The Dying Dawn [SWG; Closed]

[Thrashia]

Secret Research Facility Ganymede | Edge of Wild Space


The white metaled yacht came out of hyperspace within a very specific sector of the Ganymede system, it's transponder sending out an encrypted code. Though empty of most parochial lifeforms and valuable matter, the system's anonymity and reclusive location was excellent enough to be the location for a private research and development center. For ten years the project had been a well kept secret amongst the top brass of the Thrashian Imperial government, with only the leading members of the Regent's cabinet and the military high command having direct access and knowledge.

“Not exactly the most desirable place to take your new wife on a honeymoon,” commented Dheinalia Vera Nuruodo.

“I thought a remote location where the two of us could enjoy each others company would appeal to you,” riposted Thrawn, his blue skinned hands grasping the controls of the pleasure yacht firmly. He shot a glance of his glowing red eyes at his new wife. “Or maybe I was wrong?”

“We'll take the diplomatic approach and say you were wrong,” smiled Dheinalia. “I know for a fact that we're in that one secret research facility of yours that my father always tried to keep tabs on.”

“Tried.”

“And that you're using our honeymoon as an excuse to disappear off the comscan to go and check in on whatever it is you have some crazy scientist or engineer brewing up for you,” continued Dheinalia.

“Finished prototypes.”

“And...you had better make this up to me,” Dheinalia finished, crossing her arms and staring meaningfully at the side of Thrawn's head.

Thrawn tapped on the controls of the yacht navicomputer for a few more seconds and then locked the handlers in place. He pushed his seat back and then turned to face his wife. “I know this is by no means – how shall I put it – agreeable to a newly wed, but I promise you that I won't neglect you.”

“Oh?”

“I've set in our course and reduced our acceleration. We'll arrive at my facility in a little under 50 hours, two cycles time just the two of us on this – our brand new pleasure yacht which comes equipped, I will remind you, with a full suite, champagne selection, and a droid chef that I stole from Dorn van Kuat's best hotel.”

Dheinalia stood up and walked over to her husband. She smiled, leaned down and kissed him. She stood back up and using one hand, gripped him by the collar and started walking to the back of the cabin. “Then come on Grand Admiral, you've got a giant new bed made from Alderannian silk to conquer with me.”

Grinning ruefully and shrugging, Thrawn stood up and followed his wife.


Ganymede

The planet below may be bereft of any atmosphere, but the moon that orbited above it was much more amenable towards oxygen-breathing lifeforms. Possessing a hyper-dense core, the moon where Ganymede was located had an unusually high gravity level. The research team located there took no small advantage in testing various bits of technology in a natural high gravity local, even though the facility itself had gravitonic generators that allowed its occupants to exist at a more easy-going level of gravity. “Real world conditions are more ideal,” was the byword of Dr. Brennic, the team leader of the R&D team at Ganymede.


Grand Admiral Thrawn's yacht landed on the moons surface sixty hours after entering the system. The Grand Admiral made no excuse of his tardiness nor commented on it, by which the research team took their cue and failed to mention it.

Waiting inside of the main hangar facility was a platoon of white armored clone troopers, each one armed and ready for combat even though they were hundreds of light-years from the nearest combat zone. Captain “Viper” CT-1023 snapped to attention when Thrawn stepped down the exit ramp of the pleasure yacht, his platoon doing likewise.

“Officer on the deck!” The sound of thirty-two pairs of armored heels clashing together made an impressive and smart sound.

Thrawn saluted in return. “At ease, Captain. Escort me and the Lady Nuruodo to Dr. Brennic's office, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Of course sir,” replied the clone captain, non-pulsed at the surprise of hearing about the recent nuptials; a better reaction than most of the higher echelons of the Thrashian military had been able to muster, seeing as how the image of the all-commanding and professional Grand Admiral Thrawn clashed quite horrifically with the idea of a male in a state of martial bliss.

“Any trouble in the system, Captain?” asked Thrawn, as the captain led him and Dheinalia through the complex.

“Nothing of note,” replied Captain Viper. “The last unscheduled appearance of a ship in-system was about forty cycles ago. Our patrol craft were not able to identify it, but it never came within the inner system, choosing to stay in the outer.”

“Curious,” frowned Thrawn.

“We've tightened security in that particular sector. I'm sure you've already seen my requisition request for a Bellator-class Star Destroyer to be deployed here.”

“Seen and denied it,” replied Thrawn.

“As you say, sir.”

“The key to Ganymede's continued existence is that its existence remain a myth. If I were to deploy a cruiser like a Bellator-class Star Destroyer then it would draw unwelcome attention.”

“...”

“Permission to speak freely, Captain,” said Thrawn, curious as he always was by the way how all clones seemed to develop their own personality and tweaks. It was a phenomenon that no geneticist or gene-therapist could ever explain to him in exacting detail. The human brain was simply too greatly complicated.

“I'm just thinking sir that, if not a Bellator, then perhaps another TIE Scythe squadron would be enough. That and I would formally request that my company be brought up to full strength. I only have three of four platoons necessary for a full company, and two of my platoons are understrength as it is – no replacements having been shipped in since three years ago when you stationed us here.”

Thrawn considered the captain's words. “That isn't an unreasonable request, Captain. I shall make the arrangements for another TIE Scythe squadron to be stationed here and I will see if I can get you adequate replacements.”

“I would appreciate that sir.”

“May I ask you a question, Captain?” interjected Dheinalia. Both men looked at her, almost as if they had forgotten that she was there the whole time.

“O-Of course, my Lady.”

“Just how many staff are here at Ganymede?” Dheinalia motioned to the right.

They had come to a long hallway that had its walls made from transparisteel, allowing passerby an impressive view. The hangar complex had been roughly half a mile squared in size, huddled against the side of a small mountain. The vestibule that they were walking through at that moment was situated along the ridge line of a mountain arm, moving inwards to a hidden valley that comprised the real Ganymede facility. The buildings were elegantly shaped with white metal, a sharp contrast from the russet color of the ground and dark green hues of the vegetation surrounding them. The main facility was situated against the mountain itself, rising to four levels that could be seen from the outside. There were however numerous other tunnels and higher floors built within the mountain.

“There are sixty-seven theoreticians, physicists, and mathematicians; one hundred and twelve molecular engineers, materials engineers, biomolecular engineers, structural engineers, robotics engineers; and over seven hundred lab technicians and equipment handlers. There is also the production line facility that is equipped with three dozen droids. My seventy-six troopers provide ground security and the 74th TIE wing provides system security,” the Captain said off by rote.

“That's impressive,” commented Dheinalia, privately sorry she had asked.

“Wait until you've seen what my R&D team have cooked up,” grinned Thrawn, taking her hand and moving forward again.

[Thrashia]

Laboratory B-12 | Ganymede Research & Development Facility


“Grand Admiral Thrawn, I am so very pleased to see you!” announced Dr. Brennic. Brennic was a tall being, over six feet tall and could even look down upon the none-too-short Chiss admiral. He was thin and gangly looking, with pale, almost translucent skin. The only difference one might see between him and a corpse would be the feverish strength that emanated from his eyes which were entirely blue with no visible iris.

“Likewise, doctor,” replied Thrawn, nodding in recognition.

Captain Viper had brought them to where Dr. Brennic, one of the foremost experts in the field of materials engineering, was completing some work with a small horde of his colleagues. The room was white-metal walled and had hardened concrete floors. Behind the doctor was a small manipulator pod, a machine in which delicate or dangerous materials could be experimented with in a vacuum using the manipulator arms of several clever controls.

“What have you been working on, Dr. Brennic, that could possibly draw my husband away from our honeymoon so soon?” asked Dheinalia, not too kindly.

“My Lady! Please, do not begrudge me this momentous occasion, I beg of you!” Dr. Brennic bowed formally, a wide smile on his face. “But it is finally finished! Ten years of incorporating the correct materials and new microbotics technology...it's simply fascinating! Captain Viper himself can attest to my work's importance.”

They all glanced at the clone captain. The Captain tilted his head to the side and gave a small, non-committal shrug. “I'm fine with what I'm wearing...but if the Doctor here can pull it off like he says, then I'd be the first in line to get one.”

“So you've completed it?” asked Thrawn, becoming absolutely serious.

“Indeed,” grinned Dr. Brennic, practically salivating.

“Again...what is it?” interjected Dheinalia.

Dr. Brennic nearly danced across the floor to the manipulator pod and after a small serious of button clicks the glass of the tube became translucent, revealing a humanoid figure within.

“I call it the Empowered Microbiotic Combat Armor Plate...or EMCAP for short,” explained Dr. Brennic.

“Give me a rundown on it,” ordered Thrawn.

“It's designed to absorb the energy created by the wearer's movement. The simple act of walking a distance of 100 meters is enough to keep the suit powered for 24 hours. It's completely self sufficient in regards to maintaining optical HUD electronics and comms, both of which have been upgraded as well. Optical advancements have improved by 300% over the older Mark III Clonetrooper Armor that Captain Viper is currently wearing; the wearer is able to see in all normal visible spectrum, as well as ultraviolet spectrum, nocturnal vision, and heat dissipation.

“The armor itself is more resilient to absorbing thermal and plasma-based weaponry and is made from a poly-carbonate based silicone that behaves similar to ablative armor, which can reform and repair damaged molecules given a designated length of time outside of combat.

“The fibre-suit beneath it is a piece of my own work! It's specifically designed to enmesh the wearer in a pressure-vacuum that can better withstand physical trauma and explosive decompression. The fibre-bundles are composed of nanotechnology developed to increase the strength of the wearer. With this under suit you can increase a normal human being's strength three times beyond normal. Other attributes such as reaction time and speed are also increased as a side effect.

“And last, but not least, is the neural implant that interfaces between the wearer and the suit itself, allowing the wearer to mentally control any of the various functions, which also includes emergency medical tools, such as pain suppressants, dopamine injectors, and adrenaline.”


The doctor's captive audience listened for a good ten minutes as Brennic extrapolated further. Dheinalia was not overly familiar with weapons technology, but even as she listened she realized how important this new armor would be to Thrashia. Clonetroopers had always been the forefront of the Empire's battles, doing their duty even in the face of overwhelming odds or casualties. But now, with this new suit, it could offer them an edge for better survival and defense. It was a marvel.

“I'm impressed Dr. Brennic,” nodded Thrawn, “Truly, this is a momentous occasion as you said. How soon could this be brought into general production?”

“Another six months and it'll be ready for mass production – along with the Croesus and the Perseus,” replied Brennic.

“The Croesus and the Perseus?” asked Dheinalia.

“Oh, yes, I forgot – Dr. Jojjurden's pet projects,” said Brennic, frowning slightly as if he disagreed with the idea of pet projects even though he clearly stood proudly in front of his own,

“He's a crazy tinkerer if you ask me,” commented Captain Viper, an out of character moment which came close to shocking Dheinalia, and even her husband turned and narrowed his eyes at the captain. “But his results are impossible to ignore, even if he only does so because he wants to beat out the Kuati competitors.”

“Let's give Dr. Jojjurden a visit. I wish to see these two projects,” Thrawn said, motioning for Captain Viper and Dr. Brennic to lead the way.

“Right away, sir,” replied Captain Viper, his body language clearly showing that he wished he hadn't spoken.

[Thrashia]

Few would recognize the figure that stalked through the under-streets of Bastion. Even less would be able to sniff the faint, degenerate smell of sweet corruption. Those that could, that perceived and understood, huddled tighter into their rags and debris of the homeless, mouthing small prayers to whatever gods might be listening to spare them this beings attention. The figure swept past them all, too occupied with other far more important works than to feed upon the refuse of the corrupt society above. There were more vital happenings afoot this night than the mere slating of hunger and the soul.

The twisting and broken under-streets of Bastion had been haphazardly built, originally nothing more than sluices by which runoff and drainage could be leaked away from the upper levels on the surface of the planet capitol. It wasn't long after their completion however that criminal elements slipped beneath the streets and took advantage of moving around freely without the prying eyes of police patrols on them. It was however what followed in the footsteps of criminals and thieves that truly took hold of the under-streets. It is always in the dark and forgotten places that newborn evil seeks, feeding on the easily manipulated emotions of hate, fear, and ambition. Betrayal, in all but name.

The cowled figure came upon a rusted door, barred with chains and signs of warning. However, for those that knew to look, there was a small sigil marked into the metal. Without a moments hesitation the figure extended an arm and pushed the door inward, its hinges well oiled and used. Inside was an ante chamber that had broken furniture and rotting trash left all over in apparent dissaray. A simple ruse to throw off would-be entrants to the covenant safe house. An armed guard stood in the shadows of the room, covering the entrance with a blaster rifle. The guard lowered the weapon when he felt the presence of who entered, and quickly fell to his knees in obesience. The cowled being swept past the guard, ignoring the rushing words of supplication and devotion.

The chamber beyond was far more decorative and well lit by luminous lamps that hung from chains above. Banners depicting the True Gods in their myriad forms hung from the walls, images that could sting the eyes of any being that did not pay fealty to them. At the center of the chamber was a wide holofield table, surrounded by a small group of dark cloaked men, lesser in stature or pressence than the being who entered now. As one the group bowed before being and paid obesience to his presence.

"Hail to the Ascendent Brand!" the assembled called, many in rasping voices. "Blessed be the Word."

"Blessed be the Word," echoed the shrouded figure. He lowered the cowl of his cloak and revealed an head far larger than a normal human's, but none-the-less still proportionate to the increased stature of the figure itself. Across the face and shaven head of the towering figure were strange ruins that hurt the eye to look upon for too long, carved into flesh with the skill of a master artist -- litanies to dark gods and beings that could warp reality to their pleasured desires. The figure smiled, revealing sharpened teeth that gave the appearance of a hunting shark. His eyes were what drew you further in however, for they were a bright burning orange-yellow, as if a literal flame burned within the beings head.

"The time approaches," the sibilant voice of Ardentane said, looking into the shadows of the lesser figures that he towered over. Unlike his post-human physic, these mewling normals stood around like hungry dogs, eager to taste a delicacy long denied them. "Is everything being prepared as I ordered it?"

One figure stepped forward slightly. "Yes, my Lord. We have placed our agents within the Regent Kaine's household staff."

"My coven have taken over the interstellar communications headquarters," said another.

"The Ubiqtorate headquarters has been prepped for annihlation," whispered a third.

"The trap has been set for the Grand Admiral and the Fleet High Command," said the first again. "None shall be alive to interfere. The clone legions will answer to our authority once we take over the capitol."

"All seems to be in readiness," murmured Ardentane. He stepped forward and manipulated the controls of the holofield table. The world of Bastion appeared in the air and pinpoints of data rolled across the empty space, giving details of what installations had been infiltrated, what organizations where now secretly theirs. It was almost time.

Ardentane smiled again. "Truly you have been most dilligent in carrying out your assigned duties, my dear acolytes..." The cloaked fellowship fell to their knees and groveled niceties about how they were not worthy of such compliments and attention.

"All is prepared as you had wished it, Lord," said the kneeling form of the first man. "All that is required for the word to be given, and our revolution will be launched! The efforts of true humanity will be made clear and the degenerate touch of the xenos cleansed from our empire by the fury of the True Gods - who will be worshiped in the open and venerated above all else!"

"Everyone of you have given your instructions to your subordinates, they are ready to take your places should you fall in our struggle?" asked Ardentane.

"Y-Yes, that is so...my Lord," murmured the group.

"Excellent. Then rise and stand ready for our final ritual. I will...call upon the blessings of the Primordial Truth upon our efforts this last time."


Without a moments hesitation the assembled men rose from their feet and stepped into the further reaches of the chamber. There at the end a great alter had been erected, made from the carbonite-frozen forms of screaming men, women, and children. Rivulets of caked blood from previous ceremonies stained the frozen pain-etched faces of innocents. Ardentane ran a hand across the top of the alter as his acolytes gathered in a circle around it. He smiled to himself as he enjoyed feeling the echoes of pain from the victims that lay beneath his finger tips. Truly this new galaxy held interesting technologies, useful for the inflicting of pain and suffering. Ardentane gripped the athame that lay atop the alter, still slick with blood. The hilt of the athame grew warm in Ardentane's hand, a small face of a screaming daemon on the end seeming to open its mouth and breath.

The chanting began. Words that scorched the throat and haranged the vocal cords rang aloud and were directed by Ardentane like a conductor leading an orchestra. With measured movements he sliced the blade of the athame across his open palm and gripped the fist tight, so that the blood would run before his altered physiology closed the wound. Droplets of thick, blackened fluid fell upon the alter top where a specially designed and placed summoning circle had been etched -- the lines of which began to glow red as the circle absorbed the profered blood.

"Blood is given and a sacrifice prepared," declared Ardentane. He began chanting a rising rush of Colchisian, the words scorching across the air like embers of flame from a smith's anvil. The chanting from the circle of acolytes grew louder, matching the interwoven lyrics of Ardentane's own.

With measured steps and continued chanting, Ardentane stepped away from the altar and stepped before one of the acolytes. The man had let his cowl drop, revealing the face of a man who had once been a Senator of the People, a loyal servant of the Empire of Thrashia until he had been lured by the desire for power and influence, goaded by his hatred of non-humans and lesser peoples. The man had no longer any sense for what was happening around him, his voice continuing the chant by long repitition and practice.

Ardentane raised the athame and with one quick swipe, the acolytes head was cut off and fell to the floor. Blood geysered up, prepared to dash the floor with bright colors. However, by chanted word, the dead body remained standing and the blood pooled around the stump like a second head. With measured steps and continued litanies of corruption, Ardentane moved around the circle and repeated the act, beheading all eight of the acolytes.

He turned and faced the altar where a burning hole was beginning to form in the air, a gaping corruption in the fabric of reality.

"Blood for Blood! I summon thee, ancient prince of the Brass Throne! I call thee forth, Irshardyr!" roared Ardentane.

The blood that had been pooled above the beheaded acolytes shivered and flowed, launching forwards to the center of the hole in reality. There it melded together, fed by ethereal energies that bled into reality from beyond the veil. Ardentane finished the last of his incantations and stared in rapt wonder as the blood grew and shifted, changing into something other.

A giant form began to take shape. Powerful legs ending in blackened hoofs. Dragon-esque wings of the blackest night. Muscled arms bound in brass rings. An armored chest with the winged emblem of Khorne carved in eternal flames upon the center. A head of ancient myth, horns of great lustre and eyes that burned brighter than stars with hatred and violence. The great blood prince and Bloodthirster of Khorne, Irshardyr took form, rising to tower twice as high as Ardentane - his size swallowing the room.

Dark fumes and ash poured from the fang-filled grin of Irshardyr. A voice like the rumbling of volcanoes and the heat of brimstone filled the chamber.

"To be returned once more into the realm of reality...my bones ache with impatience and my axe hungers for blood."

Ardentane fell to his knee and bowed low. "Great Prince, it is I that has summoned you with the promise of bloodshed and violence. Pay heed to the gifts that I have already given and the understanding that the blood shall flow for thee and thy great lord."
Irshardyr considered the kneeling figure.

"You promise much, Word Bearer. I have known previous acolytes of that whimpering being known as Lorgar to fail me."

"Not I, great lord," replied Ardentane, ignoring the slight to his primarch and sire. "We are no longer bound within the realms of the Corpse-Emperor. We are made free in a realm where men do not guard their souls as well as they should."

"Then it is well. Let the blood flow."

[Thrashia]

Regents Palace | Planet Bastion


The morning was one which promised to be beautiful. Weather reports indicated that the sun would be shining and that it would be weeks before there was any interruption in the spring weather for the capitol. Tens of thousands of citizens had mad plans to visit the great palatial parks that were interspersed throughout the continent-sized city of New Coruscant – for unlike its previous namesake, the Imperial capitol was graced with wide avenues open to easily accommodate large numbers of citizens and its parks were designed to both give the city fresher air, but also a place for relaxation and enjoyment. One of the most beautiful gardens was upon the private estate of the Regent, a fact which Ardus Kaine often found beneficial to his mental health.

The thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky in jagged arcs, highlighting the grim look of disappointment that had settled upon Kaine's face since he had woken up. “Damned weather men will never get it right.” Ardus Kaine, ruling Regent and lord of the Thrashian Empire sighed inwardly. There would be no pruning of his delicate Kuati Roses today. If the torrential rain continued to fall as it was, then he might not have any roses to see irregardless.

Kaine turned away from the wall-sized window and walked over to the table where his breakfast had been laid out. Unlike what some popular and fantasy-filled holonet serials might claimed to be the golden life of the regent – filled with sumptuous banquets for every meal – he had a rather spartan lifestyle. A plate of poached eggs, strips of bantha steak, a wheel of toast and a large glass of blue milk was waiting for him. He sat down and prepared to dive in when one of his personal aides suddenly burst into the room.

“Sir!” the man was in near panic, his voice highly pitched with fear.

“What's the meaning of this, Reginald?” frowned Kaine. “I was, quite literally, about to eat my breakfast.”

“Sir!” Reginald repeated, slightly more under control. “There is a large scale workers riot in the Corellian section of Newport Down.”

Kaine did a mental check. Newport Down was a city within a city, laying upon the coast and being cheifly responsible for the importation of foodstuffs from orbital docking stations to the ground. It was a rather rundown and poorer section of New Coruscant, filled as it was with predominantly foreigners who had come seeking to find work in the capitol of the Thrashian Empire. There had been many problems with criminal elements within that section of the city and with the major shipping companies being brutal to the workers there.

“I'm sure the local provost marshals can deal with the problem,” replied Kaine, stabbing a piece of bantha. “And if not, then have the local Ubiqtorate send in agents to find and apprehend the ring leaders.”

“Sir...” Kaine looked up to see that Reginald was white with fear and anxiety.

“Less than twenty minutes ago the main headquarters of the Ubiqtorate in downtown New Coruscant was destroyed. Right now we believe it was an accident, a large hover truck carrying fuel to a local refinery...it lost control and crashed into the main entrance. But in light of the riots springing up so quickly after that, General Veers thinks that they're linked,” explained Reginald.

Kaine set his fork down and stood up. He picked up his personal comlink and datapad and walked towards the door. Reginald blinked hurriedly and followed him.

“Call my transport around, now,” ordered Kaine. He flipped on the power of his datapad and pulled up a directory of information, trying to find the best suitable maps and the most recent reports from any the provost marshal stations in the Newport Down area.

“W-Where are you going, sir?” asked Reginald.

“To the High Command Headquarters at Tower 66,” growled Kaine, thumbing through the digital reports that began showing up on his screen. Things were worse than Reginald had made it seem. “Kriffing wonderful! There are a quarter of a million rioters in the streets.”

“I'm not sure if they are rioting – per se – sir, but at the moment they seem to be aggravated protestors.”

“That will change sooner than we'd like,” grumbled Kaine as he stepped out of the front door to his waiting hover lim. His driver opened the door and he stepped into it. Reginald closed the door behind him and waved the driver on. The lim pulled off and headed away from the secluded city.

Reginald fixed his glasses back on straight and as he watched the lim disappear from view a small, malicious grin spread across his face. He took out his own comlink and flipped it to a specific channel.

“The sacrifice is being delivered, my lord,” Reginald spoke into the comlink.

A deep baritone voice hissing with an ethereal strength replied. “Excellent. Dispatch the remaining unbelievers at the Regency Palace. No loose ends.”

“It shall be done, my lord. Blessed be the Word of the Ascendent Flame.”

[Thrashia]

Newport Down/Old City Area | New Coruscant City, Bastion


The “riots” that had begun that morning mere hours before had spread from the docking storehouses to the fringes of the Old City market place. Tens of thousands of enraged, poor, nothing-to-lose workers surged through the streets carrying a mix of mundane weaponry – from torn pipes, lengths of wood, and a few kinetic bolt rifles used for hunting. More than a few also sported weapons and armor taken from the corpses of New Coruscant provost marshals.

Hover cars and land speeders were burning wrecks in their wake. Shop fronts and small businesses were systematically ransacked, the owners of each beaten or killed if they had been foolish enough to remain as the wave of killers approached. Men wearing long robes the color of dried blood with peaked hoods led the crowd, agitators that roared lustily for more blood to be spilled and carried power-torches that were usually meant for welding plasteel plates together.

Two blocks away from the approaching wave of madness, a new line of provost marshals were hastily preparing a new barricade.

“I said set your blasters to live-fire!” ordered a lieutenant. His face was half covered in blood, slightly dried from two hours before when he’d received the head wound from a crazed lunatic carrying a vibro-hatchet. He was no longer in a mood to keep protestors from growing. “You’re authorized to shoot on sight, lethal action extremis. We’re not giving these bastards a route into the Residential Towers.”

The riots had engulfed the Old City within an hour after spreading there. Thanks to the older construction of what had once been an Imperial Army base, the Old City had had large dividing walls between it and the rest of New Coruscant. There was only one main arterial route out of the Old City, and it led directly into the main residential area of the city – the home of over three million innocent Thrashian citizens.

Concrete barriers and hastily strung shock wire was strung across the road. Five armored hover personnel carriers with squad-support repeater blasters were positioned the help cover the seventy-three provost marshals that had survived from previous barricades – all that had survived from the five hundred that had been sent to Newport Down that morning.

“Goddess, this is a bad day,” muttered one marshal to no one in particular. He switched his blaster from stun to kill. Its power pack whined in recognition of the change, increasing its strength.

“Hey Marko, wasn’t today your birthday?” asked one.

“Yeah – was about to eat my birthday breakfast too when the call came in.”

“Goram but that is the worst luck.”

“Seems to be all I get for my birthday: bad luck.”

The baying roar of a crowd drowned out further conversation. The lieutenant was on the loud speaker. “Imperial Citizens! You are hereby ordered to cease and desist. Failure to comply will result in your immediate execution. Lethal force has been authorized.”

The crowd came closer.

“Doesn’t seem like they are listening,” one marshal grimly laughed.

“Shocked that the Lieutenant even tried.”

“Had to follow protocol – you know how he is.”

A crimson-robed figure stepped to the front of the approaching crowd and raised his improvised weapon high in the air, waving it about. He shouted some unheard words to the crowd behind him and then brought the tractor wrench down in an imperious-looking way, pointing directly at the barricade.

“Well, that’s torn it.”

The crowd roared even louder, if that were possible, and surged forward. When they reached the 150ft marker, the Lieutenant ordered them to open fire. A blistering barrage of red laser bolts spread outwards and engulfed the foremost waves of blood-hungry rioters. Bodies fell, blasted backwards with burned and bloodied craters in their chests, heads, or mid-drifts. Arms and legs were sliced off, mostly cauterized by the heat of the laser bolt that passed through to hit another person behind the first.

The crowd continued to surge forward, bodies were trampled beneath the feet of those coming from behind. Even the wounded were trampled to death. They reached the 100ft marker and the light repeaters on the AHPCs opened fire, scything down even more. Hundreds were dying by the minute and yet the tide continued to move forward. Return fire was beginning to sprinkle from the crowd, kinetic rifles and stolen blasters sending a light sprinkle of fire against the marshals. One or three fell, their faceplates melted or bloody, lucky shots from charging rioters.

The lieutenant used his blaster pistol to send shot after shot down the street into the mass of rioters. There wasn’t a real need to aim, so packed together were the protesters. The lieutenant gritted his teeth in hatred, his face turning into a sneer of disdain and anger. Nothing had gone right all morning and now he was probably going to have to kill off thousands of the citizens he’d sworn to protect. The irony was almost as heavy as the duty that hung on his shoulders.

Out of the corner of his eye, the lieutenant saw a figure of large proportions moving across the tops of the shop buildings along the street. Goram it, they must have had sense enough to send some bastards along the rooftops to try and flank us. He was about to order two of the AHPCs to shift their fire to the rooftops when the figure suddenly became clear to see, moving far faster than any human had a right to move.

With a lunge that would have been celebrated in Imperial Olympics, a giant landed on top of an AHPC. Those marshals who had seen the leap faltered in their fire and gazed in amazed horror at what they beheld. The giant was easily over 7ft in height, armored in thick armor the color of dark crimson rimmed with silver filigree. Leering daemonic faces protruded from the armor plates, as if something was living within the armor itself. A gun that a regular human being would have struggled to carry two-handed was clasped in a single armored gauntlet, the barrel over 2-inches wide. The armored helmet was shaped to look like the rest of its armor, daemonic and horrifying. Blue light shone through the eye lenses of the helmet and a guttural laugh erupted from the giant.

“Die you pitiful wretches! For the True Gods!” the giant roared. The other arm lifted, a fist the size of a man’s chest attached with electrical lightning playing across its clenched fingers, and came down atop the roof of the AHPC. The armor of the AHPC parted like a fist going through a wet paper bag.

The power fist must have hit the power coupling for the top-mounted repeater blaster, because an explosion erupted and blew out, killing the gunner and driver inside. Marshals that had been standing stupefied around the AHPC fell, many of them killed by shrapnel. The giant dropped to the ground, unhurt by the blast or flying detritus.

The lieutenant stared in horror as the giant brought up his boltgun and opened up with automatic fire. Marshals were not so much shot as blasted apart. Fist-sized holes punching through armor and torsos exploding as the bolts exploded from inside their chest cavities. The hells are Chronosian fanatics doing here?! Why!? I thought they were our allies?! The lieutenant had a moment to finish his last thought before a bolt round took his head off.

The armored giant stalked the length of the barricade and massacred the provost marshals. Those that could run did, the rest died. Rage infused rioters swarmed over the barricades, their numbers no longer held back by blaster fire, and tore the remaining marshals apart in a vicious act of brutality. The giant simply chuckled and pointed deeper into the city.

“Forwards you dogs! Feast upon the anointed sacrifices that this city offers! For the Word and the Ascendant Brand!”

The crowd roared lustily back in response and surged forward into the now unprotected residential heart of New Coruscant City.


Interstellar Communications Orbital – Alpha Station | Bastion

To say that all hell had broken loose might have been an understatement at that moment as Chief Operations Officer Harold Kreff tried to make sense of what was happening inside his station’s command center. Alpha Station was the primary heart of the Thrashian Empire’s interstellar communications network, responsible for making sure that Imperial Naval ships received their orders and that emergency communiques were received as well. It was far more vital than the lower form of communication used via the Holonet that regular citizens and businesses used for day-to-day use, was encrypted and near-instantaneous.

At that moment the entire grid was lit up with thousands of messages trying to be sent and received at the same time. Warnings and alerts were erupting all over Bastion, individual ships, other orbital stations, and even on neighboring systems. It wasn’t quite enough to overload the system, but the operators that were at work at their stations were being taxed to their limits and abilities.

“Sir, we’ve received a priority alert!”

“We’ve gotten over a hundred of those already,” growled Harold, ignoring the ensign that rushed over to him.

“But sir, this one is from our station!”

“What!?” Harold spewed, turning his head around in a quick, wrenching jerk.

He had a heartbeat to stare incredulously at the ensign when a group of men rushed through the main doors of the control center. They wore the uniforms of the crewmen that worked the docking bay. They each had packages strapped to their chests and carried similar ones in their hands.

“For the Ascendant Brand!” the foremost screamed in an exultant roar.

“What the hell is--?”

A massive explosion rocked Alpha Station. Industrial demolition charges usually used for the destruction of derelicts or minor asteroids ripped the station nearly in half. Those crew and personnel that were not killed in the initial explosion were ripped out into space by the depressurization of nearly all levels to die gasping in the coldness of space.

[Thrashia]

Underground Safety Bunker | Residential District Tower 9, Area 21

The skyscrapers of the residential area were in chaos and confusion reigned. It was only due to the evacuation drills that were normally carried out once every six months that the families hadn’t completely panicked. Provost marshals had ordered an immediate evacuation of the towers. Jessica Nadeen huddle with her daughter and son in the corner of their assigned bunker forty feet beneath the tower that they lived in.

Four thousand families, almost 10,000 people, huddle with Jessica and her own family inside the bunker. It was a wide expanse of space. Overhead lights gave adequate illumination and there were water supplies and food for over twice their number to feed people for a month. The only entrance, except for a few small side doors that led to sanitary sumps, was a wide armored blast door that would not have been out of place onboard an Imperial Star Destroyer.

Jessica ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair and hummed softly, keeping her five year old quiet and calm. Her son, seven years old, was putting on a brave face and holding his plastic blaster – a gift from his father – like a powerful totem of protection. “It’s OK children. We’re going to be fine. It’ll just be a few hours and then we’ll be able to go home.”

“What about Daddy?” asked her daughter.

“He’s safe of course! Your Daddy is a brave lieutenant in the Provost Marshals,” Jessica smiled down at her worried daughter’s face. “He’s the one protecting us.”

“I want to help,” her son said, the serious look on his face out of place on a child so young.

“When you get older, maybe you can,” said Jessica pleasingly. The entire room was filled with the soft, hushed tones of women, children, men and old folk speaking in soft voices. Most sounded scared, but more were beginning to calm down.

“But for now, your Daddy is keeping us safe.”

The blast door of the bunker, forty feet wide, rang like a bell. Something heavy had hit it. All conversation instantly halted and all eyes turned to the door. Another deep boom echoed inwards, another slam against the door. Jessica’s daughter buried her head in her mother’s chest. Her son stood up and aimed his toy blaster at the door.

The blast door broke apart. A glowing red axe, of all things, was sticking through a gap in the blast door. The axe was laughably large, almost a full two-meters long of blade. A deep roar echoed through the gap, like the grinding sound of burning coal being raked across cold steel – it shivered up the spine and froze the blood. Jessica’s son had a small river of yellow fluid running down his inner leg.

Two black hands with talons reached in and impossibly ripped the remaining part of the blocking blast door apart. The lights flickered and died, but that did not hide the awful luminesce of the…thing that stalked into the room. It was a terrible, giant form. Darker than the darkness around it. Powerful legs that ended in hoofs, leaving molten red prints in the concrete floor. Great leathery wings unfurled as the creature stepped fully into the room, expanding to cover the entrance it had just made. Its skin was a burnished red and brass, its chest covered in a symbol that made Jessica turn her head and throw up. Its head had two great horns. Its eyes, for those that had the misfortunate to gaze upon them, were yellow-white orbs of a burning star, hatred incarnate.

It spoke and hearts stopped beating. “In the name of Khorne, I, Irshardyr, shall claim thy blood and skulls!”

Jessica didn’t stop screaming until the end swiftly came.


Imperial Armed Forces General Headquarters | Military District of New Coruscant City

It was two hours since the initial reports of a protest disturbance in the Newport Down area.

General Maximillian Veers was having a bad, bad day. “I said tell the 44th Battalion to unlimber all their armored support. They’ve got exactly ten minutes to do that and be moving into the Upper East Sector of Area 21 before I run down there and put my boot up their Major’s ass!” That area had gone dark, with whatever surviving elements of the Provost Marshals having stopped communicating half an hour before.

The command center was a hive of activity as a haggle of officers from the Clone Legions and the Imperial Army, and even a few from the Imperial Navy, worked their comms and tried to get a clearer picture of what was happening. Veers loomed over it all, looking over the hologram-strategic board in front of him depicting the city. He’d done the same thing hundreds of times before in hundreds of battles, but it was the first time he’d ever had to consider his new home and the capitol of his Empire as a battleground. It was most disconcerting.

“Sir, we’ve lost communications with Alpha Station in orbit. Long-range communication is down and we’re no longer able to reach the Star Destroyer Bellicose.”

“Which means we can’t coordinate orbit-to-ground fire missions anymore,” muttered Veers. He turned to the communications officer that had reported. “We’ll have to rely on non-encrypted forms of long-range communications. Try to reach the Bellicose through the holonet. If that fails, then send a shuttle up with Captain Dravis and have him help coordinate any bombardment needed. Dravis knows his targets.”

“Yes sir, General!”

A white-cream uniformed captain sat staring into space, seemingly at a loss of words. The uniform belonged to the Thrashian Military Intelligence Services, also known as the Ubiqtorate. The captain had arrived in the morning an hour before the insurrection – as Veers was now calling it – had begun. It was fortunate for him, since the Ubiqtorate headquarters had been totally destroyed less than ten minutes after his arrival at General Headquarters. As far as Veers knew, he was the remaining ranking Intelligence officer they had alive on planet.

“Captain Beauregard,” Veers spoke the captain’s name, trying to gain his attention. He spoke in a somewhat more gentle tone than he normally would. “Captain Beauregard, I need you to focus on the task at hand.”

The Intelligence officer turned, looking as if he was lost in a fog and only now finding something physical to see or focus upon. “General?”

“I need an immediate SITREP. What information did Intelligence have on the possible insurgency groups inside of Newport Downs? Did they have a headquarters or base that any groups operated from? I need details, Captain, and I need them now.” Veers brought his full air of authority into that last sentence, looking sharply at the man.

It did the trick, the man responding as only an Imperial officer could when faced with the expectations of his superiors. Training ran deep in Imperial soldiers.

“Sir,” Beauregard swallowed and cleared his throat, shaking himself. “From what information was available to me, I know that there were a few criminal gangs in the Newport Downs loading docks – the usual types that have minor smuggling operations or hustle shipping companies into hiring their loaders for the movement of goods. There were rumors of some Corellian groups that might have wished for the Empire to bestow upon them an autonomous state, but…nothing. Nothing like what is happening right now.”

The man looked down at his hands and then back up at Veers, fear in his eyes though his voice was steady.

“Nothing like this madness. This chaos.”

“Get ahold of yourself Captain,” ordered Veers. “Tell me, now that Ubiqtorate Headquarters is gone, where are any backup systems for your information archives? I fail to believe that Intelligence would be dumb enough to keep it in a single place.”

“T-There are secured backups, but I don’t have access to them. I know where they are though,” replied Beauregard, nodding.

Veers turned to a clone officer that was standing at the ready nearby. “Lieutenant Reck,” called Veers, causing the clone legion officer to present himself. “You and your platoon are to deploy on a security mission. Escort Captain Beauregard here to the location he will tell you and guard him in his mission to retrieve vital intelligence. Understood?”

“Sir, yes sir.” The clone lieutenant answered, snapping a parade ground-worthy salute. Captain Beauregard followed the clone trooper out of the headquarters room and onto his mission. Veers focused back on the strategic hologram map before him.

“Colonel Angreive, can you give me a SITREP on what’s happening in front of us here?” asked Veers.

His operations officer nodded. Colonel Angreive faced those officers that assembled around the table, attaches from their respective Army and Clone Legion units. She used a laser pointer to indicate combat zones highlighted by the hologram. “The insurrection has spread out from the Old City like a bad rash. In the last hour, all of the central residential zones from Area 1 to 25 have been attacked and are either fully occupied or being fought over as we speak.

“The good news is that the aero-domes to the west of the Residential Centre have been ignored. The 23rd TIE Fighter Wing has deployed its assets to our assistance, including elements of the 12th Clone Air Corp – whose gunships have been helping to keep the insurrectionists from reaching the industrial zones east of the city center. Surviving units of Provost Marshal Precincts have been seconded to the command of the 9th Armored Battalion, Imperial Army, which we sent into protect the main roads leading into the industrial zone.

“We’re positioned here, north of the Residential District Area 22. The 18th Legion has two companies deployed blocking the lanes into General Headquarters and the main barracks of all ground assets and units based on Bastion. And as we all know, the 44th Battalion is now moving to protect the routes west. In essence, gentlemen, we’re attempting to bottle this up.”

An Army officer cleared his throat and waved his hand at the mass of red identifiers on the table. “What exactly is the opposition composed of and how many are we facing?”

“We’re facing, from Provost Marshal reports, a rabble. These are disgruntled citizens that have crossed the line from protesting or rioting into actual insurrection. Lethal force was authorized an hour ago when the mob broke into Old City,” replied Angreive.

“How many?” another officer asked, again.

“We expect…at least six-hundred thousand.”

“Six-hundred thousand!?”

“That’s the low part of the estimate isn’t it, Colonel?” asked a clone captain.

“Yes. Unfortunately our combat computers have estimated the insurrectionists to number as possibly high as one-point-three million. We’ve also had unconfirmed reports of heavily armored soldiers – possibly hired mercenaries – moving amongst the mobs and directing their activities.”

A soft murmur of cursing filtered around the table.

“As you can see, gentlemen, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” said Veers dryly. “Thank you, Colonel. Now as for our plan of action after the cordon has been set. I want the 44th Battalion to--.”

An explosion ripped through the headquarters and cut off any words for a plan of action that General Veers might have had. Concrete and debris was hurled around the office space like a shotgun blast. Veers felt his cheek cut by something sharp and metal. It took a few moments before he was able to stand back up, coughing as dust was partially filling the room.

“What the hell…”

Veers came to his feet, hand gripping the side of the hologram strategy table and the other on the butt of his blaster pistol. He surveyed the room, seeing that a number of officers were dead – either their ear drums bleeding out or pieces of shrapnel imbedded in their bodies.

“General, are you OK?” Colonel Angreive stumbled over to him and helped him to stand up straight. A piece of metal was sticking out of the colonel’s shoulder.

“I’m fine, but you seem to be wounded.”

“No problem for me sir, the shock is keeping the pain away. Right now we need to evacuate and get you to safety.”

Just as Colonel Angreive was about to lead Veers out, three armored figures of towering stature moved into the room – through the gaping hole that had been blasted in the wall. Veers was caught mid-step, shocked at what he was seeing. The hell are Chronosian Astartes doing here? Why?

Angreive was killed by a boltgun blast to the chest. The three armored Astartes walked calmly through the room and put a bolt round through every body, unmoving corpse or wounded man alike. The leader of the trio, designated by the fact that his armor was far more ornate and disgusting to the eyes than the other two, spared Veers a bolt to the chest.

Instead of a quick death, Veers was gripped by his throat and brought to eye level with the Astartes warrior. Veers spit a bit of blood onto the eye piece of the warrior’s helmet. “Bastard Chronosians betraying us!”

The warrior laughed in a guttural tone, deep and mechanical from carrying through his armor. “Foolish man! We do not serve any ‘Chronosian’ and we are not from your galaxy even. We are the Bearers of the Word and your world has been set as sacrifice for our great and powerful True Gods.”

“The Empire will destroy you,” spat Veers, unafraid even at this last moment of life. “We will defy you.”

More laughter. “You know nothing of what is happening little man. Your precious empire will crumble into dust and its people will serve as willing sacrifices to the Pantheon. I will sacrifice you myself.”

“Hard to do when you’re dead,” gritted Veers.

It was the blood. He’d partially obscured the Astartes’ vision and had managed to pull out his blaster pistol. He always kept it live and full powered – an old habit from campaigning. He had placed its barrel just under the lip of the Chaos Space Marine’s helmet, the one weakness he knew he could easily exploit. He pulled the trigger and all but blasted the warrior’s head off.

Veers fell to his feet and turned to bring up his pistol, aiming for where he knew another Chaos Marine would be. Before he could raise it a second time, a howling chain sword erupted from his chest from behind. His agony lasted for two or three seconds before the loss of his heart registered in his brain and his body lost full function, life fleeing his corpse.

The Chaos Space Marine whipped his chainsword to the side, flinging the dead body away in disgust as he looked down at the dead corpse of his brother marine. “Falcor was a bloody-minded fool.”

“We’ll mourn his passing later. The Word has been given. We’re to finish cleansing this building and then move back to Lord Ardentane’s position at the central hives. The true ceremony is set to begin soon,” replied the other Chaos Space Marine. “Leave his body here.”

The two Chaos warriors left the room a ruined and dark mess.

[Thrashia]

Ganymede | Secret Imperial Research Facility


Dr. Jojjurden's pet projects, as Dr. Brennic had put it, turned out to be far more interesting and incredible than Dheinalia could have guessed. Dr. Brennic led through into the very heart of Ganymede, where the most stringent of security was located. They had arrived in a wide laboratory and mechanical garage. Robotic beings, some towering four meters in height, were laying about in the room in various stages of repair, disrepair, and disarray. Dr. Jojjurden himself, an aged human man with a great plume of wild hair the color of shock-white, was working over a control board when the group stepped into his sanctum.

"Dr. Jojjurden! Heavens man, what have you done with this place?" cried Brennic, stepping over several piles of droid parts. "George! If you've been doing nothing but making a mess of things again..."

Jojjurden looked up from his work. Large goggles that were meant for microscopic work on the near-molecular level were over his eyes -- causing them to look strangely large and bulbous. Brennic huffed in surprise and almost tripped over a hydrospanner. "What, what? That you, Bren?"

"Yes it's me, you old buffoon! Now get yourself presentable - the Grand Admiral is here."

"Well why didn't you say so, Bren?" George Jojjurden huffed and took off his goggles. He had a large nose and, now that his goggles weren't obscuring his eyes, kindly looking brown eyes. He looked from Thrawn to Dheinalia with an innocent and unabashedly curious face. "Come to see my work have you?"

"That would be correct, Dr. Jojjurden," said Thrawn, arching his eyebrow slightly as he took in the room.

Dheinalia couldn't help but smile at the diminutive old man as he crawled over a pile of astromech droids and bowed rather awkwardly to Thrawn and herself.

"It's a pleasure to see you again sir, after so many years. Almost thought you'd forgotten me!" smiled George.

"Please excuse him, sir and madam, he has always been a rather rude fellow," sighed Brennic.

"We're hoping to see what you've been making," said Thrawn, bringing things back around to their original task. "I've been informed that your work on the Croesus and Persues Projects are complete?"

"Oh yes, finished those ages ago -- can't believe old Bren here hadn't told you so already!" replied George. He tucked his thumbs into the waist-coat he wore beneath his oil-covered white smock, smiling proudly.

"They haven't been put into production because this imbecile hasn't properly submitted his designs or managed to integrate the system for the cerebral impulse unit," riposted Brennic. "As such I haven't considered either finished."

The smaller human scientist turned to bear on the towering Brennic. "Don't you start spouting out rules and regulations about over-stuffed pen-pushing crap! I've told you again and again that --."

"Gentlemen," said Thrawn, using his command voice as he would aboard the bridge of a Star Destroyer. It instantly brought both men to silence and caused them to turned and look ashamed.

"I am sure," continued Thrawn, "That these projects are satisfactorily completed -- whether an official report has been drafted or not. For now, please show me what you have Dr. Jojjurrden."

"Of course, Grand Admiral, of course. Please follow me," nodded George, ignoring the glaring look that Brennic was giving him.

The group went further into the depths of the room along a barely cleared path of parts and discarded ration bar wrappers. At the back of the room were two white-sheet covered areas, marked off with warning labels and alert lights. The one on the left had the word "Croesus" painted on it, the right "Persues." The small doctor hopped over to the left and pulled a lever, revealing the Croesus.

"Behold my Croesus!" declared George, smiling like a boy finally showing off his secrets. Standing in a little cage of hanging wires and a construction frame was a robot.

"A robot or droid?" asked Dheinalia, not unimpressed but certainly wondering at the true purpose.

"No! No, my lady! This is far more than a mere combat droid or robot," smiled George, warming to his topic. "What you have here is robotic power armor. Captain! If you'd care to demonstrate?"

Clone Captain Viper nodded, handed his blaster rifle and helmet to a nearby trooper, and walked over to the Croesus. Dr. Jojjurden pressed a series of buttons and the 'robot' clacked open, like the shell of some crustacean. With a few simple instructions from George, the captain stepped into the armor, tucking his arms into their receiving slots. Once the suit detected that all limbs had been stowed correctly, it slammed shut and sealed itself. A low thrumming sound was heard as the suits power supply switched on to full. Captain Viper turned and stepped towards the group out of the frame to present himself.

Thrawn stepped forward and inspected it, walking around Viper and prodding here or there.

"How's the armor on it?" asked Thrawn. "Weaponry? Powerplant? Capabilities?"

"The armor is capable of handling even the deadliest of munitions -- though it can only take so much," answered Jojjurden. "It's a new light form of metal, over ten times the tensile strength and durability of steel -- but suffers from a few side effects. It cannot handle plasma based firepower easily. To compensate for that, each hand has a palm-imbedded light shield, capable of being used at the user's discretion -- though only for a few short seconds at a time. Otherwise you'd overload its battery power. It's powerplant and battery is capable of keeping it running for ten hours straight -- and capable of recharging the energy created by the wearer's movement, much like the EMCAP armor plate that Bren here has been working on."

Brennic threw him a dirty look.

"On each shoulder it mounts two different weapon options, either a flachette launcher or grenade launcher. The arms have imbedded vibro-blades capable of cutting through most targets. It's helmet has a small anti-personnel twin-linked gun with smart-aiming system -- wherever the wearer looks, so shoots the gun. The armor itself allows a user to make short rocket-jumps, capable of boosting a man over fifty meters high and two hundred meters far. Strength and speed are increased, naturally, which allows the user to wield larger pieces of hand armament than a normal Storm Trooper would usually be able to carry in normal armor."

"I'm impressed," murmured Thrawn. "Captain Viper, how's the HUD and mobility feel to you?"

"Almost the same as the HUD of my Mk. III helmet, sir. Although, this seems to have a much more advance target acquisition capability. It helps to guide my aim and the computer AI has a library's worth of information on combat gear, armor, weaponry, etc," replied Viper. "The mobility...feels a bit stilted, not as lithe as I might be were I outside the armor -- but definitely faster."

"Very good," said Thrawn, allowing a small smile. "I want this in full production as quickly as possible. We won't be able to afford to give this to each and every Thrashian soldier obviously, but in small squads as heavy support...yes, this should do nicely."

"I'm so pleased to hear you say so, sir," nodded George Jojjurden. The little man helped Viper get out of the Croesus armor. "Now, let me show you my real prize!"


The small hobbit of a man practically skipped over to the other sheet-covered area and opened it. Dheinalia gasped and had to momentarily avert her eyes, such was the bright glare that erupted off of what was inside. Thrawn stepped forward, red eyes glowing bright and widening in momentary awe. It stood at four meters in height. A construct frame that and guide wire cat-walk surrounded it, allowing anyone to climb eye-to-eye with it and to work around it.

"Perseus!" squealed Jojjurden. The small mad-man of a scientist and engineer started on tirade about his creation.

"The Perseus armor is made from a laser resistant chrome on the outside of the robotic power armor. Its armor is extremely light reflective and glitters in a dazzling array of light and color unless painted over for camo-reflective paint -- that comes later. The Perseus stands about ten feet (3 meters) tall and is the most heavily armored and reliable robotic power armor in the Empire!

"It is also a complete environmental suit that filters impurities from the air and will automatically switch to its own oxygen supply (five hours) if the outside air is toxic or within outer space. All standards units will feature the aptly named "Boom Gun," a powerful rail gun that hurls up to two-hundred projectiles simultaneously at 5,444.64 m/s. The weapon is attached to a swivel unit on the right shoulder and is stored, locked into place, behind the shoulder. Perseus armor can be used by any trained pilot comfortable with piloted power armor like the Croesus. However, its a specially designed cerebral-impulse-unit (CIU) that allows a pilot to become one with the machine."

Thrawn stepped forward and placed his hand against the cold, chrome armor. "Secondary weaponry?"

"Anti-personnel grenade launcher mounted in the left shoulder. Advanced HUD T&A system allows the Boom Gun to target anything from a star cruiser to the wings on a fly's back. If munitions are depleted, it has fore-arm mounted light-saber blades, generated to allow a two-meter length blade and one meter wide. Had to work out the crystal alignment for that little treat."

"Defenses?"

"Armored practically as well as a Star Destroyer. The shiny coat of chromatic ablative armor allows it to disperse energy weapon. It has magnetic shielding that runs passive unless brought to full power, allows it to defend against projectile, HE, plasmic, gravitic, or any other form of weaponized energy."



Dheinalia watched as her husband circled the towering machine of war admiringly. It wouldn't do to be jealous of a hunk of metal, but that didn't mean she didn't feel a smidgen of hatred for that shiny looking toy. Men and their toys, she thought. Captain Viper, standing at her side, suddenly stiffened. The faint murmur of a comlink was heard and Viper nodded. The captain rushed up to Thrawn and spoke into his ear.

Thrawn's expression turned to stone and his jawline set.

"What is it?" Dheinalia asked.

"There has been an insurrection on Bastion," said Thrawn. The words shocked the room. Even Dr. Jojjurden froze.

"On Bastion? Impossible! My father would--," Dheinalia began.

"Your father has gone missing," interrupted Thrawn. "Most likely captured in fact. Captain Viper, see to it that my ship is made ready to leave ASAP. Dr. Jojjurden, you are to immediately transport this proto-type to my ship and yourself along with it. Any instruction manuals you may have yet written, bring them along too."

Men started moving.

"Dr. Brennic, please come with me to the main offices. Captain Viper, see to it your men lead my wife back to our ship and to the bridge on it. Post a guard as well," ordered Thrawn.

Dheinalia saw the look in her husband's eyes and knew now was not the time to argue or ask further questions. Actions spoke louder than words. She nodded and turned on her heal, two storm troopers escorting her.

Thrawn turned to Viper. "Send out a message to Admiral Daala. She is to destroy them if she can before we get there."

"Aye, sir."

[The WIck]

CNS-Hawkbat
Commonwealth Grendel class Armored Cruiser
Six hours from Bastion space

He walked along the corridors. None of the spacers he passed saluted him or even gave the tall and lanky man a second thought. They saw what he wanted them too. A rather tall if unimpressive man walking the ships corridors wearing a weathered looking grey cloak and his face had a couple days worth of stubble that he hadn't shaved off. Which lead many to disqualify him from being in the military. Probably just some civilian contractor along with the Hawkbat for some reason or another as she escorted three freighters to Bastion on their normal run. He had another mission one given to him by an important source in the Confederation Government about looking around the system for any hints of what the blue bastard was up to. Naval Intelligence (NAVINT) knew that bastions was preparing for something just not what or how. He would be infiltrating onto the planet to set up an underground cell. Just the sort of shady business the Wardens have been up to as of late.

Then something twisted deep inside his stomach. It was painful as if he was being stabbed, and for half a minute he could not draw a breath. He put his right hand out grabbing the railing on the nearest corridor for support.

A passing spacer in her green and gray naval skin-suit saw him stumble and asked concerned as she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Sir, are you ok? Do you need any help?"

"I-I've felt a great disturbance in the force."

"A disturbance? What do you mean sir?" She replied her left eyebrow arched as she understood that by his words this unseeming man was actually a Jedi.

"It was as if millions of voices shouted out in pain before dying a sudden and painful death."

"You can feel such things? The Force gives you that kind of omnipresence?"

He stood now feeling better, looking the young crew woman over. She had olive skin, high cheekbones, short cropped hair with shaved sides favored by spacers due to the constrains of their helmets and her shapely figured was hugged flatteringly by her navy skin-suit. He could see by her ranking insignia that she was a chief petty officer, and her specialty was Electronic Warfare, so she would be quite smart to he knew.

He laughed then told her,

"No, of course not. It just something I would tell a beautiful woman instead of explaining that I had a stomach cramp from too much Mon Calamari food last night."

The woman blushed slightly at the compliment before extending her hand and giving her name,

"CPO Vanessa Givens, pleasure to meet you."

He took her hand,

"Christopher Herrick-Agathon." He made a show of checking his watch, "It is near lunch time, would you like to go get some with me?"

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

IFS-Muriel
International Fleet Battle Cruiser- Nova Class, Hapes Consortium Detachment
En-route with the Confederacy Vessel CNS-Hawkbat; Six hours outside of Bastion Space

Alana stood for hours staring out of the window, her eyes still adjusting to the darkness of space. It felt cold, empty to the young woman, as she stared out into the black sea, with only a few points of light. It was in stark contrast to what she had known on Hapes. The seven moons never allowed the night to be much darker than the day. Even in training above Kavan, the Transitory Mists shimmered in a pale blue and green light, giving her the illusion that even in space she was on the open sea. Space above Hapes was never dark.

It didn't give the young witch much to hope for on this mission. She looked down at herself, as she turned in the small room afforded to her by the Captain of the ship. Simple brown pants, with a Pistol at right her side, and two silver and gold ornate hilts hanging off her left side. The larger of the cylinders was a recoiled long whip, with small shards of purple crystals embedded in it. The other, a short light saber, used for parry, and defense. Allana felt silly with the weapons, it was rare that she ever needed them in the Hapes Consortium.

A hiss of her door opening grabbed her attention. Turning her head to the left, she noticed a tall slender woman walking in. Her uniform was a form fitting light blue. Allana had no clue who this woman was then again there were very few on this ship she did know.

“Miss Djo.” the woman stood, carrying a small tablet under her arm. The young woman turned towards her intruder. “May I help you?” she asked. The slender pale skinned woman reached forward with the tablet in her hand. Allana looked down and took the tablet from the messenger’s hand. “Thank you Specialist….” she paused.

“Specialist Francis Breen, Ma’am.” Allana pressed her thumb on the ansible tablet. “Thank you.” the witch replied. She never bothered to look up as the door hissed.

A screen appeared, with a simple title.

Operation Code Blue Balls Breaker.

Hapian Detachment to work with Confederacy Assets in the area to locate and secure objectives.
Mission Assessment: You are assigned to JedI Master Christopher Agathon. You are to observe, and learn from the Master. Follow his commands as if they were my own.

Allana sighed as she turned towards the window. “JedI?” She thought to herself. “What in the worlds was Command thinking? The JedI weren't trust worthy. They are nothing more than a bunch of baby stealing, egomaniacs who thought the galaxy should revolve around their particular dogma, which conveniently enough placed them at the top of the pyramid.” Allana looked out into the bleak stars around Bastion. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Gently she placed the tablet on the clear plastic table, that was two feet from her cramped bed. She sat in the hard bed, as she kicked her feet under the covers. Reaching back to her tablet, she opened up the tablet.

“Search: Christopher Herrick-Agathon, JedI Master.” she waited a second for the information from the ansible to come into the screen.

Her eyes opened wide, as the information began to crawl across the screen. “Son of Herzer Herrick, and Hera Agathon, has two known Sisters, Ada Agathon and Eve Agathon.” Allana knew the latter name well, Eve was the current Empress of the Huntarian Empire, and Herzer was a great warrior from Miranda, who was a great leader agains the Coredian and Sith threats of the galaxy. Hera was a name that she wasn't familiar with, but if she was to follow this Christopher, then Allana wanted to know everything there was to know about the man who she was assigned to on this mission. Allana was curious about who raised Christopher, how he grew up. Each bit of information would help her to know the man who was to lead her in this cause, and to help her anticipate what he would think and train.

She touched the screen and clicked on his mother, Hera. To her surprise a wealth of information came on the screen. “Hera, also known as Darth Sunshine, a name she choose for herself to mock the renaming of the Sith Lords. Last apprentice to Darth Sidious, killed her master on Kessel. Started the New Sith Order with Darth Atrox and Darth Twilight, then mysteriously died. Her remains are buried on Miranda.”

Allana went through the various documents about Christopher’s mother and discovered that she hated the force, for how it toyed with people’s lives, and didn’t give them the freedom to choose what they wanted in life. It was a silly notion that a Sith could hate the force like that, after all weren't the Sith about power and strength? Didn't they relish in the power that the force gave them?

How did a Sith lord come to meet up with a Jedi Master such as Herrick, and have three children with him? That part she couldn’t find much information on. It wasn’t too surprising to her though, as Miranda was a world famed for a strange field that blocked electronics.

Reaching back, she shifted gently against her pillow, trying to get a little more comfortable as she studied her subject. Herrick was a great warrior from Miranda, although again she couldn't seem to access too much information on his father. All that she could tell from the ansible was that he lived on the same planet, Miranda.

Herzer must have grown up there, although why he did, and Eve went to Huntaria was a mystery to her. The Huntarian’s kept few records on the subject, other than Hera assassinated Lord Vorman, the Sith lord in charge of Huntaria, and took his mantle as leader of the Empire as her own. Allana couldn't help but to admire Christopher’s mother in this. She seemed to play the political game much like a Hapian.

She then with a few clicks of her hand looked up Christopher himself. With people like this in his past, maybe he wasn't so bad? Maybe he wasn't going to be like the pompous Jedi of Coruscant, or worse the child rapers of Coredia. She clicked on his name, and saw an image of his face. His face was hardened, as she expected from many years of living on Miranda, however all the time of his life on that world was absent again.

Allana was starting to get frustrated with that world. It seemed at every impasse in her study, that world blocked what could be crucial information. She put her fingers to the tablet and studied his face.

A knock at the door broke her concentration. She turned to the door, “You may enter.”

An older woman with gray hair stood at the door. Three striped on her uniform gave away her rank was a staff sergeant, but who she was, Allana didn't have much of a clue. “May I help you?” she asked.

“It’s time.” she said in a voice that gave away years of hardship, and a coldness that came from seeing too many battles in her time. “Stow your gear, we’re getting close to Bastion.”

Allana nodded, as she took one last look at Christopher’s face. “Looks like I’ll get to know you soon enough.”

[Thrashia]

New Coruscant City

The battle continued to rage into the evening. Insurrectionist mobs pushed out from the central residencies and began to filter into the industrialized zones. It was there that they met the first serious resistance since the failure of the Provost Marshals attempt to contain them to the Old City quarter. Actual Imperial Army units, organized previously by General Veers' orders, had been moved into position and prepared to follow through with anything that might happen. Naturally of course, things had been going wrong all day -- including the sudden silence and lack of response to communications from Central Headquarters. Local commanders were forced to improvise and communicate with their respective neighbors to find solutions to problems as they arose. Against this sudden obstacle, the cultist leaders of the mobs began to beseech their dark masters for aid.


A clone sergeant stuck a fresh ammunition clip into his blaster rifle and checked along the line to make sure that his men were doing likewise. Strung out along a roadblock constructed from plastic barrels filled with sand and topped by barbed wire there were about twenty clonetroopers. Bodies of dead insurrectionists hung in the wire and covered the ground from the edge of the barrier all the way forwards to the next block. The enemy had made three successive charges throughout the day, each one harder to press back than the last.

"Don't mean to be the bearer of bad news Sarge, but I've only got two clips left," one trooper said over the platoon comm channel. "And the E-Web is down to one battery pack. If they come in harder than last time, we're hosed."

Which they probably will, thought the Sergeant. "Thank you for reminding me of our ammunition problem Sickles, now stop jabbering and focus on your front. We'll worry about ammo when we have to really worry about it."

"No need to be so prickly about it Sarge. I was just--." With a loud report and boom, a gun like none they'd heard that morning sounded out. Trooper Sickles' armored head exploded and his body was thrown back, twitching to the pavement.

"Contact front!" shouted another trooper. "I count ten, moving up."

"How the hell would their slug throwers have that kind of range or power?" cursed the Sergeant, ducking down lower into cover and bringing his rifle to bear. Several more booms sounded out, but only one other trooper fell dead.

"Suppressive fire!" ordered the Sergeant. The line erupted into a blaze of laser bolts. It wasn't a matter of hitting anything, more than simply obstructing the enemy's advance - those hazy figures in the distance - and forcing their aim off.

One of the Scout Troopers attached to the platoon brought up his binocs and tried to get a better idea of what was coming towards them. The dust and haze was being parted by the buzzing, heated passage of laser rifle fire - allowing him a clear look at the enemy. They were monstrous in size and looked like they were walking tanks. Each hulking figure wore thick plated armor that seemed impervious to any firepower that actually hit their targets. Large tusks drooped from helmeted heads that shone with energized power - the lenses of their eyes flashing in the artificial light of the laser bolts. It was enough to make the trooper cringe.

"Fire ineffective, sir!" the scout roared over the comm. "I repeat, fire ineffective!"

"What!? Nothing?"

"No sir! They're walking through this crap like it was a summer rain shower."

The sergeant snapped his head around. "E-Web! Open up at 200 meters! Missile launchers, on me!"

The platoon continued to put out a high rate of fire and occasionally even hit their target at long to medium range -- but thus far not a single of the approaching enemy had fallen. Two troopers prepped the last battery pack on their large squad support weapon, the E-web. It was a weapon designed for slicing through men and vehicle alike. Two other troopers with shoulder mounted PLX-1 portable missile launchers moved over by the Sergeant.

"220 meters..."

"I want your proton missiles armed and ready. After we hit them with the E-web, I want you to be over the edge and firing."

"210 meters..."

"Just aim for the foremost and worry about the rest later. Work your way down the line."

The E-web opened fire without the gunner needing to call out the 200 meter mark. The foremost armored enemy took the full brunt of the E-web's initial blast and seemed to stagger. For a moment. The next it was moving again, trudging forward as if it had a grudge against dying. The gunner cursed in Mando'a and fired again. The second time was the charm. Whatever initial resistance the armor had given its user obviously wasn't prepared for a second blast and it was scythed down, upper torso burned away by the E-web's laser.

The next second after the first enemy was down both PLX-1 armed troopers jumped up, aimed, and fired off a salvo of missiles. The proton missiles landed amid the group and carved new craters into the street. Another armored figure took a missile straight to the chest and disappeared into a haze of blood and molten metal. The clonetroopers however were not having it all their own way.

Bolter fire continued to rain down from the approaching, implacable enemy. Large brutish looking guns spat out bursts of high-speed micro-missile explosive bolts. Clonetrooper armor had been designed primarily to defend against laser weaponry, with slug thrower rounds thought to be inferior and therefore less of a threat. With a mental curse at the hubris of such manufacturers and military arms procurers, the Sergeant dragged another headless troopers body down from the sand-barrel wall. Seven more troopers were down since Sickles had lost his head.

The sergeant was about to order another round of missile fire when he noticed that the E-web was no longer firing. He turned to find that its gunner and operator were both dead. He jumped up and grabbed the handles to the weapon, swinging it back up and firing. Using his comm, he spoke to the rest of his platoon. "All troopers, fall back to the next barricade. I'll give covering fire. Fall back and make contact with the 32nd!"

Obeying even though most would have gladly remained behind, the remaining eleven troopers fired off a last deluge of fire and then hoofed it backwards. They moved in a crouching run, not allowing their enemies a clean shot of their backs. They needn't have worried too much, since their Sergeant was adequately distracting them by slicing down a third armored hulk.

"Come on damn you! What are you, fugging super dreadnoughts or something? Die already!"

When the Chaos Space Marine terminators reached the barricade wall, one of them casually slammed his power fist into the center of it and blasted it out of the way with a compressed burst of kinetic energy. The headless body of the clone sergeant was crushed beneath their heavy ceramite boots.

* _ * _ * _ * _ *

When you study war it's all so clear. Everybody knows all the movements. General So and So should have done such and such. Goddess knows we all try. We none of us lose battles on purpose. But now, on this field, what can we do that's undone? The thought troubled Colonel Ben Chamberlain, strained it even. His 32nd Armored Regiment had been pushing around the Industrial Zones for the better part of seven hours, fighting a different action almost every half hour, on the hour.

Without direction from higher authorities, Chamberlain had been forced to improvise his own strategy. He knew the general deployment of all Army and Clone units within the Seventh Commercia District - and had directed his efforts to them. His companies, filled with hover tanks, AT-PTs, AT-STs, and a few AT-ATs had ranged from hot spot to hot spot like some sort of fire brigade putting out blazes wherever they could. He'd been forced to relieve his crewers no less than twice -- bringing up reserve crews to replace those men that needed much needed rest. Against the advice of his adjutant, Chamberlain had stayed in his post the entire time.

"Captain Norfolk reports that the 12th Clone Regiment has been routed in sector seven," an aide reported. "Troopers report that heavily armored Chaos Space Marines have been spotted. Based on intelligence reports and our archives files we believe them to be known as 'Terminators' and are designed as heavy anti-infantry and anti-tank units."

Chamberlain did a mental check on the map of the industrial zone that they were in. "We're the closest to aid that particular part of the line," said Chamberlain, looking over his shoulder to where the hologram table was. "Bring up the best route on the table. Move us in that direction and have 2nd Company accompany us. We're going to plug this hole. We hold them. Just like we've been doing all day."

"Of course, Colonel." The aide nodded.

* _ * _ * _ * _ *

Kol Badar was the Coryphaus. It was a symbolic title, granted to the most trusted and capable warrior leader and strategos of the Host. His word was second only to that of the Dark Apostle. The Coryphaus was the Dark Apostle’s senior war captain, but more than this, he was the voice of the congregation. The mood and opinion of the Host was delivered to the Dark Apostle through him, and it was his duty to lead the chanted responses and antiphons from the gathered Host in ceremonies and rituals. It was also his role to lead the responses within the true house of worship of the dark gods: the battlefield.

He strode through the wrecked and pitiful barrier that had been stopping his cultist forces all day with contempt. The pathetic fleshbags couldn't even take a simple position such as this -- it was a miracle of the dark gods themselves that the rabble had accomplished as much as it had already. Though Kol Badar knew that most of that had been executed according to his own planning and design. Dark Apostle Ardentane had made it clear that Kol Badar would lead the Host in a triumphant victory and to keep any from interfering with the ritual taking place within the city. Even here, miles from the city center, Kol Badar could feel the sickening slickness on his skin of warp magick and power.

The Anointed, the warrior-cult of the most favoured warriors within the Host, stood in neat ranks surrounding the blasted entrance of a nearby industrial complex, their heads bowed before the Coryphaus, and Kol Badar approached them. The Anointed looked like statues, utterly still and wearing their fully enclosed, ancient suits of Terminator armour. Each suit was a relic of holy significance, and to don the armour was a great religious honour.

Once a warrior-brother entered the ranks of the Anointed, he was a member for life, and with lifespans extended indefinitely through a combination of their Astartes conditioning, bio-enhancement and the warping power of the gods of the Ether, the Anointed were only replaced on the rare occasion that one of their cult fell in battle. Many of them had fought alongside Kol Badar and their holy Daemon Primarch Lorgar at the great siege of the False Emperor’s palace, and he knew of no finer fighting force. Unsurpassed warriors with the hearts of true fanatics, the cult of the Anointed had won countless battles for the Legion. Their glories were sung in the flesh-halls within the temples of Sicarus, and their deeds recounted in the grimoire historicals housed in the finest scriptorums of Ghalmek.

Kol Badar stalked through the ranks of the elite warriors to where a cultist agitator, wearing a primitive look-a-like of a priest's robes covered in blood, stood shaking in fear. The maggot had been the one to request help from the Word Bearers in attacking this position. It was only because Kol Badar was bored and had been in the vicinity that he'd responded to the message for aid at all. That and because he had collated reports of a better-than-average defense being effected against the cultists in this area.

"We've cleared the enemy out," Kol Badar said, his voice booming from his helmet vox like the sound of a sledgehammer striking steel. "Now you and your pathetic miscreants may continue the advance."

"M-M-My lord! I thank you in Lorgar's name and supplicate --."

Kol Badar's power fist came up, gripped the agitator by the head, and raised him screaming into the air so that he was eye-to-eye with Kol Badar's helmet. "Do not speak that holy name again, worm, or else I shall kill you and have a daemon feast upon your soul for daring to utter it."

"Y-Yes, dread Lord!" the man whimpered.

The man's lower robe suddenly became darker than the rest. The man had pissed his robes in fear. Sickened by such obvious fear Kol Badar mentally brought his power fist's energy online. He watched in amusement as the current of etheric energy coursed around the ceramite glove and began to slowly cook the agitator's head. The man screamed, clawed at Kol Badar's arm, and flailed about. After a moments enjoyment the sport quickly became boring and Kol Badar simply closed his hand into a fist - crushing the agitator's head into a pulp.

Kol Badar turned to one of his senior lieutenants. "Take your squad and lead the rabble the rest of the way into the heart of the district. I want this place taken by sunrise."

"By your Word, lord." The Terminator sergeant bowed his head and led another four Terminator Dreadnoughts away to a waiting gaggle of frenzied cultists. Exhorting them with threats and the names of the Dark Pantheon, the cultists pushed further into the district. Kol Badar had already turned away and began marching back to his command post. He had the rest of a world to conquer.

There was a sudden booming blast. It erupted like thunder and caused the ground to vibrate with its intensity. Kol Badar turned to see a giant mechanical leg appear from around a corner of the road, a sky scraper blocking the line of sight, and come crashing down like the almighty step of an angry god. Kol Badar's sergeant and two of his fellow Anointed Terminator elite were crushed into the road.

A four-legged mechanical monstrosity, looking like a camel from ancient Terran myth, came around the corner -- it's head jutted out with massive weaponry.

Kol Badar looked on with trepidation and excitement. "A faux Titan...interesting."

[Thrashia]

New Coruscant City | Central Habitation Zone

The air was charged with energy. Eight hundred robbed acolytes were kneeling in supplication, surrounding the central plaza park that was in the middle of four towering habitation skyscrapers. The background noise of continuing fighting between the crazed insurrectionists and surviving Thrashian forces was overlapped by the rising chants of the acolytes. The language was one that had never been heard before in this universe, causing the uninitiated to fall to the ground in pain with bleeding ears.

In the center of the plaza what had once been a beautiful mosaic of bright colors was gone. Eight cairns, gargantuan stones of black basalt rock, had been raised in a concentric circle. Around this the acolytes bowed and scraped, chanting as they had been directed. Within the circle of stones, each marked with a mysterious symbol that burned the eyes to look upon. Ardentane finished painting the last blood upon the ground. The Word Bearer had spent the better part of a week preparing the sacrificial stones, carving them himself in the most intricate detail. He gave a satisfied grunt as he finished the last flick of the paint brush.

The figure bound and tied to a raised plinth in the center of the basalt circle began to stir and Ardentane looked down with expectant pleasure. It had been all so easy, infiltrating the Regent’s home and workforce. Ardentane’s followers, traitors within the Regent’s staff, had delivered the man straight into Ardentane’s hands.

“Are you awake now, Regent Kaine?” asked Ardentane.

“W-What’s going on here?” demanded Ardus Kaine, coming out of his unconsciousness as if a fog was slowly lifting. “Who are you?”

“I am the instrument of a grand design,” said Ardentane. “I would happily deliver a soliloquy on the righteous glory that is the Pantheon of the Chaos Gods, but I am afraid we’re running out of time. Besides which, most sacrifices never live long enough to care about the content of such sermons until their souls are in the Warp.”

“Chaos? Are you a Chronosian? To think that Remiel would stoop to such --.”

Ardentane laughed uproariously. “No, no my good Regent! You’ve got it all wrong. I’ve looked into your historical records regarding this ‘Chronosian Empire’ and its Emperor Remiel. He might be a pale comparison to true Adeptus Astartes warriors such as myself, but he is not the architect of your current dilemma.”

“Then…just what are you?”

“The harbinger of doom. This galaxy of yours is ripe for the exaltation that shall reign, a glorious expanse that has never before known the true hand of Chaos. How pleased, do you think, will the Gods be once I deliver them not just a few million paltry souls from this backwards world – but an entire universe! A universe that has no experience in fighting against what should simply be accepted.”

“We’ll never submit to you or your gods,” spat Kaine, vainly struggling against is binding. “You might hit us hard and cause great injury, but the Empire always strikes back.”

Ardentane simply chuckled in reply.


Outer Bastion System | Lagrange Point | Imperial Fleet Muster


The twelve kilometer long shadow of the Gorgon Reborn cut a dangerous figure in the backlight of the system. Its running lights defined its darkened hull, giving it its jagged arrow shape that was the hallmark of Imperial capitol ship design. It was a leviathan of metal, shaped and formed to be the largest and most dangerous capitol dreadnought in the Imperial Navy – and thus far sat in space impotent.

“Tell me again, Commander Kratas, why it is that I am not talking with General Veers?” Admiral Natasi Daala gritted out between her clenched teeth. Daala was a tall woman and her form fitting uniform did nothing to disguise the her gender – a fact that any crewman willing to lose his career over mentioning was well defined. Due to her vaunted rank as an Admiral in the Imperial Navy, she was allowed certain pleasantries that the common officers and crewers aboard the Gorgon Reborn weren’t. She had long copper-red hair that flowed over one shoulder in a well pleated pony tail. Her adjutant, Kratas, had seen her jerk that pony tail in frustration on more than one occasion.

“We’ve received some of the initial reports from the Zoaster. Captain Finies Norell’s ship happened to be in close vicinity to our long ranges communications node when it was destroyed.”

“Destroyed? How?”

“Captain Norell reports that it was an internal explosion – likely sabotage from the insurrectionists,” reported Kratas, using a stylus to run through the report he was reading on his datapad.

Daala muttered a particularly vile and brow-arching curse. Kratas was rather shocked that she knew that particular insult, seeing as how it involved certain specialty equipment, farm animals, and someone’s close relative.

“Has my command group finished gathering?” asked Daala. “I want to be in orbit over Bastion in the next hour.”

“We’ve currently got five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, two Allegiance-class Star Destroyers, and three squadrons of Fast Action Response Cruisers,” Kratas consulted his technical redoubts at his captain’s station, where he usually commanded the Gorgon Reborn in battle from. “We’re missing a few others – most likely due to the communications blackout. We’re lucky enough that we received a message from Grand Admiral Thrawn when we did.”

“And he was explicit. We’re to take this matter into our own hands and deal with it with impunity,” said Daala, staring out into the blackness of space towards the distant planet Bastion. She had had the Helm orientate the ship in that direction so she could look out at it. To think that one of the most secure and well-defended worlds in the Empire was her soon to be objective. But then Bastion had always been a fortress built to defend from attackers outside – never from attackers inside. The thought was a galling one.

“Order all ships to make ready for a micro-hyper jump. We’re going to join those ships already in orbit and currently supporting the ground troops in suppressing this unrest,” ordered Daala. “Send a message to Vice Admiral Dorja to coordinate any other forces that arrive in system. He is to wait here at the rally point for Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

“Yes, my Admiral.”


New Coruscant City, Bastion | Industrial Commercia Zones


Colonel Ben Chamberlain’s personal All Terrain Armored Transport came around the corner of another factory. His driver, Ensign Malkem, grinned savagely as he skillfully maneuvered the AT-AT into such a position that their large foot came down, crushing enemy soldiers beneath their tremendous waste. The other driver had the turret-like head of the AT-AT turn and Chamberlain looked through his scopes expectantly.

The street where the clonetroopers had been forced to retreat from was covered in dead bodies and rubble. But, further back, there was a small congregation of armored Chaos Space Marines – Chamberlain noted that they were wearing the heavier armored version of their power armor. “Gunners, fire at will.”

The chin-mounted heavy laser cannon and repeater blasters swiveled about and opened fire. Several targets evaporated under the barrage, whilst others weathered it as a strange, shimmering shield seemed to appear over them and defend against the powerful energy blasts hitting them. Behind the armored warriors came a horde of insurrectionists. Chamberlain counted several hundred at least, with it likely that they had other support further back.

A pair of AT-STs appeared around the corner in support of Colonel Chamberlain’s AT-AT, their chin laser cannons sputtering death at the enemy. Things, however, were not going all their way. The Chaos Terminators had spread out and were advancing. Several of them mounted heavy weaponry on their arms and began giving return fire.

A heavy autocannon stitched out a stuttering path of fire and forced an AT-ST to change course, not giving the enemy a chance to hit it in a vulnerable spot. The armor of the AT-ST was holding under the barrage well enough, but Chamberlain knew from experience that AT-ST pilots avoided too much direct fire, due to the nature of their viewports which were more exposed and less armored than most other Imperial Walkers.

“Driver, come about twelve forty-degrees and step back to point delta-five. We’ll give ourselves some range from these bastards and give them another dose of heavy cannon fire,” ordered Chamberlain. His crew responded with alacrity, all veterans and hand-picked by Chamberlain himself.

The AT-STs were picking off swathes of the unarmored insurrectionist forces, but of the Chaos Terminators only one more had been felled. Their shield technology was more impressive than Chamberlain gave them credit for. One of his AT-STs was slowly being surrounded.

“Order Lieutenant Barnes to--.”

Too late, a Chaos Terminator got within a dozen meters and unleashed an eye-watering beam of thermal energy. The blast hit the armored front of the AT-ST which only managed to resist for a fraction of a second before the white-hot beam cut through it like was made of butter instead of alloyed steel. The blast hit the engine battery and exploded. The AT-ST was left a wreck, a headless chicken on legs.

“Goram it!” Chamberlain slammed his fist down onto his station. “Order Lieutenant Cant to fall back now, and see gunners are to target that thermal weapon user. We don’t want that bastard getting close to us.”

Two missiles launched from a Chaos Terminator that mounted some sort of shoulder device and sped straight at the head of the AT-AT. Chamberlain had time to yell out a single order. “Brace for impact!” The blasts rocked the AT-AT and two of the deck crewers fell to the floor.

The smoke cleared and Chamberlain checked his readouts. The armor had held. He looked around his command cabin and saw his men shaking themselves back into action. “Report!” ordered Chamberlain.

“Main cannons are operational, no damage,” replied First Gunner Gunther.

“Repeater Cannon Alpha is destroyed. Repeater Cannon Beta damaged but still responsive to control,” replied Second Gunner Xander.

“Sensors operational, but we’ve lost our long-range comms. Must have taken out the receiver on the top,” said Sensor Tech Marshal.

“Alright then, let’s move back further to position fox-nine. That’ll give us a kilometer or more of range along this street,” ordered Chamberlain. “Lieutenant Cant and his AT-ST is to provide covering fire. Send a Scout messenger to get in contact with Captain Brogues and tell him I need his Kathel tanks up front and center now.”

“Yes, sir!” his crew chorused back.

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

IFS-Muriel
International Fleet Battle Cruiser - Nova Class, Hapian Detachment
En-Route with Confederacy Vessel CNS-Hawkbat; 5 hours outside of Bastion

Moving through the hallway of a Nova Class battle cruiser was always somewhat tricky, especially to the young witch who had never served on one before. Moving past the people moving to and from where their stations were, she moved and pushed past who ever she needed to. The ship was 400 Meters long, 100 of those meters was simply engines, and discounting the operational structure of the Cruiser, left very little room for the Women and men who served on board the vessel.

She came to the ready room, and slid her key card down allowing her access to the briefing. Around her were a small team, her insertion team onto Bastion. The mission as she knew it was rather short, and lacked detail. Go down and set up Human resources to aid the Consortium in intelligence gathering, as well as aide the Confederacy in their mission to set up their own cells.

As she entered though, the room was still. A squad of fourteen stood still, and the commander was as silent as a grave. She gave it no mind til she turned towards a floating holographic representation of Bastion.

A small window pulled into the air a zoomed in image of the city. The city was on fire, clone troopers were shooting towards some enemy that she vaguely recalled from ancient history texts, the Chronosians.

Allana went towards one of the leather seats usually reserved for the cushy drone pilots, or fighter pilots as she watched the image of giant Neanderthals in thick armor breaking the clone troopers apart. Then one of the sky scrappers fell, and a large giant robot appeared on the screen.

“I take it the mission is scuttled?” one of the younger men on the squad asked.

The older commander put his hand to his chin as he watched the image. “I can’t say, son.” he said quietly as E-web blasts struggled to take down a single chaos trooper. “It’s not our call on this mission, that’s up to the Confederacy.”

“What about the Bastion fleet?” Allana asked, bringing up a point so far left unknown. “I thought Bastion was supposed to have a grand fleet, but looking at this image, I don’t see any sign of the Great Thrawn or his Fleet.”

The Commander turned towards the Witch. “Can’t you divine it, or do you Dathomiri overstated? I do not know what Thrawn has done with his fleet, or why Bastion seems so under protected that an enemy could land such a force in New Coruscant City. We’re blind now people, and I really hate being blind.”

“So the mission?” A young woman asked.

“Not up to me, up to the Confederacy. Til we get orders, we’re just going to watch.”

[Thrashia]

Ceremony Site | New Coruscant City, Bastion

Colchisian was a language that had never before been uttered in this universe. The words caused the air to snap, twist, and even bend – visible before the naked eye like some twisted vision of a narcotics user. Dark Apostle Ardentane stood upon a lectern formed from four kneeling cultists who held up a giant tome with artificially-enhanced muscled arms. The book itself was as large as a man’s chest and made from the dried flesh of fallen Loyalist Astartes from another universe. Its pages were covered in text that, for the uninitiated, would have been pure madness to even attempt to read. Ardentane read from the Book of Lorgar without stopping or hesitating upon a syllable.

The sky grew darkened and the moans and chanting of the eight hundred acolytes surrounding the basalt stones grew louder. Thunder roared and incandescent lightning the color of fire flashed. Ardentane turned a page and his voice gained a new level of strength. Behind the acolytes that mewled and shuddered to the pace of the oratory were ranks of Word Bearers, their armored forms bowed in supplication as they absorbed the majesty and power of their war Host leader. Laying upon the sacrificial alter in the center of the spectacle, Ardus Kaine felt a sickening agony begin to stretch over his skin. The words that the damned Dark Apostle was reading were bad enough, causing Kaine’s ears to begin bleeding, but as the clouds seemed to grow ebony in hue he could feel his skin begin to tighten and stretch in ways that no torturer could have ever imagined.

A red light began to emanate from the basalt stones. The carved runes and symbols glowed with an inner light, hateful to the eyes and scarring to the soul. Amber-red energy sloughed down along the stones to the ground following the etched lines that Ardentane had engraved there earlier with his own hand. From a birds-eye view, one could see a pattern begin to take shape from the etchings, going from concrete-grey to glowing-hot red. It was an eye, open and staring, shaped in the ancient ways – a symbol that had served as the heraldry of the worst traitor from another universe, and would be the namesake of a twin in this universe.

When the red light finally reached the center stone Ardus Kaine began to scream. The pure agony was crippling in its intensity. Even had he been standing, Kaine would have immediately fallen to the ground, his body twisting and jinking with sudden spurts of muscle spasms. The pain flowed up his arteries and along his bones like a molten river of lava. His eyes burned and his eyesight became blurry. He closed them in an attempt to block out the pain and discovered that he couldn’t open them again. His eyes were shut by the flesh melting together – the pain of which had not even been felt due to the other wracked areas of his body. Terrible groans left his blood-stained, cracked lips and terror began to grow ever worse.

Ardentane was nearing the end of his oratory. Eyes bright with anticipation and pure joy of serving the Pantheon, he stalked around his slave-podium and raised his fists into the air, voice rising even higher in volume. Like the hammering of a giant’s hammer upon an anvil, his words punched the air and the dark clouds above, causing them to broil even further.

A special knife, made from a material that was no longer in existence even in the universe where it had originally come from, was taken out of its sheath. Ardentane took his personal anathame, a gift from Lord Erebus himself millennia before, and raised it high above his bound sacrifice. With a final shout he plunged the anathame down and through the heart of Ardus Kaine.

Simultaneously with the thrust and death of Ardus Kaine, all eight hundred acolytes that had been surrounding the basalt rocks died as well. Their hearts exploded, blood spurting like geysers from mouths, eyes, and noses. A red-orange-yellow beam of light erupted from the ground and shot upwards into the stars.

The ceremony was complete.


Orbit over Bastion

Admiral Daala was angry. She had arrived with her personal Super Star Destroyer and over half of the Bastion defense fleet only to find that she was ultimately powerless. Ragged reports were coming in from the planet. Imperial Army officers, clonetrooper officers, or Intelligence cadre that managed to get ahold of long-ranged communications gear were all reporting wild sounding things. The descriptions of the deaths being perpetrated beneath her feet made Daala sick to her stomach. Twice already she had instinctively called for orbital bombardments of key enemy positions that a Colonel Chamberlain had identified for her, but unfortunately Commander Kratas had pointed out that that was impossible to carry out. A dark storm had coalesced over New Coruscant City that seemed to defy any sensors to break through. She had no idea of what was happening beneath that cloud cover – a fact that only made her more angry.

“Commander Kratas, are the troop transports finished loading?” asked Daala, turning away from her sensor screens for the fifth time in disgust.

“Yes, Admiral. We’ve begun disembarking the 9th Legion and its support units as of five minutes ago,” replied Kratas, consulting his data pad. “Should be finished in less than ten. I’ve ordered Clone-Marshal Sevriss to coordinate with Colonel Chamberlain on the ground – as he seems to be the current highest ranking officer active at the moment.”

“It’s a complete FUBAR situation,” muttered Daala, nodding at the details.

“I can’t say I disagree with you, Admiral,” Kratas said grimly.

Daala turned back to her readouts when a sudden alert came from the aft crew pit. “Admiral! We’re getting a sudden thermal spike in the center of the city – it’s…I don’t know what the hell it is but it’s coming right at us!”

Daala ran to the viewport and watched a large beam of red light erupting from the black cowl of clouds and come straight up past the atmosphere. It wasn’t a turbolaser blast or some form of weapon, Daala would have been warned if that were the case.

“What in the name of the Goddess is--?”

*=*=*=*=*

The beam bisected the Gorgon Reborn and continued for a few kilometers before finally reaching a certain position designated by its arch-designer. While it might not have been Ardentane’s original plan to destroy any Imperial Fleet units, he was well aware of what would happen to any ships in orbit near the epicenter of what his ceremony had spawned.

A scream echoed across space. The sheer impossibility of such a thing would have been enough to break the minds of lesser men, but any man or woman who had a comm device open at the moment of that scream died in sudden agony. For those that watched it was a nightmare of horror become real. The red-flame light had struck a certain place in space and then seemed to spread outwards. It was like watching a glass pane form fracture lines, only these were red upon the blackness of space behind. With a second wailing scream, the glass broke and reality shattered.

A widening gap, suddenly thirty-kilometers wide and getting larger, in reality opened. For those few souls who had the misfortune to look into that gap, what they saw was only the most pure of daemonic hells. A Star Destroyer that had not been close enough to be bisected by the gap in reality was dragged into the maw of that hell by a luminescent tentacle of maddeningly large proportions. Another frigate was gripped by a skeletal fist and crushed outright.

The Gorgon Reborn had a far worse fate. The Super Star Destroyer was cut in half by elemental forces heretofore unseen in their power. Molten fire spilled through its decks, immolating crew members. Horned beings with swords that burned alight with fire swarmed the hangars, killing all in their path. Things that were beautiful and horrific in equal measure, a great claw for one arm, swarmed the bridge. Commander Kratas was bisected by a trio of daemonettes. Admiral Daala was taken by an even larger, more powerful purple-fleshed daemon that dragged her away into the hell light of the beyond.

In a matter of a minute, the entire Imperial task force of five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, two Allegiance-class Star Destroyers, and three squadrons of Fast Action Response Cruisers that had gathered over the planet of Bastion were destroyed. In the wake of their destruction, ships of an all-too familiar design erupted into space using the warp rift as a convenient exit. Ships that were more cathedral in their architecture than most warships should be moved in to replace the Imperials in orbit, several dozen in number.

The warp rift rippled and a second beam of molten light shot outwards into space – leaving the Bastion system behind and going to where only Ardentane knew where.

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

Horrific and beautiful were the only words to describe the rip in reality, as the red beam split what was left of the Bastion fleet apart in what appeared to be seconds. Captain Kaline Mastaff crossed her arms, as she watched the second beam heading out into space, but that wasn’t her main focus. The widening gap in reality on the surface of Bastion with beautiful flames and horrific destruction was what was in her main view.

“Is this being transmitted?” she asked stunned at the sheer terror in front of her. The rest of the command staff was as still as a statue, frozen in terror. She turned to her crew, “Are we transmitting this?” she asked again.

The crew still didn’t move, watching Bastion, the heart of the Thrashian Empire being torn asunder before their eyes. Finally after a moment she walked towards the communications panel, and checked on the status. The ansible was transmitting to the Starways Congress, and more importantly to the Hapes Consortium. “Good” she thought as she turned back to the widing gulf in reality. “Whatever happens here, at least we can warn the human worlds.

There was little to be done now, since if Admiral Thrawn or any remnant of the Imperial government still stood, it wouldn’t be long now before it was destroyed. If not from the weird alien things, then the gulf would surely destroy what was left.

Captain Mastaff stood in front of the transparent Dura steel window, and reached forward and turned off the holographic representation of Bastion. The image flickering off broke the paralyzing horror in front of her bridge crew, semi bringing them back to reality.

“I know how you must feel. You’re scared. We haven’t seen destruction on this scale since the JedI Genocide of the Hapes Consortium, or the Thrakian War.” she told the crew. “Right now though, we are the only ones in the area that can warn the Consortium, the Starways Congress as a whole, and the Farstars Confederacy.”

The words and the distraction of the images caused her crew to turn back to their panels. “Lets be sure we can get as much information as possible. Somewhere in this mess may be the key to preventing such a phenomena from happening on Hapes.”

“What do you have on scanners?” the Captain asked, but the reply coming from her crew member didn’t give her much to be hopeful for. “It doesn’t make any sense.” the Specialist replied. “I’ve never seen anything like it, it is like the images are truly alien.” The Captain turned towards the missile control station. “Well then, we’ll leave this up to the eggheads back on Hapes and Corellia. I want you to launch twelve Nan satellites in deep orbit of the world, no closer than fifteen million kilometers from the surface. Then launch a series of deep system probes towards the fourth planet in the solar system. Once they arrive in the polar orbits, have them angle their camera’s towards Bastion.”

“Satellites and probes are ready, ma’am.” “Fire.”

The Muriel shifted as the missile tubes launched a series of missiles heading towards their destination. The first missile began to break apart as it approached the fifteen million kilometer mark, a small piece of the missile broke off. A small piece about 7 inches long, and six inches in thickness. The missile began to curve in a deep orbit of the world, every million kilometers, another part jettisoned off the missile, until it circumnavigated the globe, leaving only a spent rod with no fuel left in it to float freely in orbit, til gravity pulled it towards the world to burn up in the atmosphere.

The other two launched towards the northern and southern poles of the fourth planet in the Braxant Sector. Breaking apart in a similar fashion, the camera’s began to adjust towards Bastion.

“We’re going live.” the Specialist replied. “Ansible is active, we’re getting images.”

“What about communications?” she asked. “Are their any signals coming from the surface, or in deep space?”

“We can’t tell.” the communications specialist replied frustrated. “There is so much energy coming from Bastion, I couldn’t tell what is a signal, or what is just radiation at the moment. The energy from the maw is just overpowering any attempt to use scanners or pick out communications. We're not detecting anything unusual out in deep space either.”

“What about optical Cameras?”

“Aye, those still work.” Captain Mastiff nodded, “Well maybe some people far smarter than us back home will be able to pick up any signal, or time will break the energy down. Send a short ansible to the Hawkbat. Tell them that we’re heading home, mission is scrubbed.”

“Message is sent, ma’am.”

Mastiff knew that was all they could do right now. It would be clumsy and reckless’ to go into a situation that they were pretty much blind in. Now if anyone was alive on the world, or if someone else was watching the Confederacy and Consortium ships, then there was only one thing left to do.

“Set a hyperspace jump towards Bakura?”

The navigator quickly input the coordinates, although he was confused as to why the Captain wished to go to the Dornie world. The Captain knew though that their hyperspace trajectory could be traced, and she didn’t want to lead them towards the Hapes Cluster. Not yet. The Dornies always love to fight blindly as long as they could act heroic. If anyone would follow, she was determined to lead them to a target that would appreciate the fight even if they were to lose. It would give the Consortium more time to figure out what was going on.

The hyper drive began to power up, and just a moment before the Muriel jumped, the red flame vanished.

The Captain turned to watch as she saw what was left of New Coruscant City. “Sensors online, we’re getting a feed on the surface. Captain Mastiff paused for a moment, as she was at a crossroads in her mind. “Status of the Confederacy vessel.”

“Their Ftl is not powering up. Looks like they’re staying.”

Captain Mastiff looked down. “Belay the jump.” As soon as the words came from her mouth, Twelve images appeared on the holographic globe from the orbiting satellites. “Twelve new contacts, unknown origins.”

She took a deep breath.

“Keep the Hyperspace calculations set for Bakura, and keep the Hyperdrive powered up, but don’t engage til I give the order.” she said turning her attention to the Confederacy vessel. “Signal the Hawkbat. Send a simple message, “How do we proceed?”

Allana D’jo

Standing in the mission briefing room, the images turned much more violent. Wild chaotic energy that looked like a beautiful flame devoured a huge swath of the world. Allana could feel it. It was unnatural, not of this universe. Her heart quickened, as a sudden knot formed in her stomach, as hundreds of thousands of lives in orbit, and millions on the world below began to die.

Doubling over, Allana nearly fell out of her chair. One of her squadies reached over to pick her up. “You ok?” one asked, as another chimed in the background. “I think our witch is squeamish.” Her body began to quiver, as the chaotic scream began to echo through space.

Crying, screaming as loud as her vocal cords would allow, the chaotic scream tore through her mind as a tsunami would cut a swatch violently across the land. Her hands went to her face, clawing at her skin, ripping at the very flesh of her once flawless face.

Private Johansson reached down to stop the witch from ripping at her skin, and grabbed her hands and pinned her down. “We need a medic in here now!” she exclaimed, not knowing what in the worlds was going on. Allana thrashed back and forth, as her eyes began to bleed, and her breath grew heavy. Her jaw began to chew on her own tongue.

“Fuck!, she’s having a censure!” the Private yelled, but was unable to pull off a belt to shove in her mouth. Another squadie took Allana’s legs, and a third ripped off his belt and shoved it in her mouth, to keep her from chewing on her own tongue and swallowing it.

Firmly holding it in her mouth, the Commander pressed the intercom and tried to summon the medical droids. It was too late. Allana’s eyes went vacant, as her blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Her breath stopped, and her heart rate began to slow.

“No, you’re not dying on me.” The squadie who held down her hands yelled as she felt her arms grow limp in her hands. Letting go, she shoved her fingers in Allana’s mouth clearing the airways, then but her lips to the witch. Three short puffs, the private clasped her hands together and shoved down hard. 1.2.3. Counting finally to 20. She could feel the witch’s rib cage break under her compressions, but broken ribs would be nothing if her battle sister would live.

Reaching down, the squadie pinched the witch’s nose and again gave three short puffs, and again pressed down on Allana’s chest. Two hovering droids hissed open the door. The squadie moved back and began to scan the young witch.


“Heart rate zero, O2 level at 74%.” The droids began to use a magnetic scan on the witch’s still body. “The patient is deceased.” it said calmly informing the others. Picking up the body, it floated away towards the morgue.
An hour passed before the news of Allana D’jo reached the ears of the Captain. The captain knew that this was a situation that was going from bad to worse. The D’jo line was the family line of the Queen mother. In the tradition of the Hapes Consortium, the Queen Mother upon taking the throne changed her name to Ta’a Chume, and the oldest daughter, or if there were no daughters then the wife of the oldest son was named, Chume Da, or in the Hapian language, the Heir apparent. Any successors beyond the Chume Da, were not given titles, as political assassinations were common, and it was of no use to give hope to a third generation that they might rule, if they had not earned it.

The Captain looked at the data note and closed it. “Great this just gets better.” she thought to herself. “The Queen Mother won’t look to kindly on the death of her granddaughter, especially with unknown causes as the cause of death. She’ll fear an assassination on board her ship, or what ever else the Queen mother would conjure in her imagination.

“Ansible the court.” she reluctantly ordered, “Include all camera footage on board the Muriel of Allana, along with official medical cause of death, and inform her Grace that her granddaughter was killed in the line of duty.” she said, completing her duty to the royal crown. Captain Mastiff just silently prayed that the next time she pulled into port, that the Queen Mother would not take her head. It was the duty of every Captain to insure the safety and well being of their crew, and in the worst way, she failed.

[Thrashia]

Bastion System | Lagrange Point | Imperial Fleet Rally Point


It was one of Vice Admiral Dorja’s defining characteristics that he was always calm and unflappable in the face of, well, anything. He was a career Imperial officer who had served with distinction for over thirty years, graduated in the upper percentile of his class from Fleet Academy, and now commanded a flagship that commanded respect and influence. His flagship, the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer Olympus, had once been the flagship of Grand Admiral Thrawn and as such its crew was considered to be elite – even though the Chiss supreme commander no longer sat in the command chair. Dorja worked his men just as fiercely as they could have expected from Thrawn.

That iron core of duty, strength, and calmness was now under a deluge of powerful emotions.

Dorja sat in his command chair looking at the holoscreen in front of him without really seeing it. The report coming in from the ComScan ensign was still flowing. The young man’s voice had cracked slightly when he had first begun reporting to Dorja, but had relentlessly continued onwards. It was one of the worst things Dorja had ever heard.

“We’ve detected no survivors from the…event sir. The area in about a fifty-kilometer radius around the fulcrum of the event was cleared of Imperial vessels,” the young officer reported. Cleared of Imperial vessels, thought Dorja, how clinical is that?

“Admiral Daala should have dispersed her ships further, even if she did have the skies to herself,” said Dorja, his tone solid steel. The ensign flinched slightly, too intimidated to make any reply to a comment disparaging the now dead Fleet Admiral.

“Tell me of the enemy vessels that entered through the rift,” ordered Dorja. “It’s been almost ten minutes since the rift closed and they appeared. That should be enough time for the sensors to have cleared.”

“We’ve detected eighteen vessels in total sir,” the ensign snapped back to his report, “The ships bear some resemblance to known Chronosian designs, but we’ve fallen back on FoF-identification procedures to get a further analysis.”

FoF was Fleet short-hand for ‘Friend or Foe’. Whenever the Imperial Fleet encountered a ship that they did not have a record of in their databanks, they began the lengthier process of doing a detailed scan of the ship. The scan revealed power readings, radiation levels, hull density, measured maneuverability, imprinted a full probable-design blue print for the databanks, and gave it a combat designation to match with existing fleet lexicon for quick identification.

“Eight of the ships have been designated as dreadnoughts, over 5,000 meters in length with appropriate tonnage for that class. Six have been designated as battlecruisers, between 2,000 and 5,000 meters. The last four seem to be troop carriers or transports, but their size would put them in the Star Destroyer classification.”

“Any escorts?” asked Dorja.

“No sir, unless you consider battlecruisers to be appropriate escorts to dreadnoughts,” said the ensign sourly.

“Even combined we outweigh them in tonnage,” murmured Dorja. The Olympus was an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer, sometimes called a super dreadnought. It was a ship made for fighting as a fleet unto itself. That wasn’t even taking into considering its fighter and gunship complement waiting in its hangars.

Dorja turned to his left where the communications bay was located. “Any further messages received from Grand Admiral Thrawn?”

“No sir, not since the initial message received two hours ago sir,” replied the comms operator.

“Any further ships checked in from the Sector Fleet?”

“Two Imperial-class Star Destroyers sir, the Terror and White Lance. Captains Hamin and McKnight send their respects and are awaiting orders.”

Dorja nodded and turned back to ComScan. “What is the current disposition of the enemy fleet? What actions have they taken?”

“Sir, the enemy fleet has taken an anchor position above the planet, in geo-stationary orbit above New Coruscant City,” replied a different ensign from ComScan, his duty obviously having been studying the position of the Chaos vessels. “The lowest orbital position is of the four troop transports. From what we can detect, craft are leaving and returning from the surface to the ships.”

“Have they detected our presence here?”

“They don’t seem to have taken any special precautions in positioning along our vector, but they have taken a standard form of defensive posture for the deployment or extrication of troops to or from a planet,” came the smart reply.

“Good, then we have a chance here,” smiled Dorja wolfishly. He turned to his shoulder where his adjutant and flag captain stood.

“Captain Nimetz, would you care to handle fighter operations once we begin the battle?” asked Dorja.

“It would be my pleasure sir,” the Captain replied, his tone the sound of a grim reaper preparing his scythe.

“Comms, alert the Terror and White Lance to move into flank positions around us. Standard dispersal pattern, at five hundred thousand kilometers, so that we can create a fairly stable front. We’re to act as the hammer and Bastion will be the anvil. Helm, prepare for a micro-jump to point alpha-fox nine-nine-seven. Make sure we come out of hyperspace with our superstructure at a 30-degree down angle, I want as much cover for our fighters as possible when they launch. All crew to battle stations, signal a red alert!”

The crew burst into renewed activity. The men and women on the bridge had been moving slowly earlier, the shock of what had happened wearing on them – but they now moved with alacrity and a sense of hunger; hunger for vengeance.

As the Olympus prepared for combat, its drilled crew capable of such readiness in under eight minutes according to the duty log of their last emergency drill, Dorja sent a message to the Moff Council based on Kuat. He appended a full report of what had happened, was happening, and his plans for what was about to transpire. He included a note that the whereabouts of Regent Ardus Kaine was currently unknown, but that Supreme Commander Thrawn was en route and soon to take command of the situation.

As a last thought, Dorja had a general emergency signal sent out along broadband lines. It was a standard Galactic Imperial Alliance code that would request aid and succor from any allied ships or nations close enough to send such aid as needed.


Surface of Bastion | New Coruscant City Center


Kol Badar directed the warriors of the Host to begin withdrawing. The Coryphaus marched through the ruined city streets with his loyal Anointed terminator elite, returning to the staging areas that he had designated to the arriving Word Bearer fleet in orbit. One of the most delicate and dangerous actions any army could take was to withdraw in the face of an enemy, but Kol Badar was no novice and his enemy was disorganized and demoralized. Even so, he’d ordered mass cultist charges to fend off any retaliatory strikes that might be forming from the local Thrashian forces.

The Coryphaus had to admit that they had fought well enough. The faux-Titans, AT-ATs as captured prisoners called them, had proven strong opponents. Kol Badar had been forced to withdraw in the face of its power weaponry, unable to close the distance with his men due to the slow speed of moving in Terminator armour. He’d recalled several squads of Havocs to that front to fend off any potential armored thrusts that the enemy leaders might have tried.

Kol Badar had instead shifted over to the close-combat forming around the inside of a megalithic industrial complex. He had watched as white-armored soldiers fought in hand to hand against swarming cultists and their power-armored Word Bearer lords, whilst overhead great conveyor belts and complex machinery whirled and clicked in ignorance of the battle below. The Coryphaus had gloried in it, bathing his lightning claws in the blood of the enemy.

He had even been blessed enough to witness the whirlwind of massacre that was the Daemon Prince Irshardyr. Truly a being that was blessed by the bloody-god of battle, a true Chosen of Khorne, the daemon slaughtered all before him with mighty swings of his glowing daemonic axe and twists of the whip he held in his hands. It was a thing of such beauty, to see such artful destruction, that Kol Badar would have wept were he able to do so.

But with the arrival of the daemon prince amongst them the enemy forces had fled. They were brave enough, far braver than most mortal soldiers that Kol Badar had fought against before, but they could not stand against a daemon prince. Although the Coryphaus had noted that even in retreat they did not fail to continue covering fire and orderly fall back.

His lord was waiting for Kol Badar at the main landing field. Large, crimson-painted Stormbird landers were sitting around the area with their engines still running hot from atmospheric entry. Kol Badar bowed before his Dark Apostle.

“Glory unto the war leader of my Host,” said Ardentane, smiling at the kneeling Coryphaus. “Great has been the victory this day.”

“Glory be the Word,” intoned Kol Badar, his heart quickening in the charismatic presence of his Dark Apostle. “Glory to the Pantheon and our Lord Lorgar!”

“Indeed. We’ve succeeded here rather masterfully,” said Ardentane, bidding Kol Badar to rise and stand beside him. “The ceremony went perfectly.” Behind Ardentane, Kol Badar could see slaves carrying the tall, basalt ceremonial stones into the hold of a Stormbird.

“The withdrawal will be complete in less than ten minutes,” said Kol Badar. “Most of the Host has returned. Our few losses have been cleansed and their weaponry ready for return to the arsenal aboard the Infidemus.”

“Our losses?” asked Ardentane, turning to watch a file of Word Bearers marching back aboard a Thunderhawk gunship.

“Thus far we have lost seven warriors of the Anointed and thirty-six from different squads spread amongst the Host,” replied Kol Badar, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Ardentane’s eyes widened. “To think that our enemy had been so ferocious.”

“They fought well, but they are not Astartes,” gritted Kol Badar. “I estimate we killed over six thousand enemy soldiers.”

“And we slaughtered so many millions more,” added a third, powerful voice.

With a downward burst of air produced by great, flapping wings of blackness, the Daemon Prince Irshardyr landed beside the pair of them. Kol Badar fell back to his knee in supplication, his nose and ears suddenly beginning to bleed in the presence of such a powerful warp being. Beside him, Ardentane merely inclined his head with a short bow of recognition, seemingly unaffected by the presence of the daemon.

“Soon we will be able to add an entire galaxy to that roll of honor,” smiled Ardentane. “I trust that this pleases you and the Lord Khorne.”

“Indeed it does, Word Bearer,” replied Irshardyr. “The pact we made shall be carried out. I can already feel the pull of the Warp from where your First Acolyte enacts another step of the ritual.”

“Then things are going according to schedule,” Ardentane smiled again. “We’ve already located the next sight for our fleet. Once the ceremony is complete I shall greet you and other lords from the warp at the center of the new Eye.”

“As we agreed and as it has been foreseen. I go now back to the Warp. Once you have completed the ritual, I shall return,” said Irshardyr. “Do not fail, Dark Apostle Ardentane of the Word Bearers, or else my ire will be the least of your worries.”

With a swish of his black, leathery wings Irshardyr launched upwards into a roaring cascade of red warp-light and disappeared in a crack of shadow. His return to the Warp sent out an echoing crack that was louder than a bolt shot. Kol Badar stood back up once again, his nose and ears ceasing their bleeding in the wake of the daemons leaving.

Ardentane walked towards his personal transport. “See to it that we’re in orbit within ten minutes Kol Badar,” he said.

Kol Badar’s vox squawked and the Coryphaus furrowed his brow in anger as he suddenly turned to his master. “There is trouble in orbit lord.”

Ardentane stopped and turned. “What trouble?”

“An enemy task group has appeared again and begun fighting our fleet in orbit.”

Ardentane swore a vile curse in Colchisian and jogged back towards his transport. “Get us in orbit, Coryphaus, and see to it that our fleet breaks out of this predicament. Failure will mean that a daemon will be flensing your soul for eternity otherwise.”

[The WIck]

{ooc] well its the first half of my post, enjoy [/i]

“At least lunch was nice.”

Chris said in a low voice as he watched the battle occurring in orbit of Bastion represented by the changing icons and threat displays in the holo-tank.

The bridge of the Hawkbat was cast in the red light set by condition one more popularly known in the larger universe as “battle-stations”. The bridge crew was fully prepared for a fight each wore a sealed skin suit that would act as body armor and an environmental suit should the interior of the war ship become suddenly depressurized. It was standard procedure in the Confederation, and a well practiced drill for each crewman to change from their normal spacer uniform to the skinsuit in under a minute.

Modesty was something one lost very soon at the Naval Academy or Basic, and Chris just like his father Herzer joined the Confederation Marines after leaving Miranda.

“What do you make of all this Mr. Agathon?”

Asked the captain of the Hawkbat. Chris consider the man. He was typical of Confederation cruiser skippers, young, under thirty, smart and aggressive. The Confederation Navy was an ever expanding force and command officers with more than a dozen years experience were in short supply. The best graduates of the Academy on Skye could expect to be given command of a light attack ship or hunter killer straight out of graduation. But anyone who expected command anything larger than a destroyer had to go through the Crucible at the command school. Graduation was not guaranteed, failure meant that you would be rotated to a non combat arms command slot. Chris knew that such a thing would be unthinkable to men like Captain (J.G.) Alavair the c.o of the Hawkbat and recent graduate of the Crucible.

Chris smiled thinly, Marines had a similar school to test their men’s mettle, the Slaughter House. Where the objective was to strip everything from a candidate and reforge them as a Marine with their brothers and sister. Unlike the Naval Crucible, to be a marine every Marine had to graduate the Slaughter House, only twenty percent completed it. There was a reason that in the Confederation military the Marine Corps was the smallest branch of service, but considered to be comprised of the best fighters. The Army’s Jump Infantry thought the same thing of themselves too, interservice rivalries defined the Confederation military.

Marine training on the Slaughter House made anything that the Jedi did on Ossus look like a bad joke and many Marines thought your Jedi to be equivalent to a fat and lazy cop, to scared to use his weapons and bound by the moral shackles of a protectionist society. Needless to say the Confederation’s Wardens held a similar training regiment to that of the Slaughterhouse, of course it was designed by his father, Herzer, Himself a Marine, one of the first Wardens, and a Knight-Errant of Miranda which was a forge that tempered some of the toughest steel itself.

“Its a cluster-fuck sir.” Chris replied to the captain.
Telemetry was starting to be received from the six reconnaissance drones that jumped into cis-lunar orbit of Bastion only a few minutes ago. Two were operating with active sensors their presence a clear beacon in the system. They pulled data from every source around them. They also would divert the enemy's attention from the four drones that operated under strict emissions control and using only passive sensors. Chris and the captain’s eyes scanned over the returning telemetry, data and video. Silhouettes and power readings from the unknown ships, data about the warp gate while it existed and the strange beam emitted from it. Telescopic video of the surface of Bastion were battle raged against what appeared to be legions of enemy troops that had magically appeared out of nowhere.

“There appears to be something wrong with the vaunted Thrawn’s ships today.”

Alavair commented as he replied the veritable intsta-rape of Daala’s fleet in orbit of Bastion. Millions in tonnage of warships, trillions of credits worth of investment, and thousands of highly trained (at least to Coruscant’s standards) of service men and women gone in an instant. Heads would roll back home if Home Fleet was caught with its pants down, and the first would be with the Chief of Naval Operations for the Navy itself.

Chris doubted that would happen in this situation, no that blue skinned and red eye’d art loving homosexual would undoubtedly “strike back” for the “empire”. He never understood the soldiers’ of Bastion love for that saying, where he grew up if you struck first you didn’t give your opponent an opportunity to strike back, you Ended them, on Miranda “Enders” were feared beyond even the vast and unspeakable evils of the demons that haunted the night.

“I would think sir, if I didn’t know better, that this whole situation was rigged. It is like this ancient entertainment series of Old Earth, Star Trek. They had a tall and strong security officer from a formidable alien race. He was the toughest of the lot, that is until there was a new episode where a new alien race or character showed up, and they had to have instant credit of being bad ass themselves so with only the briefest of introduction they would suddenly appear and throw this security chief across the bridge of the vessel. It was called the Worf-nerf, maybe we should change it to the Thrawn-nerf.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that thousand of souls are dying for their country right now.”

“No it doesn’t sir, but we cant do all that much we are but one ship, two including our allies from the Starways.”

“We can gather intel and make sure it gets back to the Confederation but that is all. But do ensure that you yourself are ready and the marines, should some demon spawn suddenly appear on the bridge to Worf your ass Mr. Agathon.

Chris knuckles cracked as his hands made fist, and his n-plant told him that the company of Marines on board the Hawkbat were in full power armor and ready.

[Thrashia]

Orbital Zone | Bastion System


The Olympus and her two escorting Imperial-class Star Destroyers, the Terror and White Lance had made a micro-hyperspace jump from the edge of the system and almost directly into the orbital zone of the planet Bastion itself. It was the sort of maneuver that Imperial Fleet manuals from half a century before would have warned against executing, but was now a standard maneuver that all Fleet assets were drilled in by the orders of Grand Admiral Thrawn. The fact was of necessity, for the maneuver was to catch the invaders off guard as they tried to either land or retrieve forces on Bastion. If Vice Admiral Dorja could catch them between the gravitational wall of the planet and outer space, then he’d pin them in a position ill fit for maneuvering ships. The fact that the ships were of a design similar or identical to those used by the Chronosian Empire, lent further credence to his planning as well – as Dorja knew that those ship types required slightly more space to maneuver than Imperial Destroyers did; an advantage he was going to make full use of in this battle.

The nineteen-thousand meter long form of the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer shifted out of hyperspace and into long-range firing position over Bastion. At a distance of two light-seconds, they were at their maximum effective range for turbolaser fire and medium range for missiles. Dorja, sitting in his command chair on the bridge, was happy to see that their sudden appearance bought them the short amount of time needed to reacquire targets, ready targeting sensors, and update any secondary ComScan requirements.

“All fighters launch!” ordered Captain Nimetz, standing over the Fighter Operations Command console in the starboard crew pit.

Like a beehive brought unleashing its deadly fury, the squadrons from the Olympus launched in quick, consecutive waves. The Executor-class was capable of carrying thousands of fighters in its massive hangars or a standard minimum deployment of two wings – a SOP that had been set down by Thrawn. At this point in time, Dorja had eight fighter wings, over eighty-percent of which were the TIE Interceptors – the now standard space fighter of the Empire. If anyone ever saw the old eye-balls, original TIE Fighters anymore it was in a museum.

Captain Nimetz ordered his Interceptor wings, over 400 fighters, into their assigned attack patterns. Four wings would make directly for the enemy battlecruisers and dreadnoughts, while two others would gun for the transports. In the wake of this fighter screen would come a wave of two wings of TIE Scimitar Bombers.

Naturally things didn’t go entirely according to Dorja’s or Nimetz’s expectations. The enemy dreadnoughts were not all dedicated battleships, much the same way that an Imperial Star Destroyer or the Olympus were not simply platforms for heavy turbolaser batteries. Two of the dreadnoughts began to swing ponderously into the vector of the Thrashian forces and each launched roughly a wing and a half of fighters, one hundred and twenty each.

“Zonal attack pattern, Sigma-Phi Formation,” ordered Nimetz, focusing on the projections in front of him. ComScan was working in tandem with the scanners of every ship and fighter in the system, giving readouts on the enemy fights, theoretical judgments based on power readings, velocity, armor densities, etc. Without the aid of the ComScan analysis system it would have made things impossible to collate and understand in anything approaching a timely fashion.

TIE Interceptors roared through the Chaos Space Marine fighters like a scythe, green lasers blistering in the void. The Chaos fighters, not as fast as the TIEs, took hits exponentially, but were heavily armored enough to shrug much of it off – a fact that surprised many of the pilots that were now being dragged into fierce dog fights between squadrons.

Nimetz watched it all. In the first minute of contact and exchange between the fighter screens he counted twenty-nine enemy fighters dead, fifteen crippled and coasting in the void. In the process he’d lost seventeen fighters and eight crippled, those pilots able to eject and await retrieval having done so. Speed and maneuverability Nimetz thought. That’s all we have going for us. Damn I wish I’d requested some TIE Defenders to be stationed on the ship.

*********

At the extreme range for turbolasers the Olympus opened fire. It was always a misconception that ships like the Super Star Destroyer and its smaller cousins were all controlled centrally from the bridge of their respective ships. Such a thing was actually impossible for the Olympus. Control was more of a guideline, with orders and tasks delegated to those areas responsible. The Olympus itself had three secondary bridges and twelve tertiary bridges. Each worked under the aegis of the main bridge, where Admiral Dorja sat in his command chair, but he was a spectator for all intents and purposes once his main orders were given.

Battery Commander Roland Durian stood in his small command station, overlooking the shoulders of his gunners and gunnery sergeants. He commanded firepower enough to slag worlds or destroy an Imperial Star Destroyer in minutes – and it was only 3% of the total power that the Olympus had. His section, his battery, held six heavy turbolasers and sixteen medium turbolasers. Each turret could fire independently at their own designated target, but naturally it was more efficient for the entire battery to focus on a single target before moving on. Commander Durian had his orders as to which of the targets were his.

“Increase the cooling on unit seven,” barked Durian, watching the power levels for that turret starting to increase above nominal safety levels. “Decrease firing rate by .08% on units seven, eight, and nine. They’re starting to stray off target.”

Their target was the looming form of a distant Chaos battlecruiser that was easily six thousand meters long in size. As the arching lines of green turbolasers lanced out and impacted against their target’s shield, Durian had to grudgingly appreciate how well shielded they were. His battery, located on the forward starboard section of the Olympus, was one of the first able to begin firing. After two full minutes of the bombardment beginning, his readouts from ComScan still read the enemy ship as maintaining shield integrity levels at 70-80%.

“Not fast enough, not hard enough,” Durian grumbled. He turned his comm switch and sent a signal to the neighboring battery commander. The grizzled voice of Commander Falkren pealed out from his earpiece.

“What is it Durian? I’m kind of busy in case you didn’t notice what’s happening outside.”

Durian checked his sensors. Falkren’s battery had focused on two of the smaller outrider craft, each roughly the size of an ImpStar, and had already hammered their shields down.

“You’ll be finished with your respective targets within the next two minutes,” said Durian. “When you’re done, please refocus fire on another target. I’ve got a battlecruiser that is being stubborn about dying.”

“Feed me the data and targeting fixes,” grumbled Falkren.

“Sending now.”

Half a minute later Falkren returned the comm. “Alright, Durian, I’ll help clean your zone, but just make sure your AAR notes my assistance!”

“I’ll buy you a beer in the cantina later,” smiled Durian, focusing back onto his own work station.

*********

Kol Badar was having an unpleasant day now. He and his lord Dark Apostle had returned on the first landers back to their fleet in orbit, but the process of returning the entire Host was proving challenging. As a warrior of the Legiones Astartes and a Bearer of the Word, Kol Badar was excellently skilled in both terrestrial and void combat – but even he was being pressed in this ordeal.

The enemy dreadnought, it’s size staggering to behold, had positioned itself well – forcing the Word Bearers fleet to fight with the planet to their backs. It was a bad position, forcing the Word Bearers to fight in a gravity well where they could not maneuver well. It also didn’t help that there were still twenty bulk landers rising from the planet to achieve retrieval with the fleet.

“Fighters are to increase their interception efforts,” ordered Kol Badar, standing on the bridge of the Battle Barge Unrelenting Faith. “Battleships Eviscerator and Corrupt Hand increase flank speed and engage at close quarters.”

“Lord Coryphaus, the Strike Cruiser Prophet’s Fire and frigate Destiny’s Will have lost void shields and are beginning to leak atmosphere into the void,” a menial working at the sensoria station warned.

“Nothing we can do for them,” said Kol Badar viciously. “They are to continue engagement until they die.”

“Sir, the Triconte reports that the last lander has been berthed. The Host is now returned to the fleet.” Kol Badar considered this. He’d lost four landers, each containing roughly a hundred Word Bearers, to the lancing strikes of the enemy’s power lances – strong they were – and to those vengeful fighters, too fast for even his fighters to keep up with.

“Bring the fleet about,” ordered Kol Badar, staring at the hololithic screen before him, his Terminator power claws igniting in frustration. “The Battleships Eviscerator and Corrupt Hand will cover our retreat. As soon as we break from the gravity well of the planet the fleet will make warp translation.”

“By your Word, my lord!”

*********

Admiral Dorja watched his sensor plot and frowned. Two of the enemy’s capitol ships were shrugging aside the worst of his batteries power and accelerating along intercept vectors to the Olympus. Two smaller craft, each the size of an ImpStar, were crippled and leaking oxygen into the void. TIE Scimitar bombers were already making their last runs against them and Dorja was pleased to watch one explode and disappear from his hologram plot.

“Captain Nimetz, please change focus for the fighters and bomber groups. I want them to pursue the enemy forces that are attempting to leave. Have the Terror focus on destroying the other escort ship.”

“Yes sir!” replied Nimetz.

“Admiral, ComScan is reporting that the enemy ships have increased their velocities and are practically on impact courses with ourselves,” the ensign there reported. “Impact estimated in less than ten minutes at current time.”

“Helm,” Dorja turned his head, “Bring us to half-power and change course. We can easily enough evade their attempt at suicide. Prepare all starboard side batteries for broadside fusillade.”


Tense moments came as the Olympus surged into motion. It was considered impossible for two ships to ever collide in the deep void of space; there was always movement by one or the other to keep them from colliding. That fact had not changed. The Super Star Destroyer changed its vector in a rotational arc and its engine thrust increased with a mules’ kick. The enemy ships would pass ‘above’ the Olympus, which had prepared for that eventuality – the guns along the entire starboard flank of the Executor-class ship tracking.

“Enemy is launching broadsides and torpedoes,” alerted ComScan.

“Fire at will!” ordered Dorja, slightly delighted in a boyish kind of way that he had had a chance to unleash a type of attack that had last been consigned historically to terrestrial wet navies.

“Sir! Enemy fire brought down shields in sector five and six.” Dorja hated that, but those ships had been strongly armed.

“First enemy battlecruiser’s shield is down…ship-kill confirmed, we got its engine room. Second ship is also dead in the void, Admiral, we’ve crippled it,” announced the ComScan ensign. There was a muted rise of cheering amidst the bridge crewmen.

Dorja nodded, allowing a smile. “Prepare to advance on the retreating ships. Helm bring us about to vector seven-six-.”

“Alert! Alert! Sir we’ve confirmed reports of enemy soldiers on board Olympus!” the comm officer reported.

Dorja screwed up his face in hatred and shock. Those weren’t torpedoes! They’d been boarding pods!

“Alert General Dregayne,” ordered Dorja through tight lips. “All forces are to prepare to repel boarders.”

*********

Kol Badar chuckled to himself as he watched the enemy’s dreadnought come to a faltering halt. He had seen how his suicidal defensive screen had only lasted a few minutes, but he knew that those ships had launched their compliment of Word Bearers once they’d been close enough to attempt a boarding action. Boarding pods were not as reliable a conveyance as teleportation, but Kol Badar knew it was the expedient way to handle the situation seeing as they did not know the layout of the vessel or had available schematics to study. With a mental nod of respect to the sacrifice his warriors were making to delay the enemy dreadnought, Kol Badar turned his mind to other work.

“The fleet is ready and the warp drives are prime, dread Lord,” a menial announced from his pulpit station.

“Engage warp drives and take us out of here,” said Kol Badar.

The Word Bearer fleet disappeared into the warp.

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

It was a peculiar battle to say the least, as Captain Mastiff watched the battle of Bastion unfold on the holographic globe before her. It was puzzling to the Hapan Captain how a single Super star Destroyer and two Imperial Star Destroyers were beating back their targets, yet the vaunted and honorable Admiral Daala with a much larger fleet , with a Super Star Destroyer of her own was shredded in a matter of seconds.

It was almost as if someone in Thrawn’s vaunted court wanted the good Admiral out of the way. She wondered if someone in Thrawn’s camp wanted her eliminated for a chance at promotion. Imperials always had a strange way of moving up through the ranks. There were so many simpler ways to remove the Admiral from office, and save the hundreds of thousands of credits for retirement and health care that she was due, that wouldn’t have wasted hundreds of billions of credits in tonnage and hardware.

Captain Mastiff leaned forward against the holographic table, watching how an Super Star Destroyer was finally supposed to be able to fight in combat. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, as it brought to bare it’s heavy arsenal of over five hundred turbo lasers against their enemy forces.

If it wasn’t an very expensive assassination attempt, and the enemy red beam of death was truly that powerful to topple the vaunted Bastion Fleet in seconds, then Captain Mastiff wondered why didn’t the enemy use it again? Was it’s cool down time that long? Hell even the Molecular Detachment Device could be used again after a two minute cool down, and that red beam didn’t even destroy the planet.

She could see the Enemy of Bastion, whatever the things were turning towards an escape vector. She couldn’t let the enemy escape. If they managed to escape without any form of retribution then the Queen Mother’s anger at her granddaughter’s death would be insatiable. Although it was for more than just preserving her own command and possible life. Captain Mastiff wanted to know the secret of the Red Death Beam, and how it killed the young witch? If she could figure that out, then hopefully she could bring that information to the Starways Congress. They would be very interested in capturing a device that killed a witch so easily. Alone the Hapan Cruiser couldn’t handle that many ships, but if she could prevent their escape then the Thrashians would be able to finish the job.

There wasn’t much time as she turned to her fire control officer. “Open outer doors on the Mass Shadow Tube." Turning to her helmsmen, she then ordered a micro jump towards the enemy fleet. It was common refit for the Nova class cruisers in the current time to have two mass shadow mines, since their successful use against the Thrakians in the Thrakian war. Modeled after the Mass Shadow Generator, it was essentially an upgraded Mass Pulse Generator that generated an actual gravitational field of a planet, unlike the older pulse mines, or the Pulse generators of the Interdiction Cruisers that only tricked computer systems into thinking that there was gravity. It was unforunate that even with the upgraded mine, the warhead still burned out after a minute, returning space back to it's normal gravitational field.

She turned to the fire control officer. “Begin to charge the Ion cannons, Heavy Turbo lasers, and the point defense lasers.” she ordered, before turning to her flight control officer. “Launch all three wings of Miy’til’s” she ordered, “Prep their hyper drives for micro jump to Bastion. Squadrons one and two, are to form a shield formation, Squadron three will be left here in reserve.

The hyper drive was completely charged as the as twenty four of the fighters took up a position around the Nova class cruiser, while the third moved away from the ship. With the final preparations ready, the Captain ordered the jump.

Bastion Orbital Zone

The Muriel exited hyperspace, with her twenty four fighters surrounding her outer hull, moving in a counter clockwise rotation around the ship. She noticed the ships were just about free of the planet’s gravitational pull. It was more symbolic than any other gesture, as the Hapan crew readied their hands on the trigger, and the pilots awaited the incoming fire or fighters to shoot down.

“Fire Tube one.” the Captain ordered. A missile jettisoned from the ship, traveling at a high velocity towards the unknown fleet. At the minimum safe distance of five hundred miles, the warhead imploded upon itself. The gravitational field in the area grew intense, as the upgraded warhead began to have a gravitational pull of a large moon, or small planet, as it moved forward towards the Last enemy ship.

[New Dornalia]

OOC: Credit given to Mythrandir and OG for vetting this post; the latter also helped me with some dialogue in the middle. The misspellings from Henny are deliberate, and a stylistic choice. This post is also kinda long.

IC:

Long Beach, CA, Earth SSR

That night began like any other night in Southern California. The gloaming of the evening, set against the sun-baked sky, the hustle and bustle of rush-hour winding down as families came together and friends visited one another for festivities great and small, took place with the rhythms it usually did. Far removed from the violence in the SWG, with worlds being torn asunder by the invasion of a new, lethal enemy that bore an Eight-Pointed Star, the environs of Southern California--particularly the City of Long Beach--were relatively unceasing as always. For even cities had their quiet sides.

Inside the small house on Tehachapi Avenue, nestled in the suburbs formed in a bygone era where Ozzie and Harriet lived and Eisenhower was President of an America staring down a Soviet Union bent on bringing the people of the United States harm, a familiar Friday night scene was emerging, one perhaps familiar to many NS readers with families. Inside the living room sat three people on a leather sofa. A small glass table in front of them bore the hallmarks of a grand night to be spent inside. A pizza box, opened, bearing a pizza from a hole-in-the-wall pizza place, “Pizza Doo-Way,” covered in generous helpings of pepperoni, Italian Sausage, bacon, and for vegetable content, a smattering of sun-dried tomatoes.

Next to it was an assortment of drinks. A bottle of Jack Daniels. A 2-liter of Nuka-Cola, purchased for only 99 cents at the Lemongrass Shooters’ Supply store plus tax, down in Inglewood. And, a movie on the TV screen, bearing an old Chinese man in a trenchcoat with a Bren Ten pistol, a hardened expression on his face, and yes, driving a bus full of nuns. One of the nuns squawked to the old Chinese Man, in a terrible imitation of an Irish accent, “But Inspector—the BUS WILL CRASH!”

The old Chinese man, toothpick in his mouth and sunglasses covering his face, gritted and delivered with a straight face, this masterpiece of film writing:

“Then Bless Me, For I’m Gonna Sin.”

The Chinese man would then ramp the bus off of a ramp, flying over a fleeing Ford Mustang with a baddie in it. He then fired two shots and blew out the windshield, before ordering the Skeptical Nun, “Take the wheel.” Leaping out of the bus, he slid across the hood, and as the bus sailed above his head, the camera would make an orbiting shot as he landed with two feet on the bad guy’s trunk. The bad guy, turning around, spoke in badly acted surprise, raising a Uzi.

“Inspector—Whisky….YOU. STINKIN!. BEGGAH!”

Back in real life, meanwhile, one of the three on the sofa, with Pizza in hand, sat mesmerized by the badly acted events on screen. Sitting in a white “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt whose faded colors and wear indicated it was not a silkscreened reproduction, as well as some jeans with holes in them, she quietly ate her pizza, taking in every improbable stunt. So dedicated was she, she could only say, “Woah…..” The woman, Terry Tadanobu, was a master of three languages—English, Brazilian Portuguese and Japanese—but the only language she spoke was the one of youthful wonder. Then again, given her relatively youthful looks, one could hardly believe she had been around since the days of MacIntyre.

The woman next to her, meanwhile, lacked such youthful enthusiasm, and in fact, squirmed at the picture visibly. There was little subtlety in her discomfort—her unease at the cavalier way in which the Hero from Hong Kong turned his pistol sideways to fire at his opponent suggested she had that problem all experts-cum-cynics have with modern cinema—that real life actions which properly should be disastrous are always bent, reshaped and reformed for a good story, without giving heed to the consequences within. Picking up the bottle of Jack, she swigged it down and put it down, sighing as she shook her head.

“I can’t believe you can watch this shit, Terry. I mean really—10mm Auto? WHILE CAR SURFING?!”

Tereza, replying to her nickname, sighed and replied in a voice that was high pitched, yet pleasant to the ears—and yet oh so displeased with her friend’s disbelief.

“Oh come on, we’ve done it before, Henny. Remember that time with the El Camino down in Appalachia?”

Henny, aka Henrietta Collins, for her part, replied with a roll of the eyes and another swig of Jack, “Terry, that’s because the El Camino HAS A PICKUP BED. IN THE BACK. WHICH PEOPLE CAN RIDE IN!”

“Not a very deep one,” Terry added, finishing her pizza and sighing.

“I am rather confused, ladies,” the third woman said, slowly but daintily, as if to try and calm the situation down. She looked at them both with some confusion. She proved quite unfamiliar with how they spent Friday nights, for she then asked, “Is this level of bickering over ballistics and gunplay normal for every Bad Movie Night?”

Terry turned to the woman and said, “Mom, no—I mean, yes. It’s fine. It’s kind of a thing we do at Bad Movie Night.” Henny nodded.

“Oh my,” the woman said, somewhat distressed. Showing her age a bit, she put her hand over her mouth in surprise, before going, “Well, back in my day, films were never this violent—or worth debating over with such fervor.”

Henny for her part, sighed and went, “Lemme guess, Mrs. T. You debated over whether the sun was the center of the universe or not. Or whether the atmosphere would ignite over the first Trinity Test, or something old and arcane…which you may have participated in or not—“

Mrs. T cut off Henrietta with a holding of her hand up and distressed sigh.

“Oh dear. Well, we did debate the nature of whether the sun was at the center of the Universe. And with just as much fervor as you two are doing now. Only, I don’t recall inquisitors storming into the room to make their point felt….” As Mrs. T’s voice began trailing off, Terry waved her hand and went, “Mom, mom!”

“Yes, Tereza?”

“The movie?”

“Oh! That. Yes, the movie. Now, let us behave…”

Mrs. T’s voice trailed off, and Henny raised an eyebrow. She then asked, able to notice something was wrong through her alcoholic buzz, “Mrs. T? You okay?” Then, suddenly, Mrs. T collapsed on the floor and began to convulse wildly. Henny shouted, “Oh shit! Mrs. T! Are you alright!?”

The woman didn’t respond, and then, suddenly Henny and Terry both began to convulse and collapse on the floor. To an outsider, it would look like an epileptic seizure of some sort, although Henny’s was less pronounced due to the alcohol in her system. But to Mrs. T and Terry, they would experience horrific visions. Worlds burning, black holes firing, ships moving, great admirals and heirs to thrones dying and evil forces afoot, with Eight Pointed Stars emblazoned, their mouths dripping with overwrought, snarky dialogue. The events of Bastion were being played through a haze, in fast forward, slow motion, what have you, and it seemed like Terry and Mrs. T were watching a new movie, one filmed in a very damning and malevolent cinema verité.

After several minutes of this, the three got up, to the tune of Inspector Whisky saying one last line.

“This is serious! If we let that hom ga chaan go, this city will be destroyed! EVERYTHING WILL BE DESTROYED!”

Terry then shut off the TV and turned to Henny, saying, “Did you see—“

“Yeah.” Henny began pacing around, shaking her head. She rubbed her head, going, “it doesn’t make sense,” repeatedly to herself. It seemed she tried to deny the truth of the vision. It didn’t make sense to her. Chaos? In the SWG? Visions? Visions were for Jedi, fantasists, guys down at the state mental hospital….college Marxists….and the kinds of attorneys who worked in public defenders’ offices.

“Henny, it’s obvious. Chaos is afoot!” Terry said, pleadingly. Henny turned to her friend and went, “I know! Gimme a moment.” Henny sat down, and took another swig of her Jack Daniels. Sighing, she said, “I can’t believe this. It’s really—“

“Happening?” Mrs. T nodded, her face pursing up in stern expression, also concerned about her vision. “Yes, it is really happening. If it is happening….then it means the reemergence of an old evil. Something monstrous. Like—“

Henny cut her off, going, “I’m not in the mood for one of your stories. Alright?” Henny sipped her Jack and went, “Besides, doesn’t matter. President Haggar’s going to get mired in bureaucracy and trying to persuade Congress to go to war against Chaos, and by the time he manages to persuade them that we should send another Expeditionary Force to the SWG, it’ll be too late.” Pausing, she added with a swig, a sigh and plenty of liquor in her system, “I think my spirit of “play by the rules” is working too well with you people.”

“Then we don’t play by them.” Terry added, angry and seeing Henny deciding to just sit there. “I’m going to get into character. I can’t wait for Haggar to persuade Congress!”

Henny then looked at Terry, and went, evidently buzzed now, “So, Terry, let me get this straight. We should go in, be heroes, and save the day to the tune of a Hans Zimmer soundtrack?”

Terry nodded.

Henny drank some more, and declared, tightening her grip around the bottle.

“You’re nuts.”

Terry blurted out, with her mom looking at her and urging her to stop, “You did it on Mythrandir!”

“Terry, I did it as a favor for a friend—“

“BUT YOU WERE A HERO!”

For a few seconds, no activity came, and Henny and Terry stared at each other for five seconds, as Henny drank from what seemed to a never ending bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Ladies, please, this is—“

Henny then quietly, and with considerably fury, “Fuck that. You wanna know what happened to the heroes? They died. Sebastian’s wife died, Sebby himself went into hiding, I don’t even know what happened to that Dark Elf-Shizzer or whatever her name is—and I hear it that Alurial nearly strung up one of the Rangers because she did some blue on blue, and the populace is now under the rule of the sexy Elf version of Richard the Third. Or Augusto Pinochet--whatever. Some hero I was. At least I got to spend time with Jeish again, and that made it worthwhile, that and maybe saving the people. And indeed, look at this whole grand design, Terry. Your Author’s a fucking joke. He’s fat, lazy, whiny, and hell, fat lot of good he’s done for us. If your Author Really Existed—then we’d live in a happier age! I wou;dn’t need alcohol. Our Superour-General wouldn’tbe been locked up for umpteen years in a prison hellhole. Our Allies wouldn’t be thinking of ways to genocide every Empowered—no, sory UNNATURAL in the universe. I’d be happy. Our government wou;dn’t be fuckin' around because it’s not our problem, apparently, that a horde of Chaos Marines invaded the SWG. But that’s okay, because heroes are so not in fashion. Mommy told me that a hero’s an idiot who just got lucky this time. I thin kshe’s right. We don’t need morons marching to battle screaming hwo they’re going to rescue kittens from trees and then fuck the prom queen. The bad guy’s ramming the prom queen as we speak!”

Terry replied with a humph.

"You don't understand! There's more than one Author! It’s sad to say, but our author is just an idealist in a pragmatic world. He's as frustrated as you are."

Offering Terry the bottle, Henny went, with a sigh, “If I were you, I’d sit back, drink up, and think of England.” She then passed the bottle to Mrs. T, going, “You too, ya old bat—“

Terry, silent until now and quietly concealing the indignation rising within her, delivered a mighty haymaker to Henny’s face, sending her onto the floor. She also took Henny’s liquor bottle, and tossed it a bit in her hand, like a child does with a baseball, smirking and going, “Feels full. Looks like its closing time for you, missy.”

Then, dashing out as Henny screamed for her liquor and slamming the door behind her, Terry took a light jog down the street to the one place where she knew she could find solace—the Hwacha Donut, the local 24/7 Donut shop, run by Koreans who always kept the donuts hot and the firepower on tap, in case people tried to demand more than just coffee and donuts. Ordering a cup of joe and a crueler, Terry sat down and sighed, then seeing the visage of her mother in front of her.

“Tereza.”

Terry didn’t reply. She went back to her coffee and sipped, as her mother sternly called to her again.

“Tereza!”

Then, Mrs. T quickly moved to grab her daughter’s cruller, and then her daughter executed a circle block, before she got up, tossing the cruller in the air and then moved to swing a Hammerfist at the arm, before Mrs. T caught the cruller and disappeared, reappearing with the cruller in her mouth and grabbing Terry in a Full Nelson.

As this all occurred, the young man behind the counter observed the two making a scene of themselves. Now, most shop owners in normal places would call the police. But this being New Dornalia, a rougher solution to roughhousing was always available. The man pulled out a Remington, loaded a couple of shells marked with Chinese characters on them, and sighed, before prominently cocking the shotgun with a one-handed pump, getting the attention of both.

He then leveled the shotgun at both, and in unaccented Californian English, he went, using the Korean version of Sensei, “Sahbumnim Tadanobu, and whoever the fuck you are, I have two Order Custom Foo-Fighter Shotshells, geared to put you both into magical stasis until I snap my fingers and give you the okay to move again. Now, either settle your dispute peacefully, or get the fuck out of my store!”

The two broke, and Mrs. T handed the Cruller back to Terry, as she said, “Sorry, mom.”

“Sorry, Tereza. I had to get your attention somehow.”

The two shook and apologized, and the Orderman put down his shotgun, going, “Good. Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to get myself some coffee. I have a fucking headache.”

Mrs. T then asked, “It wouldn’t be because of a—“

“—vision. Yeah, of Chaos Marines?” The Donut Man then said, “What of it?”

Terry then said, “I’ll field this one. I’m here at your shop because I got into a fight with Henny Collins, who also had a vision. I told her she should help, but Henny got pissy. I think she was drinking though, so I can’t tell.”

The three stopped, and Mrs. T went, “Oh my. This means others--“

Terry pursed her eyebrows in thought, and began stroking her chin, declaring, “—had the visions too. This is serious.” Looking at her mother, Terry added, “We really do need to do something!”

The Donut Man went, “Yeah, but who pays attention to visions nowadays? I mean, what the fuck’s the President gonna do? Seems like he’s more concerned about playing by the rules, doing shit with Congress and trying to preserve life in the Milky Way, man.”

“No kidding. Henny said the same thing,” Terry said, sighing with dismay. “She’s been saying lots of things. It’s like she’s getting flashbacks to Mythrandir, or worse.”

Mrs. T walked up to Terry and shook her head.

“She has a point though, Tereza. Politicians move slowly, and often demand more evidence than mere premonitions. Besides, dealing with the Supreme Commander as I have done, she has her hands full with managing a military which, for all intents and purposes is technically at peace, and yet at war abroad aiding the…Elementals, you called them?”

A Capital Idea

“That’s the term, yeah,” Terry went. Pausing and contemplating, she sipped her coffee and then paused again. Inside of her was that old conundrum, a variant on what one book called “The Problem from Hell.” Only, instead of genocide in Rwanda, it was how to deal with a genuine threat which could consume the Republic, next. Worse yet, it wouldn’t do so merely physically. It would do so spiritually, corrupting the souls of each world it burned and made war upon without cessation. Yet, the reality was as Henny placed it. Haggar’s priority one was how to handle threats in the Milky Way—the extent of his policy in SWG so far was to ensure an Open Door and stay out of entanglements. Yet if anything, this was quite the entanglement to get involved in. Problem was, Haggar also liked to rely on Congress….

Then, Terry thought of an idea.

“Why can’t the Order act by itself?”

Elaborating, Terry went on, saying, “I mean, we used to command our own armies before the Civil War. I provided aid to battle an early Yuuzhan Vong attack, not in the SWG but in other parts before the discovery of SWG. Besides, we Dornalians have a fine tradition of sending altruistic mercenaries abroad. I say let’s do it!”

Mrs. T nodded.

“Something like the International Brigades, then?”

Terry giggled.

“Funny, mom. That’s what we named our old units, long ago. The International Brigades! Back when we were filthy commies…and not hard working hard fighting hard drinking Dornies like now!”

“You know what happened to the International Brigades, yes?” Mrs. T asked, as if to warn her daughter of the dangers involved.

“Oh, I know about the Spanish Civil War! Besides, you spoke about it, didn’t you?” Terry said with a grin.

“Yes, Tereza. I was on the Ebro—the same time as….no, let’s not speak of that.” Mrs. T grew silent, and then went, “Well, I suppose you have some phone calls to make, then?”

“Sure. I’ll call Newbie! She’ll get everything set up!” Terry stood up, proud that she was going to do something at last. “Barring that, I will too.” Turning to the man at he counter, Terry said, “Hey, dude, wanna kill some Chaos Marines?”

The Donut Guy shrugged.

“WHatevs. If it means you people buy some more donuts and get, then sure.”

Turning to Mrs. T, Mrs. T said, “I’ll go back to the house, and make sure Henrietta is alright. I pray she’s not too inebrieated. Didn’t we—“

“Oh no! You’re right!” Terry became alarmed. “Mom, let’s go! Besides, we still haven’t gotten our other sofa reupholstered from the last time.” Buying another package of donuts, the two left, and Terry bid the Donut Guy a good night. Terry grinned to herself. She was going to be back in the saddle again.

[Thrashia]

Onboard the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer Olympus


Boarding actions were things usually reserved to after a void battle had already taken place, when ships were nothing but crippled hulks and incapable of running from the victors. For someone to actively use boarding pods in the heat of combat betrayed a battle methodology at odds with what Imperial commanders would have considered sane. It was simply one of the riskiest things that could be imagined. And yet the enemy had done the unthinkable.

Thirty-four boarding pods had been launched against the Olympus by the Chaos Battle Barge. Six had been destroyed en-route by CIWS batteries and eight had impacted against still functioning shields – annihilating them in a bright flashing explosion. Twenty achieved their function, slipping through to those areas of the ship where the shields had successfully been hammered down by the suicidal broadside of concentrated fire from their mother ship.

Sun-hot thermal cutters in the base of each pod tricked online like a torch, cutting through the hull armor of the Olympus like leeches driving down for blood. These pods had been designed to penetrate much thicker armor than the Executor-class had, something that would be noted in later reports after the battle. For now it was simply bad enough that those pods had actually made contact. Sectors seventy-nine through eighty-seven had been hit by the pods, each traveling tens of meters down before their inertia and thermal cutters died.

What they unleashed from bolted ceramite doors was terrifying to behold.

Each pod disgorged a squad of ten armored giants. Each was bedecked in crimson armor the color of drying arterial blood, votive parchment attached like celebration ribbons on nearly every surface that was not already occupied by etched cuneiform markings or the leering impressions of daemonic faces that seemed to be clawing out of the metal plate. Bolter guns primed and serrated blade and chainswords bared, they flooded through the corridors they found themselves in and began slaughtering all they found.

Several of them carried no visible weapons of any kind, their armored gauntlets warping and shifting as claws and pointed pincers took their place. Armored helms morphed into growling, daemonic faces with eyes that burned red or silver – the taint of ozone and corruption preceding them wherever they went.

Imperial crewmen, unarmored and unarmed for the most part, were taken by surprise. The lucky ones were simply gunned down, their torsos and heads turned to pulped flesh and bloody mist by the roaring bolters of the Word Bearers. Those unlucky were torn limb from limb by the super-human and daemonically driven forms of the Unburdened.

One Imperial crewman, a security officer, actually had a blaster pistol in hand firing as he hurriedly tried to open a locked bulk head. Two…things dismissed him as their maws bit into the bodies of his seven-man squad that had been with him momentarily before.

“Damned monsters! Daemons!” the man screamed, tears running down his face and his heart running so fast that it seemed a heart attack was imminent. “What are you possessed of for Sith’s sake!? Die!”

One blast bolt his the shoulder of the Word Bearer and burned a cauterized wound into the armor, which was insane in it of itself due to the fact that armor should not behave the same way that flesh did. It turned its head and a too-wide mouth with fangs and a foot-long tongue slick with blood grimaced in anger at the Imperial. It’s eyes flashed bright red, pulsing. The Imperial lowered his pistol, the terror in his heart making him falter.

The creature sprung forward and gripped the man by the throat; slowly dragging him upwards, his back against the still locked bulkhead, the man looked into the face of a daemon and lost control of his senses. The tongue licked out and tasted the tears of terror that the pathetic human was letting loose.

“Possessed…yes, that is what we are,” it said with two voices, one higher pitched than the other. The sound hurt to hear. “We are Unburdened. We are the heralds of what will come. You and all of yours will be fodder for the Primordial Truth.”

The man barely had time to think of a reply before the Possessed Marine opened its maw impossibly wide and, with a loud shnik, bit half the man’s head off. The creature rolled the morsel around in its mouth experimentally – tasting, feasting – before swallowing. It writhed in pleasure to taste the man’s soul and the residual energy of his fear and terror. It was like the sweetest wine.

The bulkhead door opened unbidden. The Possessed Marine frowned at that. He and his brood were going to rip it open after feasting.

A single figure stood beyond the portal. He wore red armor too, though it was a bright red, gilded with gold and black filigree. Tall for a human, a grizzled looking man with a scar down the left side of his face confronted the two Possessed Marines. He bore no rifle or pistol, simply a small silver cylinder in his gloved hand. A gold eagle with a cog symbol clutched in its talons was emblazoned on his red-armored chest. The man threw a silk cloak from his shoulders and spread his feet apart in preparation.

“You will rue this day, foul creatures,” the man said, no fear in his voice. “For you have taken from me that which I had sworn to protect.”

“We shall feast upon your soul,” the second creature crowed, advancing past his brother. This one had a single twisted horn rising from its forehead, slick with blood. It bunched its muscles and rushed forward, the abilities of a post-human Astartes augmented by the influence of a Neverborn from the warp.

The man moved faster. Without really knowing how it had happened, the Possessed Marine found himself clutching empty air. He growled and swatted with his clawed hand. Again the man moved, dodging more swiftly than before. Anger began to build within the Possessed, impatient to feast upon this pathetic worm that defied him.

“You are corrupt,” the man said, seemingly taking his time to study the Possessed Marine. He continued to dodge, twisting and sliding, always avoiding by a hairs breadth.

“We are free.”

“Your flesh in enslaved.”

“Our mortal bonds are Unburdened.”

“I never thought it possible, but you are worse than the Sith.”

“We are far more than you can ever imagine!”

“I have lost an emperor and you have taken my regent. For this you will die.”

Before the creature could reply in kind, the man raised his small silver-lined cylinder and thrust it forward. The creature dismissed the action. What could a foolish man with a baton do to an armored and blessed Word Bearer such as himself? The creature lunged straight forward and discovered his error. A hot pain cut through and into his chest, his two-hearts sliced and cooked within an instant. The last thing the Possessed saw was a silver light slashing towards his neck.


Master Antares Draco whipped his lightsaber around, facing the other corrupted monster in front of him. The headless and speared body of the first fell into a crumpled heap, the head rolling across the metal floor like a sickening tinker toy. Fear that a normal man would have felt at facing such creatures was abated by Antares’ training and meditative state – something he called his battle-mind. Being in the presence of these creatures made his skin crawl, but he did not allow it to affect his concentration.

The second creature glared at him hatefully, glancing down at its dead brother in frustration. “You are not gene-sired. How is it you defy the blessed Unburdened?”

“I am the Master of the Imperial Knights, charged with protecting the Realm and Empire of Thrashia,” declared Antares, stepping forward, his blade in a simple guard position but wary. “The Force is my ally.”

“Force?” the creature seemed to ponder the word, tasting it. “You are not Touched by the Warp – no psyker are you.”

“I am a conduit for the Living Force,” said Antares. “And with it I shall end you.”

With a burst of Force-empowered speed, Antares moved forward. These corrupted monsters were fast, faster than most opponents that Antares had ever encountered. But they were not fast enough for one who could sense their every movement.

A clawed arm fell to the ground, cleanly cut and smoking from the cauterizing blade of the lightsaber. The monster hissed, lowering itself in a pouncing position. Antares was slightly impressed. That blow had been meant to cleave the monster in half.

“Stubborn creatures, aren’t you?”

The Possessed Marine simply hissed and launched another attack. Just like the first one, it was fast and deadly. Antares’ mind dug deeper into his battle-mind focus, stretching out with the Force. In his mind’s eye it was like watching a puppet with marionette strings being slowly moved about, each tug of the puppeteer moving a string and thereby a muscle, down to the physical whole. A claw moved past at a snail’s pace. The air seemed to sizzle around its corrupted flesh, as if it simply existing was defying the normal order of reality. It smelled of blood and gore.

The creature roared in hatred and increased its speed. Antares did likewise, stretching further and moving faster. Duck, dodge, slide, twist – waiting, using patience, watching for the perfect moment; it was what Antares had been trained to do.

The creature overreached himself, both clawed hands lunging out and revealing an opening.

Antares twirled on his heel and slashed upwards with his lightsaber. There was only a fraction of a moments resistance, the creature’s armor proving an interesting challenge for the lightsaber, before the blade passed onward and upward. The Imperial Knight twisted away and brought his sword up in a Third Form stance, a grim look of triumph on his face.

The Possessed Marine managed to take two steps forward and even released a guttural growl of hatred. Like a piece of paper being slashed in two, the monster fell into two pieces – cut from crotch to skull-top in a perfect line.


Antares powered down his lightsaber and clipped it back to his belt. He felt no other enemy life forces in the area and his two vile opponents were dead. He turned to see two full squads of white-armored Stormtroopers coming around the corner. Their officer gave a quick salute as they came to a halt before the scene of battle. The floor was caked with congealing blood and viscera.

“Master Draco,” the officer greeted. “We’ve cleared decks seven through eight. But we require assistance on the next three decks.”

“How are casualties? Is General Dregayne having trouble coordinating your units?”

“No, Master, the deployment of our contingent is going as planned,” replied the officer, frowning. “However, the enemy has been giving far stronger resistance than we expected. As far as I know, we’ve lost a full company at least in clearing out the other decks. Decks nine through eleven are even worse, as the enemy boarding pods that hit there impacted closer together – the various boarding groups have managed to link up.”

“Then there’s no time to spare, let us move on,” ordered Antares. He turned and led the stormtroopers through the filth of scattered corpses and prepared for the next encounter.


In the end it was quite bloody. Stormtroopers were forced to improvise in how they killed the Chaos Space Marines. Massed blaster rifle fire could take one down, but it took too long. Thermal detonators were used heavily, as well as imaginative uses of the Z-6 heavy rotary cannon that the Stormtroopers used for platoon support weapons. Imperial forces accounted for all twenty of the boarding pods that had impacted against the hull and clean-up crews reported that all two hundred enemies had been accounted for by body count. The fact that it had cost six hundred and fifty-three Stormtroopers and over two thousand regular crew members to do so was staggering. General Dregayne had even offered to be relieved when he reported the after action report to Admiral Dorja, which the admiral graciously refused.

**********

Bastion System Space

Admiral Dorja was not entirely unpleased when he was informed of the sudden and unexpected arrival of an allied Hapan force. During the time that he spent busily making sure that the enemy boarding action did not severely compromise any of the primary systems of his flagship, he watched the enemy fleet retreat and make leave via a warp-engine infused tear of reality. The sudden arrival of the Hapan ships and fighters had caused momentary alarm, but he had watched with some hope as they had launched missiles at the retreating Chaos fleet.

Dorja had ComScan analyze the missile that the Hapans had fired, noting the fact that it produced a momentary gravity well. He knew that Imperial Intelligence had reported vague references to such a technology in the past but he had never seen it demonstrated in action. He watched with some delight as it slowed the rear-most enemy ship, a Strike Cruiser (as his bridge intelligence officer was now calling it).

They weren’t that lucky however.

The small exit warp rift was just as unforgiving as the larger one that had swallowed Admiral Daala before. The etheric energies of another insane reality ripped the Strike Cruiser in twain, wrecking its metal form apart like a child twisting a piece of bread. It’s momentary and fiery destruction gave little solace to Admiral Dorja.

“Comms, send a general greeting to our Hapan friends and give them my compliments,” ordered Dorja. “Then, send a message to Master Draco and see if he and General Dregayne can spare an hour for debriefing in the ready-room. Also, contact whoever is in command on the surface and begin coordinating the landing of any necessary troops or emergency services.”

“Yes sir, Admiral.”

Dorja stared out the viewport of his bridge and looked upon Bastion. The world, once green and blue in color, had a dark stain over its primary continent. Great smoke clouds, evidence of destruction, hovered over it like a biblical doom. Dorja leaned forward, tired, and not-too-softly punched his fist into the armorplas of the viewport frame. He turned about when another junior officer’s voice picked up.

“Sir! We’re receiving confirmation of more Imperial ships translating into the system. We’re being hailed by Grand Admiral Thrawn!”

Dorja nodded and sighed inwardly. He’d be lucky to retain his command after this debacle. “Very well, lieutenant. Send the standard ident codes and alert the hangar that we can expect our Supreme Commander to soon be arriving aboard.”

“We’ve also arranged for a shuttle from the surface with the commanding officers there on board,” the lieutenant added.

“Good,” nodded Dorja. “Best to have them all together to explain this to the Grand Admiral…and if you would, extend an invitation to the Hapan commander and the Confederation that they may each send an observer if they so wish.”

**********

Planet Bastion | New Coruscant City


Colonel Chamberlain wiped his brow, his glove coming back wet with sweat and grime. He muttered and resigned himself to being dirty. He’d been wearing the same uniform for seventeen hours straight, sixteen of which had been during tense fighting. New Coruscant City had become a battlefield of horrors, a nightmare that Chamberlain would never have imagined possible.

He supposed that they had been lucky. His initial armored spear thrusts into the heart of the enemy forces forming around the community habitation blocks had failed. The enemy Chaos Space Marines had acted like an elastic band, falling back and threatening to cut off and destroy all Imperial forces that advanced too far into the city, and causing Chamberlain to deploy his forces far more cautiously than he would have liked. Only the sudden storm event and red-beam that had speared through the sky had signaled any change.

The enemy had withdrawn and instead of facing Chaos Space Marines, Chamberlain had been confronted by hordes of ill-equipped cultist insurrectionists. That was the word that his men – even his intelligence officers – were using to describe those maddened dregs. Cultists. It spoke of dark things that Chamberlain would have never cared to consider, seeing as how nearly all of the Thrashian Empire was either atheist or believed in the good-will of their culture’s oldest deity, the Goddess. The blood and hatred displayed by these cultists was something far darker and vile. It spoke of chaos and corruption.

Chamberlain was organizing the last cleanup operation. His clonetroopers had cornered the last of the cultist remnants within a single habitation megablock. It was going to cost lives to take the building, fighting in tight confines and up stairwells, but it had to be done. Chamberlain tried to ignore the thought that told him that his men would also be fighting across the massacred bodies of innocent Thrashian citizens that had been caught in the initial attack by the cultists. He only had another ten minutes before his shuttle arrived to take him into orbit. Admiral Dorja and Grand Admiral Thrawn would be waiting for him aboard the Olympus[.

“Alright, Lieutenant Brand, go ahead and have the third section move up to support you from the west said,” said Chamberlain. “Make sure that the medics are prepared to follow you in. There may be surviving citizens.” The clone lieutenant ignored the hopeless tone of that statement.

“Yes sir,” saluted the clone.

Chamberlain turned to start walking towards the landing zone that he had designated earlier. He could hear the high pitched drone of a Llambda shuttle’s engine coming closer. He pulled on his tunic jacket and dropped the data pad and its map that he had been looking at, handing it off to his adjutant without really looking at the boy.

“Sir!”

Chamberlain stopped and turned to see an Army regular running up to him.

“Sir! We’ve found Regent Kaine!”

“What!? Quick, give me the coordinates for a medevac-.”

“He’s dead sir,” the trooper said, his features finally coming into focus for Chamberlain. He found the young man’s face was covered in dirt and lined with sudden age. His features were gripped in mourning and anguish. “We found his body.”

Chamberlain didn’t speak for a moment.

“They murdered him, Colonel. They murdered him.”

“Have the body brought to my shuttle immediately,” managed Chamberlain, his voice going hoarse.

“They tied him up and –.”

“I said bring the body to my shuttle. Now!” rumbled Chamberlain. The trooper ran off like he’d been scalded with hot water. The colonel just didn’t want the young man to see tears in his superior’s eyes. With a sense of absolute shame and failure Chamberlain raised his comlink to his lips.

“Colonel Chamberlain to Olympus.”

“Olympus receiving. You have something Colonel?”

“Regent Kaine is dead. His body will be transported to the Olympus in my shuttle.”

[The WIck]

CNS- Hawkbat
1.5 light minutes from orbit of Bastion
Thrashian Empire, SWG

“Huh…”

That was all captain Alvairs said as unsealed his skin-suit’s helmet. He noticed that Chris was securing his own helmet on his Marine suits’ battle belt. The man from Miranda pulled out a small disc about the size of a Hockey puck, sport that only seemed popular of cold planets. There was a picture of a Neo-Griz on its top, some sort of bear analog on his home planet. He took a large pinch of the weed that it contained and placed it behind his lip.

“Aren’t you supposed to snap it between your figures to pack it?” Alvairs asked him.

“Only if you want to give away your position and get your ass blown off.” He offered the captain some, “Welfare Bear?”

The captain raised an eyebrow at that.

“Its cheaper than the competition.” He told him before sealing it back into one of his suits general purpose pouches.

“All hands this is Six.”
Six was the Confed term for the master and commander of a warship, his voice being transmitted over the 1mc intercom that would be picked up by each crew members n-plants.

“Secure from general quarters, set condition two. Primary shit get some food and then rack out. Good work people. Six out.”

He unsecured himself from his command chair and walked over to his signals officer.

“Have you updated Fleet Command on the situation here?”

“Affirm sir, I just sent the most recent holo-tank data and drone telemetry in the last data burst.”

The Confederation like their Starways allies utilized similar ftl communications.

Alvairs saw the woman seemingly muttering to herself as she sub-vocalized through the ansible.

“Sir, priority one message from FLTCOM, its authenticated. Synopsis reads as follows…

Hawkbat to proceed immediately to rendezvous with CorCom at the Hornburg Fleet base in the Alderaan System. Fleet assets are mobilizing and Terrestrial forces are being put on alert. Mission: to provide defense and protect our close allies while investigating if there is any threat to our nation from Chaotic forces. Good Hunting FTLCOM out.

“Skipper ill send the detailed brief to your n-plant”

“Understood signals. Navigation you heard the brief, set a course for the Hornburg. The Thrashians are on their own, but they seem to have things in hand here.

“Contact the Starways vessel and inform them of our orders and new mission. Also update the Imps, let them know we will be leaving as well. Mr. Agaethon it seems like you won't be lurking around on Bastion after all.”

“Roll with the punches sir, Its ok Thrashian food sucks anyway.”

The Confed ship soon disappeared into hyperspace heading towards the Core.

+ + +

Wilburforce Squirrel wished people would just call him Will. They hardly never ever do so. Most people called him Squirrel and pronounced it like the small rodent rather than with the subtle undertones of the French language that the barbaric masses simply could not understand. His surname was Squ-er-elll- for goodness sake's. Completely different.

As a result Squirrel hated most people and had developed an instant and ingrained dislike of most people. Even for all of business acumen, he could only buy his way into and an ambassadorship. It was a fun hobby his political carrier. Lots of parties with the social elite of Mon Cal, the Tion, and here in Bastion. All the fine finger foods and whoredouvres could ask for. As the cramped and dingy Marine Assault ship climbed into the the upper atmosphere of Bastion on its way to a quick meeting with the Imperial military commander Admiral Thrawn, Squirrel saw some of Bastion burned and he hoped in all his heart that it was the poor disease and welfare infested slums that were destroyed rather the the areas of plush comfort he liked to frequent.

Otherwise he'd be quite annoyed. Quite annoyed Indeed!

Blah Blah Blah we arrive at said meeting with OG's folks and Thrash's folks and we get on with the small talk!

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

The mere symbolic act of firing the Mass Shadow Pulse mine in the hopes that the SSD would destroy the Chaos ship became much more than that, as the CiC of the Muriel watched the last remaining chaos ship become torn to shreds by what the NAVCOM officer on board was now calling the RDB, or Red Death Bubble. He checked his readings again, and again, trying to find what just happened.

“Captain Mastiff.” the NCO said, “It is confirmed. One registered FES, or foreign enemy ship, has been destroyed.” The Captain just looked at the holographic representations of space around it, “Are you certain the EH (Event horizon) of the missiles had not touched the ship.

“That is confirmed, it was about 200 clicks away from the ship before the RDB initiated. Captain Mastiff placed her hands behind her back, “We’ll let the desk jockeys back at SWC Intel figure that one out. Good job, stand down from Condition Blue, and have all the fighters return to their birth.”

Looking over Bastion, the planet looked nothing like what she remembered from hours ago. The atmosphere near the site of New Coruscant City was dark with clouds of smoke and debris. She knew that below the fighting was still going on, but with only one city that was under siege, and the presence of the Imperial Navy here, there was no reason to try to send what limited support to the planet that the Nova Cruiser could give.

“If there are any known Chiss and Thrashian escape pods in the area, have them tractor into the fighter bay, only after we’ve recovered our women, and men from the planes.” she ordered the Fire Control operations NCO.

Looking at the now forming Thrashian fleet, she had to admit that she was impressed by the size of the Imperial Star Destroyers, and the Super Star Destroyer. The Imperial Star Destroyer itself dwarfed the Nova class Cruiser, and judging by the size of the Super Star Destroyer, she wondered if it’s cargo bay could hold her Cruiser in it’s bay alone.

A small beep alerted the Comscan NCO on the CiC, that several messages were coming via ansible. “Captain.” the young voice of a blond woman in the blue Hapian uniform answered. “We’re getting an Ansible from Command.”

“Command?” she asked. It was rare that command would directly call a ship of under the Hapan Detachment fleet. Usually they deligated such tasks to the local government, unless there was a declaration of war. Had the Starways Congress convened and declared war? Was all the Captain wondered, as she ordered the Comscan NCO to open the channel.

A tall man, with short brown hair in a crisp International Fleet uniform stood before her, miniaturized in a 7 inch tall hologram. Raising her hand to a crisp salute, “Yes sir.” she told the rear Admiral before her.

“At ease, Captain.” he said, just after returning the salute. “Your communications have been received. Good Job. You have new orders. You are to set course for Alderaan, to meet with Alderaanian, Delayian, Corellian, Confederacy and International Fleet representatives for a debriefing on the events of Bastion.”

“Yes sir.” she told him, while wondering what in the worlds was going on. She understood why the International Fleet called now, as the Hapan Detachment could not enter the space of the other worlds of the Starways Congress without permission of the International Fleet, but why such a large gathering of planetary representitives? What did the peace nick Alderaanians, and their cousins the Delayians have to do with this, and why was Corellia showing up to this meeting. Alderaan was outside of the narrow minded Corellians who mostly only set their sight at the end of their space.

“We will be there within the day.”

The Admiral shut off the coms, and she was about to turn to order the withdraw until the Meet and Greet Signal from the Thrashians was received by the shorter range Holonet communications. Captain Mastiff knew that this could be a second intelligence boon, but her orders were to leave.

“What do we do, this could be a great intelligence, boon, as well as a diplomatic victory for Hapes?” she thought to herself for a moment. She stood up and turned towards the Comscan NCO. “Signal the Thrashians that we will be sending over a representative of the Hapan Court to speak with the Thrashians.

The NCO was a bit confused, as the Heir to the Throne was now deceased.

“Please inform the court that we will be releasing a HRD-A, (Human Replica Droid- ansible connected), and request her majesties government to have representative ready to speak with Papa Smurf.” Load the HRD into an escape pod, and inform the Thrashians that we will launch our representative in the escape pod.”

Ten minutes later, an escape pod jettisoned itself towards the Thrashian Fleet.

“Ok, we’ve wasted enough time, Set jump coordinates for the Alderaan System.” A moment later, the Drive of the Hapan Nova Cruiser vanished from Bastion Space.

[The Ctan]

Ossus, Planet of the Jedi

Matai Lan walked the streets of the city of Knossa, the Jedi Training Center of Ossus, its buildings rose on all sides of him in the same ordained style, expressing deep cosmic harmonies in their arrangement, pleasing to look on for a multitude of species. Few planets in the galaxy resonated as fully in the force as Ossus, and even being in the city gave him a sense of serenity. A pair of students, apprentices in the force, were nearby, discussing ardently the nature of destiny, it was a discussion he had himself had, upon occasion.

He had been feeling sick, many of the jedi had, he thought, and the cause was as of yet unclear. It seemed that something terrible had happened, somewhere. But what it was precisely, eluded him.

Without information there was no immediate way to respond, and though he could feel a temptation to simply get into motion, any motion, information beyond the mere feeling of atrocity was hard to obtain.

He folded his arms within his robes, and pressed on, if the younger jedi had no sensation of the violation that the force had just endured, he certainly saw no reason to draw their attention to it. Not yet.

That, he felt, as surely as he could see the suns, was coming.

His commlink purred from his pocket, and Matai drew it out, “Matai Lan,” he said by way of answer.

“Jedi Lan, please report to hangar bay seven for briefing,” the operator said.

Hangar bay seven? An odd choice.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said, “what’s the mission?” he asked.

“Diplomatic mission to Coruscant.”

The hangar bay was overlooked by a control room, built into a wall dividing between them. The cliffs of Osssus were home to warrens of hangars, out of sight of the nearby buildings for the most part, and more importantly, allowing for a measure of additional security against bombing raids.

The warden on duty was a jedi, as many of those on Ossus were, refraining from the traditional robes however, he looked more of a technician.

“There’s not much to say,” he said, as Matai repeated the question, and holding up a holodisc, “There’s been an attack on the Imperial capital of Bastion,” the warden said, as Matai took it, looking down through the retracted shutters of the observation window at the sleekly V shaped forms of the jedi starfighters, Delta-7s, one of which was being prepared.

“What kind of an attack?”

“No one knows,” Warden Morallis said.

“Have you heard from the council at all?”

“Nothing yet, we’ll keep you posted, but this request is from the Compact,” he said, “addressed to you by name.” He wasn’t completely surprised.

“Ah, yes, I am not completely surprised,” Matai said, after a moment. “Thanks for keeping it quiet, then, I’ll be back if needed.”

Minutes later, a solitary fighter connected to a hyperdrive ring and flashed out of existence.

Shili

The Compact Council headquarters was an old building, restored recently. Rising from the grasslands outside Shili’s capital like a citadel of ancient myth, the only things that told of the important role of the building to the casual eye were the numerous dishes and antennae of the hypercomm systems. It was an old building, designed in a time thousands of years hence, but it elicited a sense of watchful caution and tranquillity for all within.

At its upper peak, a council room commanded fine views in all directions over the land, but no one present, five of the council members, the minimum to serve as quorum, was paying the view any attention. Instead, between the ring-like table, a shimmering blue hologram of a human woman in a cloak and over-wrought coruscanti hat was answering questions.

“I cannot explain what is happening at this time,” Selria Lan, Conclave Representative of the Compact and Centrality Sector said, “the information package we’ve got so far merely covers an attack of unknown scope and scale, which has totally crippled Bastion. There have been no communications from the planet in some hours, and we don’t know who mounted the attack or how, let alone why.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Lon Tarses, the representative of Tallan, said, “Why would anyone want to attack the Thrashians?”

“The leading candidate is probably another Thrashian faction, civil wars aren’t that uncommon in the galaxy, it might be their turn.” Asali’theea, the Rylothian representative, suggested with a sweep of her manicured hand.

“We’d surely have heard of something before that,” Lon said, “Most civil wars don’t just start, bang your capital’s gone?”

“Perhaps a natural disaster of some kind, rather than an attack then? A major hyperdrive equipped ship ploughing into the planet could do that kind of damage, or a plasma reactor explosion?”

“Perhaps,” Lon said, “We should send assistance?”

“Perhaps, but doing so without invitation would be far too presumptuous at this stage,” Selria said.

“Good point. Maybe we should sent an alert to what health corps assets we have, and have them assemble at say, Ord Mantell, a big crossing point and we’ve no major concerns about the locals, that’ll put them one hyperlane away from Bastion if aid is requested,” Lon said.

“Make sure to do it openly, release a press statement and everything, we don’t want step on any toes.”

“Agreed,” Lon said, “What about this conference?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Selria said, “But we’re probably not going to be making waves in this thing.”

“What if it is a military threat?” Asali asked.

“If it is, with half our naval personnel on projects elsewhere and a fleet that’s best described as a flotilla, there’s nothing we’ll be able to contribute in the next weeks at least,” Dyvan of Bryx said, crossing his arms, the Zabrak representative folding his arms.

“We’ll have to hope that is not the case then,” Asali said, happily ignorant.

[CoreWorlds]

Personal Quarters, Royal Palace, Onderan

It is a time of terror and destruction, where madness reigns. A massive being in a form of power armor unlike any the galaxy has seen before. The being holds the entire galaxy in a massive clawed hand and grins madly as gibbering, laughing things borne from the spawn of the netherworld are released from terrible wounds in the fabric of reality, landing on planets and bringing death and destruction everywhere.

The being laughed madly and squeezed the galaxy tight, red light pouring from the crevasses of his fingers like blood. And he spoke with a voice that roared to the heavens. "Let the Galaxy...BURN!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" A bloodcurdling scream echoed in the Royal Palace of Onderan, starting the guards and servants who handled the night shift. They came running to a bedroom to see a young man thrashing and convulsing, trapped in the grip of terrible nightmares.

"The Prince! Send for the healers!" A guard shouted as they fought to hold down the boy. "And for the Queen."

"No need. I'm already here." Came the regal voice of Queen Mina. She was also worn out, but she would not allow herself to rest while her only son was in danger. "This is something more than a nightmare..."

She immediately went to comfort her son, her heir to the throne. She began crooning in the old Onderon tongue as she held his head to her, a litany of calmness, an ancient song powered by the Force. By the time the healers arrived, his screams turned to quiet moans. "Care for him, my healers and inform me when he awakens!"

"Yes, your Majesty!" With the healers at work, Queen Mina allowed them to do their job and retreated from the room.

It is as I feared. The boy is strong in the Force and has begun receiving the terrible visions plaguing the Force users here, including myself... She thought. The emergency Conclave on Coruscant only made it worse, with the rumors of Something happening at Bastion. Too little information was available to make a decision concerning the sector she is sworn to protect. She called for a retainer to call upon Councilor Damsis Rendup on Coruscant to keep her updated on the Conclave...and she called for another one to speak to the Jedi Enclave on Onderon. It was past time for her son's training to begin. She had resisted the Onderan Jedi Order's offer because of his duties as the Prince...but with this new nightmare...she can wait no longer...

OOC: Finally, I have arrived. Just an entry and a teaser into the new SWG!

[Thrashia]

Onboard the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer Olympus | Bastion


The conference suite had never held so many grim faced Thrashian officers. A pall of failure hung over the gathered men, each refusing to meet the eyes of the others by instead focusing on some part of the steel table or an empty chair. Admiral Dorja, sitting by the head of the table – but not at it; that chair was ominously empty at the moment. Colonel Chamberlain had arrived last, less than ten minutes before, and had shocked some of the other officers by the fact that his uniform was dirtied, bloody, and his visible skin covered in smoke grime. Captain Beauregard, the only Intelligence officer that had been present at General Headquarters on the surface to survive, had visibly flinched at the colonel’s face of anguish and self-loathing.

The Hapan observer, who had been greeted by a formal detachment of stormtroopers and a junior officer detailed to guide them to the conference room, was given a seat at the end of the table. None of the Thrashian officers attempted any conversation, for the most part simply nodding in recognition of the officer’s presence and then stoically going back to staring into nothing.

The main door of the conference room slid open to reveal a tall, white-uniformed figure. The blue skin of his face screwed tight and his eyebrows crouched in fierce concentration, Grand Admiral Thrawn entered the room and stepped to his place at the head of the table. Before sitting down his glowing red eyes swept the room and took in the faces and mien of the gathered officers.

“Captain Beauregard,” Thrawn broke the silence. “I would like you to begin the debriefing. You successfully brought up and safeguarded the central intelligence back-up archives from the surface – a task for which you are to be commended. Now, if you will sir, please begin.”

Captain Beauregard stood up from his chair. He was likely the youngest officer in the room and it showed. His thick and groomed mustache twitched slightly. He saluted Thrawn and picked up his data pad from the conference table. The captain began reading from it.

“Grand Admiral, fellow officers, I would first like to say that we are all grieving the loss of our Regent – but as they say, we must soldier on.”

The men rustled in their chairs slightly.

“The first sign of activity that lead to this tragedy began in the early hours of Torsday, thirty-six hours ago. Provost Marshals received news of a protest forming in the docking district of Newport Down around zero-five-hundred hours. Appropriate level riot response teams were deployed to encircle the protest and ensure that it did not disturb the day’s operations at the docks.

“At zero-five-thirty hours, the main Ubiqtorate headquarters in New Coruscant City was attacked and destroyed. A hover truck used for transporting fuel was stolen from the Banston Corp Refinery and rammed through the main entrance of the building where the intelligence offices were located. Judging by preliminary reports from the ground, we can assume that several hundred pounds of explosives were used in addition to the fuel already stored within the truck. The building collapsed and all within were killed.

“At zero-five-forty hours, the Interstellar Communications orbital known as Alpha Station was destroyed by an internal explosion. At this point we can fairly well postulate that saboteurs gained access to the station and detonated a capitol ship-grade munition. This, coupled with atmospheric disturbances that were beginning to happen around the same time, led to a breakdown of all long range communication by our forces.

“By zero-seven-hundred hours the ‘riots’ had reached their bursting point and revealed to be a full-scale insurrection by forces unknown. The Provost Marshal units that had gone into Newport Down were slaughtered.

“At zero-eight-hundred hours the insurrection forces surged out of Newport Down and into the Old City quarters. The last major force from the Provost Marshals was destroyed and reports began flooding in of power-armored giants moving with and commanding the various mobs of insurrectionists. The Old City was taken and bypassed within twenty minutes. At this point in time, General Maximillian Veers declared martial law.

“Between zero-eight-hundred and zero-nine-hundred, various Imperial Army units were deployed from their bases by High Command and into the New Coruscant City residential districts. Skirmishes began at various points throughout the district, with insurrectionist mobs making massed charges. At this time the power-armored giants were identified as Chaos Space Marines.

“At ten-hundred hours we suffered an even greater breakdown in the chain of command when a Chaos Space Marine force penetrated the perimeter of Tower 66 and destroyed High Command Headquarters. General Veers died in the assault alongside his entire staff.

“For the next several hours the various Imperial Army units that were able to engaged the enemy along a fragmented front, attempting to pierce the line and into the residential districts that had been overrun. Colonel Ben Chamberlain took effective operational command of three regiments that were in the vicinity and organized a defensive line.

“During the same time that the battle was taking place in the city, Admiral Daala gathered her Fleet forces at the edge of the system. Her super star destroyer Gorgon Reborn, five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, two Allegiance-class Star Destroyers, and three squadrons of Fast Action Response Cruisers were gathered. Operating under orders from the Supreme Commander, Admiral Daala took this gathered force and advanced into orbital position over Bastion. Vice Admiral Dorja was left at the lagrange point with the Olympus to coordinate with any further Imperial reinforcements that arrived.

“At fifteen-hundred hours, Admiral Daala’s fleet group took up a closed position over Bastion. It was at this point that the atmospheric disturbances that had been encountered throughout the day become more erratic. The source of these disturbances was revealed to be the creation of a warp rift. Due to a bloody and horrific ceremony held on the surface, a beam of pure warp energy was launched into orbit and there cut a rift into reality. Unfortunately, the rift was opened at the center of Admiral Daala’s fleet group and all vessels were destroyed.

“Less than twenty minutes later, at fifteen-twenty-hundred hours, a Chaos Fleet was detected exiting the resulting warp rift. The rift subsequently closed after this exodus of vessels, and the warp beam that had started on the planet shot out-system for destinations unknown. Chaos Space Marine forces, which had at this point been keeping Imperial forces from gaining ground within the residential district, began an orderly withdraw. The cultists, as we then knew them as, were used in massed charges against battered Imperial units – keeping them from interfering with the withdrawal.

“At sixteen-hundred hours Vice Admiral Dorja executed a surprise attack against the Chaos fleet in orbit, attempting to trap them against the planet whilst in the middle of their withdrawal from the planet. Two enemy battlecruisers and two cruisers were destroyed, four drop ships were destroyed, and sixty-nine enemy fighters were destroyed. The Olympus suffered superficial damage and was boarded by enemy Chaos Space Marines. Simultaneously the Chaos fleet abandoned their boarders and fled into the warp.

“The Hapan ship appeared out of hyperspace at sixteen-fifty-hundred and opened fire against the retreating Chaos fleet, resulting in the destruction one a third enemy cruiser.

“Between Seventeen-hundred hours and twenty-thee-hundred hours, ground operations were conducted by Colonel Chamberlain and all Imperial forces available on the surface. By midnight, all remnants of cultist forces were destroyed and as I speak the last holdouts are being raided and eliminated in the Newport Down area.”

Captain Beauregard looked up from his data pad and looked at Thrawn.

“That concludes my report, sir.”