Great Works: Dark Whispers - CM Shimir Sheerelk
Shimir Sheerelk’s sides ached and his
lungs felt ready to burst as he rounded the final turn, practically limping
back to his comrades, already waiting across the finish line. His cheeks
smoldered under the respectful, if not pitiful, looks of his peers. God this
is embarrassing, he thought to himself. It didn’t seem all that long ago that
he would have been first across that line, and not have felt a thing. But it
was a long time ago, now that he thought about it. He was a different person
then: Cocky, arrogant. Looking back, he supposed he was half decent. But now
he was a little older. He’d like to believe a little wiser too. Regardless,
he was definitely a little more tired, more fragile, slower, grayer
and...maybe...weaker? He hated that word.
Shimir
sprinted the last hundred meters across the line and fell to his knees. The
members of Kappa squadron gathered around him to offer an encouraging word or a
pat on the back. Shimir registered very little of this. He was focused on the
searing pain in his ribs and the headache throbbing away in the depths of his
cerebrum. Brukhar, a Flight Leader and Shimir’s longtime friend came over and
threw a muscular arm around Shimir.
“Welcome
back old-timer. Good to see you again.” Brukhar’s words were kind, and full
of a vigor characteristic of (and, Shimir was beginning to believe, exclusive
to) the blessed zeal of youth. Shimir grunted a response. He would have liked
to have done more, but his lungs were straining under the effort of drawing in
just enough air to keep him conscious: Conversation would have to wait.
Brukhar chuckled and took his place in line next to Shimir as Commander Moagin
Daar approached to inspect the squadron. Shimir did his best to come to
attention and nearly buckled as his back joined with his head and lungs in a
choir of protest against his own overexertion. His superior must have felt the
pain radiating from his broken body as he quickly bade the squadron to stand
down. Daar meticulously paced up and down the line, carefully examining each
member. Shimir felt terribly inadequate as Daar made detailed note of Shimir
in all his anguish. Once Daar had finished his “Good work today
gentlemen. Now, clean up and report to the combat chamber for some drills.
After that, lets go over the film of our last patrol, see how we can tidy up
the formation a bit. Remember we have a ship wide formal banquet tonight, so
you might want to spend some time dusting off those dress blues...”
“Not
a problem for Shimir sir” Lieutenant Thud Asphalt chimed in. The rest of the
squadron shared a subdued chuckle. Daar raised an eyebrow in mild amusement.
Thud explained: “After spending a couple months on the Daedalus I’m suprised
that he remembers how to put on anything else.” Shimir laughed inspite of
himself at that. To some point it was true. Shimir served as a professor of
communications on Platform Daedalus, training the Empire’s finest in all the
latest technology. After spending a number of months on the platform, he had
grown accustomed to the formality of it all. It was hard getting back into the
swing of a more spartan way of life. Difficult, yes, but not uncomfortable.
Shimir saw a thin smile snake across Daar’s lips, and evaporate just as
quickly. He swung his arm up and quickly checked his chronometer.
“All
right guys, you have fifteen minutes, if you want to shoot the breeze I’d
suggest you do it in the showers.” A collective groan worked it’s way through
the group as each member grabbed his bag and made to leave the training facilities.
Shimir was halfway through the enormous sliding glass doors when he heard a
voice behind him.
“Commander
Sheerelk” Daar called. Shimir turned to see his Commander standing back by
the track, his arms folded crisply behind him. “Please stay a moment.” Shimir
cursed softly as he stumbled back towards his Commander. He had expected
something like this. Naturally, Daar would feel challenged by Shimir’s rank
and long history with Kappa. Shimir could only hope that the ensuing
conversation would be relatively friendly and blissfully short. Daar made sure
everyone had left the room, and broke into a reserved grin.
“How
do you feel?” He asked. Shimir returned the smile and brewed for a moment in
contemplation. How did he feel? He felt like he was about to explode. Yet
buried somewhere between his aching lungs and searing ribs, there hid an
emotion that he had altogether forgotten about. He felt contentedness, a place
of belonging he had never experienced onboard the Daedalus. He looked back at
Daar.
“I
feel good.” He answered. Remembering his place, he quickly added: “Sir.”
Daar shook his head gently and waved away the title.
“No
need for that.” He extended a hand. Shimir took it and gave it a firm, but
friendly shake. “It’s good to have you back Commander.” Now it was Shimir’s
turn to shake his own head and grin.
“Just
call me Elk Moagin.” Daar nodded and internalized the request. Then, again
glancing at his Chronometer, he addressed Shimir again.
“Well
“Elk” you now have ten minutes before you need to report to the combat
chamber.” Shimir enjoyed a brief chuckle at this. Then, unable to tell
whether or not Daar was joking, he grabbed his gear and sprinted off to the
showers.
...
On
the bridge, Pit Crew Overseer Captain Grim Paxod smiled a twisted smile. He
stood at attention, his arms folded neatly behind his back, and his deep green
eyes alert. Nothing escaped those eyes. Every optical exam he had ever taken
had verified his claim to perfect vision. Growing up on a homeworld such as
his own, in the outer orbit of his solar system, had developed vision that was
truly extraordinary. His was a world basked in shadows and darkness. Ones
eyes were ones most valuable assets. They were your defense, your path to
knowledge and your first warning of danger. In short, they were your
survival. Often, the eyes of his race were sold on the black market to pirates
and mercenaries wishing for optical enhancement. Captain Paxod’s eyes were
priceless. Once, when merely a Lieutenant, he had been in command of a gun
battery on a Nebulon-B Frigate when the targeting systems had failed. Paxod
had stepped in to manually target the guns, and had actually reci He
watched silently as each member of his crew worked diligently under his burning
stare and ever ready verbal whip. Sensors, flight control, communications and
countless other stations all working in perfect unison to operate the flagship
of the Empire, the Sovereign. It was a remarkable machine, the Sovereign, but
to Paxod, this inner machine was even more remarkable. The machine made of
flesh and blood that grinded its gears daily to see to the operation and
maintenance of the colossus of a starship.
Paxod
noticed something. A small red strobe in the dark of the pit. It was coming
from the engineering console. The officer at that station had noticed it to
and was hurrying to solve the problem before Paxod was forced to take action.
But the alarm continued. Annoyed Paxod moved into action.
“Lieutenant”
He shouted into the pit. There were exactly fourteen Lieutenants in that pit,
but all of them knew exactly which one had fallen under the whip. “What seems
to be the trouble?” He growled, his eyes burning into the Lieutenant’s back.
The young officer turned in his chair, his face a blend of confusion and fear.
“Captain
sir, I think you better take a look at this.” The Lieutenant answered, his
voice a mere tremble. Paxod’s annoyance was nearly overshadowed by confusion.
His crew rarely found occasion to invite his presence. This must be serious.
Striding down the long, dura-steel ramp into the pit, he made his way to the
engineering station in long, measured strides. Arriving there, he quickly
scanned the results of the cursory diagnostic the Lieutenant had run. Then,
abandoning any pretense of officer like conduct, he turned, and sprinted out of
the pit, and towards the office of the Commodore.
...
The
Commodore of the Sovereign leaned back into his soft, bantha hide chair as he
took another pull from his cup full of Corellian tea. Well, mostly Corellian
tea thought Vice Admiral Stele Pellaeon with a sly grin. If perhaps a trace
amount of Kessel spice had worked its way in with the tea well, being the
Commodore of the Sovereign had its advantages.
Pellaeon
took another long pull from the cup and began to riffle through the ever
growing stack of paperwork on his desk. Maintenance reports, diagnostics,
requests to transfer and battle reports were strewn about the mirror topped
table. Stele could remember a time he could actually see his own reflection on
the surface. Now the mirrored top served only to compound his beaurecratic
nightmare by making the paperwork seem deeper and more numerous. Paperwork,
the bane of a Commodore. When did headquarters expect him to find time to
complete it? Between ship inspections, the management of three separate wings
and the deployment of an entire taskforce, Pellaeon was hard pressed to find
enough time to eat and sleep, much less fill out paperwork. And looming over all
of this, casting a shadow over the mountain of paperwork, Pellaeon, and the
Sovereign itself, was the presence of Grand Admiral Astatine.
Not
that the presence of the Grand Admiral was a bad thing. Nor was his visit an
unwelcome or unexpected one. Stele found the man to be extremely affable,
amiable and quick to make one feel important. Certainly the man asked a lot,
and expected his requests to be met, he was Grand Admiral of the Emperors
Hammer. And those who met such high standards were equally rewarded. That was
not the issue. The issue simply was that his visit made the crew a little
edgy. A little too eager to excel, to prove their worth. Certainly the zeal
was admirable, but it was proving to cause more good intentioned accidents than
positive results. Whatmore, Astatine seemed to exude an aura of majesty, of
divine purpose that some found to be somewhat intimidating. While all efforts
by both the Grand Admiral and the crew had been outstanding, the brief period
during his visit had recorded more accidents than in the entire previous two
solar cycles combined. Stele frowned in deliberation.
He
would not have the time to think on the matter further for at that moment,
Captain Paxod skidded around the corner into his office and doubled over,
struggling to catch his breath. Paxod’s reputation for a collected and calm
demeanor preceded him, and Stele found himself to be somewhat suprised at the
officers current state.
“Captain
Paxod, what seems to be the trouble?” Stele asked, a scowl snaking its way
across his brow as he gently set down his cup of tea. Paxod seemed all at once
to remember his place and snapped to attention and presented a crisp salute
which Stele casually returned.
“Sir,
we have noticed an anomaly with the engines, I recommend dropping from
hyperspace and coming to a full stop to perform repairs.” Stele chuckled and
took another drink from his tea. Frankly he was slightly annoyed by Paxod’s
alarmist diagnosis. He would have to note that in his next evaluation of the
Pit Crew Overseer. More paperwork.
“That
won’t be necessary Captain the remaining engines will have enough redundancy to
see us through. Note the malfunction and we will perform repairs when time
allows. Thank you for the report.” He motioned Paxod to leave, but the young
officer held firm. Stele raised a slender eyebrow in curiosity. Paxod spoke
hesitantly:
“Sir,
it isn’t just one engine.” Stele rose from his chair, a knot of dread winding
itself around his stomach.
“How
many of the engines report the anomaly?” Stele asked, his voice barely a
whisper. In Paxod’s eyes he saw the same emotion, a concoction of disbelief
and terror that he felt in the back of his throat.
“All
of them sir.” Paxod answered, shaking his head in utter disbelief. At that moment
the office was overcome by a terrible vibration as both Paxod and Pellaeon were
thrown to the ground, the Corellian tea spilling onto the mirrored desk and
reams of paperwork.
...
In
the bowels of the ship, huddled in front of a small viewscreen the members of
Kappa felt perhaps better than anyone else the full extent of the catastrophe.
The ship felt, for a moment, as if she might hold on, much like a wounded
runner struggling to limp across the finish line. Only moments later however,
the entire ship was overcome with violent convulsions; a wounded animal in her
death throes. The members of Kappa Squadron were flung from their seats and
the room became a sprawling mass of arms, legs and various extremities. As the
ship gradually came to rest, the men slowly began to untangle themselves,
gently nursing their assorted injuries. As Shimir gingerly got to his feat, he
verbalized the sentiment on every tongue in the room:
“What
in the name of Palpatine...?” His query was cut short by the tinny, yet
noticeably flustered voice of Wing Commander Zeth Duron over the comm channel:
“Kappa
Squadron, report to the flight deck and prepare for possible scramble. Saddle
up.” Commander Daar moved to grab his flight bag, and the rest of the squadron
followed suit. Daar turned back, his expression grim, and his gear slung
loosely over his shoulder.
“I
don’t know what all of this is about men, but stay alert, lets all come back
alive.” The squadron murmured their agreement and filed out the door. “Oh,
and men” Daar came again, as the members turned to listen. “I think its safe
to assume that the banquet has been canceled.” What few chuckles this drew,
were decidedly nervous chuckles.
...
On
the bridge of the Sovereign, chaos presided over all. The pit, which only
minutes ago had been a model of order and purpose had since dissolved into the
epitome of pandemonium. In a vain attempt to control all of this was Captain
Paxod, standing at the precipice of the pit, shouting orders through the din of
all the chaos, ordering diagnostics and relaying orders for repairs throughout
the ship. He had long since discarded his portable comm unit: He found that
the sting of his voice and his repeated verbal lashings produced faster, and
more desirable results. Seated at the command chair was Vice Admiral Pellaeon,
intently studying the reports coming back to him, reading them over and over.
The news wasn’t getting any better. Pellaeon rose and strode over to Paxod,
noting the utter disarray in the pit as he approached the overseer.
“Report
Captain” Pellaeon’s voice was terse and riddled with frustration, and the
slightest hint of fear. Paxod turned and shrugged, showing not the slightest
sign of hope.
“The
reports have been erratic and often contradictory sir, but through cross
reference I have gathered a basic idea of the situation. It’s not looking good
sir.”
“Elaborate”
Pellaeon ordered, bracing himself for the worst possible news. The report
Paxod gave him wasn’t that bad, but it was pretty close.
“Hyperdrive
is out for good, nothing there to salvage. We will have to wait for a convoy
from the triad platforms to repair it. We have lost two of our sublight
engines and another four are severely damaged...” Pellaeon cut in:
“Estimated
repair time?” Paxod grimaced.
“With
a full engineering detail working on it...” Paxod checked the reports. “At
least six hours.” Pellaeon rubbed his heavy eyes with his hands.
“Can
we still move?” He asked through his hands. Paxod grimaced again and shook
his head.
“As
of right now we have only navigational thrusters. With needed repairs, we can
maybe limp back to the the nearest port.” Pellaeon nodded thoughtfully. “Sir
perhaps if we recalled the task force...” Paxod began, but Pellaeon shook his
head to cut him off.
“The
task force is all accounted for, engaged in peacekeeping and interdiction
across the sector. No Captain, until we get those engines repaired we are
completely on our own.
...
Warrant
Officer Niheim Glart frowned at his console. As assistant communications
officer he had spent the last few minutes organizing the cacophony of reports
and inquiries coming in all throughout the ship. The signal he was receiving
now though was different. It was from an external source: It was another
ship. Or rather, a convoy of ships. Whatmore, their tags were Imperial. He
had already cross referenced this with the boys over in cartography and the
reply had only propagates his growing conundrum: There were no Imperial ships
reported in this system. He turned back to look at Captain Paxod. The man
stood at over two meters naturally, and his elevation above the pit gave him
the quality of divinity. His was a fearful visage to behold. The pit crew had
already bestowed upon him the affectionate moniker of “Rancor Paxod” for both
his tenacity and the unprecedented anguish caused by provoking his wrath.
Still, the possibility for relief outweighed the anger “Captain Paxod”
Glart called from his station, as he watched Paxod’s fiery gaze traverse the
pit and focus on him. “Sir there is an Imperial convoy in the system asking if
we need assistance.” Paxod’s face was drawn tight as he spat his answer.
“I
don’t know crewmen, do you thing we are in need of assistance?” Glart’s face
burned red as he turned back to his station. “Inform them of our situation.”
Paxod ordered. Glart did so and moments later had the reply.
“Sir,
they claim to have a full contingent of engineers and parts.” Paxod’s mood
seemed to lighten a bit. “They request permission to come aboard.” Glart
turned to look at Paxod. Paxod nodded and turned to Vice Admiral Pellaeon who
rose from his chair.
“Permission
granted” Pellaeon answered. “Mr. Glart who do we have on flight deck?” Glart
sent the query into the void. moments later the report came back from the
flight deck and he had his answer.
“Wing
Two sir.” Pellaeon smiled.
“Good,
my old alma matre. Scramble Kappa, have them escort those freighters to the
Sovereign. With any luck, we can accelerate our repairs.” With that, Pellaeon
returned to his chair to brood over the reports. Paxod shot a thin smile at
Glart, who returned to his station to organize the procedure.
...
Out
in the cold, forbidding void of space, Shimir began to regain his bearings.
Climbing back into the cockpit had been, for him, like putting on a pair of old
boots. Slightly uncomfortable perhaps, but decidedly familiar. The droids had
armed his missile boat with a light load of ordinance, and had tractored him
out through the ray shield and into the cold vacuum of space. Now he sat in
formation with the rest of Kappa Squadron, watching the first of three long
freighters inch its way towards the Sovereign. Shimir yawned widely and
returned to his thoughts. Not the most exciting assignment for his first time
back in the cockpit.
The
squadron, naturally, had taken to speculation on the cause of the accident.
Thud suspected a simple overheat of the engines, but Brukhar claimed to doubt
this and Shimir was forced to agree. The engine was crew was too highly
trained to allow such an egregious oversight as this. Furthermore, Shimir felt
that something deeper, more sinister was in the works. He could neither
explain nor rationalize this premonition, he could simply identify it. Nestled
back in the depths of his cerebrum he understood the dire ramifications of this
feeling, the horrible conclusion to be drawn from this, and the terrible word
that now danced upon his lips: Sabotage. How he understood it must be this he
could not fully explain, he just knew it to be so.
The
first freighter was just now slowing to dock with the sovereign, extending its
airlock connections to meet with those of the massive flagship. Kappa now turned
its attention to the second freighter of the convoy as the first secured its
attachment to the Sovereign. For a brief moment there was a terrible silence.
Then, Shimir’s cockpit flared with the light of massive explosion as the first
freighter, still attached to the Sovereign, burst into a violent nova.
Secondary explosions convulsed throughout the flagship, sending debris, refuse,
and corpses tumbling from the ripped belly of the ship into the frozen void.
When the explosions subsided, the Sovereign hung there, gutted and mutilated;
dead in the water. The comm channel became a din of screaming, cursing and
questions as the pilots of Kappa raced to find answers.
“Lieutenant
Mithel get me a manifest of the cargo of those two freighter, now!” Daar
screamed through noise. Mithel, the leader of the third flight of TIE
defenders, complied and Shimir watched the craft race towards the freighter,
moments later, it returned.
“Explosives
sir. Packed to the prim with explosives. Daar cursed loudly into his comm.
“Alright
then, flight three move to disable those. Commander Brukhar, give me a report
on the Sovereign.” There was a moments pause as Brukhar ran the necessary
scans. Meanwhile the dark of the void was now a lit with the piercing blue fangs
of flight threes ion cannons, stabbing through the dark to immobilize the
freighters. Then the comm channel hissed to life as Brukhar delivered the
news.
“It’s
not good sir. Shields are down, hull is holding at eighty percent, and systems
are virtually disabled.”
“Virtually
disabled?” Daar asked.
“Vital
systems are running on tertiary backups, but they won’t last long without
repair. She’s crippled sir.” Brukhar explained.
“Can
she scramble fighters?” Daar asked, still clinging to the faintest trace of
hope.
“No
sir. She’s just fighting to keep herself from falling apart.” Brukhar
replied. Daar sighed a heavy sigh over the comm channel.
“Well
then, I guess we get to play the heroes today. Form a defensive perimeter
around the Sovereign. Nothing gets through. This day will not be the
Sovereign’s last.”
...
For
Captain Paxod, the entire experience of the engine failure and ensuing pandemonium
had been the single most embarrassing and utter crisis of his entire career.
Paralleled to their current situation however, it was a triumph by comparison.
No longer was there chaos in the pit. now, all was silent, as crew and
officers alike stared at eachother in utter bewilderment. How could this
happen?
Vice
Admiral Pellaeon rose to his feet, silhouetted by the faint, flickering light
of the backup illumination.
“Anybody
care to explain what just happened?” Pellaeon growled. The room stagnated
with an uncomfortable aura as nobody felt ready to step forward as the
sacrificial messenger. Finally, a yeoman spoke up, his voice cracking and
trembling:
“Well,
s...sir, I believe the f...f...frieghter detonated itself, severely damaging
the ship and...” Pellaeon laughed an ironic laugh and shouted to the crew.
“Oh,
wonderful. I needed that, because, well, I guess I just missed that part.”
His smile faded as he spun on his heel and motioned to his guards. “Somebody
get the professor off of my bridge.” The yeoman turned pale as two black-clad
guards clasped him by the arms and led him through the heavy blast doors and
into the main concourse. The vacant position was quickly filled by a paler,
even more frightened yeoman. “Status!” Stele called out into the silent pit.
Paxod briefly scanned what few reports he had available and replied.
“Our
shields are down sir, and we have significant hull damage. Systems are
virtually inoperative.” Pellaeon grinned again, that same malicious grin and leaned
forward in his chair.
“Well
golly Captain and I thought we were in trouble.” Paxod smiled nervously and
for an awful moment feared Pellaeon might motion again for the guards, but the
Vice Admiral’s hand returned quickly to his chair. “How soon can we have all
of this fixed?” Paxod grimaced again.
“With
Triad support we could expedite repairs but as it is...” Pellaeon raised his
eyebrows. “One full day at least.” The Vice Admiral groaned and rubbed a
heavy hand across his sagging eyelids.
“What
systems are operative?” Pellaeon asked. After a cursory scan of the reports,
he affirmed what everybody already assumed.
“Only
vital ones. Backup lighting, life support, systems that we could not live
without.”
“How
about turbolasers, the flight deck, communications?” Pellaeon asked the
questions, not out of ignorance of the situation, but rather out of the hope
that things were not as bad as they seemed. Sadly, they were, and Paxod could
only smile a crestfallen smile and shake his head. Pellaeon leaned back in his
chair and turned to look out the enormous triangular portholes. “Then our only
protection is that single squadron...”
At
that moment Paxod noticed something leap into view, distorted momentarily by
the transition form lightspeed to sublight. Even at a significant distance,
its cylindrical, irregular shape was unmistakable. “Mon Calamari Cruiser to
port.” Paxod called. He briefly considered making the call for
battlestations, and then had to contain an ironic laugh at the thought. He
turned to Pellaeon. “Sir, the consoles in the pit are dead. What shall I have
the crew do?” Pellaeon turned slowly to Paxod and looked directly into Paxod’s
sharp green eyes.
“Pray,
Mister Paxod.” The Commodore answered. “Have them pray...”
...
Shimir’s
heart raced as he watched the gargantuan MC-90 cruiser slowly work its way
towards the crippled Sovereign. The cylindrical titan bristled with the sharp
fangs of turbolasers, ready to dig into the Sovereign’s soft flesh, now without
the protection of her shields. A moment later, Commander Daar came over the
comm channel.
“Alright
men they have just scrambled their first wave of fighter. Looks like we got a
flight of B-Wings and two flights of X-Wings. The X-Wings are probably just
fighter support but we can’t afford to be wrong. Pick your targets and good
hunting. Nobody gets near the Sovereign.” The fighters of Kappa broke
formation and wheeled to pursue their targets. The stick danced in Shimir’s
hand as if of its own accord. His basic nature took charge as he suprised
himself with how comfortable he was back in the heat of combat. He bore down
on the second flight of X-Wings from above, twisting his ship into a tight
spiral and spitting hot green death at the tight formation. His laser fire
impacted against the shields of several rebel fighters, and they quickly
abandoned their attack trajectory and broke formation. Shimir banked hard to
stay with the leader and came in right behind him. The X-Wing banked violently
and Shimir pulled hard on his stick to keep up. Flicking a “Surrender
yourself unto me” A dark, feminine voice spoke softly into his hear, sending
cool female hands to caress his face. Shimir closed his eyes and reached
outside the missile boat, and felt the X-Wing bank again. Shimir was quick and
banked with him. The X-Wing made to dive but Shimir grasped at it with these
ethereal hands and held it in place. Shimir opened his eyes and saw the
X-Wing; dead in his sights with the steady tone of a missile lock. He thumbed
the firing stud. The X-Wing burst into violent conflagration as flames
exploded from its hull and evaporated a moment later in the oxygen less void of
space. Shimir soared through the debris and wheeled off towards the next
X-Wing, who was diving hard in an attempt to shake Brukhar, who was pursuing
closely. Shimir switched to lasers and raked the X-Wing with fire from his
solitary laser cannon, washing the fighter with hot plasma. The lasers punched
through the X-Wings shields and ripped at the fuselage, ga “That was my kill
old man” Brukhar joked over the comm. Shimir shared a brief laugh, then
checked his map for his next prey. Mithel’s third flight of TIE Defenders had
destroyed or driven off the remaining X-Wings, leaving only the enemy fighter-bombers.
Commander Daar and Lieutenant Thud Asphalt were in pursuit, but with six
B-Wings more assistance would be needed. Shimir engaged his SLAM’s and sped
off towards the enemy craft. He caught them just as they were nearing the
operational range of their heavy rockets. He made a tight strafing run along
the length of the squadron, peppering the shields with laser fire. The sturdy
bombers paid little heed and droned onwards towards the crippled Sovereign;
every moment drawing closer to delivering their lethal payload. Shimir grunted
in frustration as he wheeled back once more to face the B-Wings. Thumbing his
ordinance toggle, he switched to missiles and waited for tone. So focused were
the rebel bombers on their ta “Nice shooting Sheerelk, you’re having quite
the day.” There was a moments pause as Daar seemed to register something for
the first time. Shimir couldn’t tell how he knew this...he just did. When
Daar spoke again, his voice was decidedly grim. “Unfortunately, it may not
have been enough. Sensors show that those last three B-Wings deployed half
their compliment of rockets before they bought it. The Sovereign can’t afford
to sustain that kind of damage. I’m afraid...” Shimir didn’t wait for the
rest. He had already switched off the comm channel, and his hands now danced
over his consoles, rerouting all power from his shields to his engines.
Satisfied, he tightened his harness, and engaged his SLAM’s. The outside stars
warped around his canopy as he urged his missile boat back towards the
Sovereign.
...
Onboard
the bridge, Vice Admiral Stele Pellaeon watched in horror as the yellow
pinpricks of light grew steadily larger, as a salvo of Heavy Rockets streaked
towards his dying ship. So this is it, he thought. This is how it ends. No
retirement for Stele Pellaeon. No medal of honor or parades in his name down
the streets of Aurora Prime. No peace in his time. Only fire and glory on the
bridge of his ship; Death’s chariot pulled by a team of Rebel B-Wings. As the
rockets drew to within half a click of the Sovereign, Pellaeon could identify
the warheads individual through the portholes. He knew their power. As a
pilot, he had used them to send enemy capital ships to their icy deaths. It
seemed only fitting that he should meet his end on the wrong end of one.
He
looked around, at the pit crew, and Captain Paxod, staring out the portholes to
their own rapidly approaching mortality. They faced it with honor. Vice
Admiral Pellaeon did not feel sorry for himself. He had lived well and would
soon die well. He had no regrets. He felt sorry for these men, if you could
call them that. Some were barely more than boys. Boys with hopes, dreams, and
aspirations. All of that was about to be stolen from them.
Pellaeon
heard a shout from the crew. This did not suprise him. What suprised him was
the tone in which it was issued: Not a tone of fear but one of hope. He
looked out the portholes to see a lone missile boat streaking towards to
Sovereign. One by one the rockets detonated under the hail of laser fire
eminating from the fighters single cannon. The crew burst into rapture as the
last rocket exploded mere seconds before impacting against the Sovereign. As
the fighter turned a wide arc and raced back to join battle against the Mon
Calamari Cruiser, Pellaeon turned to Captain Paxod.
“Send
word to the Cantina” Pellaeon ordered, motioning to the missile boat “Whoever
climbs out of the cockpit of that missile boat gets free drinks for the rest of
the month.”
...
The
exhilaration of running down the rockets proved to be short lived as Shimir
immediately noticed the two formidable new enemies flashing to life on his
radar screen. He glanced out of his canopy to see the aggressors: Two
imposing gunships, their hides bristling with guns and turrets, lumbering
towards the Sovereign. Brukhar came over the comm channel to confirm what was
already racing through Shimir’s mind.
“Assault
Transports, coming in hard on an attack vector.” he said. Shimir’s hands flew
across his HUD display as the ships appeared on his targeting computer. Shimir
thumbed the switch to the comm channel and spoke:
“Fighter
Support?” In a moment Brukhar came back with the answer.
“None
that I can see...” Another pause as two the radar registered new arrivals.
“Wait” Brukhar said, “Yes I see them now, two T-Wings out of the main hangar.”
Shimir furrowed his brow in confusion. He hit the switch and spoke.
“Come
again Commander is that two flights of T-Wings.” The response from Brukhar
was quick.
“No,
two lone T-Wings. Sensors report that they aren’t scrambling anymore either.”
Shimir grunted.
“Confident
little buggers aren’t they?” Brukhar laughed as their two missile boats
wheeled to face the approaching T-Wings. Shimir switched to missiles. The
T-Wing continued along its attack trajectory. Shimir grinned wickedly. Rookie. A moment later the targeting box went red
and Shimir fired, sending a lone missile streaking towards the T-Wing. As it
approached the rebel fighter, the missile wobbled, veered to starboard, and
exploded, well away from the fighter, which now had opened up with its cannons,
sending angry red lances washing across Shimir’s forward shields. Shimir
banked hard to port, sending his ship into a hard dive to distance himself from
his peruser. He was in shock. Those missiles never missed their targets, and
especially never by such a wide margin. What was going on? The second T-Wing
was coming in behind Brukhar and Shimir took him in his sights, and fired another
missile. It detonated a full quarter-click before it reached its target,
leaving Shimir to race through the warhead’s debris in utter bewilderment.
Frustrated, he switched to lasers, holding down the firing stud and spitting an
angry stream of fire from the mouth of his missile boat. The T-Wing moved with
amaziNobody moves
that fast Shimir thought
to himself. He had little time to reflect as streaks of red plasma shot past
his canopy and he saw the missile lock warning begin to flash yellow. He banked
to starboard, bringing his ship around in a tight arc. The T-Wing stayed right
with him, bringing his hungry guns to bore and again feed on the soft flesh of
Shimir’s missile boat. As he dove hard again, Shimir puzzled over his latest
maneuver. It seemed that the T-Wing had anticipated the move extraordinarily
well. In fact, it had almost felt as if the T-Wing had already started to bank
when Shimir did. Almost as if he already knew. Shimir’s thought were
interrupted by Brukhar’s panicked report over the comm channel.
“Who
is this guy? I can’t shake him! My shields are down, ejection seat is
inoperative, he’s eating me alive. Help, please, somebody help!” Shimir
gritted his teeth and banked hard towards Brukhar’s wounded ship. Help me he thought. Please. I know you are there.
Help Me. The dark
whisper returned, laughing softly in his ear and grabbing his wrists with cool,
slender fingers. Yes,
I will help you.
Shimir
raced towards Brukhar’s ship, a wretched grin on his face, angry sweat on his
brow and desperate wishes in his heart. As he bore down on the T-Wing dow
assaulting Brukhar, he switched to lasers and sprayed the enemy fighter with
fire. A few shots impacted on the shields, and the T-Wing turned to evade. No Shimir thought. Reaching his hands
through the durasteel canopy, he wrapped his ethereal hands around the T-Wing:
Holding it, crushing it, strangling it. He felt his tangible hands fire a
missile. Streaking towards the subdued T-Wing, it slammed into it, shattering the
Rebel fighter. Inebriated with his new found power, Shimir rounded on the
second T-Wing, who was currently bringing his guns to bear on Commander Daar.
Shimir fired a missile. The T-Wing broke off pursuit and threw itself into a
tight circle to evade, and the missile missed on its first pass. Shimir heard
the voice in his ear, and again threw his hands out: Through his canopy,
through the cold void of space, and into the cockpit of the T-Wing. Wrapping
his hands around the stick of his foe, he held it firm as the T-Wing
straightened its trajectory for a few moments before Shimir’s missile ripped it
in half. Smiling, Shimir turned his thoughts back to the assault transports
who had now slowly inche “Any ideas Commander Sheerelk?” Daar asked. Shimir
thought for a moment, and a smile worked its way across his mouth as he formed
a plan.
“Yeah,
stay here. You’ll know what to do.” Shimir throttled up to maximum and banked
towards the ship, peppering its shields with laser fire. The assault barely caused
any damage to the shields whatsoever, but that was not its intention. As
Shimir raced past the assault transport, he watched in satisfaction as every
last turret and gun on the gunship shifted its position to bring their guns to
bear on him. Shimir shifted all his shields to aft as the ship pounded his
missile boat with turbolaser fire. The onslaught was cut short however, by a
barrage of heavy rockets from Daar which had worked their ay to the distracted
assault transport unharrased. Secondary explosions rocked the ship as it began
its slow death roll and moments later burst into brilliant death. Shimir
watched the other transport fall victim to a similar fate as successive rocket
attacks by different pilots of the second flight bit and tore at the ship until
there was nothing left. The pilots of Ka “That cruiser is closing on
the Sovereign.” Shimir announced over the Comm channel as the cylindrical
predator moved in to attack her crippled prey. Commander Daar called over the
comm channel.
“Ordinance
check! What do we have people?” Shimir ran a quick inventory and came away
disappointed.
“Not
enough boss.” Similar reports came back from the rest of the squadron. There
was simply not enough firepower to take down that cruiser. Too many warheads
had been spent on the transports. Now, the cruiser snailed its way towards the
Sovereign, just waiting until its guns came in range to drill the Sovereign
until she died. It seemed inevitable.
“Any
ideas?” Daar asked, his voice frantic and his tone grim. Shimir felt
something tugging at his subconscious, willing him to action. He quickly
reviewed his communications log, and found what he was looking for.
“Brukhar”
He said, thumbing open the toggle on the comm channel. “You said that only vital
systems were functional onboard the Sovereign right?”
“Yeah”
Brukhar answered “Whets the point?”
“Can
you give me a list of those vital functions still in operation?” Shimir
requested. Brukhar grunted in frustration and ran the appropriate scans. A
moment later he had results.
“Backup
lighting, lifesupport, climate control, internal emergency sensors, the axial
superlaser, inertial dampers, doors, airlocks...” Shimir interrupted.
“Wait!
The axial superlaser? It’s functional?”
“Yes”
Brukhar answered, “It has to be. A power failure to the superlaser could
cause a cataclysmic misalignment and overload that would destroy the ship. It
has numerous redundancies and failguards to insure that it always has power.”
“The
whole system?” Shimir asked. “Everything? Targeting sensors, firing
mechanisms?”
“Yes,
Shimir” Brukhar answered, his voice riddled with annoyance. “I see where you
are going, but that cruiser is coming in perpendicular to the Sovereign’ s port
side and I don’t think we can convince her to cut right across her bow so the
Sovereign can use her superlaser.” In the solitude of his cockpit, Shimir
smiled.
“Trust
me on this one Brukhar.”
...
Warrant
officer Niheim Glart desperately hoped for a chance for redemption. He had,
after all, been the one to suggest allowing the freighter to dock. Of course,
there way for him to anticipate events unfolding the way that they did. In the
Imperial Navy, that tended to matter very little. All that did matter was that
the flagship of the TIE Corps was now broken, crippled and almost entirely
defenseless, save for a single squadron who had already exceeded expectations,
and he could be held accountable. Now, huddled on the bridge with the rest of
the crew, he frantically searched for a way to prove his worth.
Outside
one of the giant, triangular portholes, he noticed a strobe, a throbbing of
light that drew his attention. Peering closer he discovered they were the
interior lights of a lone missile boat, flashing in and out of luminescence
drifting only meters away from the portholes.
“Found
something have we Mr. Glart?” Snapped Captain Paxod, striding over to Glart in
crisp, measured strides. “Hopefully it won’t explode this time.” Glart felt
his cheeks flush with embarrassment under the reproachful eye of his superior.
“Sir
this missile boat appears to be attempting to send us a message.” Glart
answered. Paxod’s brow furrowed with concentration as he attempted to decipher
its meaning.
“Is
this a from of communication you are familiar with crewmen?” Paxod queried,
turning to look at Glart, his razor sharp eyes digging into the soft, pudgy
flesh of Glart’s face.
‘Perhaps
sir. It appears to be an extremely old and archaic form, but one I have a fair
amount of experience with.” Glart answered.
“Alright
then, decipher this immediately” Paxod ordered. Glart began dictating,
translating from strobe lights to words as soon as the flashes occurred. When
he had delivered the message, Paxod turned to look at Vice Admiral Pellaeon in
complete suprise. The commodore shrugged.
“Good
a plan as any.” He stated, striding to stand by his chair and grasping a
muscular hand around one of the bulkhead handles. “Alright Captain Paxod, I
want you to go inform the gun crew. People we are going to get one shot at
this.” He stared out across the pit crew. “All hands” he called “Brace for
impact!
...
Shimir’s
missile boat groaned under the weight he was attempting to tow on his tractor
beam as he moved the last disabled freighter into position.
“Are
you sure they got the message Shimir” Brukhar asked, his voice troubled as he
used his own tractor beam to perform any minute corrections needed.
“No,
Brukhar, I’m not sure, but that doesn’t really matter at this point does it?”
Shimir replied. Sweat caked his brow as he considered the awful ramifications
of the possible (probably likely) failure of this scheme. He switched the comm
channel back on. “Are you sure about your calculations.”
“Pretty
sure.” Brukhar answered. “I’ve done the arithmetic a few times and come up
with this answer every one, and theoretically the algebra works with this
amount of ordinance at this angle and this distance.” Shimir nodded to
himself. He’d done the figuring too and agreed with Brukhar. Still, the
margin for error was infantecimally small.
“Alright
then boys, here we go.” Shimir aimed his craft carefully, and sent a single
missile streaking towards each of the disabled freighters. Upon impact, they
erupted violently, producing a massive shockwave and sending Shimir’s vessel
into a violent flatspin, as he worked the stick to try to break free. Outside,
the shockwave caught the Sovereign on its stern, and the ship produced a
massive creaking as it slowly rotated and rolled on its side, coming to rest
pointed directly at the pointed cruiser. As Shimir eventually righted his own
ship, he could only sit, wait, and hope that those men on the Sovereign had
recieved his cryptic, ancient message.
...
Captain
Paxod sprinted through the metallic halls of the Sovereign, ignoring the
chaotic scramble of engineers, the wreckage and debris and the cries and groans
of casualties, gutted and bleeding along the once immaculate floors. He
rounded the last corner urging his trim body on with all the speed he could
muster. Reaching his destination, he swung open the heavy door to find the
gunners at their posts, their polished black helmets gleaming in the backup
lighting.
“Full
charge, fire immediately!” Paxod screamed, his voice echoing throughout the
cramped room. The gunners did not question the order, nor did they hesitate.
They simply did exactly as they were told.
...
Outside,
Shimir watched as a mass of energy began to collect itself at the tip of the
Sovereign’s bow. Building upon itself, coalescing into a massive green orb,
dancing with the power if its massive generators. It sparked with destructive
energy. All at once it dispersed, sending a thin green spear piercing through
the cold dark of space. Punching through the thick shields of its prey, it
splashed against the hull of the cruiser, dispersing its destruction across the
whole of the enemy ship. The ship shuddered under the impact, massive cracks
cutting swaths up its hull, groaning in her death throes. At last the weight
became too much as brilliant conflagration engulfed the ship, secondary
explosions flashing long into the night in an unrivaled display of
pyrotechnics. When all had come to pass, the ship lay dead, broken and beaten,
lifeless in the void of space. The pilots of Kappa rejoined formation, waiting
and ready for the next challenger to emerge from the shadows. ...
Shimir
fully enjoyed climbing down the hard metal rungs of the landing plat ladder
after a full eighteen hours in the cockpit. Granted the last few had been
uneventful, but after all the fun earlier he felt as if he had enough to hold
him over for quite some time. The Kappans gathered together to exchange hugs and
friendly words. Out of the corner of his eye, Shimir noted two robed figures
approaching. The pilots continued in their mirth and merriment until they too
realized that the two figures were waiting to speak with them. Shimir turned
to face them and immediately dropped to a knee, in complete wonder at what
Grand Admiral Astatine could possibly wish to speak to him about.
“Good
work pilots” The Grand Admiral said, his voice echoing harmoniously throughout
the flight deck. “It was...most impressive to see the vigor with which you
defended us.” He turned to Shimir. Although Shimir could barely see his eyes
he could feel them drilling through him, accessing his thoughts, his feelings,
his desires. “Those T-Wing’s” The Grand Admiral went on, “They were piloted by
jedi knights.” Astatine must have sensed Shimir’s suprise. “I felt their
presence.” He explained, again returning his attention to the squadron at
large. “They probably have been trained to combat our own flying Sith, and
thought ordinary pilots to be mere target practice, yet you defeated two of
them. That also, is impressive.” He turned to face Shimir directly. “Most
impressive.” The Grand Admiral strode off, out the large sliding doors of the
flight deck where a contingent of heavily armed guards awaited him. His
assistant approach “The Grand Admiral wishes you to report
immediately to Eos for a force aptitude examination” He growled, his voice a
raspy tremor. Shimir began to protest.
“I
was just reassigned to Kappa, I belong here with my..” Shimir felt his knees
buckle as they came down hard against the floor. He tried to speak but felt as
if an ethereal claw was grasping his jaw shut. He looked up to see the
assistant glaring down at him, bright yellow eyes illuminated through the dark
shroud of his hood.
“You
will report” The man, or rather thing, growled. Shimir managed a weak nod,
and the assistant laughed in satisfaction before striding off to rejoin his
master. Shimir weakly got to his feet, assisted by his co-pilots who all
joined him in shooting nervous and wary looks at the retreating dark jedi.
...
On the bridge, power was beginning to
come back to the pit as the crew slowly returned to their individual stations.
Celebration still presided over the room as congratulations and hearty
handshakes were exchanged over the mere fact of their improbable survival.
Captain Paxod watched all of this in satisfaction as he returned to the
commodore’s chair to deliver another report.
“They
just got power returned to the flight deck sir and Kappa Squadron has just
returned.”
“Good”
Vice Admiral Pellaeon nodded as he took another pull from his cup of Corellian
tea. “Send them my congratulations and thanks.” Paxod made note of this.
Pellaeon set down his tea and took off his tress jacket, revealing his white
undertunic beneath. He made for the door out of the bridge.
“Sir?”
Paxod asked. Pellaeon paused and turned, looking quizzically at Paxod. “Where
are you going?” Paxod asked. Pellaeon smiled and spoke.
“My
ship is broken Mr. Paxod.” He said, turning again to leave the room. “I am
going to help fix her.” Paxod smiled. “You have the bridge Captain Paxod.”
Pellaeon said as he crossed the threshold of the door and began to descend the
long flight of metal stairs leading to the turbolift. He paused, and turned
once more, a hand resting on his chin. “Or rather, should I say, Major
Paxod.” Pellaeon smiled and continued his descent, disappearing from view.
Paxod returned to his instruction of the pit crew and, for the first time in
his life, “Rancor” Paxod smiled in a manner that was altogether quite pleasant.
...
Shimir
stepped outside the cramped debriefing room with all of the other Kappan
pilots. As they laughed and joked their way back to the Cantina, Shimir turned
along a different route, taking the turbolift down to the engineering level.
Walking along the narrow catwalks, he listened closely to the latenight bustle
of the cleanup and repair crews, toiling late. Caked in sweat, oil, and often
blood they had been hard at work ever since the first attacks. Now, utterly
fatigued and exhausted, they were still fighting hard to complete repairs.
Shimir stopped to watch eight men struggling to extract one of the titanic
engines from the Sovereign’s engine block. Shimir rushed to help, his muscles
aching under the colossal strain as they finally wrestled it out of its resting
position and onto the floor. The group foreman nodded at Shimir and grumbled a
brief “thanks.” Glancing at the rank insignia on Shmir’s now dirty uniform he
quickly added: “Sir.” Shimir smiled “Any idea what happened down
here?” Shimir asked, carefully studying the engine.
“Best
we can guess they overheated. I know they said it was impossible, but I
mean...” The crewmen pointed to the engine, where large swaths of the casing
had literally been melted away. As Shimir peered into the depths of the
engine, he could see where the superheated metal had burned through the engines
inner workings, causing a complete collapse.
“How
did this happen?” Shimir asked. The crewman shifted his weight in annoyance.
“It’s
really quite complicated sir. If you would like a formal report with a set of
schematics I can...” Shimir turned to the crewmen.
“Look,
just because I wear a fancy badge doesn’t mean that I don’t work for a
living.” Shimir began, “so how about we drop the whole officer-crewmen
nonsense, and just talk like men.” The crewmen smiled, extending a grimy hand
which Shimir grasped and shook firmly.
“Sounds
good.” He said. “Basically what happens is after a while these engines get
strained from moving the Sovereign. It’s an incredibly massive ship, and they
don’t make engines big enough and efficient enough to move her without overheating.
At least not yet, rumor has it that the Science Office is working on a new
prototype that can do it...” The crewman eyes Shimir quizzically. Shimir
laughed and pointed to his rank badge.
“Those
bars mean I’m a Commander not an Admiral.” Shimir said. “I have no idea what
goes on in the Science Office. The crewmen looked disappointed, but continued.
“Well
we install high level cutoffs to the engines. Once they reach a certain
internal heat they shut off and begin a brief cooling process and are
operational within a half-hour. Most of the time you don’t even notice it
because so many engines are running and they never all cut off at the same
time.”
“So
what happened last night?” Shimir asked. The crewmen visibly changed, he
became uncomfortable, nervous, even paranoid.
“Maybe
you should look at this sir...” He said, striding over to a nearby
viewscreen. Shimir followed in curiosity. “This is from time index 0745.6
taken about two hours before the incident.” Shimir internalized the time, that
was just after Astatine’s ship wide inspection. He watched as a solitary
figure stood very near the exact spot he was standing now, taking a long drag
from a cigarette sending a plume of smoke high into the engine compartment.
Bending down, he placed a small object on the engine block, and walked away.
Shimir turned to the crewmen.
“The
engine meltdown destroyed whatever it was he put on there” The crewmen said.
“But it’s very likely it was an electrical inhibitor programmed to deactivate
the cutoffs.” The crewmen shifted his eyes as if to check the surrounding area
before leaning in to whisper to Shimir: “There is more.” He magnified the
image of the retreating man and froze the frame to show a grainy, distorted
image of a patch on the back of the man’s jacket. It read “Office of the Fleet
Commander.” Shimir stepped back in disbelief. The crewmen spoke. “It may be
he was just an impostor and the jacket was a fake. At least I hope that is he
case. Because if not...” The crewman looked at Shimir, his eyes grave, “...a
rebel mole has infiltrated the highest level of the Emperor’s Hammer. Shimir
nodded.
“Keep
up the good work. Be sure to report this to the bridge and keep me posted.
Oh, and when you get off duty stop by the cantina, I’ll buy you a drink.” The
crewman nodded and returned to work. Shimir turned and made for the cantina,
eager to leave his day of echoes, shadows and dark whispers behind him.
| 
