trigger. A series of laser bolts stitched their way across the riders' chests and both tumbled backwards of the bikes. Quickly turning around again, Rick saw that the trooper he had captured was in an awkward position, too out of balance to make a break for it, or to try to attack Rick. The whole sequence of events had transpired too quickly for that.

A series of crashing sounds... Rick glanced that way. An Australian soldier burst through some scrubby undergrowth, obviously looking for Rick. "Saw those two guys going for you," he panted, obviously affected by physical exertion and riding an adrenaline wave. "But it seems you didn't really need my help."

"It's the thought that counts, Craig," Rick replied. "Shall we?"

"By all means," Craig replied.

The remnants of the platoon slipped away, picking up what wounded they could transport and hauling their prisoner along with them. Unfortunately, due to the haste of their retreat, they missed a few.

* * * *

Lieutenant Helir let them go. There could be another Terran unit waiting nearby, ready to slip through any gaps opened up in the defensive perimeter. "Scout troopers, dismount and perform a sweep of the area. The Terrans may have left some valuable intel behind," he ordered, before unclipping a blaster carbine from its rack and turning to the driver of his AT-ST. "Maintain a watch. If any more Terrans approach, or if a message from higher up comes in, let me know immediately."

"Yes, sir," the driver replied crisply.

With a nod, he climbed up through the roof hatch of the Walker and then down the side, using hand- and foot-holds provided for the purpose. He had to see for himself.

The sweep was going smoothly, with a handful of unconscious Terran infantry who had passed out from their wounds being found and marked for retrieval, as well as the bodies of their slain comrades.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire rang out. "Report!" Helir barked into his comlink.

"There's a Terran who refuses to surrender," the distorted voice of one of the scout troopers reported. "He seems to be wounded."

"Stay put. I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir."

When Helir arrived on scene, a scout trooper sergeant told him, "The Terran is about thirty metres that way."

Helir cautiously glanced around the tree the sergeant had been using as cover. The Terran was indeed wounded, as Helir could see the darkened patch of his camoflauged uniform that indicated fairly serious bleeding.

But he was propped up against the tree, the barrel of the weapon he was carrying tracking from side to side as he searched for more targets. Helir pondered the alternatives. He could order the Terran shot, but his stomach turned at the prospect. Or...

"Just stun him, sergeant, and haul him back," Helir decided.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied, in a toally neutral tone of voice that concealed what he thought of the order, while his helmet similarly concealed his expression. The sergeant then leaned slightly around the tree and fired a single stun bolt before ducking back. A second glance must have revealed a stunned enemy, for the sergeant did not duck back. Instead, he waved forward a couple of troopers to collect the unconscious enemy.

First contact between the Imperials and the Terrans had been made.

* * * *

On another part of the planet, it was dark, and the nocturnal predators were on the prowl.

They came in three distinct types: AH-64 Apache attack helicopters at tree-top level, relying on the terrain to hide them from whatever sensor stations the Imperials may have set up. At slightly higher levels - but not much higher - and a fair distance back - a squadron of B-1 Lancer bombers raced in, using their stealthy characteristics and low altitude, combined with their high speed, to protect them. And at higher altitudes, and somewhere in between, distance-wise, the two squadrons of F-117 Night Hawk stealth fighter-bombers in the USAF glided through the night, totally reliant on their stealth characteristics, since their handling left much to be desired.

This was a probe, designed to try to find any weaknesses in the Imperial defenses. If it succeeded, a much larger strike package was currently being prepared. Rommel had known what he was talking about, even fifty-some years ago when he said that enemy beacheads must be smashed as soon as possible, preferably on the first day, what he termed 'the longest day.'

The Imperial 'beachead' was two thousand kilomtres from the nearest ocean, but the principle was the same.

* * * *

The Night Hawk pilots were sweating, but not because of the thick fireproof Nomex flight suits they were wearing. Even though stealth had proven its effectiveness in Panama and the Gulf, the characteristics of the Imperial sensors were totally unknown. The designers of the Night Hawk had taken the frequencies and other important characteristics of Terran radar platforms into account when designing the F-117. It was just that nothing like the Imperial invasion had ever been considered an even remote likliehood.

Which caused the nervous sweat on the pilots' part. Their briefing officers had tried to instill some confidence in the pilots before take-off, saying that the angled panels should deflect enough of the radar energy away from the receviers to prevent a return signal from appearing, but the fact that absolutely nothing was known about the sensitivity of the receivers made it a futile effort. In the end, the pilots just said a prayer and hoped.

Maybe God was on their side, because as they approached the Imperial landing site, the RWRs on the Night Hawks began to pick up incoming signals and the flight computers asked the pilots if they wanted the signals jammed, giving a 87% probability that the signals could be successfully jammed. Unanimously, the pilots refused to activate their trackbreakers and signal jammers. The jammers emitted more energy than was reflected, and would be a great way to give away their position.

With jamming removed as an option, the powerful computers crammed into the Night Hawks' fuselages chewed the available data and considered their options for perhaps 250 milliseconds, before reporting a 95% probability that they had gone undetected...

So far, anyway.

In the cockpit of the lead Night Hawk, the package commander looked at the chronometer display on his HUD. If the Apaches had managed to keep to their part of the plan, they would be in position in a few seconds, and would begin launching their missiles a few minutes later in an attempt to reduce the Imperial air defences. At roughly the same time, his Night Hawks would drop the two-thousand pound laser-guided bombs they were carrying, trying to do the same.

That effort was not made any easier by the fact that no-one had any idea at all as to what Imperial air-defence emplacements looked like. They would have to target by guesswork, which was not exactly an efficient technique. Oh, well.

Just then, a beep sounded in the pilot's earphones, announcing that it was time. He unstowed the laser designator, and pointed it at something that looked like a vehicle. The computer locked it into its memory as a target and examined the outside conditions as reported to it. The velocity, altitude, attitude, and heading of the aircraft. Wind speed and direction, humidity, temperature, air pressure, and a dozen other variables were examined and their effects on the coming drop taken into account. Three hundred milliseconds later, the computer announced its satisfaction by flashing the word 'DROP' in large flashing letters in the bottom left-hand corner of the HUD.

Now this was the most dangerous part of the mission. The bomb bay doors had to be opened, since bombs find it rather hard to fall through a few inches of fibresteel and other nonmetallic substances. And with the bomb bay doors open, the Night Hawk loses all stealth capabilities.

The pilot opened the bomb bay doors.

* * * *

On the ground, the Imperial techicians manning the sensor consoles were about to start tearing their hair out in frustration. For the last five minutes, blips had been appearing and disappearing at random, and the computers hadn't even been able to come close to getting a solid track on them, let alone a solid weapons lock-on.

Just then, two dozen blips appeared on the screens almost simultaneously... and stayed long enough for the computers to start processing all the data needed by the air-defence weapons operators to feed to their charges so they could begin the process of swatting them from the sky.

But seconds after the first two dozen blips appeared on the screen, they were joined by nearly fifty others. The computers analysed these new contacts, and reported the results: free-fall gravity bombs. The target locks were quickly switched to these new threats and weapons-free status quickly followed.

With these new instructions issued, the weapons quickly opened fire on the new targets. Besides, the Night Hawks had closed their bomb bay doors, returning them to electronic invisibility.

* * * *

The commander of the Apaches noted the ground fire directed at the Night Hawks. He took a moment to think about his mission, and about Task Force NORMANDY, which had ripped a huge hole in the Iraqi air defences in the first few seconds of Operation Desert Storm.

Then he gave the order to fire.

Almost four-fifths of the Apaches were the older model, unable to fire their Hellfire missiles over the hills they were using for concealment. This meant that they had to rise high enough to fire their missiles over the hills. This meant exposing themselves to Imperial fire, and since the Apache is not stealthy they were quickly detected, and just as quickly fired upon by those batteries not involved in swatting bombs out of the air.

As soon as the last of their missiles were away, the Apaches ducked back into the cover provided by the terrain, with about a quarter making the trip rather more quickly than hoped for - as flaming debris, with the missiles they were guiding 'going stupid', and missing everything.

The rest of the missiles, however, blazed in towards their targets, and some Imperial air defense batteries turned their fire on them. The Hellfire's high speed, combined with its short range, meant that most survived to hit their targets.

Some managed to find unshielded emplacements, and destroyed their targets with large fireballs. Most, however, hit shielded emplacements, and the shields on those emplacements held. It also happened that most of the shielded emplacements were the air-defense weapons so that, in net terms, so far the raid had achieved very little.

* * * *

The commander of the squadron of B-1 bombers racing in at full throttle - about nine hundred kilometres per hour - noted the explosions in the distance. Right on time. He also noted that the suqadron had reached the IP, or Initial Point, and also the place where they would go to full afterburner, which increased their speed by another four hundred kilometres per hour, at the cost of an eightfold increase in fuel consumption. And also a massive increase in their infrared signatures.

He moved the throttle around the detente and all the way forward into the afterburner zone. Thirty seconds to target.

* * * *

The twelve massively increased thermal blooms stood out dramatically on Imperial sensor screens. The operators noted these new returns and briefly wondered why they had gotten so close - ten kilometres - before being picked up. Then they noticed the altitude readouts for the new contacts. They were so low that even a hiccup would probably send them slamming into the ground. The computers analysed this new data and announced that the new contacts were prbably small attack craft, based on their high speed and low signal return.

Since most of the air defense batteries were already engaged in shooting down bombs or the other attack craft that had appeared earlier, only a few were available to engage this new threat.

* * * *

"Uh-oh," the electronic warfare officer muttered.

"What is it, Chris?" the pilot asked, concerned.

"We've been spotted... fire-control radars coming up... now," Chris replied.

The pilot muttered a curse. Normally, the bombers would be proceeded by Wild Weasel missions, using radar-hunting HARM missiles to try to roll back the enemy air defenses, but this mission had been laid on too quickly for that. Now they had to drive into the teeth of the Imperial air defenses. "No time to worry about that. Bomb bay doors opening... now. Fifteen seconds to drop."

* * * *

Like the Night Hawk, the Lancer loses it stealthy characteristics when the bomb bay doors open. The sudden increase in return from the dozen new signals was noted at every sensor station, and the operators were alerted. "BOMBERS! Range... damn... four kilometres!"

"FIRE!" the commander screamed, caught by surprise. What else would the Terrans throw at him?

Half-a-dozen batteries switched their attention from the bombs - which had been mostly destroyed by this time anyway - to this new threat. But it was too late to do any real good.

* * * *

"Bombs gone! Get us the hell out of here!"

The pilot didn't waste time saying anything. He simply made the tightest turn that he safely could and beat feet out of there. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright flash as an Imperial air defense battery hit a Lancer in the bomb bay as it was still unloading. The four-man crew never knew what had hit them.

Another Lancer had its two left-side engines shot out and slammed into the ground, sliding along the ground on its belly for three hundred metres before coming to a halt. Through some miracle, all of the crew survived.

A third Lancer had the front end shredded when a bomb was hit just after leaving the bomb bay. The wreckage of the plane and its crew showered down in a fairly concentrated area, due to the ultra-low altitude.

The rest made it home safely.

* * * *

The raid was over... or so the Imperial commander hoped. It had come as a nasty surprise, and only the handful of portable field shield generators had prevented massive amounts of damage. He was going through after-action reports when a junior stormtrooper officer appeared in front of his desk.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking up in some annoyance. This had better be good was what the tone of his voice said.

"The salvage crews have found something they think you should see, sir," he replied.

"Very well, Lieutenant."

It was worth seeing. It was the Terran bomber that had crash-landed in the middle of his base. The salvage crew were gathered around it, taking readings and making noises of astonishment. The Commander walked straight up to the senior tech and asked, "What do you think is so important, Chief?"

"This, sir," the tech replied, tapping the fuselage of the crashed bomber. Instead of the clean ringing noise associated with metal, a dull thud was produced.

"It's not metal!" the Commander exclaimed, astonished.

"That's right sir. And take a look at the shape. We believe that these two factors are the reason why it didn't show up on sensors until it was so close. And also why there was such a small return."

"And also the fact that they were flying so low," the Commander mused.

"That's right, sir. This could be a passive cloaking system."

That got the Commander's complete and undivided attention. "Passive cloaking? How is that possible?"

"Well, sir, the method of cloaking the the New Republic and ourselves have been working on is based around active measures, such as projecting a 'dead field' where no electromagnetic energy can penetrate. That's why the cloaked vessel can't use its sensors.

"But the guiding principle behind this system seems to be twofold: whatever this craft is made of, it isn't metal. In fact, I'd be willing to be that instead of reflecting EM energy, it absorbs a fair percentage of it." The tech gestured to the crashed bomber. "Now look at the shape."

The Commander did so. "It's... rounded. Looks like Mon Cal work, in fact."

"I didn't think of it that way, but that's quite accurate sir," the tech agreed. "My guess is that whatever EM energy isn't absorbed by the outer skin is reflected away from the sensor station which means..."

"Which means that since very little or no energy is coming back to the sensor station, the computer doesn't think that there's anything out there! And if some is returned, it's at far less intensity, so the computer thinks it's a fighter-sized craft!" Then the Commander remembered something. "Just before the first bombs dropped, there was a series of randomly appearing and disapperaing contacts. What do you think that was?"

"No idea, sir, but it could have been another type of Terran craft, possibly with a similar passive cloaking system."

That was not good news, the Commander reflected. Just how many of these near-invisible craft did the Terrans have?

* * * *

The shattered remnants of the platoon dragged themselves back through the perimeter the rest of the battalion was setting up while waiting for the rest of the brigade, and more, to show up.

Their severly reduced numbers drew cries of astonishment and dismay, and not a few stares. The company commander, Major Thomas Henderson, drawn by the commotion, said, "Jesus Christ, Rick! What the hell happened to you?"

"The Imperials happened to us, sir," Rick replied bleakly. "They had some sort of wierd armour thing that the 66s didn't even scratch, not to mention body armour that stopped everything we threw at it." When he mentioned the armour, he remembered their prisoner. Gesturing the two soldiers who'd been controlling him to move forward, he continued. "It wasn't a total disaster, though sir - barely. We also picked up a friend."

Relieved that Rick hadn't toally fallen apart on him, Henderson said, "Well, since you bagged him, you can take him back to BHQ. They need a platoon to act as Ready Reaction, anyway. It'll probably be a few quiet days to rebuild."

Rick couldn't argue with that. He'd just survived his first combat experience, and now all he wanted to do was to find somewhere to curl up into a little ball and go to sleep... and hope that he didn't dream.

* * * *

From above, it was an impressive sight. Literally thousands of armoured vehicles, spead out over a front of several kilometres, we rolling steadily towards the Imperial position. This was the ground part of the United States' effort to kick the Imperials out.

The second strike of the previous night had been an unmitigated disaster unparalled in the history of the United States Air Force. The Imperials, alerted and having had a practical lesson in the Terran proverb about departed livestock and locked doors, had had fighters in the air, and warships on standby. As soon as Terran atmospheric craft were detected launching, the warships unleashed an obrital bombardment on the bases, destroying the launch facilities and many aircraft on the ground. The fighters in the air had taken care of most of the rest.

The Air Force had had the ball ripped from their arms. Now its was up to the Army to see if they could remedy the situation.

* * * *

From the hatch of his M4 command vehicle, Major General Allan Franks (no relation to the commader of VII Corps during Desert Storm), commander of the First Amoured division, couldn't see much. There was simply too much dust being kicked up by the armoured vehicles all around him.

But when he closed the hatch and moved to the command area, however, he could see everything. Which is probably why the M4 carried the unoffical nickname of the 'God Car'. Icons designating the units under his command, as well as the units flanking and in front of his division were easily idenitfiable on the IVIS screen in front of him.

And it was a pretty impressive sight.

There was the Second Armoured Cavalry Regiment, ten kilometres in front, carrying out tactical reconnisance. Between the cav and his division was the Big Red One - the First Infantry Division. Flanking him on the left was the First Cavalry Division. And on the right was the Second Armoured Division - the famous 'Hell on Wheels'.

This was America's prime armoured troops, carrying the fight to the Imperials, letting them know that maybe they weren't welcome here.

If the plan worked, the cav would fix the Imperial defensive locations, then the Big Red One would deploy into its assault formation, mounted or dismounted, depending on the amount of anti-armour fire they received. Once a breach had been forced, the First and Second Armoured and First Cavalry would pour through, ripping up administrative and supply elements before swinging around to take the Imperials from the rear. That was the plan, and the corps commander had used the KISS principle - Keep it Simple, Stupid.

Franks just hoped that Murphy wasn't paying too close attention here today. That bastard had a real knack for screwing things up.

Just then, the IVIS display flickered and changed, with several new 'enemy' symbols added. Franks nodded as the pattern emerged. The Imperials seemed to follow the universal deployment strategy of placing outposts ahead of the main body of troops, which would serve as advance warning of any enemy approach. Undoubtedly, those outposts were now screaming for either reinforcements or permission to bug out, since outposts tend to be rather light on weapons.

As these thoughts were crossing Frank's mind, several symbols - both enemy and freindly - had flashing red borders added to them, indicating that those units were in contact. Some, from both sides, blinked out...

* * * *

"TARGET!" the gunner called out as the 25mm high explosive shells chewed through the Imperial emplacement, causing it to explode in a spectacular fireball. The commander of the recon Bradley looked around for a new target, and found none.

The Imperial outpost had been neutalised - a nice way of saying 'blasted into very small pieces'. A double handful of lightly-armoured Imperial vehicles were either smoking or still ablaze. A similar number of emplacements were still burning merrily.

And a handful of Bradleys were also burning. Thankfully, the Imperials had had only relatively light weapons, the track commander, Major Tim Hanks, mused, or there would be far more Bradleys burning. His own Bradley was scarred from several glancing hits that had cased the armour to melt and run.

As commander of the Second Sqaudron of the Second Armoured Cavalry Regiment, his role was more to direct the troopers under his command than take part in the battle himself, but he'd always been a 'hands-on' type of commander, unwilling to send his soldiers forward into battle while he hung back himself.

He sent his contact report up the chain of command, and received a standard acknowledgement. Just then he heard - and felt - several loud 'thuds', the sort made by a large weight hitting the ground.

"What the..." he muttered, dropping into the turret to look through the sights. What he saw amazed him. A simple description would be this: take an elephant, and pump several gallons of the strongest steriod available into it every hour, on the hour, for several weeks. Then remove the tusks and tail, before slapping some armour on it.

That would be the best way to describe an AT-AT to someone who had never seen one before.

And there were a lot of them. "Five, eight, fifteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six..." Hanks muttered as he counted. Plus a whole bunch of smaller, two-legged versions. "What's the range to those things?" he asked the gunner, who had had more training as usuing the sights.

"About five kilometres, sir," the gunner replied, glued to his own sight.

Somehow, I doubt that the Bushmaster is gonna have much effect on those things, Hanks thought. Except to make the mad at us. "When they get in range, fire both TOWs at them," he ordered. Passing the same message along to his squadron, he got back several acknowledgements.

To the attached tank company, he sent the order to fire as soon as they were in range. Since the Abrams can reach out and touch targets at longer range than the Bradley, the tankers opened fire almost immediately... and did little or no visible damage. The Elephants - as Hanks was already calling them - absorbed the damage and kept plodding steadily along, like sped-up versions of glaciers, and maybe just as unstoppable. They didn't return fire, though - maybe, just maybe, they were outranged.

* * * *

Colonel Jeron Veers - son of the Maximillian Veers who had been the commander of the ground assault forces on the Executor - swore bitterly as another hit from a Terran tank made his Walker rock. "Can't we return fire yet?"

"Sorry, sir," the driver/gunner replied. "We won't be within range for another minute or so."

Damn! Veers raged silently. It seems that projectile weapons do outrange energy weapons. How many times have I said it? The AT-AT needs a projectile weapon so it can hit targets at longer range!

Just then, the head of the Walker three down from his exploded, obviously hit by several shots. Now the Terrans have learned that these things can be stopped, they'll probably concentrate their fire on the heads.

"In range, sir! Firing now!"

The cockpit of the Walker shook and vibrated as the heavy lasers under the chin and the lighter anti-personnel weapons mounted on the sides started spitting deadly bolts of coherent light at the Terran vehicles. Several exploded in satisfactory fireballs, and the rest began evasive manouevers - at a pace that came as a surprise to Veers. Damn, they're fast!

A running gun battle began, with the Walkers still plodding remorselessly forward, and the Terran vehicles dodging frantically, shooting whenever they got the chance.

* * * *

"Damn!" Even threre the way no way he could have predicted that the weapons on the Elephants were so powerful, Hanks still felt responsible of underestimating their capabilities.

When the first Elephant had been decapitated by several sabot rounds, he immediately passed on the order to go for head shots. Unfortunately, the TOW missiles carried by the Bradleys lacked the punch to cleanly decapitate them, while the Elephant seemed to have more than enough firepower to destroy a Bradley.

So, while a platoon of Bradleys would have to concentrate their fire on a single Elephant to stand a chance of bringing it down, the other Elephants would be picking off stationary targets, as the Bradley has to stop to fire its missiles.

The Abrams, however, could shoot accurately while on the move, and were doing so to great effect.

The solution was simple, if distasteful. Pull the Bradleys back, while the Abrams kept up the fire on the Elephants. A happy accident had revealed that the smaller versions were vulnerable to TOWs, and the Bradleys started picking them off. But the Elephants were still causing horrendous losses. Hanks had started glancing over his shoulder, both for the purpose of selecting the next position to retreat to, and looking to see if help had arrived yet. So far, he had been more successful in the former than the latter.

To make matter worse, he couldn't even call on help from the rest of the Regiment. They had problems of their own, in the form of other Imperial units attacking them. They, like himeself, were screaming over the radio for any help they could get. Reinforcements, artillery, air strikes... anything.

As Hanks looked over his shoulder again to find the next firing position, he saw a massive cloud of dust. The sort of dust that gets kicked up when thousands of armoured vehicles are on the move.

If the situation wasn't so serious, it'd be embarassing. In the movies, it's the Cavalry that rides to rescue. This time, it was the Cavalry who needed rescuing.

Twenty minutes and a kilometre further back later, the lead elements of the First Armoured thundered past, clearly primed for trouble. As more and more Terran armoured vehicles joined the battle, the Imperial forces were forced to give some ground. But they had reinforcements of their own arriving, too, and the battle degenerated once again into a series of individual fights - what was known as a 'bar brawl with guns'.

But the Imperial had the bigger guns in this pub fight, though.

* * * *

General Franks tried to make sense of the way the icons on his IVIS screen were moving. So far, the only pattern that had emerged was that the blue 'friendly' symbols were blinking out faster than the red 'enemy' ones. That was a pattern that had started to emerge a few minutes ago, and one that showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, it was accelerating, which was a bad thing. In about another half-hour or so, Seven Corps would be gutted, and since winning this battle was no longer likely, America needed all the troops available to try to stretch the fight out long enough for another counter-offensive to be made.

The corps commander saw the same pattern at about the same time, and drew the same conclusions. "All units, this is Hammer Six. Disengage and pull back. I say again, disengage and pull back. We'll get another chance."

* * * *

The battle was starting to wind down, Veers realised. The Terran vehicles had started to pull back, while increasing their rate of fire. Obviously they intended to break contact, and the increased rate of fire was intended to discourage pursuit. Well, Veers wasn't easily discouraged. He opened his mouth to issue the appropriate orders, when...

"Hold position. Do not, repeat, do not pursue the retreating Terrans."

Damn! He opened his mouth again, this time to protest, then he shut it again with a snap. The Terran attack, while failing to reach the landing zone, had succeeded in disrupting the Imperial units. A proper pursuit was not possible at this time, since most of the units that had landed had been committed to this battle. Besides, there was the outside possibility that the retreat was a ruse to lure the Imperial forces into some sort of ambush. Veers had doubts about how effective such an ambush would be, but that was not something that he wanted to find out by experiment. In any case, the sheer number of Terran vehicles that were burning made the retreat seem very real.

Also, the first of the heavy equipment and infantry units were just beginning to arrive. The slow, ungainly landing craft were at their most vulnerable during this phase. And to make matters interesting, the shields protecting the landing site had to be dropped, rendering it vulnerable to whatever trickery the Terrans could concoct.

Veers got the feeling that the Terrans could be very tricky if the situation called for it.

* * * *

It was the middle of the night - according to ship time, anyway - when the new contacts arrived. The comm unit by Pellaeon's bunk emitted a very loud, very high-pitched tone designed to wake even the heaviest sleeper. "Wha's 't?" he mumbled, still mostly asleep.

"Sorry, sir, but several new contacts have appeared in-system," an apologetic voice replied. "Their transponders identify them as the ships left behind under Daala's command, but..."

"But what?" Pellaeon asked, somewhat more awake now.

"There seem to be several ships missing, sir."

Pellaeon pondered this new information. She could have left the others behind, he thought, but dismissed that as unlikely. The more probable reason didn't appeal to him, though, but he had to consider it. They were probably destroyed by the New Republic. Daala probably got ambitious again, and bit off more than she could chew.

He just hoped that she had gotten a good exchange rate. Once again, she had taken heavy losses. That seems to be a habit she finds hard to break, he thought, somewhat unfairly.

All of this thought took no more than a second. "When Admiral Daala reports in, have her send a full update. Also, get her to synchronise her ships' chronos with ours. And let me get some more sleep."

"Yes, sir."

Sleep proved to be elusive, though. Daala's arrival and the reports of her losses made him think of how the campaign was faring. It's going rather well - so far. We've managed to expand the area under our control, despite stiff resistance. The last of the troops will be landing shortly, which will allow the switchover to full offensive operations. Supplies are being used up at something approaching to projected rates, and we brought enough to last for a full year - by then, even the most pessimistic projections concluded that the campaign would be complete.

So why can't I get back to sleep?

The answer was simple: Because Daala's arrival means that the New Republic is no longer distracted by her presence. Which means that the New Republic fleet is now free to intervene here. And that would be a disaster. All he could do was hope that the political processes of the New Republic slowed the decision-making process down enough.

With that happy thought, Pellaeon managed to go back to sleep.

* * * *

The Errant Venture was drawing close to its destination, and the final pre-reversion checklists were getting a thorough going-over.

"I'm glad this happened after Booster sank a lot of money into a refit," Corran remarked dryly. He, Luke and Mirax were standing on the Venture's bridge, observing the activity as they prepared to exit hyperspace.

"And that refit took most of my father's money, too, so we're going to do our best to return it to him in working condition," Mirax responded with a smile.

"We'll do our best, dear," Corran chuckled, then sobered up. "So, tell me again why there isn't more than a token array of guns on this beast? I feel kind of naked without them."

"That's the way I like you best, love," Mirax replied saucily, causing Luke to blush and Corran to grin. "As for why, the fact that a fully-armed Errant Venture with Booster Terrik at the helm is General Cracken's recurring nightmare may have something to do with it."

"As yes, now I remember," Corran said dryly. "And yes, I do remember that it was me that persuaded Booster to accept the reduced weaponry. Ten turbolaser batteries, ten ion cannon and two tractor beam projectors. I just wish I hadn't been so successful in persuading him, that's all."

Just then, the helmsman called out, "Thirty seconds to reversion! Twenty... fifteen... ten..."

On the holopad where Luke, Corran and Mirax were standing, a countdown clock appeared, starting with '00:10' and changing as the seconds passed by.

'00:09': "I've got a strange feeling about this..." Luke muttered.

'00:07': "Something really unusual is happening here..." Corran said.

You mean, apart from the fact that we're in another galaxy, in a minimally armed Star Destroyer, with only a single squadron of X-Wings to protect us, and, just to make things interesting, we're going to a place where the bulk of the Imperial Fleet is? Mirax didn't ask, since both Jedi wore the slightly vacant expressions that indicated that heavy-duty Force-type things were happening. They probably wouldn't have heard her.

'00:04: Corran snapped out of his seeming trance. "I'm going to my X-Wing," he announced.

"Expecting trouble?" Mirax asked, concerned.

"Expecting, no. But it never hurts to be prepared. Coming, Luke? I've got a surprise prepared for you," Corran said. "You'll like this."

Luke nodded, and the pair ran for the bridge tubolift.

'00:00': Reversion. With a bright flash, the starlines shrank and changed back to the usual pinpoints of light. There was a brief flurry of activity as the shields were activated and power diverted to the weapons. The sensors were not activated however, since the Venture carried passive sensors that were far better than anything in the New Republic Fleet - or the Imperial Fleet too, for that matter.

"Okay, people, let's see what's out there," Mirax called out.

"Checking transponders now, Captain."

Mirax nodded as the data began to scroll across the holopad. So far, it was going as expected. The locations of the Imperial ships, each with a small data box attached were plotted on the system display. Unsurprisingly, the bulk of the fleet was located at Terra itself, with picket groups on all of the approach routes from the New Republic. Fortunately, the Venture hadn't arrived along one of the expected approach routes. Smuggler's instinct had made Mirax drop out early and approach from another direction.

There also seemed to be a strong reserve group.

Just then the end of the list scrolled by. "Hold," Mirax ordered the holopad. This can't be right...

The comlink clipped to Mirax's collar chirped. "What's the matter, Mirax? It seems like you've just received a nasty surprise. Luke managed to pick up on it as well," Corran asked.

"It'd be hard to explain, so I'll just send the relevant data to Whistler," Mirax replied.

"Better send it to Artoo-Detoo as well."

Artoo-Detoo? What is Luke's astromech droid doing here?

"That was the surprise for Luke. We loaded his X-Wing along with all the others. The hard bit was making sure he didn't find out about it."

Mirax hit the right buttons to send the data to the two astromech droids. "This can't be right..." Corran muttered.

"That's what I thought too, Corran," Mirax replied, looking at the 'Ship not found' and 'Ship not in list' results generated by the search routine. "What do you think caused this?"

"I'm not sure... Luke, remember the two massive jolts in the Force we felt not long ago?"

"I'm not likely to forget them, if that's what you mean. Why do you ask?"

Mirax managed to see where Corran was heading before Luke did. "Are you saying that the Terrans were responsible for the missing ships?" she blurted out, totally stunned.

"Why not?" Corran replied. "Do you see any other possibilities?"

No, I don't, Mirax realised. But to accept Corran's line of reasoning would mean that the Terrans managed to destroy thirty-five Imperial ships, including fifteen Star Destroyers! And one of those was an Executor-class!

Luke seemed to pick up on Mirax's thoughts. "Sure, the Outbound Flight mission report said that Terra was a pre-spaceflight culture, but that report is now hideously out of date."

When Mirax thought about it, it sort of made sense. But... thirty-five Star Destroyers!

"Mirax, are we cleared to launch?" Corran asked, snapping her back to reality.

"What? Oh, sure," Mirax replied. "No, wait a minute.

"I'm coming with you."

* * * *

Their passage, although invisible to sensors - including eyeballs - did not go entirely unnoticed, however. It jolted a junior Imperial officer out of a sound sleep.

Lieutenant Kirey Nilet didn't know what had woken him at first, but a moment's concentration revealed the reason to him and placed him in a terrible quandary. Duty demanded that he report this. But other instincts screamed for him not to reveal his talents.

After all, being a Jedi in the Empire was a risky business.

But the Empire had changed a lot over the last few years.

His parents had been two Jedi who had managed to escape the Purge, and had gone into deep hiding. Even after the death of Palpatine, they had not revealed themselves. Even when Luke Skywalker announced the formation of the Jedi Academy they had not come out of hiding. Some habits get too strong to break. And when their son was old enough, they secretly trained him in the ways of the Force.

Kirey was not old enough to remember the 'old' Empire, the Empire of Palpatine and Darth Vader. The Empire that he knew was a bastion of order and stability, especially when compared to the seeming anarchy promulgated by the New Republic. He had elected to join the Imperial Fleet during the Yevethan Crisis, a time when the New Republic seemed to be at its weakest, and shortly after Pellaeon took charge. That had been a time when several of the New Republic's systems had seemed to be on the verge of leaving, while the systems under Imperial control seemed content to be that way.

After a hectic and fast-paced eighteen months at the Imperial Naval Academy, he graduated at the top of his class, and as a reward, was allowed to choose his first posting. He'd asked for the Chimaera, due to its reputation, where he'd been assigned the duty of junior watch officer. He was one of those rare officers who combined excellence at his duties with an ability to get along well with others. This combination is even rarer in junior officers.

He sighed. There was no choice, really. He had to report this to his superiors, preferably directly to Admiral Pellaeon.

With his mind made up, he stood up and moved to the standard Fleet-issue storage unit that was part of all officers' quarters on a capital warship. He quickly dressed in a on-duty uniform, then opened a draw, from which he took a metal cylinder that was about the same length as his forearm.

His lightsaber.

* * * *

Pellaeon eyed the junior officer standing in front of him. The officer - Lieutenant Kirey Nilat, junior watch officer - seemed nervous, but it seemed to be the nervousness that afflicted all junior officers who were confronted by officers who were several ranks higher than themselves.

"Very well, Lieutenant, you have managed to convince your immediate superior that you have important information for my ears only. Now all you have to do is convince me."

Pellaeon's eyes were drawn to a gleaming cylinder clipped to Nilat's belt. Surely, it couldn't be...

It was. Nilat unclipped it and pressed a stud on the side. A glowing blade, deep maroon in colour, and about a metre long, extended from the handle. It was a lightsaber. And only one group of people carried lightsabers.

Jedi Knights.

A Jedi. I had a Jedi in my fleet and didn't know about it. Which, when Pellaeon thought about it, made sense. Until recently, being a Jedi in the Empire was a rather risky proposition. Now he knew why the information had to be revealed to him, and to him alone. Nilat would not have been able to answer questions as to how he had gotten his information without revealing his Force abilities. And any Jedi who had managed to survive the Purge would have been very good at hiding - an ability they would have been certain to pass on to any children.

Stammering slightly, Nilat told his story. When he got to the end, Pellaeon sat in his chair, stunned - and relieved that he had had the foresight to be in the flag bridge to hear Nilat's tale, away from the inadvertant prying ears present in the main bridge.

The news that several Jedi - including Luke Skywalker - had managed to slip past his blockade and had landed on Terra was not good news. "Do you know which part of Terra they are on?" he asked.

Nilat looked somewhat sheepish. "No, sir," he admitted. "A planet is a large place, and I haven't been able to practice my skills as often as I would like, so..."

"That doesn't matter," Pellaeon cut him off gently. "What does matter is that you had the courage to step forward and reveal this information. As of now, you are relieved of your duties as junior watch officer, and are now attached to me to carry out special duties - namely to act as my bodyguard." Unbidden, a memory surfaced. Grand Admiral Thrawn, dying in his command chair, with the tip of a Noghri assassin's knife sticking out through his chest.

The assassin's knife that belonged to his own bodyguard, Rukh, he thought. But I doubt that history will repeat itself here. Pellaeon lacked a Jedi's ability to read people, but a lifetime of experience had honed a similar talent. Nilat seemed overwhelmed with pride that he would be so honoured - and not a little relieved that the fact that he had Jedi talents would not get him into trouble.

But all - most, not all, he corrected himself, Jedi serve the New Republic. Now is not the time to find out why Nilat joined the Empire, but it would be interesting to find out.

* * * *

It had been a quiet week for Rick. He had gotten a third stripe, and confirmation that he was the acting platoon commander, at least until a spare officer could be found. He had even managed to get replacements from Admin Company. Replacements. Warm bodies dredged up from the clerks, cooks, the Q-Store and the truckies. And when Rick used the word dredged, he meant in the context of things dragged up from the bottom. Still, they were warm bodies, and enough of them to bring his platoon back to full strength, at least on paper. And he knew better than to complain out loud, ass he knew that he would get no better.

Resigning himself, he tried to train them up to infantry standards, but a week wasn't really enough time.

Just then, Rick felt one of those tingles he occasionally got. The ones that told him which horse to pick on Melbourne Cup day, or told him when to up the stakes in a poker game with his friends. He followed these hunches, as they were usually right.

He looked up - and got a nasty surprise.

About two dozen craft were descending. Thirteen of them were so obviously fighters that even a confirmed groundpounder like Rick could recognise them as such. The rest were... Shuttles, Rick thought, with how the hell did I know that? hard on its heels.

They seemed to be heading for the large clearing not far from where the battalion headquarters was set up. His curiousity getting them better of him, Rick headed that way.

* * * *

When he arrived, the ships had landed, with canopies and rampways opening. People were emerging, obviously glad to escape the confined quarters. They're human, Rick realised. Why not? The Imperials are human, too, and they're definitely from out-of-planet.

One person started giving orders, in the tone of someone who fully expected them to be obeyed. Rick knew they were orders, but the language was completely unfamiliar to him. As he looked on, Rick staggered slightly. There was a certain indefinable something about the orders-giver. And about another person who was climbing out of another of the fighters. And about the group of people who were emerging from one of the shuttles.

Just then, the orders-giver realised that he was being watched, and started heading over to where Rick was standing, along with one of the fighter pilots - the one with that something to him, and a woman who had emerged from one of the shuttles. She didn't have that something about her, Rick noticed.

By this time, a small crowd had gathered around Rick, comprised of other people from BHQ who had seen what was going on and had wandered over. "Who are these guys?" Craig asked.

"No idea, Craig," Rick replied. "They didn't come in shooting, so I'm guessing they're not Imperials. Past that, however..." Rick trailed off as the trio reached him.

The man in the middle stuck out his right hand and said in fluent English, "I'm Colonel Corran Horn," he introduced himself, reaching up with his left had to remove his flight helmet. "Commander of Rogue Squadron, and representative of the New..." His voice stumbled to a halt.

Rick's mouth opened and shut again without him making a sound. Colonel Horn's two companions were looking at him, then at Rick, then back at him. As were the people gathered around Rick. And for good reason, too...

Sure, there were differences. Rick was slightly taller, and had brown eyes instead of green. His hair was a darker shade of brown, too. But still...

"Can someone please explain to me," Rick asked the universe, "why the hell we look as if we're related?"