by Ryan Bliss
Both men stood in silence as the bridge crew hustled to affect repair on the limping Star Destroyer. Acquaintances? Illon has taken a huge risk telling me this, Irtha thought, he is either scared,stupid, or crazy. No, he's not stupid. Irtha now gave no outward reaction to Illon's explosive statement. Instead he looked towards space where nearly forty ships now patrolled, once in place to defend against the rebels. Now that was almost secondary. He heard the tone signaling an incoming transmission.
"Vader."Illon spoke the name.
Irtha was frightened and could almost feel his throat constricting under a phantom grasp. What is he thinking? Always Caelus Illon has been a faithful officer, but this is madness. Madness, but who is more mad? The communications officer called for the Captain.
"Executioner demands our report."
"How long before we are at full defensive capability,"Irtha whispered to his first officer.
"The repairs to the computer system will take at least an hour. The problem is the hyperdrive. Trickier. Even if we allocate resources from other divisions, it should still take longer than it takes for the Imperial High Command to arrive on the scene due to our silence. We have a good crew. . ."
"Captain."The communications officer was sweating.
The two senior officers exchanged glances. If we do it together, we might be able to pull this off.
"Radio silence, that is my order."
Illon spoke quietly. "Collir,"he said. "Think of the orders we have been made to carry out in our tours aboard this ship, aboard others. Recall the countless lives that were little more than energy readings to us when we extinguished them. Has mercy ever been an option? Can you remember a mission that has not resulted in bloodshed? Can you pretend that you we are not all at risk from our 'high command' ? Any of the officers? The crew?"
Irtha's eyes narrowed. Anything was possible where Darth Vader was concerned..The Commander continued, "Why should Vader spare any of us, when there are plenty of young officers dreaming of our command. The Academy, remember the academy."
His predicament fully set in. The Imperial Academy had been a notorious den of cut-throatedness and deathwishing, each cadet praying for attrition to further their careers.
"Yes, I remember well the dreams of the Academy. I agree that the situation seems desperate and I will brief the senior staff as their time becomes available. I see no reason yet for the crew to know any of this."
Irtha didn't want to give full committment to Illon's suggestion, but his agreement was implicit.
"What's your plan?""
"I thought we would--" But he did not finish his sentence. The sensor post was screaming.
"Captain! Sensors show a Calmari class MC80 coming out of hyperspace off the starboard sensor tower, 30 clicks."
Caelus Illon, the youngest of five brothers, was the first in his family to directly serve in the military. His father, his brothers, his mother all worked building weapons, turbolasers specifically, at an Imperial arms factory on Ghoris, where the Qulon nebula dominated the horizon day and night. This factory, in fact all of Ghoris, had been privately owned before representatives of the Empire made their bid known. Unopposed. To hear the stories his mother would tell, the transition had been dark and bloody. But Caelus couldn't believe the stories, which had all taken place before he had been born. "Show me the graves momma,"he would say. But there were none to visit.
At an early age Illon was enamored of the crisp professionalism of the Imperials who would then visit his family's factory. Horban Illon ran a tight operation, formerly Illon Weaponworks, now a division of Bak Systems, and his workers never questioned the orders of management. Work was speciallized so no one technician knew everything about the product he or she was building, a luxury of high technology. Horban would have it no other way, and reveled in delusions of omniscience. When the Imperials came, however, a startling change would come over Caelus' father. His face would blanch impotent and he would walk as if collared by an invisible chain, moving without taking his gaze from intently studying the floor.
To Caelus, this was a refreshing change from his father's usual domineering. His spirits lifted watching his father deflated in front of the world. At sixteen he left Ghoris, left the cuffs on the head from his father, the barbs from his older brothers, and the powerless work of building weapons for others to use. Using his knowledge of turbolaser design as a marketing point, Caelus Illon managed admission to the Imperial Academy. His adolescent dream was to return to Ghoris someday and pound it from orbit with Bak-Illon turbolasers.
Those dreams kept him going through the tedious simulation work at the Academy, where he majored in Strategic (Orbital) Assault. It seemed simple enough; program the proper coordinates into the computer, set rates of fire and impact density. This method spares the bloody and wasteful work of ground combat, keeping the Empire strong for future unknowns. His instructors prepared him for the mathematical dispensation of death, Illon already knew the hardware. His first assignment was aboard a Victory class Star Destroyer.
Caelus lost count of the destruction he had caused with his light pen and the push of a button, and he never questioned or knew why he had to push his buttons so many times. It mattered little; each new world was simply a new set of coordinates to correlate, variables to be fed into time-honored infallible equations. Caelus, however, was determined to succeed and he did his job well, though he worked secluded from the universe on ships built to span it. His instructors had prepared him well, taught him to allow only numbers inside his head. What they didn't, couldn't prepare him for was his first bridge assignment, serving under Captain Collir Irtha. Grey Fist and two other Star Destroyers had just completed four hours of continuous attack, all in the name of acquiring natural resources for the Empire. The Star Destroyers had sat safely in orbit, raining laser energy upon a nearly defenseless world. Illon had, at first, been fascinated with his first personal glimpse of battle. The planetary vista itself was astounding. Hours passed. As night fell over their targets, fires could be seen in the darkness, expanding, glittering over continents. The planet was burning before the Star Destroyers ceased fire to recharge their laser energy, and at that point Caelus understood why there were no graves to be found on Ghoris. No ultimatums were given.
He had wanted it to stop, wanted to beg Irtha to have mercy on the planet, wanted to do something, but there was no time for any of that and no place on an Imperial Star Destroyer for pity. Sickened, he followed orders. Many other worlds were set ablaze in this manner, with frequency enough to give Caelus a permanent pain in his soul. It throbbed like the very first time and wouldn't stop. It was to quell this pain that he had listened when he should have shot to kill. At a tavern on Coruscant, a windy cold night, in the shadow of his Emperor's palace,
he listened as an unlikely friend offered him a private peace, and redemption. The price: to remain aboard the Grey Fist serving as usual, but report via secure channels to the Rebel High Command.
Caelus Illon accepted the offer. He continued to do his duty, reporting information to the Rebellion when it wasn't too dangerous to do so. Always, though, he harbored a secret desire to disappear from the Universe, if only to be away from the Empire.
There was a moment's dread, then calm. This was inevitable, Irtha reasoned. He knew the bulbous Rebel cruiser was a threat, even more so in their present condition. His training told him to send his squadrons to head off that threat, but Illon nudged him. Irtha, too, then sensed the opportunity. He thought quickly and then spoke:
"Bring the ship about to a defensive position and signal Major Shien to create a picket. I don't want aggression, not now."
"Captain?"the young communications officer blinked at him.
Illon stood forward and barked, "You heard the Captain, Ensign, signal the wings."
Irtha turned and looked out the viewport. In the starry distance he could just make out the engine glow of the Rebel Cruiser. "What is the posture of the MC80?"
"She is holding steady
and we can detect no starfighter launches,"the sensor port reported. "She's on an intercept course, point oh-two-five sub-light."
Not attacking speed at all, perhaps we are saved.
The outlook was bleaker aboard Beta One. Major Shien relayed the absurd orders to the wingleaders. Since the destruction of Alpha One, piloted by the crack Colonel Navar, Shien had assumed command of Gray Fist's starfighter squadrons. It was an opportunity he knew would come sooner than later, given the war with the Rebellion. While he regretted the loss of Navar, a capable pilot, he shrugged off all thoughts of mourning or reflection for now. He was angry. Why aren't we attacking? Why aren't they attacking? He could think of no reason. Surely the Gray Fist was damaged. But his squadrons contained two wings of TIE-Bombers, loaded with enough armament to, if not obliterate the Rebel cruiser outright, at least have her limping when reinforcements arrived. Something's going on.
He manipluated his atmopsheric controls, setting all levels to minimum to prolong his flight time. Immediately the cold of space flooded the TIE's tiny cockpit. Before thermal recyclers in Shien's flight suit compensated for this fatal change in temperature, he felt the bitterness of his environment, the staid nothing in which he had spent most his life.
Shien wheeled his craft across Gray Fist's bow and, looking quickly, saw the lights from the bridge viewports. What were they thinking? Parley? Parley was not an option. The only course of action was attack, the order had come from the Emperor himself.
As a member of the Emperor's Secret Order, Shien was entrusted with personal directives from the Emperor when he felt his chain of command was corrupt. My greater service is to the Empire and my Emperor, but Irtha, why? As he watched the two ships slowly closing distance, Shien thought he felt the scolding will of the Emperor filling his mind. Act.
He scrambled his comlink and began transmitting orders to those he could trust amongst the many starfighters screaming silently through the vacuum of space.
Quan Shien was born on Coruscant, capital of the Old Republic and, now, of the Empire. His earliest memories were of starships and space travel, his father's steady hand at the ship controls, and learning what was needed to master the vacuum.
His father was a starfighter pilot for the Old Republic, but had sided with Senator Palpatine in the Clone Wars. This fortunate career choice, and his flawless skills, gained him a post in the Emperor's new order. But Dharan Shien never gave up being a pilot, and as the Emperor's Advisor on Starfighter affairs he took young Quan on many of his missions throughout the galaxy. It was while away on one such mission that a raid on Coruscant killed Quan's mother. He was six at the time, and her death, short of filling him with grief, instead filled him with simmering rage. While his mother had been a kind woman, in later years Quan barely remembered her, only the anger at her death.
Quan and his father only became closer after the raid. Along with his rigorous schoolwork, he learned to master the newest technology while others his age fooled around in the city. On one outing he was helping his father fly an Imperial Shuttle when they ran into two pirate Z-95 Headhunters, prequel to the X-Wing's so favored by the Rebel Alliance. A chance meeting. Shien would never forget his father's calm has he took the controls from his terrified son. With laser blasts rocking the shuttle's shielding, Dharan skillfully brought the shuttles twin cannons to bear on one of the starfighters. For every hit Shien scored, the Z-95 on their tail scored two but it wasn't long before the unsheilded craft was destroyed. Dharan then, mercilessly, hunted down the survivor.
"Quan,"his father had said when he relinquished the controls once more, "In space there is no such thing as mercy, nor pity, for it is only in the thin alloy of your hull; the separation of life from death. In that minuscule thickness there is no room for remorse, barely room for thought, only strength. Strength, and a little wit, that will keep you alive."
He remebered sitting before the Emperor as a child, listening to stories of the Force and the mastery of fear. He remembered the power he gave off like a cold draft. Quan learned to conquer his own fears, and proceeded to the goal of mastering the fears of others in the military.
At the earliest possible age, Quan Shien was rushed into the Imperial Academy, where he showed prodigal skill in the art of starpiloting. It was at the Academy, possibly through the influence of his father, that he again attracted the notice of the Emperor.
Palpatine, to ensure the security of the Empire, had gathered his trusted advisors, generals, admirals, pilots and soldiers into a secret order with senses that spanned the galaxy. Those close to the Emperor had ways of communicating freely through the chain of command with those who had the proper access. In a darkened hangar bay over the hum of ion engines, a cloaked figure had offered Shien admittance to the order, and the numerous benefits that came with it, provided he obey the commands of the Emperor over those of his commanding
officer. For Shien there could be no other way.
His career after the Academy was one success after another, and his talent with successive starfighter models, along with certain opportune casualties, pushed him quickly up through the ranks. Always he heeded the words of the Emperor's Hands, the closest of Palpatine's clandestine operatives, and his performance gained him extra privilege of being a member of the Secret Order.
So his eyes were now always searching, for the Alliance especially, but also for traces of rebellion in those who served around him. This had been his latest directive, as he had been dispatched to I.S.D. Gray Fist. Be wary, he had been told, even aboard your own ship there is cause for concern. Quan Shien was determined to be vigilant.
In the officer's strategic center, they were free from sight of the crew. Irtha, Illon and the senior officers stood around the holographic tactical display. Their ship was represented by a red triangle floating in the electrified mist, the blue triangle showing the Rebel was inching closer.
Irtha scanned the faces around him, each dimly reflecting the light from the display, each deeply lined with concern. Illon had done his job well.
"Why do we just sit here then?"one of the men asked. "If they are not going to attack, and it looks as if they have had infinite opportunity, should we try and establish contact?".
"A Parley?" another officer shook his head. "We were sworn to fight the enemies of the Empire. Those are our orders. And so, why should they be so quick to accept us? I'm sure the name Gray Fist is not completely unheard of.”
"It doesn't matter,"a young officer spoke up, "for whatever reason, they have not yet attacked."
"Then why haven't they contacted us? We are wasting precious time. It looks as if we are both feeling each other out, both afraid to take the first step, one way or the other. And while we wait, the fleet is probably en route."
There was silence.
Another spoke up: "Why would the rebels have any reason to trust us? Especially after what we did to their fleet at Denab."
"Gentlemen, the Captain will explain all,"Illon said.
"We have reached a crisis point,"Irtha said, beginning to pace the borders of the room. "The unexpected defeat we absorbed from the Corellian has left us in a dangerous position. The Emperor, in this time of, uncertainty, has little use for failures. He will not eliminate the entire crew, though that is within his power. No, the Emperor, and his arm, Darth Vader, will seek out those directly responsible. As you all know, Vader grows more erratic and deadly with every Rebel victory. By all indications, the fleet is already on its way. As terrible as this sounds: Our only hope for survival is the Rebellion."
There was silence. On the display, the two triangles moved closer. Before the Gray Fist were smaller red X's marking the TIE squadrons.
"Captain,"a voice came over the intercom. "Communication from the Rebel."
"In the Strategy Center,"Irtha responded.
He localized the channel to the room and opened it. "This is Captain Irtha of the I.S.D. Gray Fist." He swallowed. "I hereby request a truce and parley."
The voice over the c
om channel was covered with static and emotionless.
"This is Commander Bronn of the Rebel Alliance. Captain, this goes against standard Imperial protocol, yet our intelligence tells us, reliably I believe, that you have caused a great deal of concern within the Empire. If your motives are for truce, then we accept. Our terms are this: recall your starfighter forces. As soon as you are hyperspace capable, you will accompany us. You will be a welcome addition to our fleet."
Collir Irtha was stunned. In that instant the full implications of his acts swelled over him and numbed his mind. I am going to give up my command to the enemy, run, under armed 'escort', to the heart of the enemy. Throw away everything I have fought for, everything I have killed for. I will fight for the enemy, and possibly die fighting under their colors. And join the Rebellion against the Empire. What do I have to rebel against? The Emperor commissioned me, a nobody from a nowhere world, to fight for him. A massive trust. To me he entrusted this great ship, and the power that comes with it. To me he entrusted the dreadful missions that only this ship could complete. He stopped. Irtha realized that his officers were looking at him and that the static filled line was still open. What could he say? The words of his father, unbidden, suddenly returned to him. The empire promises everything, and when they are done giving, you are left with nothing. It was true, the empire was done giving, and now Collir Irtha was left with nothing. Nothing, that is, except a terrible decision, and a powerful starship.