A Queen's Gambit at Yavin IV! : A Royal Rebels Story

by KatlineStorm

When a rebel squadron of noble princes and queens finds themselves at the front of the Empire's retaliation for the Death Star's destruction, all they'll have to survive is each other.

There is a brightness in the dark.

Unlike the murky waters of the homeworld, poisoned by the corruption of a forlorn galaxy, this brightness does not seep through. Rather, it punches past the barriers, carving out a spot of warmth amidst an endless canvas of despair. It screams with the sound of a thousand lost souls, massacred in an eternal instant, but is followed by a raucous applause. Heroes of the galaxy, placed on pedestals, bask in the glory of their deed. Yet, even as they are hounded by well-wishers and newly formed admirers, another set of beings, luminous even amongst the chaos, comes into focus.

Disparate, linked only by the thinnest threads of reality's great tapestry, they are now coming together, headlong on a collision course that bears the weight of untold sorrows, brightest hopes, and the crushing betrayal that comes with the knowledge that the dreams of a tomorrow may never come.

This brightness speaks to her, and she focuses her energies towards it.

Past the chaos, past the ever-growing murkiness of corruption that seeps ever deeper into her very being, and right to the knot that connects the threads together. All at once, she can see the past, the present, and a million possible futures that overwhelm her synapses and become impossible to comprehend.

Following the past of one, she sees a great planet of ornate cities and lush swamps. Hollering triumphs cry out over a cold, mechanical menace. Determination fills the void, followed by an acrid bitterness of a soul turned to stone.

Turning away, she finds a world cloaked in smog and cinder, producing terrifying weapons of destruction that hold no mind, no individuality, and know only the sole goal of death. The emotions of this one are manufactured, confused, but imbued with a purity unbecoming of one with so much power- as if it is unaware of the destruction it can-will-has rained.

A pang stabs her in the back, and as she recoils away from the attack, she sees an entire world in flames before her. Fire cracks and snaps away at the wicker houses, grows hotter and greater as it feeds upon the trees that give it life. A vision, brief but sudden, pierces her mind's eye: A small ship flees the wanton destruction, racked with pain as the world burns below. That pain harms her soul, threatens her existence, and she quickly scampers from the thread to the farthest end of the other.

From pain and warmth to numbness and cold, she finds the lost soul. Soon to be found, perhaps, but anguishing alone in a world of stone. Yet, somewhere, she feels a connection, as if this one pulls from the same energy that she thrives on. Suddenly, as if aware of her very being, the thread is snapped and she falls into darkness one more.

Focusing her mind, the last thread comes to save her, snagging her from an abyss of her own design. The feeling that this one gives her is of a parental nature, nurturing and sympathetic to the woes of one who does not yet understand the full vastness of existence, but with a solid wall of authoritative power behind it. It swaddles her in a cloth of kindness, brings her back, and then leaves to attend to another thread, one that holds on only by the thinnest of margins.

It snaps, and the entire tapestry is lost to her.

There is a brightness in the dark.

Unlike the murky waters of the homeworld, poisoned and corrupted, this brightness does not drift aimlessly, does not move and sway to the will of the mass. It moves upon its own, calling upon all light to move with it, as if it is a general among an army of mongrels. The charm it holds is irresistible, and she moves to join it, bowing to its will, heeding its call.

The darkness leaves her behind, and she is no longer on the homeworld.

A dozen beings of varying species and light, of stature and of darkness, scatter around her.

Alarm klaxons sound off, and engines whir to life around her as engineers, pilots, soldiers, diplomats, and manufactured beings race to their pre-ordained destinations. Even the heroes of the galaxy sprint to destinies long and far away from here, paying her little mind as they pass. This does not concern her, for there is something, something far above, that draws her.

Against the backdrop of an overcast afternoon, just to the side of a gaping maw of red gasses and torrential ion storms, there are four lights in the sky. They pierce the heavens, screaming for home, desperation perspires off them in waves- and she knows they are the threads she has followed.

Effortlessly, she glides across the mossy cobble, and searches for a way to join them.

---

As the massive cruiser swung itself about, defying the gravitational pull of the planet below, its crew prepared for the worst. They were flying what was, for all purposes, a relic of an era now bygone by two. It was not equipped for the defense it was about to put on, but it would do so with all the strength and bravery it could muster.

A gleaming streak of yellow silver passes by it, whipping around in a tight circular spin to cut beneath the massive trio of engines at its rear, before coming back to the fore, preparing itself for the fight of a lifetime.

"Monarch One, this is Home Queen, do you copy?"

"Copy, Home Queen. My board reads green, all weapons hot and loaded."

"Good. Call in your squadron, Corkscrew formation. Home Queen out."

Dineé Ellberger, taking one last moment to check over her instruments, turned her communicator to the low-level frequency they used for starfighter-to-starfighter communications. As static fizzled through the air, she tapped the side of her flight helmet until it went away. Forty years of combat and atmospheric pressure were bound to mess with electronics sooner or later, but she'd never gotten quite used to the constant degradation of signal in the left earpiece.

"All wings," She began, her throat catching for only a moment at the cruel metaphysical dagger that still lodged itself in her heart, "Report in."

"Monarch Four," The comely young man called out, "Standing by."

"Monarch Six," The android followed up, "Copy your signal."

Part of her, foolishly, expected to hear more. Another round of voices, signaling their arrival, reminding her that, regardless of the battle endured or the war to come, they were still alive and well. The voices came only in echoes, fragments of the past leftover in her mind that cut deeper and bled more profusely than any shard of glass. Dineé shook off the ghosts, a small chill running along her spine as she did so, and ordered them into formation.

Flying past her cockpit, slowly but surely, the visages of the ships went by and prepared to turn about behind her. One of them, owned by Monarch Four, was almost an old a relic as her own. Modified for enhanced protection from laserfire, the V-Wing was a sight to see. Its wings, permanently locked horizontally, shielded the majority of his hull and his engines from the sides, and offered the attack ship a sleeker profile that matched its dagger-like intensity. Saved from scrap, it had proved to be a rather competent fighter, perhaps, Dineé thought, even making up for the ineptitude of its pilot.

Keeron Malte was many things; a noble, such as herself, a prince, and a dissident, he undoubtedly was. An ace starfighter pilot, he was not. He was proficient enough to handle skirmishes, dodge past weak blockades, but fighter-to-fighter combat, such as they were about to be thrust into, was a weakness so glaring that Dineé had chosen to keep the boy at an arm's distance. Attachments were powerfully dangerous things, and the past year of Monarch Wing's existence had been a relentless teacher of that fact.

The other ship, however, was a peculiar, fascinating sight. It was as if someone had flipped the engines on a Y-Wing in the opposite direction, and then doubled the size of the ship so that it was just beneath a transport or medical frigate, but larger than an old Republic gunship or attack tank. Only three had been produced before the manufacturers decided it was a wild Gungan chase and shut it down. Two of those had been destroyed by the Empire before they had a chance to leave spacedock. The third, however, had found a place in the Rebel Alliance's patchwork fleet.

Rebranded as the T-Wing, it required at least four humans to operate and maintain. Unfeasible in most situations, however it was the perfect fit for a squadron with an android that processed kilobytes of data at lightspeed.

With massive artillery cannons, dissipating an enormous amount of plasma fire, strapped to its sides, the aforementioned 'flipped engines', and focused down an array of carefully channeled ionic energy, it was a truly dangerous foe to any capital ship that wished to leave a battle alive. A pity, then, that its maneuverability was zilch and its warmup time a matter of minutes and not seconds. Worse still, it was only armed with a light machine gun for 360 defense, and weakened phase cannons for forward defense. Piloting a T-Wing was akin to suicide, and it was usually reserved for defensive operations- such as the reason it had been pulled out of the Yavin IV mothball sheds today.

Still, despite its downsides, the T-Wing had a fantastic pilot. The android C6, forever entrapped within a Magnaguard's body, was an absolutely ace combat pilot and tactical genius. Despite her own personal hatred of who he was in his past life, the king of a Separatist foundry world that helped the Trade Federation pound Naboo into submission several decades ago, she had grown to begrudgingly like him, and had unashamedly come to admit that he was a worthy ally.

Today, as she glanced once more at her sensors, she silently hoped that her faith would not be misplaced.

"Camile," She said to her shipboard partner, a rather surly R5 astromech unit, "See if you can increase the output to the starboard deflectors, I'm getting some fluctuating readings. Looks like they're trying to draw some power from the-"

"The repulsorlift generators, ma'am," The hard-cut droid replied curtly in Basic over her headset, "I am well aware and am attending to the problem. You worry about the two hundred and sixty two TIE fighters currently approaching our position, and I will concern myself with shipboard maintenance. Thank you."

The R5 units were a credit chit a dozen, and their personalities were infamous throughout the Alliance, yet a smile couldn't help but break past Dineé's sullen mask at the droid's offense that she would ever dare tell him what to do. At that, the R5 processors weren't even responsible for Camile's surly attitude. The astromech's personality modules had been ported from a T7, to an R3, and, after that particularly nasty business on Scarif, now found itself at home inside an R5 unit's conical head. Nobody, in all that time, had ever thought to wipe it clean.

"Too valuable, that amount of starfighter knowledge," The mechanic had told her the first time she'd stepped foot inside the N-1, over half a century ago now, "Just build and build upon itself, and it'll learn how to fight in any battle, anywhere."

True enough, Camile had saved her from a space funeral at least a dozen times. Still, sometimes, like now when her nerves were frayed to their ends, she could really do without the 'stay in your spacelane' attitude. After all, if even one of those two hundred and sixty two TIE's got a lucky shot, they'd both be whiling their way up the space swanny.

Shaking her head, Dineé repositioned herself in the seat and realigned her mind in the moment. She was an ace pilot who'd fought droids, pirates, assassins, and countless numbers of the Imperial squints. The Rebel Alliance's forces were at their strongest here. The defense would be no problem. All they had to do was give enough time for the transports with the diplomats and generals to get away, and then they could make their own escape. Simple enough.

The consular cruiser, still covered with bright Republic red armour plating, came to a halt beside her ship. Further off, to both sides, salvaged Acclamator and Munificent frigates sidled into a defensive line. It was a strange, macabre reunion of ships, all united, flying under a new banner, and all in defense of an even stranger union of species and factions on the planet below.

Reinforcements, primarily X-Wings and older Z-95's, rushed from the planet below to join them.

Sweat came unbidden to her brow, slowly pooling at the rim of her goggles and causing her eyes to burn from their acidic presence. That was nothing, the Imperial vengeance fleet, rushing towards Yavin IV with all speed, was nothing. They'd live to fight another day, easily.

The TIE Fighters screamed into view; some even began to pepper off shots at the Rebel defenses.

The face of Chass Camore flashed before her mind. Chass had always been confident, perhaps beyond her means. The Debrunian queen had commanded a room and a battlefield with ease, and she had selflessly volunteered for the fleet at Atollon without a second thought. No force, no matter its size, had ever intimidated her. They were all nothing but cakewalks to the great queen.

The sight of the Tennrik shattering under withering Imperial fire haunted her vision for just a moment.

Jamming the yoke forward, Dineé Ellberger threw herself towards the swarm of TIEs, and bitterly forced the ghosts of the past back down into the recesses of her mind once more.

---

Standing tall amongst the bridge crew, Lady Rizada admired the spectacle before her.

A cacophony of lights orchestrated the carnage and insanity of war, filling the space before her so frequently that it would have been, to the untrained eye, impossible to see anything beyond bright flashes of laserfire. To her, however, it was a brilliant spectacle.

Imperials, so hungry for vengeance, for blood in the name of their lost comrades aboard the greatest fumble in their fascist history, screamed out from all corners of known space, converging on the once hidden Rebel base on Yavin IV. How little, she chuckled, would any of them realize that they now found themselves on the same level as those they once towered over. Agonizing over lost loved ones, ripped away by something far more powerful than them, and without even a moment's notice to forgive all the old debts, bury the silly grudges, and laugh together once more on a cool summer's eve. The Imperial pilots who now screamed against the solar winds, gnashing their teeth at Rebel throats, were no better than the insurrectionists, terrorists, and rebels they proclaimed to be superior to.

A pity, then, that the spectacle was so farcical.

They were flying mad, using their heart instead of their brain, and making mistakes so foolish that she could even see young Prince Malte racking up more and more TIEs to his name. Command ships had flown in but, between the Reliant and the Stargazer, each of which flanked her position, they had been dealt blows serious enough that their wrecked hulks now drifted into the superior pull of Yavin Prime's gravity. The TIEs were being picked off cleanly, and various communications officers around her called out that the Rebel transports were jumping to lightspeed in short order.

Lady Rizada, in typical fashion, could only smile at the absolute routing. She gripped the helmsman's chair, excitement welling up within her. The Empire would gather itself soon enough, that much was true, but until that time these pilots were flying straight to their dooms, swallowed up in the maw of the Rebel Alliance's superior pilots and patchworked fleet. It was, put simply, exhilarating.

Chass would have adored this…

The thought came unbidden to her mind, and she batted at the air as if that would force it away. A few technicians paused to ponder, but continued about their duties when she did not speak.

The memory of her dearest friend, the co-founder of Monarch Wing, had nestled itself within her heart like a switchblade of ice. Ever since General Syndulla and the others had brought themselves to bear against Admiral Thrawn's fleet at Atollon, the mere thought of Chass Camore was enough to stop Lady Rizada in her tracks. Each memory they had shared together, from childhood to present day, had somehow been stained by that battle. She couldn't bring herself to ponder it for even a moment, lest the pain become too great and overwhelm her. It was difficult, to process the death of one so close, but, as Imperial fighters continued to burn, it seemed to get easier- even if just for a moment.

Aboard the former Republic consular cruiser Ferassa, Lady Rizada basks in the carnage of the moment. It is a feeling that draws its power from the darker corners of every sentient being, something that so many fight against, but others revel in. In this moment, Lady Rizada breathes a confident sigh, and, quietly, under her breath, whispers so lowly that not even a droid could have heard her.

"One for you, Chass. It's a beautiful revenge."

"Commander, we're picking up three contacts dead ahead!" An ensign, Tirish Jen, shouted out from his station, "Sensors indicate that they are Victory and Imperial class destroyers!"

Broken from her reverie, Lady Rizada released her iron grip on the chair and resumed her place at the holomap in the center of the bridge.

"Send word to base camp and alert all squadron commanders," She said with practiced neutrality, "Let them know that they are under my command for the remainder of the defense and that I will be feeding new instructions into their astromechs and onboard navigation boards."

Pulling up a tactical map of Yavin IV and Yavin Prime, the former noblewoman of Iassad punches in commands with precision and regality. Her cloak, all white, shimmers with each blast of laserfire from outside the bridge. Her starkly pale skin, complimented only intermittently by long-forgotten bruises and cuts, reflects the dulcet blues and greens of the holomap. Anyone looking from the scene on the outside may have regarded her as unreal, as if she were a figment of imagination and fantasy. An angel of death, some would say.

If she is, truly, an angel of death, then she is well-deserving of that title. Iassad royalty would breed nothing less, and, as she absent-mindedly thumbs the tip of the golden blade hidden inside her sleeve, Lady Rizada knows this all too well.

"Blue Squadron, Dirt Squadron, Feral Group, Monarch Wing, form up at point one-nine-nine, Organa formation. C6, pull back to the Ferassa and begin targeting artillery barrage for two-ten."

---

By the time she arrives, the battle is all but over.

Floating by, like an ocean amongst the stars, is an impressive combination of fighter debris and frozen forms. They permeate the area so thickly that, if one were limited to vision alone, it would be hard to navigate past them. However, she sees beyond the cold, heartless devastation of war, and moves past the wreckage of broken dreams and denied vengeance. There is still a light out there, and it flickers and sways dangerously close to the bottom of its wick.

Through the onboard comlink, she can hear an assemblage of voices. Some cry out for help, others bemoan the hopelessness of it all, and others still keep their tones even and neutral, determined to wrangle order from the chaos of it all. The words are foreign, and when she attempts to verbalize them herself, she finds that they slide across her tongue in a sloppy fashion. They gunk up her gums and make breathing difficult, as if the vocalizations of these unnatural tongues were a toxic substance. However, as she listens, she practices to herself, nonetheless. The words are important, their meanings, infinite as so many things are, will be even more vital to her very soon. Unnatural as it is, the sounds begin to form. Syllables, vowels, consonants, contractions, all slowly, very mushily, come together.

She taps the starfighter's communications unit, and attempts a sentence.

Quickly enough, she shuts it back off out of embarrassment as the sounds flop out of her mouth.

Words can wait, she decides.

Docking with the ship is of some difficulty, but it is more easily managed than that of the alien language. A metal coil, extending from the cargo port on the belly of the massive red pillar, attaches itself to the back of her ship, tethering them together in an impervious bondage. However, outside of the automatic action, nothing else happens.

Improvising, she opens the hatch to her cockpit, allowing the emergency warnings to run their course before finishing the motion.

The air hisses out, beginning with a screech, and then extending out to a thunderous boom as she emerges from the cramped confinements. As the space around her swallows the oxygen and carbon mixtures, it creates a violent suction that would have easily tossed away any other lifeform. The warning systems cease beeping as the vacuum of space, combined with the sudden change in pressure, exerts a sudden and invisible grip on the tubing and circuitry beneath the panels, silencing the flying machine's internal instruments but good.

Freely, she drifts across the distance, and prepares to bring new life to the dying flame.

---

Something creaks in the overhead.

No, not quite a creak, more of a groan.

Yes, that's it, a sad, defiant little groan. Something has pressure somewhere, and that groan is the sound of that somewhere about to give out.

With a bitter realization, Lady Rizada realizes that she is the somewhere, and that a steel girder is the something. Somehow, someway, during that last attack, she had become trapped underneath one of the structural supports. How had that happened?

Searching her memory, in and of itself a highly trained weapon, she finds no answers. Whatever sequence of events transpired before this one is lost in a haze of warning klaxons, earth-shattering quakes, and a sudden but not unnoticeable depriving of oxygen.

Planting her arms to the girder does not change its position, but does exert what little energy the elder noblewoman has left. Realizing the futility of her efforts, but unwilling to die somewhere other than under Iassad's twin moons, Lady Rizada tries again, this time with true intensity.

Still, again, nothing happens, and she lets out an exasperated, and admittedly pained, sigh.

If this was to be the ending saga, the last swan song of the cruiser Ferassa, then it was a rather drab and disappointing ending to say the least, she thought silently. It was a shame, really, considering this cruiser, a gift from a senatorial consort during the Clone Wars, had survived much worse than this. The Ferassa had taken part in the Battle of Coruscant, fought her way through countless Imperial blockades, thrashed the flagship of the slaver empire on Kiame, and had been a dutiful escort ship to the Raddus during that nightmarish day on Scarif only a week ago. For the Ferassa, her most beloved ship, to come to such an unsanctimonious end was… Insulting.

She, heir apparent to the Esoth dynasty, former grand vizier to Queen Katli Akotana, unlawfully deposed head of Iassad's commerce guild, would not die here, would not allow this long-outdated cruiser to be smited so easily by the insidious Galactic Empire.

Preparing every muscle for one, last, push, Lady Rizada jammed her hands around the steel beam when, through her rage, she heard the telltale whoosh of the bridge doors opening. Quickly, the noblewoman went limp, peering out through one eye just enough that she would be able to make out whoever it was that had boarded her ship.

Despite the bridge being bathed in darkness, with only the pitiful light refracted off of Yavin IV's surface to give her awareness, it suddenly began to glow brightly. Briefly, she wondered if it were the android, C6, come to rescue her, but those thoughts were dashed as the figure came deeper into the room. A golden light, with, perhaps, a slight twinkle as it began to cascade further and further around the crevices of the room. A strange, tingling sensation creeped its way across Lady Rizada's body. From her left arm, up through her shoulder, across her face, and back down. An odd, warmth? Yes, indeed, a warmth, spreading across her senses in time with the further approaching golden light. Lady Rizada strained her ears, but could hear not footsteps. No plasteel boots on broken flooring, no barely hidden communications chatter under plastoid helmets. The bridge was as silent as ever.

Then, with a great fright that she had to stuff back down, the noblewoman suddenly found herself staring at the face of a brilliantly plasmatic being. Eyes, with, indeed, despite her initial shock, pupils, stared back down at her. Lips (Were those lips?) curled upwards in a soft, pleasant smile, betraying no other hint of emotion other than… A pleased neutrality, as best she could imagine. Unlike every other face she'd seen that emotion plastered onto, however, this one seemed to be genuine, which only further unnerved her.

Horrifyingly, it began to speak.

"Hello," The golden, glowing, apparently not hallucination, said to her, "My name is CeleSuna, and I will offer my assistance."

Lady Rizada, caught off guard for the first time in a very long career, fell back to the first, best, defense of the surprised: Sarcasm.

"Oh good," She said simply, if a bit strained under the weight of the steel beam, "I'm really needing more of that."

Looking down to the beam, then back at Lady Rizada, CeleSuna cocked her head.

"Your tone suggests otherwise. Should I attend to something else? The power on the ship, perhaps?"

"No, no," Lady Rizada said quickly, "Get this accursed thing off of me first."

CeleSuna nodded politely and kneeled down, effortlessly removing the offending piece of debris and gently setting it to the side. As Lady Rizada stood up, brushing off her cloak that was now stained with blood and soot, the golden goddess before her looked around the bridge, searching for something. Upon not finding what she sought, she returned her full attention to Lady Rizada. In doing so, the noblewoman was also able to take note of her true height- a staggering two heads above her own, which was no small feat.

"Please direct me to the nearest power socket, I believe there is some urgency in escaping this place."

"Sure, sure," She replied, still disbelieving that the conversation was even happening and not some near-death fever dream, "Over there, just beneath the helm," She gestured back towards the front of the bridge, taking a moment to survey the aftermath of the battle. Imperial star destroyers hovered in the far distance, which, in and of itself, was a good sign- for the moment. However, there were still scattered bands of Imperial TIE Fighters roaming the area in between, which gave Lady Rizada cause to rush over to the holomap as CeleSuna busied herself at the console.

Tapping in her personal override code, Lady Rizada brought the machine to a slow and stuttering life as it tapped into the backup power batteries installed just beneath it. Defiantly, overcoming the damaged projectors on one side of the table that had been cleanly cleaved in half by debris, the holo-emitters sputtered to life. Quickly, with a furious inputting and re-inputting of buttons and commands, the holo-map displayed a wireframe tactical view of the Yavin IV system, similar to the ones the Alliance had utilized in the Massassi Temples. Tiny white dots blinked into play across the vertices, some moving rapidly, others quickly blinking out again when they failed to receive a return signal from their corresponding transmitters onboard the starfighters.

Unconcerned with the fates of pilots beyond her much decimated Monarch Wing, Lady Rizada corrected the system's parameters so that they no longer focused on anything outside her personal flight group. Fizzling for a moment, the screen updated. Two lights moved slowly across the board, inching their way closer to the Ferassa's location. Another sputtered in and out with alarming infrequency, but it was close enough that she reasoned that it must be C6's signal. The fact that he was an android, in a body designed to be so highly durable at that, allowed her a momentary reprieve from her fears.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered to life again, and she felt the familiar hum of the cruiser's internal systems coming online. Turning back, she found that her vision/nightmare was nonchalantly removing a liquid arm (One that re-solidified upon its return) from the power socket port. CeleSuna offered her another placid smile.

"I believe your ship is fixed. Please, allow us to depart at once."

A sigh of relief caught itself in her throat, and, briefly, Lady Rizada coughed hard as she made her way over to the prismatic-plasmatic-seven-spawns-of-Selar's-Flare. CeleSuna cocked her head to the sight ever so slightly as she observed Rizada's pitched battle to defeat the instinctive panic that now swelled within her breast, and prepared to step aside in order to allow the human to take the helm. However, to her surprise, Lady Rizada did no such thing, instead leaning on the command console and gazing up at her with a thinly veiled fury.

"Have you, or have you not, just restored power to the whole of my ship?"

CeleSuna blinked.

"It was necessary to facilitate the quickest form of departure from the danger."

Lady Rizada reached out her gloved hands, parts of which were still slick from the ice crystals that had formed upon them during the brief depressurization of the Ferassa's bridge, motioning to strangle the celestial being. However, perhaps thinking better of what would happen should she lay even a thimble upon a figure of pure plasma and light and Force knew what else, Rizada stopped short and merely clenched her fingers at the air before CeleSuna.

"I can pilot this vessel, if you so wish?"

It was as much a question as it was a statement, and it was infuriatingly innocent in its delivery. Much as the noble Iassadan wanted to throttle CeleSuna, she could no sooner do so than she could move heaven and terra to the end of this trite little war.

"No," Rizada said curtly, "No, that is not the issue. However," She gestured to the starfield outside, "In doing so, you have painted upon our backs the largest target in galactic history since this afternoon when Skywalker destroyed the Death Star."

Indeed, even as Lady Rizada's mind raced for a plan, the full fury of the Galactic Empire now amassed itself into a broadsword of old- and aimed for its final stroke to strike point blank at Monarch Wing's heart.

---

Swiftly dodging through the debris field, Dineé Ellberger longed for the days when the largest threat to her life was simply two-bit mercenaries and thick-wired battle droids. Even in the panic of this current moment, searching desperately for Keeron Malte in a sea of bodies and debris, a calm washes over her inner self as she remembers, however briefly, home. The beautiful greens of the forests and rolling plains, the dark browns of the swamps, the ornate and finely crafted spires of the Theed. The luscious waterfalls, cascading white rapids and crystal blue oceans, the deep blackness of space, a protective shield to all that lived below it. All of it waxes together in a picturesque moment of the past, of a life not too far gone, one that should have been lived in far better luxury than she was rewarded with. A home filled with a peaceful people, so cheerfully ignorant of the galaxy around them, but well-honed in the tides of war should it ever come again. A home that would, unwittingly, become the catalyst of the darkest of futures- of queens lost, of poisons unleashed, and of futures robbed from a trillion sentient beings the galaxy over.

The pain is ruinous to the peace which she had once attempted, so defiantly, to subscribe to.

Home is somewhere she can no longer return to, and the peace of the past is all but lost in a torrent of anguish and hate.

Wrenching her mind back to the moment at hand, Dineé searched the field again. But, as the Imperial fleet avariciously scanned the field for any signs of life, her search was beginning to feel more akin to an exercise in futility. In order to keep a lower profile, Dineé had switched off all but her personal life-support pack and her engines, which meant that her only available tools were the searchlights just off her bow and a vision that had been keenly developed over decades of spaceflight.

As she threaded between the shattered hangar section of the Stargazer, doing her utmost to ignore the crystallized bodies that littered the area, Dineé even found herself wistfully wishing she had Camile's ratchety old voice to keep her nerves at bay.

"Stop accelerating your heart rate, pilot," Dineé mockingly said in imitation, "You're making it impossible for my servo-motors to differentiate between you and this junker's processing units."

She chuckled to herself at that. It was a nervous one, but any humour in the face of a situation as dire as this one was a welcome relief.

Truthfully, Dineé found it somewhat annoying of herself that she was so out of sorts. Forty or fifty odd years inside a cockpit had honed her skills to a knife's edge, and she had flown in enough sorties that these sorts of nerve-fraying moments should have long been cut away by that superior skill. Yet, something about the past week had left her reeling, and she'd never had enough time to recover from whatever it was.

Scarif was one possibility, but she hadn't even seen enough action during the battle for it to have affected her this badly. True, they had lost Devron Ulorum, the middling prince-turned-pilot from Menthar, but, not to belittle his memory, they had only known each other for a little around a week. A loss, surely, but one so devastating that she had been thrown off her game entirely? Implausible. Plus, she and the others of Monarch Wing, Dirt Squadron, and Feral Group had spent more time playing rear-guard for the main battle group, ensuring that the Imperials weren't able to launch a counter-offensive and ensnare them in a trap.

That day had been dark enough, certainly, but it had been cleansed through their victory. They had seized the plans for the mystical Death Star, which was kind enough to make its debut at the end of the battle, annihilating the Imperial base below, and escaped with their lives. Admiral Raddus and a few other leading members had been captured or killed, but it was all overshadowed in the name of valiant sacrifice. A week later, and they had even managed to destroy the planet killer itself, all thanks to some farm boy turned hotshot hero who reminded Dineé all too much of another young hero she had once known.

Perhaps, she thought as she hid inside the remains of a Gozanti-class transport, allowing a TIE scouting party to pass by, it was simply how quickly things had transpired.

One day, only a month ago, she had been conferring with Senator Organa and Lady Rizada about how best to protect Rebel smuggling routes on the outskirts of Hutt Space, and suddenly she had found herself teetering on the edge of life and death for an entire week. Alderaan, and presumably Senator Organa, were now destroyed, the Death Star had fallen shortly after, and she had been sent out, along with what fringe forces the Rebellion could cobble together in short order, to defend Yavin IV to her last breath.

More than enough to shake anybody to their core, certainly, but Dineé Ellberger thought herself made of much sterner stuff.

And yet…

A thick fog masked her vision, and she spared a glance to the battery level on her emergency life support pack. Its report was less than inspiring, and she turned her attention outwards once more.

If she couldn't find Keeron Malte, and find him soon, she would have to leave the Yavin system, and further propagate the vicious cycle of survival that had come to repeat itself over and over again in her life.

Suddenly, just beyond the field, Dineé saw something. A shift in the Imperial formations, visible only briefly as their shadows danced across the wreckage of the Death Star. They were regrouping, reforming, but for what? They couldn't possibly be leaving the system, the star destroyers hadn't even reached Yavin IV's orbit yet. What in Amidala's name were they-?

A tiny, repetitive beeping from deep within her console gave her the answer- but it wasn't one she wanted to hear.

Ferassa was alive, and it had just lit up the Imperials' sensors like the climax to the Festival of Light.

Jerking off her oxygen mask and thumbing all systems back online, Dineé rocketed towards the Ferassa, and hoped against hope that she would be able to make it there before that Imperial fleet did because, even at this distance, the swarms of TIE Fighters looked particularly hellish when backed by Yavin's titanic gas giant.

---

"I know, I know!" Keeron Malte shouted back at Espa, even as the astromech continued to chitter about nervously.

"For the love of Dilu's Forest," Keeron said, talking over his co-pilot's worries, "I should never have left Dame! Rebellion, smuggling, insurgency, this is nuts!"

Another circuit board blew out, acrid smoke quickly following the small pop. As it filtered through the cabin, dissipating only thanks to the thinnest of hairline fractures within the transparisteel of his cockpit, Keeron held his breath and attempted to continue his repairs on the primary helm systems. The stench of burnt wiring and precious oxygen burning away by the second were unpalatable to any sentient life form, but to a regular humanoid, whose special skills were ever so unfortunately missing the ability to withstand the vacuum of space, they were terrifying nods that the edge of the abyss was growing ever closer. The young prince, castaway from his own kingdom and his home, sweated profusely despite the ever decreasing heat within the cramped cockpit.

"Espa, try and reroute the antigrav functions down through the same subroutines as the missile launchers."

The R2 unit, still strapped in tightly on the V-Wing's hull just behind the cockpit, wiggled slightly, the anxiety flooding circuitry with feedback loops that slowed down the work considerably. Still, an order was an order, and the little astromech, affectionately named for the location in which he was purchased, did its best.

Keeron Malte, in the meantime, ran his slicer over the innards of the shipboard computer again. In the unfortunate series of dogfights that had led him to this moment, the V-Wing's automatic piloting system had taken over and, when all the systems had been knocked offline by the electromagnetic surge of the Stargazer's destruction, had also locked itself with a thorough triple bypass security lock. He had made some headway, bypassing the first two levels, but the third remained inscrutable. It was comprised of some high-level Old Republic security protocols, the tell-tale signs made that obvious enough, and they were about as tight-lipped as the Imperial governor who had taken the throne of Dame away from him.

Bitter memories for bitter times, Keeron mused sardonically.

Wiping his brow, he spared a glance outside. The last time he checked, the Imperial fleet had been making a beeline for Yavin IV, with only scant patrols roaming the edges of the debris field. He was thankful that, regardless of the gruesome implications, the Death Star's remains were swinging ever closer this direction as the big red giant's orbit pulled them ever onwards. It gave the Imps something else to worry about, and less reason for stray fighter groups to come this far away from the protection of their capital ships. However, something new caught his attention. The Imperials were no longer directing their attention to Yavin, but were instead coming all hell-for-leather in this direction.

A dozen unbecoming curses crossed the prince's mind as he hurriedly returned to his work.

"Espa, I can't get through this encryption," He said with a defeated sigh, "See if you can get the autopilot to bow to your will."

The little droid chirped an affirmative and quickly went to work.

Keeron, meanwhile, busied himself with the putting away of his tools. He took a few spare moments to repair the busted panel on the side, which, if he remembered correctly, housed the controls to the personal storage compartment. A quick series of dashes with the pocket welder sealed the faceplate back on, the true work of actually repairing the internal damage would have to wait till later- and in the grasp of much more competent hands. Perhaps Monarch Wing's personal engineer, Noral, would find enjoyment with it, if he was even still alive.

On that line of thought, Keeron punched up the one system that was still working, his passive sensors, and allowed himself a gander at what remained of the Rebellion's 'Buy-Time-Mourn-Later' fleet.

The worst of it appeared to be that neither Stargazer nor Reliant survived the battle, which explained the litany of space debris around his area. The Imperials hadn't fared much better, as his sensors revealed large chunks of debris that could have only come, judging by their size and specifications, from Gozanti's, Arquinnes', and perhaps even one Star Destroyer. However, that was more speculation on his part than actual conclusions based on solid data. The passive sensors could only pick out so much, despite their enhanced range. Keeron did remember, quite amusingly, slamming a volley a proton bombs into the side of a Arquinnes-class, though, so he knew he could most certainly count that as one Imperial casualty.

Moments of merriment were few and far between in this line of work, however, and this one, too, was cut short, as he came upon something far more interesting in the data received from the passive scanners.

There was an active ship out there.

Not just active, but fully powered too.

Only one problem, however, and this one sank Keeron's heart deep into his gut.

That ship was smack dab in the middle of Alliance territory, and with the Reliant and Stargazer gone, there was little wonder who it could be out there, waving a flag about as happily and suicidally as possible.

Lady Rizada, the terrifyingly imposing noblewoman from Iassadan royalty. The one who turned his spine cold and haunted his dreams- and not just because of her golden eyes.

Keeron Malte knew of the Iassadans, of course. They were almost a sister-planet to Dame, hailing from only one system over, and one of the only other planets that dotted the Known Space outskirts of the Black Star Region. However, despite the two planets' millennia of friendship, there were numerous stark differences between the two peoples who inhabited each- differences that were only overlooked because of their mutually beneficial trade. Whereas the people of Dame considered themselves high-minded, philosophically inclined, and rather well-intentioned, the Iassadans were a different breed entirely. Every single encounter he had partaken in with them, from Queen Katli Akotana to the audaciously titled 'Executive Assistant To The Shipping Manifester', had left him with an unnerving sense of dread- and had convinced Keeron that the Iassadans had more in common with Trelju than they did real humanoids.

A startling comparison to make, to anybody who had ever heard of or seen the carnivorous hunting animal from Dame's eastern continents, but one that the young prince felt was quite apt. The Trelju lured their prey in, oftentimes in groups of five or seven, and had two members of their packs act as bait. One was obvious, one was hidden. Then, just as their unsuspecting prey came too close, the hidden Trelju would leap out and surprise them, garnering all manner of attention intended to keep their prey transfixed and distracted from the real danger- of which were the rest of the pack, hidden in the treetops.

The Iassadans had their own form of this trap, and, coincidentally enough, always traveled in groups of five or more. They weren't out to kill, per say, but intimidation and psychologically diddling with, however, were most definitely on their to-do list. From what he had gleamed from his one-time banquet with Queen Akotana and her entourage, they seemed to derive some sort of sick pleasure out of the little game.

At least the Trelju had better smiles than their humanoid counterparts.

Only Lady Rizada, the fearless, and Keeron truly believed that, leader of Monarch Wing, would play dead and then the very next moment burn herself alight.

It angered Keeron that she was so needlessly playing with peoples' lives, so carelessly jumbling all those who served aboard the Ferassa about like various die in a board game. The frustration was overwhelming, and he slammed his fist down on the top of the helm.

Little miracles may have been something that Keeron lived on, but they never ceased to amaze him.

With a thunderous roar, the modified V-Wing came to life once more. Even Espa seemed surprised by the sudden change of fortune. Keeron Malte, however, paid little more than an elated cry of victory to the turnabout.

Forcing the wings back into attack position, the young prince leapt out from the scrap field and screamed with all the fury he could muster out of the old starfighter towards the procession of Imperial TIEs. If Lady Rizada wanted to lure them into a trap, then, by all means-

He would be happy to play the role of the bait.

---

Lady Rizada, now witnessing the full power of the Empire's mighty vengeance swinging towards them, an unstoppable pendulum of doom, as it were, dashed all other thoughts from her mind and forced herself to work from instinct. Being raised in nobility required years of training just for etiquette, poise, and proper table manners. That practice had done well to cement her body and her mind, into two separate, yet distinct, entities, allowing her a graceful freedom in how she dealt with problems that the common peoples of the galaxy would never enjoy. It was almost a pitiable difference- but only almost.

She was bred from high standards, good blood, and there was no doubting that. Pairing those genetics with the unsurpassed standards of Iassadan royal preparation studies made her the best in the galaxy at whatever she chose to do- and made her quite the intimidating, and rightfully so, presence in whatever room she happened to be in. On a command bridge in the heat of battle was no exception to this- although, when the heat had been sucked out of the room, leaving only the boiling blood in her veins for warmth, the argument could almost certainly be made that there were exceptions to the rule.

Swiftly, Lady Rizada turned from the scene ahead and scanned the room for options.

Sunfire-And-Nightmares, or whatever the being known only to her as CeleSuna was, stood erect only a few feet away, her head cocked slightly in piqued curiosity, as if she were a puppy awaiting its owner's next command. Fortunately, Lady Rizada had more than a few of those to give.

"CeleSuna," She said, her voice surprising her with its raspiness, "I need you to determine who of the bridge crew is still alive and then revive those who are. This battle isn't over yet, but I'll need more than myself and you if we're going to win it."

CeleSuna nodded, the strange, alien tendrils that extended from her head swishing slightly.

"There are first aid kits attached to the support beams, and there's one under the console just behind you," Lady Rizada flipped a few overhead switches, dimming the cabin lights and, unbeknownst to CeleSuna, running a background program that would begin analyzing the celestial being's vital signs, "I am going to depart briefly, I must see to the status of my chief engineer. In the meantime, direct the crew members that you are able to revive to resume their stations and prepare the Ferassa for battle."

She quickly strode past CeleSuna, side-stepping the badly bloodied corpse of one Ensign Tirish Jen, the young Espirion tactical officer who had, to her knowledge, been in a completely different area of the bridge than the one he now lay in. Another soul for the Empire, another hundred Imps she would slaughter in response.

Just like Chass.

A brief glance back to the lifeless green and yellow eyes of Tirish allowed Lady Rizada to banish the thought from her mind, and she hastened her pace towards the engineering deck.

---

CeleSuna watched the tall Iassadan leave the room.

It was a confusing time for her, learning and adapting to a thousand new languages, all of which had been absorbed from the Ferassa's central computer. She had hardly mastered the basic tongue of Lady Rizada when she had linked with the artificial mind, and now found herself forced to contend with which one she found the most enjoyable.

As she thought about it, she began her work.

Ignoring the medical kits along the walls, something she hoped that Lady Rizada would not be upset about, CeleSuna went to each body that scattered the deck. Each one held a light that was dimming fast, and some had found their lights, and thus their threads to the tapestry of life, extinguished. It was painful to acknowledge something like this at such close range, and for a brief moment she longed for the peace of the homeworld, but she did not dwell on the subject for long. She would save who she could, and merely hope that those who had been lost had enjoyed their time on the mortal coil.

With slow, gentle movements, she extended her arms into the chests of two crewman. One was a green-skinned being that she could not begin to fathom, but another was a arachnid-type creature. Upon making contact with the internal light, CeleSuna did her best to understand both beings inside and out.

The process of healing was a simple one, but only among her own people. Performing an act on aliens such as these seemed oddly strange, the type of strange that was reserved for study and fascination. Typically, the healing process involved two sentient minds consensually linking, bonding into one that could draw power in limitless quantities. With these, politely, limited creatures, it was a bizarre action that forced CeleSuna to restrain her enthusiasm and allow the life functions to resume unabated. Even so, she did briefly glimpse into the deeper fractals of the energy that the creatures gave off- to heal them was to understand them, after all.

The arachnid was a haze of calculations, of basic thoughts intermingled with the highest levels of mathematic and scientific formulas. Oddly this worked in harmony, despite completely escaping CeleSuna's own comprehension.

The green one was simple, but pleasant. It radiated a haphazard energy that suggested this one was, for all intents and purposes, scattered, in life and in mind. CeleSuna could appreciate this, as it reminded her of the harmonious discord of her home.

Withdrawing her arms, she stood and glided over to the next individual who required her help, and she repeated the process, as she would do for the next, and the next, and the next, until she had brought forth life and brightness into the bridge. They would create an energy barrier so strong, so vibrant, so full of life, that not even the incoming onslaught of vile, corrupted, darkness could destroy them. They would return to her homeworld, banish the murky waters, and she could rest easily once more.

Then, as the idea came to her mind, she began to ponder why the ship itself was not radiating the same light as the beings she now resuscitated.

If it did not begin to glow soon, CeleSuna pondered, then she may have to begin making adjustments to her plan.

---

The diminutive Nemoidian fussed with the engine core, mumbling to himself and chastising the inscrutable language that the Republic had programmed this infernal ship with. It was as if it had no mind of its own, as if the very code for the entire cruiser's computer had been written with unabashed apathy. It was entirely devoid of art, of beauty, of any real substance. It had set functions, pre-arranged patterns and regulations, and it followed them dutifully- annoyingly dutifully.

Eye-gougingly dutifully.

Annoyingly eye-gougingly throat burningly dutifully. There, that was it.

His gentle tapping on the casing of the engine's primary brain, the subcomputer that had been installed to allow engineers to manually make adjustments if they so desired, turned into a raucous banging that allowed him to vent his frustration ever so minimally.

It was a futile effort. The lights were on but nobody was home. The blasted Republic-loving-propaganda-spouting-ineffectively-corrupt-as-sin computer was not going to budge, and that ensured, almost certainly, a visit from the scariest woman he had ever met.

Noral did not enjoy Lady Rizada's presence, nor did he enjoy the gaze that pierced his soul and reminded him of the days when his mother chastised his unfortunately curtailed greed. It wasn't his fault that he did not deal and scheme like the other children, that he did not attempt subterfuge to undermine his father or his classmates, he simply found no use for it. No engine, no robotic intelligence, no anything had ever benefitted by being programmed with deceptive code, and he found no reason to change that in his own personal life.

Regretful childhood memories aside, the bigger problem remained that Noral's engineering staff had suffered an irreversible blow when the Ferassa was attacked. All of them had been knocked offline, their memory cores now wiped, when an electromagnetic burst swam through the ship in such massive waves that he'd been knocked clean off his feet. It would take weeks to replace and train new droids for the jobs, and, while it would be an assignment he would relish, he knew just how stressful it would be as well considering that the Ferassa, and the Rebel Alliance itself, would be constantly on the run from the vengeful might of the Galactic Empire.

Conditions would not be improved by the lack of cooperation from the Ferassa's computer either. Would it not take several hours of time he did not have, Noral would rip the whole thing out and rebuild its code from scratch. As it stood now, it was as unimpressive and unworkable as a battle droid, and about as useful as one too.

He tapped in a few new commands in desperation that something would get through to the impassive machine.

"Unknown command. Try suggested commands such as slash help or slash time. Confer with your nearest superior officer if these suggestions fail to suffice. Glory to the Republic, make the Confederacy bend the knee!"

The words, unblinking, unfazed, so devoid of emotion that he could feel the life being drained out of him the longer he stared at them, blazed across the tiny screen.

It was, to a point, the twelve hundredth and sixteenth time he'd seen them today.

Placing his welding goggles back over his eyes, Noral closed the computer's hatch and picked up a hydrospanner. He turned to look over the engine core itself, peering past the dulcet red warning lights that, in their one hundredth and second minute, had simply become normal to his mind. The Nemoidian engineer had just decided that the immediate issues would be best solved by clambering down the broken ladder and repairing the fused plasma emitters by hand when he heard the tell-tale signs of Lady Rizada marching down the corridor.

"Noral!" She shouted at the appropriate level as she ducked beneath the half-closed door to engineering.

"Lady Rizada," He replied, bowing his head slightly.

"Noral, I need those engines back online. We have a fleet of TIE's heading this way, and we're about the only thing left for them to shoot at out here."

"Yes, m'lady, I was just about to go down and repair them."

She glanced between him and the computer console, raising a curious brow.

"You know my feelings about the Ferassa, m'lady," He said, not attempting to hide the bitterness in his voice, "And you understand, of course, its unwillingness to work with me in return."

He watched her as those keen golden eyes, trained to be as sharp as his own, scanned the room around them. She would easily tune out the warning klaxons, ignore the fact that dark, black smoke polluted the low-ceilinged room, and that she would no doubt skip over the other unnecessary details that made up the chaotic scene. Lady Rizada, terrifying as she could be, had an admirable eye for concise details.

"I see you are without your crew, as I now find myself without mine," She said solemnly, perhaps unaware that she was echoing the same words that their former commander, Chass Camore, had spoken to them when Monarch Wing had first formed, "Very well. Do what you can, Noral. Your gift with machines has not ceased to amaze me yet, please do not allow today to be the exception."

Noral nodded fervently and turned back to his work as the great, white angel of Iassad departed from the room. Despite her rather tepid attitude to most whom she encountered, Lady Rizada, while simultaneously intimidating, had always displayed what Noral considered to be a rather motherly attitude to those who were, perhaps, not as well equipped to deal with bloodshed as she was. If there was to be any kindness in that woman at all, Noral had long ago decided, he was perfectly content for that to be how it was utilized.

Despite having spent the last four and a half years with Monarch Wing, seeing firsthand the crippling horrors of a war fought between two entirely sentient factions, he had never quite adjusted to the change, and Lady Rizada had always taken that into account when she communicated with him, and that, alongside her mutual eye for detail and appreciation for brevity, had earned his respect.

Half-climbing, half-jumping, he descended into the core to begin the repairs.

---

"I cannot begin to tell you just how foolishly outnumbered we are, ma'am," Camile droned, as if they weren't heading towards imminent death, "I go to sleep for just a moment and suddenly you're having delusions of grandeur. Surely, ma'am, you are accounting for something more than my aging circuits and the pitiful defenses of a singular consular ship."

"Yes, Camile," Dineé shot back, harsher than she intended as she anxiously eyed the power levels slowly, painfully slowly, rising back to their optimum outputs, "I am accounting for the fact that the Imps will be flying with their hearts, not their heads."

"Ma'am, if we go into that mess, we may end up flying with neither."

A solid, albeit annoying, point. Score one for the automatons. Dineé was hoping she could even those odds up as she forwent the targeting system, which, unfortunately, had decided to not come back online despite her best efforts, and began to calculate the angle and trajectory she would need to start shooting at in order to nail a few of the shieldless TIE's. It was basic enough math, essentially the standard calculations you were expected to learn by the time you got past basic field flight training, but it was never as accurate as a computer, and usually resulted in a few missed shots that would scatter flight groups and cost precious time. Time, of course, being something that was such a finite commodity in the galaxy that she was certain she could barter Coruscant for it- hell, maybe even toss in the Western Reaches too.

The other issue, Dineé thought as she tightened her grip and thumbed the trigger, was that aiming blind almost always resulted in you becoming the primary target of whoever it was you were trying to shoot down. There had been any number of missions back in the day where Bravo Flight had been escorting the Queen or cargo freighters and had come under attack from the seemingly endless mercenary and pirate groups that proliferated the Naboo system. Each time, the results were eerily similar.

Pirates bee-line for the target. Pilots fire at the pirates and miss the first few shots. Pirates change their minds and bee-line for the pilots instead. Hell ensues.

"Camile?" Dineé asked softly.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Divert all power to front deflector screen, and try not to get your top blown off."

The astromech whirred in a haughty, manufactured annoyance, as if the mere insinuation that he could end up a casualty was preposterous to him. Then, unbeknownst to Dineé, very quietly lowered himself within his compartment.

With all the might the fifty-three year old starfighter could muster, it charged headlong into the night and beckoned for the dogs of war to do their worst.

---

The light show that erupted across Keeron Malte's screen was fascinating in its suddenness and terrifying in its eruption. Within mere milliseconds, the stars were alive with a beautifully sporadic and rapid series of blue and green laser bursts. The TIE Fighters buzzed about wildly, whipping and winding about like a nest of disturbed barkflies. The chaos created by unprepared pilots only added to the beatific nature of the scene unfolding before his eyes, as bright oranges, stark whites, and spiraling reds joined the fray.

"By Mira's Reach," He muttered in soft astonishment, momentarily lost in awe, "Espa, I think we just hit the jackpot."

The R2 unit chirped in response, signaling just how much it disagreed with that statement.

"Who in their right mind would come blazing in like that? Is someone else really alive out there?"

Then, forming like a rock in his stomach, the young prince came to an awful realization.

"Oh no."

There were any number of starships in the galaxy that fired blue lasers, but most of them were either long-gone or were notoriously absent from the wreckage that now circulated throughout the Yavin system.

Except one.

True to his suspicions, moments later, Keeron Malte caught a glimpse of the bright yellow paintjob and reflective chromium armouring that was the signature style of the N-1 Starfighter- there was only a small handful of pilots who still flew them, especially in outdated callsign colours. One of those pilots was a woman who had dropped his jaw more than a few times with her dazzling array of skills, and who he still hoped to one day do proud with a legacy of his own. Adding to that idol worship, she was his superior officer, and she was, to his mind, one of the best pilots in the entirety of the Rebel Alliance. Dineé Ellberger was many things, but, unfortunately, Keeron was about to be forced to add 'martyr' to that list of descriptors, unless he acted faster than his limited skills allowed.

So, he did the next best thing.

"Espa," Keeron said as he forced the V-Wing forward at max speed, "Prepare to launch both volleys of our incendiary concussion missiles, target as many of those Imperial ships as you can."

The little droid bleeped in response, carrying out the command as dutifully as its programming demanded, but in the back of its processors it was having any number of second thoughts including, but not limited to, questioning the sanity of its pilot.

Keeron, meanwhile, was having his own second thoughts, although not necessarily about his next maneuver- that he had plenty of faith in, if only because he believed it to be the absolute correct thing. The young prince's doubts circulated more about if he would arrive on the scene in time in order to make a difference. After all, he was a good distance away still, and the floating debris that forced him to duck under, dodge over, and roll around was costing him precious time. Blasting it away with his assault cannons would be easy enough, but would also give him away to the Imperial sensors, and if he was ever going to make a difference in this fight it would only be due to surprise- and a whole lot of luck.

Adding on to those doubts, he was also quite unsure of what his actual orders were in this situation, which raddled the anxiety in his brain to no end. An endless stream of doubts poured forth from the broken, but entirely metaphorical, floodgates within his mind. Certainly, protecting his squadmate was a worthy goal, but did that extend to the Ferassa as well? Lady Rizada always seemed to have something else up her sleeve when Monarch Wing went into the fray, and it wouldn't have been unlike her to have let Dineé, her most trusted lieutenant, in on the secret. If that was the case, Keeron certainly hoped that Dineé would have been kind enough to let him know. Of course, she hadn't known him all that long and, despite the praise he professed to her and the feedback he endlessly analyzed from her, she could easily be perfectly content to keep him at arm's reach. After all, Monarch Wing, like many Rebel squadrons, didn't exactly have a low mortality rate.

Keeron shoved the thoughts to the side as best he could and instead focused on the battle ahead. They would do him no good for the moment, and Dineé had always encouraged him to leave any doubts at the hangar. Putting her advice to practice, an unfortunately entirely separate thing from absorbing and cataloging it for later, proved less successful than he wished, but he did his best nonetheless.

Turning his attention towards his tactical screens, he instead forced his mind to devour the data that Espa was feeding him.

Jammed into inner hull of his ship were two dozen incendiary concussion missiles. They were older, in terms of technical advancement, and had fallen out of style long before the Clone Wars as shield technologies became more and more advanced- ultimately turning most incendiary-based weaponry into obsolete obscurities. However, against the Empire's favourite cheap, fast fliers, they were some of the most effective secondary weapons in the entire galaxy. His home planet of Dame, in the days of the Old Republic, had been one of the primary producers of the armaments and, much to his and the Alliance's good fortune, had continued to grow the same Bonfire trees well over a millennia later.

And his little ship was packed to the brim with them.

So far, the projected number of TIE's he would take down with even one volley exceeded thirty, given the missiles' unique nature of producing a ten-kilometer wide bubble of high-intensity flames upon detonation or impact. If the long-run up wasn't giving his nerves enough time to fray and fluster out, he'd be much more excited over the possibility that he'd be achieving 'ace pilot' status so quickly.

He saw the violet hue of the N-1's shields as they absorbed a series of blows, took note of roughly six other TIE's angling their way towards a follow-up strafing run, and called upon his rigid upbringing, under his father's reign as king of Dame, to center himself in the moment. The hidden launchers sprung force from the sides of the V-Wing, shuddering the ship with such force that, momentarily, Keeron fought to regain control of the ship. Then, with the full fury of the thousands of subjects of Dame that the Empire had slain, the missiles, ghastly red ion-trails following in their wake, spewed forth and ripped into the Imperial armada.

---

The Imperial pilots were thrown into disarray as they now suffered attacks from both sides of their formation. Caught unaware by the sudden arrival of one Rebel ship was something that, after the initial shock had subsided, could have been overcome, despite the losses that would inevitably be incurred. However, just as the pilots gathered their wits, they were suddenly tossed into the closest living equivalent to hell.

Fire, exploding from every which way, now obscured their vision, and the galaxy itself seemed to come alive as their nerves were, not for the first time today, frayed to the bitter end. TIE pilots, skilled in evasion, used to utilizing their speed and maneuverability to overpower their opponents, now found those same techniques turned against them, as each pilot attempted to dip, swirl, dodge, or outright flee from the carnage. In doing so, they boldly ensnared themselves in further chaos. All of those years of training, withering under the beratement of instructors, flying sorties against pirates and mercenaries too dumb to know when they were being cornered, all of it now went flying right out the window. Panic among the ranks grew as, one by one, more fireballs seemed to erupt around them. Pilots, attempting to evade the incessant miniaturized explosions that erupted from the haunting red streaks, suddenly found themselves inadvertently turning into their squadmates, adding to the carnage and sending even more shrapnel into the fray that would, undoubtedly, cost other pilots their lives as well. In one swift stroke, the Imperial armada that had, only moments earlier, been so primed to unleash the totality of their vengeance, now found themselves trapped inside a galaxy come alive with fire, scurrying and scrambling for a way out.

It was, to put it lightly, an embarrassment, and it forced Admiral Don Scvar to avert his gaze.

Officers scurried about the bridge, likewise avoiding his gaze, attempting to look busy and out of reach as they, too, bore witness to the lethality of the Rebel Alliance. Always too defiant to simply capitulate or die, the traitorous scum always had to take as many of the Imperials with them. It was a callous and needlessly cruel tactic and, had he been on their side, one he would have greatly admired and executed to great success. Fortunately, the great and well-decorated Admiral Don Scvar was not a terrorist, and could only find this pyrrhic tactic as an annoying waste of time that only delayed the inevitable.

Turning his head back slightly, not nearly enough to signify deference, but at just the precise angle as to show his superiority, Scvar directed his attention, ever fleetingly, to the communications officers in the crew pit to his left.

"Chief, get Hawk Squadron back in order and tell them to redirect their full attention on that Rebel cruiser. Communicate with the short-range sensor teams in order to more expediently accomplish this."

His command, perfectly clipped and cut at each syllable, as too few Imperial admirals were capable of doing, was followed without a moment's faltering. Don Scvar had known each and every member of the Dauntless' bridge crew for well over a decade, and they knew exactly what he expected. It was, perhaps, not the kindest ship to serve on, but it taught those men and women discipline, respect, and how to survive in a galaxy full of corruption and ludicrously incapable Imperial governors and moffs with much less experience than himself. As he reminded them at each personnel review, if they could survive him, they would be the greatest assets to the Imperial Navy wherever they went.

With the massive loss of personnel aboard the Death Star, the late Grand Moff Tarkin's infamous little folly, their role as the Empire's best was even more secure- however he was hardly inclined to let them know that, lest they begin to grow complacent.

Footfalls clacked off the deckplates behind him, announcing the arrival of his longtime second in command. Although he was adorned in the typical Imperial scout armouring, his first officer had steadfastly held on to same pair of combat boots he had been initially issued over two decades ago, insisting that wherever he walked, he would do so with the irreplaceably proud tradition of a born and bred soldier. This devotion to pride, however, did make his arrival rather quite distinct to even an untrained ear, as the older plastoid had a certain regal clatter to it that modern stormtrooper armour lacked.

"I've prepped my fighter, Admiral, and my squadron commanders are prepared to depart at your word, sir," His first officer announced in that ever-so-unique accent- a voice that was, as far as Scvar was concerned, perhaps the last of its kind in the galaxy.

"Excellent, Commander Firne," Scvar replied, turning to his first officer, an act in and of itself that symbolized his great respect for the aging soldier, "Please depart for Yavin IV immediately and begin the termination of the Rebel forces which remain on the planet. Coordinate your attacks with Captain Siskat and the Vigilant."

His faceplate currently removed, Commander Firne's face was fully exposed, something that was an ever-growing rarity. A dozen scars, long since covered, crisscrossed the cheeks and cleft chin of the stone-faced clone trooper. One of them, a deep gash that traveled from the right temple and down across his throat, was a courtesy parting gift from General Grievous, the last commander of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, during the droid monstrosity's assault on Dame in the waning weeks of the Clone Wars. It had never healed properly, and still grew flush whenever Commander Firne's indelible rage came too close to the surface. A brief glance at the mess that was Hawk Squadron was more than enough to pique that emotion, and Scvar, momentarily, permitted himself an outward smile as he admired the clone trooper's eternal disgust with the feeble-mindedness of conscripted pilots.

Placing a hand, his only one thanks to the swift thinking of a traitorous Jedi long ago, on the Commander's shoulder, Scvar reminded him of his current objective.

"Do not worry about them, Commander, they are fools sent to die, and they will be easily replaced. The true glory awaits you on Yavin IV, where you are tasked with bombing the jungles to ash. Whomever the Rebel Alliance has left behind will be yours for the taking, and yours will be the true conquest that is told for a hundred years from now."

His attention returned, Commander Firne acknowledged the Admiral with a curt nod and, once dismissed, turn on a heel and made all haste to the hangar bay. Scvar watched him go until the doors had sealed shut and, once more, turned his attention to the battle at hand. The day was not over, and Hawk Squadron would still redeem themselves yet.

---

Dineé yanked back on the control yoke hard enough to rip it free from the cockpit, attempting to force her stress back down into the stick as a brutal series of laser bursts besieged the belly of her starfighter. Nonetheless, her teeth clacked together with enough force that she was momentarily disoriented as the pain reeled through her senses. Pulling on a lifetime's worth of experience among the stars, however, she resisted the instinctive urge to feel her jaw and instead focused on righting herself as she began to end her steep turnabout. The Empire's assault had been discouraged, but not diverted, despite her and Keeron's best effort. Indeed, even as she flipped the N-1 around to a level field, she could see the beginnings of a reformation, once again pointed directly at the Ferassa.

Without time to check her scanners to see if C6, her android wingmate who had yet to be heard from since the initial defense began, had received her previous hails, a series of short subspace bursts she had sent on a coded channel during her initial attack run, she could only glance in vain towards the area his T-Wing was supposed to be in and hope against hope that it was powering up its cannons. It was a desperate measure on her part, of course, but the old adage of desperate times rang truer here than it ever had before if she or any of the others were to survive this skirmish.

Quickly priming a new proton torpedo, Dineé fired again into the middle of the Imperial assault forces. Much to her chagrin, it did appear that the initial shock had worn off of the surviving pilots, as they easily swerved around it before returning to formation. Trusting her instincts, the former royal escort pilot sharply twisted her ship to the right and fell in behind the escaping TIE's, determined to take out as many of them as possible before they reached the Ferassa and her crew. Blue laser fire danced out from across her bow, arcing out across the vastness of space and into the Imperials' backsides. A sharp intake of breath silenced her initial curses as the swifter starfighters casually avoided them and, if anything, increased their speed away from her. The N-1 starfighter was a formidable ship even now, well past its heyday, but still sometimes found itself beginning to lag behind, such as now, as the more modern TIE's, with their far superior twin-ion engines, continued to gain speed. Regardless, Dineé continued to pepper the Imperial formation with fire that grew ever more withering.

Taking advantage of the momentary, if unwanted, reprieve, Dineé tapped the side of her flight helmet and opened a channel to the Ferassa.

Lady Rizada, in all her towering glory, fizzled into existence on the miniaturized holo-projector, giving the small cockpit an eerie ice-blue glow. The former Iassadan noblewoman looked none-too-pleased herself, and she appeared to be worlds away as she stood, her hands placed firmly on her hips, and answered Dineé's call.

"Yes, Major, what do you have to report?" She began, clearly distracted as she off-handedly used Dineé's actual rank instead of her callsign.

"Home Queen," Dineé replied, hoping the urgency in her tone would carry enough weight to wrench Rizada's attention, "Myself and Monarch Four have managed to deal a serious blow to the Imperials, however they have regrouped and are en-route towards the Ferassa once more. Orders?"

Rizada paused to think about it for only a moment.

"Hold them off for awhile longer, Major. We are almost ready to depart the Yavin system."

"Home Queen," Dineé insisted, "I do not believe that will be possible. We are losing ground to them every second, they will reach you before we do."

Rizada consulted with someone else off-screen, nodded, and, thankfully, turned her full attention to Dineé.

"Understood, Monarch One. Ferassa is prepared to meet the assault head-on, please corral the Imperials at these coordinates. Home Queen, out."

Before Dineé could protest, Rizada ended the transmission and her form disappeared from the cockpit.

The elder Naboo wanted to exclaim and give the Iassadan an earful and then some on the impossibility of that plan, not the least of which included the improbability that she would be able to manifest enough power into the aging engines in order to actually get up underneath the TIE's and force them into position. However, tampering her anger, she went about attempting to find a way to make it work instead.

"Camile," She began, politely smoothing away her frustrations so as not to startle the finicky astromech, "Divert power from all systems into the engines, we need to catch up to those squints. Don't," She added, cutting off any argument, "Tell me about the odds, the dangers, or anything else. Just get it done and let me worry about the rest."

Switching the frequency on her communicator for ship-to-ship, she opened a channel to Keeron Malte.

"Monarch Four, do you read?"

"This is Monarch Four, I copy."

"Monarch Four, this is Monarch One. I need you to discourage the Imps from getting too close to the Ferassa, do you think you can manage that?"

There was a pause that could have lasted an eternity. For a youthful man who was always so eager to prove himself to her, it was a silence that simultaneously bothered and also deeply concerned her. Finally, however, an answer came through.

"Copy that, Monarch One. Accelerating to maximum, deflectors primed to portside and all lights show green. Monarch Four, out."

At the same moment, she caught the briefest glimpse as the modified V-Wing shot past her starboard side, the unmistakable dual golden-ion trails of its engines following closely behind.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't suppress a small smile of pride as she watched him go. He still had a long way to go before he could call himself anything more than a comet jockey but, little by little, she was crafting him into something better- and, better still, he took each piece of advice she gave him and molded it for his own, unique set of skills. That type of respectful, yet still independent, thinking was something any good mentor would be proud of- whether they wanted to be or not.

Returning her attention to the status panels inside her cockpit, Dineé Ellberger gently edged her starfighter forward, and gradually began to gain on the Imperials.

---

Memories floated by.

Memories of a distant and forgotten time, only remembered now in microcircuitry and hardwired synapses that felt nothing more than the cold sting of fragmented electrical bursts.

The memories faded as the photoreceptors came back online, flickering to life and giving the android a complete technical readout of its bodily systems, quickly analyzing and reporting back on each subsystem. A full scan was completed in mere microseconds, and his mechanical mind reconnected itself, completely, to his body once more. Damaged systems were bypassed, critical functions re-routed, and all reports read nominal once more as the duranium plated hands extended forth and gripped the controls of the assault fighter, moving with a slowness that defied the android's true ferocity. Time was, it realized, as the android began to receive a coded subspace signal, something that was no longer a novelty.

Utilizing its superior speed, the android known as C6 quickly rebooted every single system in the T-Wing assault fighter and began to calculate the required energy levels needed for the defense of the former Republic consular ship, the Ferassa.

No longer held back by the futile weaknesses of its original body, C6, formerly known as the factually benevolent King Kuta of the Separatist foundry world Trokan III, swiftly brought the ship online and began the power-up sequence for the dual plasma cannons. It was a mere matter of seven hundred and ninety-six movements, all perfectly articulated and executed. In a body such as this, C6 had no issue performing the necessary maneuvers in five point six seconds.

The repurposed body of an IG-100 Magnaguard was more than suitable to the task, as its photoreceptors and highly advanced combat processing unit allowed it to think clearer, act faster, and be better than almost every other droid in the galaxy. The only ones that were capable of outpacing C6 were assassin droids, and even they were a rarity so exclusive to the black market and bounty hunter guilds that they may as well have been a nonfactor. In fact, as C6 pondered on it for a femtosecond, they were.

Glancing to his left and right, he analyzed the plasma buildup in the cannons. It was below the efficiency-levels he had initially rated the T-Wing at just before the defense of Yavin IV had taken place, and would have to be corrected at the closest opportunity.

Angling the T-Wing downwards, which was an effort that, to C6's advanced processors, seemed impeccably sluggish, the android briefly looked up to scan and assess the approaching threat, comparing it to the initial info he had been given during the subspace bursts.

Out of the originally reported two-hundred and sixty-two TIE Fighters, an unshielded Sienar Fleet Systems starfighter that balanced its entire superiority on the abilities of its human pilots, only one hundred and thirty eight remained. An impressive discrepancy that, only briefly, caused a surge of manufactured joy within the microcircuitry of C6's android brain. The human pilots who flew alongside him for this battle, Major Dineé Ellberger of the Royal Naboo Security Forces and Prince Keeron Malte of the woodland planet Dame, had made a performance noteworthy of further study, and he catalogued it for when just such an occasion arose in the future.

Slowly, the plasma buildup was making its way down the shielded protection tubes, gathering even more destructive force as it pulled energy away from the shields and absorbed the power into itself. The assault platform noticeably shuttered as the plasma detached itself from its cylindrical shape and began to form into tightly compressed spheres of perfectly regulated devastation. C6 made another series of adjustments, and, within moments, eight plasma spheres, four on each side, had separated off and began to form into a cohesive shape.

Taking note of the distant glimmer of the N-1 starfighter's chromium plating, C6 calculated the necessary angles at which he could fire and receive the optimum results, based on a series of carefully theorized outcomes from the current direction and speed of the N-1. He made further tweaks to these strategies as his photoreceptors also took into account the speeding form of the modified V-Wing, coming in alongside the TIE Fighters and seemingly attempting to outpace them.

As the outcomes began to be eliminated, in order from least to most likely, C6's hands tightened around the controls as his autonomic systems sent out impulse after impulse, flying through his circuits at breakneck speeds, constantly evaluating and updating his system with new information.

Then, as his fellow wingmates each executed their respective maneuvers, C6 quickly erased the remaining prospective outcomes and focused in on the only possible one remaining.

With a silent whir of his servomotors, the android fired.

---

The ferocity with which a series of plasma bursts erupted with thunderous aplomb almost caught Lady Rizada by surprise, but only almost.

The noblewoman watched with glee as, before her very eyes, the Imperials were once again torn asunder and ripped apart in beautiful, vengeful fire. Even if the android who created the destruction could feel no true joy, nor any real emotion at all to the spectacular art he was painting across the sky, the sight endlessly delighted Rizada and her heart swelled with pride as more and more of the Imperial fighters erupted into flames and tumbled into their fellows, creating yet more wonderful havoc in the ranks.

Shortly afterwards, she was even gifted the brief sight of seeing a V-Wing and N-1 starfighter join the fray, their laser blasts tearing the remaining TIE's to pieces. It was a sight that lasted all too briefly for her tastes, however, as the scenery drifted away as the Ferassa began to turn its tail and head for the winds. She briefly considered ordering her crew and Noral to delay their departure, even just for a few more moments, but shook herself free of the ridiculous thought and refocused her efforts towards commanding the retreat. She would not toy with the lives of those under her command, and they need not give any further sacrifice today.

"Divert more power to the engines," She ordered, commanding the attention of the bridge crew as her voice rang out defiantly across the deck, "Do not concern yourselves with the shields, for I believe our Imperial friends have much greater concerns than us. After all," She rallied, her first clenched before her, "Major Ellberger, young Prince Malte, and C6 are giving them a proper good thrashing well worthy of Monarch Wing!"

A chorus of polite cheers rumbled around her as the crew signaled their agreement.

"We are royal rebels, and we do not cow so easily to the likes of an Empire such as this. After today, even the Emperor himself will hear word of our triumph, and know that you," Her eyes, with their unique golden aura drawing rapt attention and respect, briefly met each one of her junior officers, "The noblemen, women, and all those who were cut from the cloth above are a force to be reckoned with!" Her own excitement bled into her voice, and she let it come through loud and clear as she finished off, her fist raised defiantly in the air as she stood in the center of the bridge, the complete and total attention of her crew within her grasp, "So says I, Lady Adallia Rizada, Home Queen of Monarch Wing!"

As her heart thumped fiercely beneath her breast, she only felt her spirits soar even higher as the crew echoed her sentiments with a raucous cheer that, personally, she believed could have toppled the whole Empire itself.

With the debris field now completely behind them, the familiar thrust of the Ferassa's engines could be felt beneath the deckplates. Lady Rizada gripped the back of the helmsman's chair, a smile that would have put a Trelju to shame smeared across her lips, and continued to ferret out orders amongst the crew. She took special pause to acknowledge CeleSuna, the celestial being who now stood just off to the left side, with a curt nod. The golden goddess-like figure had gone above and beyond what she had asked for, and had revived almost the entirety of the bridge crew from near or certain death. Lady Rizada did not choose to show it, but she did take note of CeleSuna's slouch, and she could only begin to imagine what it must have taken for the girl to heal so many in so short a time.

Lady Rizada could not fathom what powers CeleSuna's people had, not truly, and not yet, but she could spot fatigue a thousand parsecs away, and she could see the weariness that now burdened the young alien's shoulders. She would make time, once they were away, to personally see to it that the girl was taken care of, however one did so for a being made of pure energy, anyways. And, once that was done, the Iassadan noblewoman would study every single kilobyte of data that the internal sensors had picked up on the celestial being's vitals. Knowledge had always been power, and, as she returned her mind to the ever degrading starfield, slowly stretching out into the safe confines of lightspeed, Lady Rizada knew, without a single doubt, that there was exactly one person in the galaxy who would have the most.

---

The Rebel frigate, identified as the Ferassa, had escaped.

It had, by some miracle that was none-too-minor, bought itself enough time to not only draw Hawk Squadron in for another trap, but also escape- with each one of its defenders in tow.

If Hawk Squadron's wing commander had survived the debacle, Admiral Don Scvar would have personally broken the insolent failure's neck himself. Instead, he had summarily executed the surviving members of the squadron, all seven of the worthless whelps, for failure and insubordination. It was not a punishment he took to often, nor one done lightly, but it was the only one he felt was fitting for a mistake so grievous.

He, Admiral Don Scvar, hero of the Clone Wars, Imperial governor of Dame, promoted to the Imperial Admiralty by the Emperor's direct order, had been assigned the honour of leading the Galactic Empire's vengeance fleet against the Rebel Alliance's base at Yavin IV after the destruction of the Death Star. Emperor Palpatine's Grand Vizier himself had contacted him, via hologram no less, and directed his fleet to the Yavin system, where they were to squash the resistance and leave an indelible mark to the rest of the galaxy that, no matter how big the victory, resistance was a waning fad, and would be treated with the utmost severity not seen since the ravaging of the Separatist homeworlds after the Clone Wars.

Instead, his bomber wings had assaulted a deserted jungle, his stormtroopers had invaded a mostly abandoned series of ancient temples, and his starfighter corps had been completely and utterly decimated and humiliated by a few ancient frigates and a handful of privateer starfighters. Adding insult to injury, the Rebel Alliance had wiped all of their computers and droids, and had clearly stolen off with the ones that they were unable to destroy. For all the firepower and bluster he had brought to the Yavin system, he now stood over the ashes of nothing, and he had gained less than nothing.

It was, to date, the single most humiliating and enraging incident in his thirty-three year career.

By the time Commander Firne's bomber squadron was touching down in the hangar, Admiral Scvar was still held in rapt stasis by his fury, silently standing over the bodies of the survivors of Hawk Squadron. The blaster pistol that had done the job was still kept tightly in his grip, and Scvar nearly leveled it at the clone commander as he approached. However, there was still some sense of decorum left beneath the roiling seas of his rage, and he slowly holstered it instead.

The clone trooper said nothing, and simply stood at attention and awaited the next command. He hardly even paid a glance to the bodies between them. Then again, with all the souls, both mortal and mechanical, that had piled between them over the years, why would this sight prove to be any different? If it had, Scvar was almost certain he would have immediately added the aging clone's corpse into the mix. There was very little left in him that could tolerate even the slightest form of empathy or weakness, especially in this moment.

Finally, with his composure regained, the Admiral turned to face his first officer.

"Have this mess cleaned up, and delete the holorecordings. All pilots were killed by the Rebels, and none returned alive."

"Yes sir, of course."

"Contact Captain Siskat and Captain Tolvan and have them rendezvous with us in the Toprawa system, immediately."

"Captain Tolvan wanted me to pass along her regards, Admiral. She has been re-assigned on order of Grand General Cassio Tagge to continue scouting the planet for any intelligence left behind by the Rebel Alliance," Firne stated matter of factly.

Admiral Scvar, already marching away, flippantly waved the clone commander off. He was in no mood to debate with someone as irritatingly pompous as Tagge, and was still rather hoping to keep his first, and best, officer alive, and quickly extricated himself from the situation in order to do so.

Today had been not only a humiliation but also, abject and utterly, a failure. Tomorrow, the Admiral silently promised the Rebels who had so brazenly denied him a victory, would be the beginning of a victory so grand in the making that it would make the Sacking of Coruscant, the Outer Rim Sieges, and the destruction of Alderaan look like child's play.