The Rift

[A-Wing_Slash]

Kickass as always. Keep it up.

[TithonusSyndrome]

As stated before, I'm eager to see the action carry into the Koprulu Sector... does Tassadar's dissapearance fit right into his assumed death in destroying the Overmind? Was the Overmind killed at last? At what point did Kerrigan depart from the Koprulu sector, and how does all of the above affect the ongoings of Raynor, Fenix, Aldaris, Zeratul, Raszhagal, and the surveillance of the Earth powers?

[Noble Ire]

As stated before, I'm eager to see the action carry into the Koprulu Sector... does Tassadar's dissapearance fit right into his assumed death in destroying the Overmind? Was the Overmind killed at last? At what point did Kerrigan depart from the Koprulu sector, and how does all of the above affect the ongoings of Raynor, Fenix, Aldaris, Zeratul, Raszhagal, and the surveillance of the Earth powers?

Alas, the Koprulu sector does not directly feature into the current version of The Rift, which is a lot closer to its finale than you might think. Certainly, its denizens will continue to factor into the story significantly until the end, but I don't plan on actually visiting it to any major extent. However, I am already tinkering with the idea of a sequel, and it does far more heavily involve Starcraft's realm. Sufficed to say, though, that the universe's timeline is indentical to the canonical one up until after Brood War (everyone thought Tassadar died with the Overmind, Fenix and Raszhagal are dead, etc).

And I promise, the Master Chief will appear again (Within the next two chapters, if you must know), and when he does, he'll remain up until the end.

[Dominus]

A fantastic fanfic, truly. It's easily one of the best multi-universe crossovers I've ever had the pleasure to read. I can't believe this escaped my notice until now; needless to say, I spent the last several hours reading up to this point, and am quite impressed with the way you've successfully woven these disparate universes and timelines into a coherent storyline. I especially enjoy the segments detailing the inner workings of the GFFA and the Covenant; the (reformed!) Arbiter's political machinations are a particular delight, and hope that he's able to turn the tide. Is a peace treaty with the humans part and parcel of this far-reaching plan of his, I wonder? Cortana is another favorite of mine; you've captured her personality quirks and witticisms perfectly.

And I must note that it is a testament to the quality of your writing that I generally feel such sympathy to all the characters and their plights -- (some of) the Star Trek characters are finally back home, yes, but the Empire has all but crushed the Alliance and still retains the thousand-odd crew of the late Enterprise, the Zerg have overrun much of the Alpha Quadrant, Aayla has fallen to the dark side, Lando and most of the Rebellion is dead (Luke nearly so), John-117 had to watch the bloodbath of Reach all over again, and the Arbiter witnessed the death of his past self and several thousand comrades (with more to come) when the Empire intervened. Dark times, to be sure, and I can only hope that the finale will put these many wrongs to right in some way or another.

Credit is also deserved for such interesting characterization. I never thought I could be moved to care overmuch for Barclay, one of the more irritating characters from what little I've seen of him in TNG, but by the God-Emperor, you've managed to pull a shred of compassion for him out of me. And you presented the Arbiter's redemption in a way I haven't seen done before. All too often, he is simply and suddenly "awakened" after the revelation at the end of Halo 2 and promptly molded into a diehard human-sympathizer who would never even consider harming a human again, and the rest is mere detail. Thank you, really, for a much more realistic transformation and redemption of his character.

One small question, if I may: did the Empire ever send out diplomatic "feelers" to the UNSC now that they've begun to establish a military presence in the Milky Way? I see that they certainly wasted no time putting the hurt on the Covenant, in any case.

I'll be keeping an eye on this, to be sure.

[Noble Ire]

Thank you, Dominus. I really enjoy reading feedback like this; its nice to see that my readers are still taking a real interest. I'm very glad that you're enjoying it this much, especially the characterizations. I do spend a lot of time trying to keep each character in keeping with their established persona; its good that I'm still at least somewhat successful in the endevor.

The Arbiter is a character I've focused my time upon especially, both because I simply like him as he is portrayed in Halo 2, and because, as you say, there's a lot of meat to his personality that is rarely expanded upon. After all, his entire career has been built upon slaughtering humans, and he probably personally burned half a dozen colonies to become a fleet master. He may be able to come to respect humans and work with them, but that sort of past can't ever be pushed fully aside. Also, I wanted to detail his abilities beyond personal combat; before his fall, the Arbiter had to have had some naval skill and leadership ability under his belt, and I wanted to portray that.

As for Barclay, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for him, despite the various annoyances of his behavior. I wanted to show him as a decent human being, in spite of his obvious quirks.

As of this point in the story, the Empire has only been in the Milky Way for a little over a week; aside from smashing a few nearby Covenant strongholds, Vader's fleet has been spending most of its time dispatching probots to map local space for easier transit. If the Empire had even discovered the remains of humanity, or vice versa, they probably wouldn't have had the time to do anything about them yet. I may or may not give a glimpse of that dynamic, depending upon the flow of the story; in any event, the UNSC won't be involved in any majot plot points. They are, so to speak, little fish in a big pond.

Thanks again for your comments, and I encourage any constructive criticism you, or anyone else, might have in addition to positive comments.

[fusion]

Sorry I am late to the party again, Vacation, sorry.

Each of these fightercraft seemed to possess the firepower and speed of a Starfleet line warship, despite being less than a fortieth of their size.

[nickpick]It is closer to 50,000 times in total size
Damn cliff hangers there are too many. THREE! Two too many
I love how the preator and the rest of the Romulans are still pompous!
I need the next chapter... Wait a minute, does the threat of Janeway porn and cattle-prod help you write faster?

[Noble Ire]

Sorry I am late to the party again, Vacation, sorry.

Each of these fightercraft seemed to possess the firepower and speed of a Starfleet line warship, despite being less than a fortieth of their size.

[nickpick]It is closer to 50,000 times in total size

Are you certain? That would make the vessel in excess of 500 kilometers in length, and I am quite sure constructions of that scope are well beyond the Federation's industrial capability. Perhaps you are underestimating the size of Alliance fightercraft.

Wait a minute, does the threat of Janeway porn and cattle-prod help you write faster?

No need to worry, the next chapter is quite well underway.

[fusion]

No! No! width x height x lenght. 40 x 40 x 40 = 64000

Also:

Had the Cerebrate been spawned with eyes, they would have bulged. The two attackers had been among the most power hulks at its disposal, and yet each had been obliterated completely by a single shot from the new comer. Not even the titanic vessel the mind had chosen for itself possessed such great power.

in chapter 49 it is powerful I think

[Dominus]

No, my good Noble Ire, it is we who should be thanking you for bringing us this engrossing fanfic.

I certainly agree with you on the point of the Arbiter's interesting personality, though I admit that I may be a little bit biased in this regard, as the Sanghelli have always proven a subject of fascination to me in one way or another. Let us hope that the Arbiter succeeds in deconverting more of his fellows before the Prophets lead them all down the path of galactic suicide.

And I didn't mention this before, but the only thing I would consider more deliciously ironic than throwing the xenophobic Galactic Empire against the Covenant would be to pit our favorite aliens against the Imperium of Man. Somehow, I find watching two xenophobic empires fight to the death an absurdly hilarious proposition.

I can only hope that you won't torture Barclay too horribly now that he's become a sympathetic character, as he was going to be transferred to High Charity, where the concentration of zealous fanatics is much, much higher than an ordinary starship. However, I do hope that you'll dispose of the Prophet of Truth in a suitably violent fashion. By the Emperor, I detest that manipulative Prophet with every fiber of my being.

And will we ever find out how the Zerg got loose in the Star Trek universe? And, moreover, what about the Imperial patrol that was moving off to investigate the Zerg-infested wreckage of the drifting Federation starship? I imagine that Lord Vader would not be particularly keen to fight a war against the Zerg just when he was gearing up for a big push into the Milky Way.

As for constructive criticism, I admit that my excessive zeal for the story has somewhat clouded my usually sharp eye for this sort of thing, and the only thing I can think of amounts to something of a minor nitpick: we're not seeing enough of the Master Chief. I know that you have a plan in the works for him, and that he will be reappearing again relatively soon, but I can only reiterate that he's have been rather absent as of late. While their (that is, his and Cortana's) assistance has proven invaluable in pulling the "Guests" out of the fire numerous times during their romp through the Star Wars galaxy, and doubtless none of the Star Trek characters would have ever made it back home without Cortana's aid, John especially still comes off almost as a tacked-on character.

EDIT: Blasted typos! The Emperor smites thee!

[Noble Ire]

And will we ever find out how the Zerg got loose in the Star Trek universe? And, moreover, what about the Imperial patrol that was moving off to investigate the Zerg-infested wreckage of the drifting Federation starship? I imagine that Lord Vader would not be particularly keen to fight a war against the Zerg just when he was gearing up for a big push into the Milky Way.

The Zerg's appearance will be explained, and in fairly short order; after all, end game is approaching fast.

As for the wreckage, I don't want to give away too much, but I will say that the wormholes are rather difficult to navigate, as Cortana discovered. Without an AI like her onboard, or some other extraordinary guiding force, ships are largely constrained to fixed entry and exit points, both spatially and dimensionally.

As for constructive criticism, I admit that my excessive zeal for the story has somewhat clouded my usually sharp eye for this sort of thing, and the only thing I can think of amounts to something of a minor nitpick: we're not seeing enough of the Master Chief. I know that you have a plan in the works for him, and that he will be reappearing again relatively soon, but I can only reiterate that he's have been rather absent as of late. While their (that is, his and Cortana's) assistance has proven invaluable in pulling the "Guests" out of the fire numerous times during their romp through the Star Wars galaxy, and doubtless none of the Star Trek characters would have ever made it back home without Cortana's aid, John especially still comes off almost as a tacked-on character.

I will admit, for a lot of the story, John has served more or less as a vessel for Cortana; aside for the odd action sequence here and there, its been rather difficult to include him in any of The Rift's major plot arcs. After all, he is primarily an infantry soldier, and I've included close combat only sparingly since the first section of the tale. Nevertheless, I will assure you, the Master Chief has not yet faded into the literary night. The finale approaches, and as we all know, John has something of an affinity for the dramatic, whether he wants it or not.

And thanks for the catch, fusion. As always, if you spot any typos in the text, feel free to PM me, and I'll fix them.

[Noble Ire]

Chapter Fifty Seven

No warship of the Holy Covenant was entirely devoted to the arts of combat and destruction. Within the curved halls of every vessel, argent or amethyst, picket or dreadnaught, plasma cores, Seraph racks, and barracks vied with the trappings of religion. Holographic projections of the High Prophets emerged from hallway monitors; holy sermons blared periodically over the communications net, and worship services were regular parts of the daily cycle; the sacred script of the Forerunners was inscribed on every duty station and mess chamber wall. No where was this doctrinal reverence more evident than the Hall of Catechism, one of the few shipboard rooms close enough to a ship’s hull to sport an expansive viewport for contemplation of the heavens. The chambers were used for special religious observances, crew ceremonies, public discipline, and the reception of certain dignitaries; in the minds of many, the Hall was just as vital a part of a starship as its overbridge or reactor matrix.

And, installed alongside ornate iconography and dogmatic plaques, were the most intricate projection devices and recall circuitry available; the Halls made ideal map rooms.

The chambers of smaller vessels were often little larger than crew barracks, but heavier ships could sport massive, amphitheater-like spaces that rivaled the grand galleries of High Charity. Onboard the mightiest of the mighty, supercarriers like the Sublime Transcendence, their vaulted ceilings and panoramic viewports seemed to stretch on forever.

As he passed the pair of armored Lekgolo titans who guarded the room’s main entrance in brooding silence, Supreme Commander Teno ‘Falanamee, the title of Arbiter hidden beneath golden armor and mauve wrappings along with the scar that would forever tie him to his conflicted past, admired the adornment the vessel’s commander had chosen for the space. Whereas some ships focused solely on the Forerunners and their emissaries, the Supreme Commander found the history of the Sangheili equally as prevalent here. Far murals depicted scenes from the ancestral homeworld, as it was before the First Age of Reconciliation and the Covenant’s founding. Monolithic statues bore the likenesses of the greatest warriors in the holy empire’s history, each clutching a battle-worn weapon or booming out orders that had been given in millennia long past.

Standing at the far end of the great chamber was a figure whose stature was undiminished even in the midst of the awesome expanse; Imperial Admiral Xytan ‘Jar Wattinree. Menacing, regal, awe-inspiring, the Sangheili was all these things and more, and he wore his resplendent gold-silver armor with the ease of one who had earned it time and time again in the crucible of conflict. Before him was an unparalleled starscape, upon which the Combined Fleet of Righteous Purpose was poised in eager formation, the green and white face of a distant nebulae at its back. Behind him, filling the hall from floor to high ceiling, rotated a huge orb of glimmering, tinted light. Motes and bezels formed star systems and stellar phenomena, every component artfully incorporated to constitute a familiar set of a dozen spiraled arms and the void beyond; this was the galaxy in all its grandeur, the domain of the Covenant.

Teno ‘Falanamee halted before the perimeter of the great map and assumed a posture of respect, eyeing his superior’s turned back in anticipation. “I have come as summoned, Excellency.”

The Imperial Admiral drew up his broad shoulders and came about to face the one who had addressed him. His feline eyes inspected ‘Falanamee for a moment, and then he moved from his place before the grand viewport, forgoing the circular path that skirted the edge of the projection field and forging straight through the lattice of illumination. When he finally stopped, Wattinree was only a long stride from his visitor, but he still stood within the lit bubble, transient stars and worlds passing over his armor as the chamber’s projectors mimicked the gradual movement of the galactic disk.

“There is no need for that, Supreme Commander,” he rumbled, gesturing that ‘Falanamee should rise, as he did readily. “This is a time for action and focus, not empty pleasantries. Besides, I seem to recall that you have more of a talent for strife than decorum.”

“As you say, Admiral,” ‘Falanamee replied. Secretly, he was glad to find the warrior in a mood for such banter. The Sangheili had met the other a few times before, and he knew that if Wattinree was in a foul temper, topics of contention were best avoided, at risk of egregious personal injury. The Imperial Admiral was a skilled leader and fighter, charismatic, well known and highly respected the Covenant, but the fire that burned within him could scorch friend and foe alike if something disrupted his normally-measured demeanor.

Wattinree swirled a huge hand in the air next to him, and the stellar patterns reformed into the likeness of a collection of warships ‘Falanamee recognized as his own, the Fleet of Particular Justice, reformed and supplemented since the engagement at the human world Reach. The Admiral selected one ship in particular, a five and a half kilometer assault carrier, and it ballooned to a size sufficient to nestle upon his palm.

“I trust your new command meets your needs; the Sacrosanct, isn’t it? It is of the same class as the Ascendant Justice, and I believe that it has seen nearly as much combat as your old vessel. Still, you may find it rather limiting for a time; if I recall correctly, your former flagship sported some rather unorthodox enhancements.” His mandibles widened into a slight smile. “Carriers do not typically bear battleship-grade energy projectors. I can only imagine that that particular modification gave the blade-ship you faced alone some pause, despite your eventual defeat. Nevertheless, I expect that the Sacrosanct will serve.”

“It has functioned well under my command since the Council assigned it to me,” ‘Falanamee said. “The Sacrosanct’s crew has also preformed admirably, despite the removal of their old master.”

“Good.”

‘Falanamee paused a moment before continuing. “I have heard reports that Fleet Master ‘Kreasee fell in combat during the Combined Fleet of Benevolent Edict’s attempt to disrupt the enemy’s rally point in the Ichor Drift. Is this so?” ‘Kreasee, former commander of the Sacrosanct, had been among the first into battle after the Hierarchs had at last authorized a counterstrike against the human attackers.

Wattinree stared at the warrior gravely. “He fought nobly to the last. Accounts from the battle indicate that he rallied our forces after their flagship was destroyed, and dealt one of the foe blade-ships a killing blow before fire consumed him.”

‘Falanamee nodded in respect, and then aligned his eyes with the admiral’s once more. He was unsurprised that his superior did not mention that the entire combined fleet, nearly the size of Wattinree’s own, had been annihilated along with ‘Kreasee; that was a wound that the warriors of the Armada could only bear in silence. Many Sangheili had died on that day. Far too many.

After a moment of what might have been silent reflection, hidden mourning, or artfully contained rage, the Imperial Admiral turned to the bulk of the galactic replica and indicated for ‘Falanamee to come to his side.

“Now, let us come to your purpose here, Supreme Commander. Your martial abilities are well-renowned, and I would be remiss to ignore such an asset. The Council has tasked me with consolidating our offensive fleets and forging a new strategy to stem the advance of these infernal humans. Your experience and input would be most valued.”

Teno ‘Falanamee nodded gracefully. “Then let us begin.”

As the two officers worked, pouring over new intelligence reports, fleet statistics, and battle logs, ‘Falanamee kept one eye on the other, carefully watching his posture and monitoring his mannerisms for the slightest inflection. The war that confronted them was, of course, of great concern for the Sangheili, but another threat hung ever-present in his mind. His swift reinstatement to the Armada had done little to assuage his fears on the treachery of the Prophets and their minions, and the course of the conflict in the last few days had all but convinced him that the coup he had witnessed the start of would not be stalled by the sudden Imperial incursion. Though the Prophets had seemed to acquiesce to the demands of the Sangheili components of the Council, agreeing to an open campaign against the human menace, their compliance brought with it a price that Teno feared his comrades were too preoccupied to acknowledge.

The Supreme Commander could only hope that Wattinree’s mind was not similarly clouded.

After the pair had debated the distribution of reinforcements to the two mobile battle stations, the Unyielding Hierophant and the Harbinger of Dawn, both of which formed the heart of command and control for fleet operations within the galactic arm, the Imperial Admiral dispelled the miniature representations of warships arrayed around them with the wave of his hand and replaced them with a shimmering projection of High Charity that was as large as he was.

“I have received word that the capital has withdrawn towards the homeworlds, and has paused at Asphodel to take on more soldiers and accommodate repairs to its slipspace drives.”

“Asphodel is a Jiralhanae world,” ‘Falanamee said, allowing the faintest trace of a growl to accompany his words.

“It is.” If Wattinree had recognized the Supreme Commander’s inflective, he showed no sign of it. “While the vessel of the Hierarchs is being attended to, it will be unable to transition into slipspace, and will thus be vulnerable. I have been instructed to dispatch elements of the fleets of Remorseless Truth and Chaste Starlight to supplement their vanguard. The redeployments will weaken my cruiser cores around several key installations bordering human space, not significantly, but they will hinder offensive options along vectors distant from Joyous Exultation. I am still unfamiliar with the slipspace conditions in this sector of space. Which of these coordinates, by your experience, would be the best point from which to reform our main offensive network?”

Wattinree gestured to several coordinates set in the stars around them, but ‘Falanamee did not follow his movements.

“You will be continuing offensive operations while the Armada is weakened in this way?”

The Imperial Admiral turned his gaze back to the subordinate. “Our onslaught must not relent until the enemy has been pushed from the galactic plane. The High Prophets made that clear when they authorized a counterattack. I will not allow a temporary setback such as this to force us into retreat once more.”

“This is not a prudent course of action, Excellency,” ‘Falanamee pressed. “Even now, our forces are beginning to falter, and it will not be long until the enemy begins to actively seek out our installations and worlds. We could barely repel another concerted attack as it is. Spending more ships now on costly raids can only weaken us.”

“And what would you have me do, Supreme Commander?” For the first time, Wattinree’s tone was tinted with anger. “Hold our fleets back even as their warriors cry for battle? Wait here for the blade-ships of the humans to seek us out and overrun our lines?”

“You know that is not what I intend, Admiral,” ‘Falanamee replied, adding comparable heat to his tone. “My heart seeks vengeance and combat as much as any Sangheili’s, but this passion is tempered, as it must be. I know that victory is possible, in spite of the enemy’s might, but I too must acknowledge the true scope of the threat they pose. If we barrel into this foe blindly, it will tear our fleets asunder. Your experience and skill are great, Excellency; I know that you can see the truth in my words.”

Wattinree glared at ‘Falanamee for a long time in silence, and for all of his battle-hardened composure and genetic fortitude, the latter could not help to begin uneasy. To openly dispute the wisdom of a Prophet bordered on heresy; to speak to an Imperial Admiral in such a way could be suicidal.

“I cannot defy the Prophets on this matter.” The mighty warrior’s response came in the form of a growl, but ‘Falanamee could sense that the feeling behind the words was not resolute.

“The Prophets are not all knowing, Excellency. On matters of war, we Sangheili have always possessed the superior perspective, if only for our intimacy with battle. Even the most pious warrior would willingly follow your order over that of the Hierarchs, if only you were to give it.”

“You speak of heresy, ‘Falanamee.” Wattinree was suddenly very still. “I am no heretic. Do not make me suspect you of such a weakness.”

“If heresy is alive within the Covenant, it does not reside within you, or I, or any Sangheili.”

As words echoed through the chamber, ‘Falanamee saw Wattinree’s eyes widen and then narrow beneath his helm. The Imperial Admiral was no fool. The lesser fleet master might as well have openly defamed the Prophets; his meaning could have been no more clear.

“Guards.”

‘Falanamee tensed, and his weapon hand dipped imperceptivity towards his holstered sword hilt. The pair of Lekgolo at the main portal perked up at their master’s call, raising their massive fuel rod cannons and repositioning blade-edged shields.

“Leave us.”

The two glanced at each other, but they complied without comment, and lumbered out into the adjoining hallway without ceremony, the razor spikes on their backs creaking slightly as they walked.

When they were completely alone, ‘Falanamee dared to relax his hand. The Imperial Admiral had not immediately declared him an enemy of the Covenant, as he was obligated to do by sacred oath. How long the lapse would last, though, ‘Falanamee did not know. Wattinree was already staring at him with weighted expectation.

“You must have noticed by now how the High Prophets have chosen to fight this war. For decades, they have shown apathy towards the methods and organization of the Armada; we Sangheili have been given objectives, and it has been up to us to decide how best to achieve them. Now, however, the Prophets seem to take a great interest in our strategies. When, before this began, was the last time that the Hierarchs ordered specific fleets redeployed, much less specific elements of those fleets? When was the last time that they personally ordered battle groups not to withdraw from combat under any circumstance? You’ve seen the field reports from the Ichor Nebulae. That battle was lost as soon as the enemy summoned reinforcements, and yet the Combined Fleet of Benevolent Edict remained until every last cruiser had been shattered. They could have withdrawn honorably, and with minimal losses, had it not been for the directives from High Charity.”

“How many of our greatest warriors have met their ends these last few days? Admiral ‘Naqualee, Ship Master ‘Inanraree, killed throwing themselves upon the enemy simply because such sacrifice was demanded by the word of the gods or because of honor and tradition. What is honorable about dying uselessly and leaving the soldiers of the Covenant without guidance or motivation? Who are the Prophets to define our traditions for us, and chain us to strategies that were rendered obsolete as soon as the Ascendant Justice burst into flames?”

“What of Keda ‘Enifalee, the high zealot you sent to assault the source of the enemy’s monitoring drones? I know something of your martial style, enough to see that that order went against your better judgment. Attacking a potentially superior force with no intelligence on the target and a fleet as small as ‘Enifalee’s? His defeat was all but certain from the moment you relayed that command. But the blame for his death does not lie on your head; the Prophets ordered that folly. Your only fault was submitting to them.”

“The Hierarchs are bleeding us dry. Were a swift victory against the invaders their real aim, they would have been more cautious, more conservative. They would have continued the council in the capital, and allowed our warriors their say on strategy rather than filling them with religious fervor and sending them to their deaths. Has a single one of their species died since that first battle? Have their Jiralhanae pets suffered losses even approaching our own? Are the fleet elements that have been recalled to Asphodel, far from the front lines, not heavily crewed by the foul creatures?”

“We must not allow ourselves to be used like this any longer. We are not trinkets to be manipulated and then tossed away. I do not wish for this Covenant that has stood for so many generations to be torn asunder, but it is not I, or any Sangheili, who made the first tear. I do not know why the Prophets have betrayed us so, now, in our darkest hour, but surely you must see that they have. You must at least acknowledge the possibility, the suspicion of a threat. These machinations are not the first signs of treachery on the part of the Prophets, but if you resolve now to defy their sinister edicts, to do what is necessary to safeguard our people, then this corrosion at the very foundation of our civilization can be stopped before it consumes us all.”

His darkest fears laid bare, ‘Falanamee fell silent. He had said all that he could say, with all the passion and conviction that a warrior hardened by decades of battle and betrayal could muster. His ultimatum had both drained him and relieved some of the weight that lay upon his heart, but he dared not gasp for breath or relax his resolute posture. Wattinree had still not spoken.

The Imperial Admiral stared at his subordinate for a long time before moving again, and when he did at last break the statuesque pose, it was not to speak. He turned away from the Supreme Commander, slowly folded his long, muscular arms behind his back, and began to walk away, holographic light shedding from his armored bulk. When his commanding voice finally drifted back to ‘Falanamee, its tone was impossibly cold.

“You are right about one thing, at least, Supreme Commander. The Covenant has lost a great many fine leaders in this conflict, and we require those left more than ever now.”

“For that, and no other reason, I will allow you to leave this room alive.”

Wattinree paused, and then turned to look up at the statue of an ancient Sangheili general, his sword held aloft, rallying his forces towards glorious victory.

“I do not know what could have transpired to turn a warrior of your reputation and ability into a mouthpiece of poison. I do not want to know. I have heard enough of your words, your defamations, your heresy, and I will not suffer another utterance. You have dishonored yourself in a way that any true servant of the Covenant and our people could not even contemplate. They would sooner die. Moreover, you have done this here, in full view of our ancestors. You have done this on my ship.”

“You will leave now. You will return to the Sacrosanct, and you will ensure that your fleet is prepared for battle. When the time comes, you will lead them into combat with all the dedication and ability demanded by your station. And then, when the enemy is wiped from this galaxy and the Holy Covenant is once again secure, you will come to me, and I shall see if you have enough warrior’s spirit left within you to die with some dignity. Do not ever repeat what you have said in this place. Do not dishonor your name further, and do not befoul the hearts of those under your command. Defy me, and you’re death will be swift and utterly graceless.”

Then Wattinree was silent, alone against his vast starscape. ‘Falanamee reared back and clenched his powerful fists tight, but he knew that there was nothing more that could be done. He regarded the admiral a second longer, barely able to contain the anger and regret that had replaced his cautious resolve. Then, he turned for the chamber’s entryway.

The Lekgolo Wattinree had sent away gazed at the Supreme Commander as he marched past their posts outside the Hall of Catechism and off down the central walkway, head held as high as it had been when he had arrived. The pair exchanged an indecipherable look with hidden eyes as the Sangheili disappeared around a corner, and then solemnly trudged back to their former posts.

Almost as soon as the giants had gone, a far smaller, slighter figure appeared in the hall, slipping from behind one of the broad pillars that dominated the great chamber’s approach. It was a Kig-Yar, gaunt and avian, with a beak-like mouth that perpetually bore vicious teeth and wide, bloodshot eyes that ever scanned its world with paranoid keenness. Cautiously, the figure approached the sealed doorway, looked it over, and then peered down the empty way that ‘Falanamee had taken. Its narrow, gaping maw widened into a sneer.

Then, with a muffled squawk, the creature was gone.
-------------------------------------------------

With a faint hiss, the door of the tiny, stark cubicle slid shut. The world within its cool, metal frame was isolated from the rest of the universe, a bubble of stillness, tethered to reality only by the distant vibration of the Imperial shuttlecraft’s drives as it forged through the abyss of hyperspace.

The sole occupant of this space was motionless for a long moment, frozen just beyond the sealed doorframe. Aayla Secura did not spare the furnishings of the chamber the most fleeting of thoughts; it was a simple room, fitted with a low bed, a computer terminal, and a rudimentary refresher. Of course, even if it had been as vast and elaborate as a Neimoidian treasure vault, the Twi’lek would have paid it no heed. The conflagration of thoughts and emotions that burned within her mind consumed it too fully now for any purely material concern to penetrate easily. Even the unbridled exhaustion that weighed upon her limbs required some time to cajole her towards the sleeping quarter’s primary fixture, onto which she finally sank without a sound.

The woman who had once been a Jedi Knight was tired, more tired than she had been in all of the recollections that she could still summon from the turbulent umbra that hung over her mind. The last days, she could not clearly recall how many it had been, had seen the Twi’lek and her rancorous cohort flit from one side of the Empire to the other, reaping a bloody crop as they went. The list her master, Lord Vader, had guided her to had been a long one, a hundred and more souls on as many worlds, but she had worked swiftly, feverishly, tirelessly, finding each, judging their allegiances, and culling those she deemed to be disloyal or unfit. Her lethal crusade was a blur; with each passing hour she could remember less and less of the journey, the sequence of worlds she had visited, the methods she had used to detect and dispatch the unworthy. But that didn’t matter now. Her task was complete, the listed was finished, and now she could return to the Imperial Center and await Darth Vader’s return from his far battle front, content that she had faithfully executed his will.

But she did not feel any satisfaction, none of the confidence or focus that Vader’s attentions had given her, and certainly none of the peace that she had felt as a Jedi, in a life long past. Instead, her mind roiled with conflict and pain. These were things that the Dark Side flourished upon, that the Sith and their followers should relish, but she could draw nothing from them. They only pounded at her ceaselessly, weakening her body and her mind. Even her connection to the Force seemed to be choking under the poisonous cloud that had enveloped her essence.

Breathing raggedly, Aayla stripped away long, ebon mantle that had she had adopted in her service to the Dark Lord until her blue skin was bare to the bleak, artificial light of the cabin. When her overclothes had been discarded, the fingers of her left hand moved haltingly to the dark sheath in which her right arm was encased. Gritting her teeth, the woman seized the top of the long glove and peeled it down slowly, shivering as a new wave of pain swept over her. Vader’s medical staff had eliminated any physical means by which the wound that Palpatine had inflicted upon her, a scab of blackened, cracked flesh that covered the entire appendage, could render discomfort, but they had been unable to remedy its appearance, or the wave of torment and revulsion that swept over her every time she laid eyes upon it. The power of the Dark Side could not be undone by mortal means alone.

Aayla let the foulness of the mark upon her arm flow through her, attempting to embrace the feelings, funnel them into the engine of hate that churned in concert with the beating of her heart. When her task had still loomed unfinished, she had used the scar to supplement her strength; the memory of the foul creature that had scarred her, the tantalizing taste of the Force’s true power. Hate and lust had quenched what food and water could not.

Now, however, the intensity of the emotions that swept from the wound was overwhelming. The Twi’lek could no more draw strength from them than she could the hollow Jedi teachings that still occasionally echoed in the back of her mind. As she looked upon charred remains of what had once been smooth, lustrous skin, Aayla could feel the storm that raged within her head howl with new energy. Pain coursed down her spine, burning nerves and wreaking havoc with her already fragmented senses. Aayla wrenched the lip of the glove up, only barely stopping herself from reeling onto the floor.

There had been pain before. There had been a clouding of her thoughts. But this was new, this was different. No power could come from the torment that fought to engulf her now, no arcane knowledge or forgotten skill.

The Twi’lek clenched her hands together and ground them under her chin, hazel eyes darting aimlessly around the dim room, chasing phantoms that only she could see. She could feel the pain working its way into the farthest depths of her consciousnesses now, severing mental paths and obscuring those memories she could still perceive.

Desperately, Aayla cast about for an anchor, something with which she could drag herself back from this corrupting abyss. This was simply part of the process, she tried to convince herself, the genesis of the dark Jedi, the birth of a Sith. She just had to remember what she was doing this for, why she had acquiesced to the embrace of the Dark Side. It would give her power; it would give her clarity of purpose. It had given her the strength to avenge the destruction of her old life, and break free of the chains that the old masters of the Jedi Council had placed upon her. It would keep her safe in a world of chaos and death. It would let her live, and lend life to those she cared about. It would please Lord Vader, the man who had saved her, shown her the way.

But even as she drew in this list of virtues, strengths that the Dark Side would provide and needs that it would satiate, it evaporated before her fevered mind’s eye. It was all hollow, useless. What was power if she could only live in pain? What was clarity if she could only see the darkness that consumed her? Had felling Palpatine done anything for those he had slain decades before? Did her actions truly mean anything to Darth Vader? Should she have devoted herself to a man who was a shattered shell of the soul she had once known so long ago at all?

As this failed attempt at solace faded into the churning maw of the storm, voices and images welled up to replace it. But they were no heralds of peace. The cries of those she had damned and slain roared in her ears, the weeping, the guttural cries, the irrational begging and bargaining. Each came with a face, dead-eyed, some bloody, others deformed and scarred, all bearing tokens what she had wrought. And now she could no longer remember why she had slain them, why she had spared some of the treacherous and skewered the loyal. They were all foul, bloody creatures, but…

But so was she.

The thought slashed at her as though it were a blade, cutting her more deeply than it should any follower of the darkness.

Delirious with pain and fear, Aayla fell forward onto the metal floor, flailing about for something, anything that could stop the anguish that threatened to tear her mind and body apart.

Then, her unbound hand fell upon something cool. Familiar.

Peering through the tears and cold sweat that stained her face, Aayla could make out the bulky cylinder of her lightsaber, lying on the ground where it had fallen when she had removed her shroud. The storm within her abated, if only slightly, and she summoned the strength to pull the hilt closer.

It was not her sword, she remembered dimly; that blade had been destroyed in combat with the Emperor. Instead, this one had been a gift from Darth Vader, a sign of her bondage to him. He had told her that it had once belonged to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his old master, one he had slain, among the last of his ancient order. It was a sign of his triumph over the weakness that the Jedi had taught, and he had passed it on to her so that she might know power and control as the Sith lord did.

Now, though, as she ran a finger over the object’s smooth grips and knob-like controls, an entirely different effect manifested itself. Something stirred within her, something that had been nestled and hidden so deeply that the dark storm had not yet touched it. It put forth a tendril, and Aayla felt a fragment of focus return to her, and then an ounce of strength. Not the raw, uncaring power of the Dark Side, but the firm, vital warmth of another force, almost alien to her and yet wholly welcome.

She could see new faces now, not those of the slain, but of the living, the living as she remembered them, from so long ago. Obi-Wan’s smiling, bearded face, friendly, compassionate, staunch in the face of the grimmest foe. Masters Tholme and Plo Koon, who had taught her the ways of the galaxy and the Force. Kit Fisto, Mace Windu, wise old Yoda, comrades, guides, and guardians. Quinlan Vos, a mentor who rescued her from the darkness of a galaxy without friends and family, and saved her from the Dark Side’s touch in decades long past. They came to her now not as shades, ghosts of what she had lost, and she did not see them as oppressors or fools. They still bore light for her, survived in the tempest of her mind, despite the tumult that consumed all else.

Her lips quivering, Aayla Secura began to whisper, the lines of a mantra she had thought long forgotten flowing suddenly back to her.

“There… there is no… no emotion, there… is peace.”

“There is no…”

The words caught in her throat. She knew them still, she wished, she yearned to speak them, to summon the light that they might bring, the peace that still dwelt somewhere within her. And yet, no more would come. She gagged, lurching up, lightsaber still clasped in her left hand, but no movement could knock free the sudden barrier.

Then she felt it. The thing she should have felt long before, so long before. In the illumination of that one spark, that one cache of radiance that had somehow kept alight within her corrupted bosom, she could sense, she could see with all her senses what had stayed her tongue, and was now climbing from the depths of the storm.

Desperately, acting on some impulse she could not comprehend, perhaps a discarded fragment of duty or simple terror, she lifted Obi-Wan’s lightsaber to her forehead and pushed its conical energy emitter against her wet skin. Her finger twitched on the ignition key, as if struggling against invisible bonds to execute its final order, but it did not, could not depress the button. With the last of the strength that the light within her had provided, Aayla reached out through the Force, clawing for the control that her body could no longer reach. It was all that consumed her now; she wanted to end it. End everything. It was the only way.

The only way to stop it.
--------------------------------------------

Lumiya sat in the shuttle’s command position, smoothly configuring the ship’s drive systems for atmospheric approach and initiating a preliminary landing checklist. The communication’s display lit up with a transmission from Imperial Approach Control, and the dark Jedi swiftly relayed the codes that would exempt her ship from all normal vector controls, flight restrictions, and inspections. The stuffy officer on the other end of the line processed the information and gave Lumiya full clearance, and then quickly broke contract; any officer who had served in the Core Regions for very long knew that it was best not to waylay vessels with such high level clearance with bureaucratic jargon or empty pleasantries.

Her approach preparations completed and entry vector locked in, Lumiya leaned back wearily. The mission had been draining for her as well, all the more so as her companion grew more and more insular and hostile. Though she dared not speak them, the cyborg still held many reservations about Aayla and her campaign. The Twi’lek’s recent, unexplained expedition to the Beshqek system had only heightened Lumiya’s suspicion.

A cold wind suddenly cut through the woman, and startled, she turned in her seat to see Aayla enter the shuttle’s cockpit. Lumiya had felt always something strange when in the presence in the alien, but the aura had previously been faint and indistinct. As the black-robed assassin seated herself in the copilot’s chair, though, the ambiguous sensation that manifested itself was magnified significantly, and what skin Lumiya had left under her macabre cocoon crawled.

There was something else about Aayla that was different, as well, something that raised Lumiya’s hackles even more than the chilling aura. The Twi’lek was smiling, almost grinning, something that the human had not seen her do since their first execution.

“We’re nearly back, then,” Aayla said, still smiling. “Back home.”

Lumiya nodded slowly, unsure. “Yes. Home.”

Before them, the silvery disk of Coruscant glowed in the light of its cold, distant sun.

[Dominus]

Fantastic as always, Noble Ire. This fanfic is like a fine wine; it gets better with age.

As for the Arbiter, well, I could have told him that approaching the Imperial Admiral with his knowledge of future events was a fool's errand; one does not attain that sort of power in an intensely religious hegemonizing empire without becoming a dyed-in-the-wool true believer, assuming he wasn't one already. It is disappointing, however, that the one Sangheili who could have made the most difference in the coming conflict chose to turn a blind eye to the Arbiter's warning. Is there any hope at all for the Sangheili, or is the Covenant Civil War an inevitability at this point, Imperial invasion or no? I certainly feel sorry for the Arbiter; the task of 'deconverting' his Sangheili brethren is bleak and without promise, and it seems that the more he tries to change history, the more it tries to revert back to its original form.

One thing that I hope you will address or explain is why the Prophets wanted to get rid of the Sangheili in the first place, as they certainly seem loyal and competent enough. Alas, I was never able to infer much of a reason for the truth behind this matter from Halo canon, aside from the fact that Truth is a conniving sociopath, but that goes without saying.

Hmm... what about the Heretic Leader from Halo 2? He's still alive at this point, is he not? Since I'm assuming that the Covenant never discovered Alpha Halo in this alternate timeline, he probably wouldn't have been able to talk with Guilty Spark and discern the truth of the 'Great Journey,' but might he be more receptive to the Arbiter's abridged version of the tale if ever they were to meet?

Something of a side question, but wasn't Xytan ‘Jar Wattinree the Sangheili who was killed by the Nova Bomb, along with most of the Elite leadership, in Ghosts of Onyx?

Ah, your Aayla as such an interesting and multi-faceted character. Could it be that she is actually coming back to the Light? I certainly hope so; we could use more optimism in the midst of all this bleak despair. It seems that, without Vader around to reinforce the Dark Side's hold over her, the old Jedi training is starting to come back. One that note, I cannot help but wonder whether Vader is actually in the Milky Way galaxy at this point ('leading from the front,' as it were), or observing the invasion effort from a safe distance at a nearby installation.

[Noble Ire]

Fantastic as always, Noble Ire. This fanfic is like a fine wine; it gets better with age.

High praise; I thank you.

Something of a side question, but wasn't Xytan ‘Jar Wattinree the Sangheili who was killed by the Nova Bomb, along with most of the Elite leadership, in Ghosts of Onyx?

Actually, Eric Nylund has stated in interviews that he intentionally left the Imperial Admiral's fate unclear. Nevertheless, yes, he is the same character as the one in the book, and in the canonical timeline, it does seem that he is killed.

One that note, I cannot help but wonder whether Vader is actually in the Milky Way galaxy at this point ('leading from the front,' as it were), or observing the invasion effort from a safe distance at a nearby installation.

At the moment, Vader is indeed still in the Milky Way, leading his expeditionary force against the Covenant. If you will recall, he left the GFFA in an attempt to clear his head, in a manner of speaking; the Dark Lord's "vacation" isn't quite over yet.

[Dominus]

At the moment, Vader is indeed still in the Milky Way, leading his expeditionary force against the Covenant. If you will recall, he left the GFFA in an attempt to clear his head, in a manner of speaking; the Dark Lord's "vacation" isn't quite over yet.

I only hope that the Dark Lord doesn't get stuck in the Milky Way should the wormhole suffer a disastrous implosion, a la Admiral Kanos in Darth Wong's Conquest. Would the Force even continue to answer his call if all the wormholes leading back to his home universe collapsed or were forcefully dissolved?

I don't know how I overlooked it before, but I noticed that you've been depicting the Arbiter in his Halo Graphic Novel formal dress uniform for the last several updates. Very good show, indeed; I've always been a fan of the regal-Sangheili-with-dramatic-cape look.

Apologies for asking all these questions, but I don't think this one was brought up before: whatever became of the second Death Star? Is it still under construction at Endor, or was the work halted or abandoned in the wake of the Emperor's death and Vader's restructuring of the Empire, and subsequent diversion of Imperial resources for the invasion of the Milky Way?

[Noble Ire]

Apologies for asking all these questions, but I don't think this one was brought up before: whatever became of the second Death Star? Is it still under construction at Endor, or was the work halted or abandoned in the wake of the Emperor's death and Vader's restructuring of the Empire, and subsequent diversion of Imperial resources for the invasion of the Milky Way?

As of right now, the Death Star is still undergoing construction, if at a pace more sedate than the canonical version (lets just say that Palpatine had more of a thing for superweapons than Vader). There hasn't been any need to divert resources; really, the Imperial invasion force isn't particularly large, no more than a few dozen star destroyers and the requisite support ships and infastructure.

[fusion]

Quick update, yea!
so the fleet doesn't have a commandship?

[Noble Ire]

Quick update, yea!
so the fleet doesn't have a commandship?

If you mean a Star Dreadnought, then no. The Executor was heavily damaged at the Battle of Sullust, the Lusankya is still buried beneath the Coruscanti skyline, and the handful of other Executor-class warships in existance at this point are already serving as command ships for sectorial defense fleets, vital for peacekeeping operations. There are several elements of the fleet that aren't Imperial-classes, interdictors, Tectors, communications ships and the like, but Vader is not commanding from a dreadnought.

[Dominus]

As of right now, the Death Star is still undergoing construction, if at a pace more sedate than the canonical version (lets just say that Palpatine had more of a thing for superweapons than Vader). There hasn't been any need to divert resources; really, the Imperial invasion force isn't particularly large, no more than a few dozen star destroyers and the requisite support ships and infastructure.

Ah, my mistake. I suppose it's a sign that I've been thinking in Battlefleet Gothic and WH40k terms when I think of a fleet comprising "a few dozen star destroyers" as being a major invasion force and huge drain on local Imperial resources. Needless to say, I completely forgot about the hundreds of millions of ships the Imperial Navy is rumored to possess. So I suppose that, to the Imperials at least, this really does seem to be a minor inconvenience as far as fleet resources are concerned. My sympathy for the Covenant just went up by an order of magnitude...

As for fusion's point about a command ship... would the Eclipse not suffice for this purpose? It's at least partially finished at the shipyards of Byss, if I recall Saxton's abridged footnotes on the Dark Empire storyline correctly (assuming Aayla didn't have that sabotaged as well on her previous rampage through the system, that is). She would serve as a fine flagship for the Dark Lord's fleet, if Vader can "motivate" the shipwrights there to finish their work a decade ahead of schedule in some suitably heavy-handed fashion.

[fusion]

As for fusion's point about a command ship... would the Eclipse not suffice for this purpose? It's at least partially finished at the shipyards of Byss, if I recall Saxton's abridged footnotes on the Dark Empire storyline correctly (assuming Aayla didn't have that sabotaged as well on her previous rampage through the system, that is). She would serve as a fine flagship for the Dark Lord's fleet, if Vader can "motivate" the shipwrights there to finish their work a decade ahead of schedule in some suitably heavy-handed fashion.

I was Actually thinking of a smaller one that he could use from the region (ie a ship that is about 5km long-10k long). However, that would end the Convant too quickly since it would be hundreds of times more powerful than a Convant dreadnought (or something simlar). Then you have the eclipse (something that i would avoid using in such story). A ship that can fend off a fleet of stardestroyer and still win. It would be equivant to millions of ships with the superlaser and thousands of heavy turbolaser and that is a ship in the Imperial navy repersenting only a tiny fration of a percent in the imperial fire power. Rember even the mighty deathstar is only 50% of the firepower of one of the many fleets. Just accept that any more than a tiny fraction of a pecent of the entire Imperial power is too much to handle for the Corvant power

[The Vortex Empire]

Update! Beautiful work as always Ire, simply beautiful.

[Dominus]

I was Actually thinking of a smaller one that he could use from the region (ie a ship that is about 5km long-10k long). However, that would end the Convant too quickly since it would be hundreds of times more powerful than a Convant dreadnought (or something simlar). Then you have the eclipse (something that i would avoid using in such story). A ship that can fend off a fleet of stardestroyer and still win. It would be equivant to millions of ships with the superlaser and thousands of heavy turbolaser and that is a ship in the Imperial navy repersenting only a tiny fration of a percent in the imperial fire power. Rember even the mighty deathstar is only 50% of the firepower of one of the many fleets. Just accept that any more than a tiny fraction of a pecent of the entire Imperial power is too much to handle for the Corvant power

Oh, that was never in doubt. I was being somewhat facetious; I know all too well that the Eclipse alone could probably destroy the combined might of the entire Covenant armada as well as High Charity itself, or at least damage it beyond repair and render it uninhabitable if the superlaser can't destroy it outright. I just happen to be of the opinion that the Dark Lord should be running his campaign of extra-galactic conquest from something a little more grandiose than a common Star Destroyer; perhaps an Allegiance-class would suffice for that purpose, however, (assuming the plans for that particular ship even exist at this point, that is) or one of the numerous large cruisers that are still lying around...

[Noble Ire]

Chapter Fifty Eight


The skies above the blue-green world of Bajor swarmed with activity. Over the past decades, the once peaceful and isolated planet’s local space had been transformed into assembly ground and battlefield so many times that one great fleet or another had become a near-permanent fixture there. The Cardassian invaders who had ravaged the globe and propelled its people into the galactic spotlight; the Federation task force that had attempted to guide the world down the tumultuous path back to peace; the Starfleet, Klingon, Romulan, and Dominion fleets that had jockeyed for control of the crucial world throughout the course of their bloody war; the savage Zerg host that had thrown itself ravenously on its new prize and the battered defenders who had only prevailed by the kindest of providence. This long history of conflict was etched upon the very void that surrounded Bajor, and the multitudes of scarred and weary warships clustered around it seemed to have borne an equal share of that unforgiving legacy.

During the darkest days of their newest, most dire battle, the weight of that protracted hardship had been inescapable, bearing down upon each crewman and commander, pushing them to the edge of their collective will. Now, however, something was different. The change was subtle, hidden beneath battle-stressed hulls and faces worn white with strain, but it was there nonetheless, and all assembled could feel it.

Hope.

More than three hundred warships now congregated around the Bajoran homeworld, twice the number that had defended it only two weeks previously. Shuttles, repair ships, and tugs of every size and origin flitted between loose battle groups and regimented flotillas, ferrying fresh crews and busily effecting repairs or relaying vital supplies. Even the empty blackness was alive with energy; transporter grids on dozens of ships distributed personnel and material feverishly, stopping only when their capacitors required respite from the stress of constant use. At the center of this furious labyrinth of activity, a motley collection of space stations, most half-built skeletons or veritable artifacts, all freshly deposited and assembled in the system, overhauled the most badly damaged of the vessels and coordinated the hordes of support ships and engineering teams that seemed to be needed everywhere at once. Positioned alongside them, still aligned with the planet’s capital below, Deep Space Nine was the nerve center of the entire armada, drafted into service even as the last of its Zerg boarders were being hunted down.

The battle-hardened remnants of Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Force were no longer the sole guardians of the system. Though most had been destroyed or irrevocably damaged after the arrival of the unexpected Alliance reinforcements, dozens of warships captured in the first days of the war had been returned to their rightful fold, fully cleansed and crewed as best as the allied fleet could manage. Joining these holdouts were entirely new elements, scattered Federation and Klingon ships rallied from their far-flung redoubts by the promise of unified action and new hope for the future.

Admiral Nechayev had been sure not to limit her call to arms to traditional allies. The Swarm threatened all other life in the galaxy, and the unified efforts of more than two ravaged states would be required to stave it off. Scattered throughout the mighty battle fleet were finned Cardassian cruisers, crescent-shaped Ferengi marauders, flighty Tzenkethi raiders, and vessels from half a dozen other powers. Worlds that barely had a squadron of ships for planetary defense had sent all they possessed at the Federation’s call. Most knew that even an intact home guard would be worthless against the Zerg if this last allied push were to fail.

Even the Romulan Empire had acknowledged that fact. Many soldiers, human and Klingon alike, reviled the reclusive power for entrenching behind their borders as the rest of the quadrant burned, but even the most embittered officer could not help but be impressed by their contribution. Thirty top-of-the-line, cloaked-enabled warbirds with battle-tested crews and photon torpedoes to spare.

The irrepressible hopefulness that pervaded the armada was not caused by this bolstering of numbers and strength alone. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, a renowned diplomat and seasoned veteran whose reputation had only grown after his mysterious disappearance almost a decade before, had returned the galaxy in its most egregious time of need. Though not the most decorated or experienced officer in Starfleet history, the man’s career had taken him to every corner of the Federation and beyond, where he had diffused hostile situations and defeated marauding foes beyond count. Every human knew of how he and his crew had stopped the first Borg attempt to assimilate Earth. Every Klingon remembered how he had arbitrated the succession of their Supreme Chancellery when their species had been on the brink of civil war. More than munitions, ships, and warm bodies, the Galaxy’s defenders needed heroes, and the measured Frenchman filled the role consummately.

Almost as important for morale as the Captain was his new command. The Enterprise had been born anew. After the last ship of the long, prestigious series vanished, the legendary name had been mothballed, and so it had remained until Picard and what was left of his crew reappeared, lacking their old vessel. Rather than dwell upon the loss of the ship, Admiral Nechayev had somehow been able to produce the USS Sanguine, a Sovereign-class cruiser that had managed to escape numerous contacts with Zerg forces virtually unscathed. Her captain had graciously stepped aside to allow Picard a new command and the vessel had been renamed the USS Enterprise-E with as much fanfare as could be mustered. A day after the ceremony, more than two thousand Bajorans and civilian refugees had petitioned to join the fleet.

All this, however, was inconsequential next to the blistered warship that formed the heart of the allied fleet. The one ship that had given life and resolve back to millions, and contained within its hull the power to change a galaxy.
---------------------------------------------------

The forward marine enlisted officer’s crew barracks onboard the Republica were almost completely vacant, bunks neatly made and personal gear stowed in small wall lockers. Though more intimate and somewhat better appointed than the sleeping quarters of the rank and file several decks below, the hall-like, semicircular chamber was still communal and militarily sparse.

Master Chief Petty Officer John-117, or simply the Chief, liked it that way. The Spartan had lived almost his entire life in similar environs, and he found comfort in being allowed to bunk with other soldiers, even if half of them were of species he’d never even imagined seeing, much less sharing a latrine with. After serving under him during the purge of Deep Space Nine, the ship’s trooper detail had taken to the artificially enhanced warrior, and he in turn had let down a few of the mental and physical barriers that he had kept in place since being torn from his world.

The Chief had even started walking about the ship in Alliance fatigues, his MJOLNIR Mark VI battle armor left powered down and stowed away to conserve its internal systems. Cortana would probably have something to say about this newfound penchant for ‘nakedness’, were she privy to it. Like many Spartans, who were feared as much as revered by much of the UNSC military establishment, John rarely removed his obscuring uniform before anyone other than his brothers and sisters in arms.

Of course, he and the AI had barely spoken since Bajor had been fully secured. Her tactical, technical, and communications skills made Cortana an indispensable asset to the fleet’s leadership, and she had apparently been more than willing to devote all of her considerable mental resources to their plans. Though he would barely even admit it to himself, the Chief was beginning to miss having the sarcastic, quick-witted intellect close at hand. After all, she was one of his last real links to home, and the two had served together in a more personal way than any other could claim, even his fellow Spartans.

Fortunately, he didn’t have very much free time to dwell on such feelings, either.

He stood before the open locker that was mounted next to his bunk, pawing through its meager contents. After removing his requisitioned uniform, folding it, and placing it in a large duffel that he had withdrawn from the locker along with a few other effects, the Chief turned to a large, locked cabinet at the rear of the chamber. Swiftly, he punched an eight digit code into the armored alcove’s interface panel, and pulled its door open. Inside, lying upon a wide shelf that normally housed emergency gear, ammunition, and spare clothing, the opaque, reflective bowl of his battle mask stared up at the Spartan.

As his eyes scanned the mirrored half-hemisphere and the angular, greenish helm upon which it was mounted, a chill of unease ran through him. Though he had been trained for decades to be a ruthless, uncompromising killing machine, John-117 was still a human being, even if he often attempted to suppress the feelings that that condition engendered, especially while in potentially hostile situations. His training told him that as long as he was so distantly removed from the UNSC, he operated under such circumstances, but over the last few days, his resolve in that regard had been waning. Even Spartans, the ultimate commandos, weren’t intended to be deployed alone, and as if on instinct, he had begun to think of the crew of the Republica and its allies as comrades just as close than any of the UNSC troopers with which he had served in the past. It was a perfectly logical adaptation, but something about the ease with which he had assimilated into a new military establishment, if only temporarily, made the Chief restless.

Then again, perhaps it was just hard to teach an old dog new tricks. And John was beginning to feel quite a lot like an old mutt.

With practiced ease, he removed each component of his scarred, dull-green armor, neatly stacked beneath his helm, and applied them to his limbs and torso. Reinforced plates fused with one another in an impenetrable mesh; crystalline under-layers warmed with new energy as they interfaced with the miniature fusion generator encased beneath the armor’s shoulder plates; hydrostatic gel flowed throughout the suit, covering the Chief’s bare skin in a comfortable, flexible sheath that would protect him from plasma burns and armor chaffing, seal open wounds, and even lock the wearer from the ravages of raw vacuum.

After flexing his hands in their Herculean gauntlets, the Chief took hold of his helm and lowered it over his pale, clean-shaven face. Seals and vents hissed as his armor, now a completely enclosed, self-sustaining system, pressurized and then equalized its internal environment with the ship’s. Filters thrummed to life, and the taste of doubly-sanitized and comfortingly familiar air met the Spartan’s lips. He braced for the icy stab at the base of his neck that would herald Cortana’s neural interface, frowned when no such feeling came, and then quickly busied himself with diagnostic screens that were appearing before his eyes. Life-support gauges, energy shield indicators, motion detectors, suit status monitors, targeting assistants, FOF HUD; all were in working order, a testament to the armor’s engineers.

Before closing the storage alcove, the Chief also withdrew a large, thick-gripped blaster pistol and tossed it experimentally from one hand to the other. It was an Imperial-made SoroSuub SSK-7, given to him by Major Truul before they had boarded the infested Bajoran space station. It had a slower fire rate than he was used to from sidearms, and an incompatibility in his armor’s software made remote targeting and ammunition checking with it impossible, but it still packed a powerful punch, and its unusually wide trigger guard was perfectly suited for the Chief’s gauntleted hand. Switching back to his right hand, he reflexively sighted along its traditional iron sight, and then slid it into a thigh holster.

Fully equipped, the Spartan brought a chronometer into view with a precise facial tick. The timepiece had been synchronized with the Republica’s clock, and the Chief was still getting used to the foreign system, but he was fairly certain that he was slightly ahead of schedule.

Unwilling to simply wait, he rummaged in his duffel and withdrew a palm-sized datapad. Although his digits were more than twice their normal diameter, he managed to access its interface with only a small amount of difficulty, and pulled up the first file in the computer’s database. A battle plan.

Allied Fleet Command, a provisional hierarchy set up by the political and military remnants of the United Federation of Planets, the Klingon Empire, the Bajoran Ministry, and a handful of other states, had presented its stratagem for a counter-campaign against the Zerg a day after Captain Picard had returned successful from Romulan Space. Before more than one hundred captains, army officers, and officials, the de facto leaders of the Allied force, Fleet Admiral Nechayev and General K’Nera, along with Princess Leia Organa and High Templar Tassadar, had outlined a relatively simple plan, one which they hoped to execute before the month was out. Against all odds, the Zerg queen and her minions had lost the initiative in their war, and Tassadar was emphatic that she not be allowed to regain it.

The massive fleet assembled around Bajor would break into several independent task forces, with a smaller division left to defend the planet and the hordes of refugees that were flowing into camps all across its surface. These strike groups would then begin to assault key strategic worlds and installations throughout the quadrant in simultaneous raids. Salvageable infrastructure, like intact Starbases, shipyards, and mining platforms, would be the priority, and emphasis would be placed on retaking and restarting their operation to further supplement the Allied fleet, which, despite its recent boon, was still outmatched by the thieved Zerg armada.

After these assets had been secured, the battle groups would begin to attack worlds known to be core hives for the Swarm, burning them from orbit to ensure that they could no longer provide the Zerg with fresh monstrosities. Undoubtedly, this would result in major confrontations with the opposing armada, a prospect that would normally mean casualties that the Allied fleet could not absorb.

That was where the Republica came in. Relying upon her swift hyperdrive, the light cruiser could jump from battle to battle, sewing enough chaos in the Zerg lines to turn the tide in favor of the Allied forces before jumping away again. Working with a team of Starfleet and Alliance analysts, Cortana projected that within only a few weeks, the Zerg military complex would be on the verge of collapse, and the retaking of key worlds like Ty’Gokor, Vulcan, and Earth could be conducted at AFCOM’s leisure.

That was not the end of the campaign, however. There were dozens of worlds throughout inhabited space that were infested, but still maintained populations of embattled survivors, or planets so vital for strategic or morale reasons that they could not simply be bombarded into submission. Ground forces would be required to rescue isolated civilian holdouts, reclaim population centers, and secure captured ships and installations. Although Zerg ground forces were largely composed of organically-armored, barely coordinated animals, the sentient brain creatures that controlled them telepathically, the Cerebrates, would have to be located and destroyed before each world could be fully secured. The Master Chief had thought that, even in their weakened states, the Federation and Klingon Empire could muster the armies necessary to hunt down these creatures and stave off the mindless drones that the death of each mind would yield. Certainly, there was no shortage of willing conscripts among the refugee population, untrained as they were.

When Cortana had suggested that he be appointed Chief Tactical Advisor to the AFCOM’s Personnel Combat division, a posting that would give him the brand-new rank of lieutenant general, and Command had readily agreed, the Chief had quickly discovered just how wrong he was.

After cursorily scanning the campaign outline, the Spartan brought up another file. A summary of Starfleet ground combat doctrine flashed before his eyes, complete with detailed statistics and annotations on every combat vehicle, personnel weapon, and support system in its arsenal. A similar compendium based on UNSC conventions would have taken months to read, and far longer to fully comprehend. The Chief had digested the volume in his hands in a single night’s study.

The Federation had relied on its fleets almost entirely for both defense and offense since Starfleet’s conception. Most of the foes that the power had faced over the course of its history had emphasized space power over atmospheric and terrestrial supremacy, and it had adapted its military similarly, to the point where they no longer even had a separate army command structure. Indeed, the Federation barely had an army at all; while the recent war with the Dominion had necessitated the training of a few divisions of dedicated group forces, the Federation still relied almost entirely on their fleet security officers for everything from infantry to shock troopers to military police. They were trained to fight in ship corridors, with low-powered hand phasers and little to no body armor. Mechanized units were virtually non-existent. Repurposed shuttlecraft, unarmed “hopper” atmospheric transports, a few poorly-designed scouting buggies; Starfleet depended almost entirely upon their transporters to move soldiers.

This final weakness in particular had hindered the Federation during the Zerg invasion. By some unknown means - Tassadar suspected that the “psionic” abilities of their brain creatures were to blame – the hordes that had fallen upon worlds were capable of disrupting transporter operation over wide swaths of land and space. Hundreds of thousands of civilians on Earth alone had been killed simply because the waiting evacuation ships suddenly found themselves unable to maintain cohesive molecular locks on their charges. Not only would any reclaiming army have to physically land on infested worlds, they would be unable to call upon orbiting vessels for point to point relocation or emergency recall.

The Klingon army was little better. It did possess a handful of armed and armored ground transports, but most had been lost during the initial stages of the invasion and the hopeless defense of their homeworld. Defense Force troopers also were more accustomed to wearing combat gear and armor, but their actual combat doctrine was atrocious. Onboard Deep Space Nine, the Chief had actually witnessed several warriors holster their disruptors and engage the maddened Zerg claw-creatures in close quarters with ungainly, bladed weapons that looked to be more ceremonial than purpose-made.

Shaking his head, the Chief dropped the datapad into his bag and closed his eyes.

He would have to completely rebuild AFCOM’s army, and he would have to do it in less time than a raw UNSC marine recruit had to go through basic training.

The presence the Republica and her trooper complement did provide some small consolation; a few of them had been stormtroopers or Imperial army officers with actual combat training and experience before they had defected, and the rest were still a cut above the average Starfleet security officer or Klingon grunt. He had already begun covertly selecting Alliance soldiers that he wanted transferred under his command to become instructors and squad leaders, assuming he could convince Major Truul and Captain Ryceed to part with them.

Then there was the issue of weaponry. The deficit in armor support couldn’t be helped, not on such short notice and with all of the Allied industrial facilities tied up refitting the fleet; the Chief could only hope that the reports of tank-like Zerg juggernauts and shuttle-sized scorpion creatures were exaggerations or anomalies.

Hand weapons were another matter. The energetic chain-reaction phasers and disrupters favored by his new soldiers were overly delicate, power-hungry, ergonomic nightmares, but they were reasonably effective against the flesh and bone of the smaller Zerg minions, and, most importantly, they were in relative abundance. The Master Chief would have preferred to outfit his new soldiers with more versatile and durable ballistic firearms, and he planned on having some designed and replicated as soon as the necessary facilities and engineers were available, but for now he could make due. Besides, there was the Republica’s arsenal of blasters and detonators, meager though it was, and they could always field-rig a photon torpedo or two if things came to that.

A door at one end of the curved chamber slid open and an Alliance officer entered, his short ponytail dangling from a thinning mane of brown hair.

The Master Chief jumped to attention, saluting the older man. “Major.”

Truul Besteen grinned. “I really ought to be saluting you. Lieutenant general, eh? Can’t say that I disagree with Allied Command’s decision.” He reached out to shake the super soldier’s hand, glanced at the vice-like gauntlets that encased it, and opted for a firm slap pat on the shoulder instead. “Still, this must put you in a real fix.”

The Chief eased his posture. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I can tell you what I’d feel like if the Feds drafted me into this military complex of theirs. I appreciate what they’re tryin’ to do, what they’re tryin’ to protect, and I’m more than happy to help ‘em do it, but I don’t think I’d take too well to taking a seat in their command hierarchy. Too stiff and artificial for my tastes, if you know what I mean. From what I’ve seen, the Feds are like Imps with the ‘murderous’ and ‘fluffy’ bits of their brains swapped. No offense, of course. They’re good guys, just too good. Their comfortable ships and classically-trained officers aren’t cut out for a war like this.”

He chuckled. “And that’s not even mentioning the Klingons.”

The Chief nodded. “This isn’t the sort of fighting force I’m used to, either. Still, they’ve managed to survive this long without our assistance. It’s my duty to make sure that they continue to do so, and with fewer casualties.”

“Well, better you than me. I had enough of instructors for a lifetime back in my Academy days, and I can’t say that I’d be too keen on becoming one myself.” Truul glanced at a wall-mounted chronometer. “Well, it’s about time we were going. I don’t want to keep Councilor Organa waiting, and I’ll bet your new students shouldn’t be left unsupervised for too long, either.”

The Chief took his bag in one hand and nodded towards the door. Dozens of new “students” were indeed waiting on Deep Space Nine, security officers and commanders from all over the fleet who had been selected to form the core of AFCOM’s ground forces. With the assistance of a set of holosuites repurposed from the local Ferengi merchant’s bar, the Chief hoped to give the soldiers a crash course in battlefield tactics, from combined arms to jungle warfare.

As the two exited the barracks, John allowed himself one last view of the tidy space. If only for a short while, the soldier had found a home away from home, and now he was leaving it, probably for good. For some reason, the thought was far more discouraging than the prospect of any of the trials yet to come.
---------------------------------------------

“Laura!”

The ensign halted, stepped out of the way of a weary-looking team of engineers, and peered back down the axial hallway for the source of the shout. With just enough grace to avoid tripping over his own feet, Jacen Solo skirted around a Mon Cal officer and closed the distance between them at a jog.

“Jacen!” The woman embraced the young Jedi warmly before he could even catch his breath. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I heard that you’ve been reactivated,” he said, still locked in her arms.

“Yes, I just heard a few hours ago. I guess the doctor finally had enough of watching me for nervous ticks and muscle spasms.” Slowly Laura released the man, but she was still beaming. “I’ve been assigned to the Versailles. Admiral Nechayev’s flagship! They must really be short on able bodies.”

Finally able to breath again, Jacen looked the woman over with a practiced eye. With little else to do over the last few weeks, the knight had been spending most of his time in the Republica’s medbay. He wasn’t a skilled healer like some of the others of the Order, but he knew a few basics, and the Alliance medical staff had been inundated with injuries from the recent battles and the refugee ships that continued to find their way to Bajor. Although his skills with physical healing had proven fairly mediocre, Force and all, Jacen had discovered that he had a knack for relieving stress and linger pain when sedatives and analgesics could not. By reaching out through the Force and gently touching the minds of his patients, he could ease discomfort and help overcome the debilitating aftereffects of trauma.

In addition to making himself feel useful and keeping his abilities practiced, the work had allowed him to spend a great deal of time with Laura, and the two had grown quite close. As far as Jacen could tell, she had been able to come to terms with the horrors she had faced on the doomed ship Cornwall without any lasting mental damage. He was impressed by her resilience, but now that she was officially “recovered and recuperated”, he found himself almost wishing her progress had been slower.

“You look great,” he finally managed, meeting her gaze with only a trace of nervousness.

“I feel great. I had thought that putting this uniform back on would be hard, but now that I have…” She trailed off and looked down at her fresh tunic, black and gray with a gold trim. Delicately, she raised one hand to her collar and fingered the single copper pip that rested there. Laura’s smile faded slightly, and she looked back up at Jacen, suddenly serious. “I want to get back to the fight. I want to help, Jacen, just like you’ve been doing, just like all of my friends… all of my family have done. I have to.”

The Jedi nodded. “I understand. You must do what you feel is right, and the fleet needs all the strong, skilled officers it can get right now.” He looked into her eyes with a deep intensity, but he did not reach deeper with the fortifying hand of the Force. He didn’t need to. “And you are strong.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, motionless, oblivious to the crewers who bustled past.

“Thank you,” Laura said at last. “Thank you for everything.”

Jacen felt as though he should say something in reply, but no words came. All he could do was look at her, and she at him.

“All Federation Personnel, the USS Versailles has taken up a holding position on our starboard side, and is preparing for transport. Those scheduled for the second shift rotation report immediately to Cargo Bay One for disembarkation.”

Neither of them responded to the announcement immediately, continuing their weighted silence for a few more precious moments. Then, finally, Laura straightened her uniform.

“Well, that’s my ship. I guess I should get going.”

“Good luck,” Jacen replied, as though startled. “I… we’ll see each other again. Soon.”

She smiled. “Count on it. And, how did you say it? May the Force be with you.”

They traded glances for another second, and then Laura turned away, hurrying down the hall to join the trickle of other officers as they made their way towards the departure point. Jacen watched her until she disappear through a far hatch, and then moved to the smooth bulkhead, wearily leaning against it and kneading his hands together. A wrenching sensation rose in his gut, and he found himself looking back at the empty door frame plaintively. A familiar burning lit his cheeks.

The wrenching sensation intensified, and a bead of sweat rolled past Jacen’s eye. There was something more to the feeling now, though, something different.

After a moment of confused recall, Jacen jumped to his feet, glanced at the hatch a final time, and then hurried in opposite direction down the hallway. He opened his senses, sliding back into the chorus of voices that was the warship’s crew, and noted uneasily that their melody was tinged by faint, dark cords.
-----------------------------------------------

“What in the Seven Hells is going on here?”

Truul stormed into the Republica’s main medbay, taking in the room with a few quick glances. Several of the analysis tables in the section’s central chamber were engaged, but the medical attendants and droids who attended them were not occupied with wounded from the fleet. Two humans, an Ishi Tib, and a Mon Calamari, all in Alliance uniforms, were being treated for a variety of contusions and breakages. Around them and in adjacent rooms of the medbay, patients were conversing nervously.

As Truul approached the wounded Mon Cal, the Master Chief took up a position on the inside of the sickbay’s door, hands at his hips, within easy reach of his sidearm. Scanning the room as the marine had done, he noted that the bed within a sequestered cubicle at the far side of the chamber seemed to have been damaged, and that several trays of medical equipment had had their contents tipped onto the floor.

The salmon-colored amphibian that Truul had singled out looked up from his table, and then shoed away the humanoid 2-1B that had been worrying over a sizeable gash on his sloped forehead. A small insignia on the breast of his loose, clean coat indicated that he was the ship’s chief physician.

“Major.”

“I noticed a crowd outside your door while I was on my way to the hangar deck,” Truul said. “What’s going on here?”

Gingerly, the doctor touched his freshly-sealed injury with a finned hand, and then swiveled his eyes towards the empty room that the Chief had noticed. “One of my patients, from the group that was transferred from the space station. Kira Nerys, I think her name was. Badly injured and prone to spasms for some reason I haven’t been able to determine. She was unconscious, and we had her under observation in one of the op rooms. I sent an orderly to check on her a few minutes ago, and when he got close, she suddenly woke up and tore through her restraints. Several of us tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t listening. She wanted to get out of the medbay badly, and none of us were able to stop her. I got this gash for my efforts.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A wiry, invalid sentient with a musculature not far from baseline human tearing through limb bindings and battering half a dozen healthy adults to the ground. And all of it without a word. Judging by the look in her eyes, I’m not sure she even knew where she was.”

“I was on guard duty here when the patient escaped.” A marine had appeared at the major’s side, his left arm in a splint. “I tried to subdue her, but she slammed me into a wall and ran out before I could recover.”

The man paused briefly. “And she stole my sidearm, sir.”

Truul glared at him, and then sighed. “So much for an on-time departure.”

“Alright, notify the XO of the situation. We’ve got an armed hostile loose aboard ship, and I recommend that we go to alert status. Then get me the Watch Captain; I want all available units on this immediately. We can’t let this woman get close to any other sensitive areas of the ship.”

“Major!”

Truul turned to the medbay’s entrance in time to see Jacen Solo skitter to a halt. Clutched in one of his hands was the silver hilt of a lightsaber.

“I think I know where she went.”
--------------------------------------------

Jacen lead Truul and the Chief to a turbolift and then ordered down into the bowels of the ship, far below habitation decks and frequently-trafficked walkways. Frustrated by the young Jedi’s lack of information on exactly where the runaway was beyond a general direction, Truul spent the short transit with his comlink shoved under his nose, attempting to coordinate with the Republica’s ranking security officer. The Master Chief waited in silence, apparently unconcerned about the delay in his transit to Deep Space Nine. As the lift reached its destination and its doors slid open, the soldier observed Jacen’s grip on his hilt tighten, and he drew his own weapon.

Truul also drew his sidearm and returned his comlink to its belt. “Deck Eight, section B. There’s nothing down here except systems ancillaries and power conduits. She must be lost.”

“Or hiding,” the Chief offered, stepping carefully into the cramped, empty hallway beyond. “We should proceed with caution.”

Jacen peered down one length of the access way and then the other, identical lengths low-roofed, cable ridden deck, considered, and then turned to the right. “This way.”

In addition to being cramped, the lower decks of the cruiser were both hot and noisy, separated from the ship’s internal network of energy conduits, fuel mains, and thermal collectors by only a few meters of wiring and durasteel plate. The grated floor beneath their boots clanked and echoed with each footfall even over the ambient din, making stealth next to impossible. Fortunately, the group didn’t travel far before a distant-sounding cacophony alerted them to a hatch, beyond which another dreary expanse stretched. The ranged sensors in the Chief’s suit were rendered ineffective by their proximity to so much high-energy machinery, but his well-honed hearing told him that the sounds were muffled explosions.

“Looks like you’re on to something, Solo. Alright, stay close, both of ya. And keep your weapons ready,” Truul said, wiping sweat from his brow before crossing the adjoining hatch’s threshold.

Not far down the passage, a pair of bodies came into view, sprawled on the deck next to a sealed hatch. One, an older human female, was dressed in technician’s overalls, and a belt of hydrospanner and other equipment lay discarded at her side; the other was a lanky Devonian in the fatigues of Truul’s marines. After scoping out the immediate area with his pistol, Truul knelt beside the soldier, felt for a pulse, and then delicately flipped him onto his back.

“Dead,” he said, rising from the body after closing its blank, staring eyes. The Devaronian’s chest was a mass of still-smoldering, carbonized flesh. “Heavy blaster hit at point blank range.”

“Here,” Jacen called from the woman’s side. “She’s still alive. I don’t think she’s badly hurt.”

As if responding to the man’s voice, the technician’s eyes fluttered open and attempted to roll onto her side. Jacen gently raised her up against the bulkhead wall, inspecting a large bump on the back of her neck as he did.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

Slowly, she nodded, and then looked up at the Jedi. “Yes. Yes, I can hear you. I think I’m alright.” She tried to stand, faltered, and then fell back into Jacen’s waiting arms. “Well, mostly. Just let me rest for a moment.”

“Did a Bajoran woman do this to you?” Truul asked. “Thin, probably dressed in medical robes?”

The tech nodded. “Yes, she came just a few minutes ago, unless I’ve been out longer than I think I have. I was finishing up some maintenance in that junction room, just in that hatch, when she walked up and asked if the control circuits for the internal blast door network ran through there. It was a weird questioned, but I told her they did. Then, without a word, she made to go in. That struck me as even more odd, so I asked her what she was doing, and under whose authority. I guess that poor trooper on the floor over there happened by us while I was trying to stop her, and started demanding identification. The next thing I knew, there were blaster bolts flying through the air, and my spine tried to push its way into my skull.”

Jacen, Truul, and the Chief looked at the sealed hatch the tech had indicated in unison, just as a new bombardment of sound rang out from within. Unlike the last clatter, however, this one was immediately followed by a momentary flickering of the hall’s illumination and a noticeable change in pitch from one of the rumbling machines hidden in the plating below them.

The Chief cautiously approached the hatch, tried its handle and then tapped its access interface, all to no avail. “Locked.”

Truul’s comlink buzzed violently, and he lifted the device to his lips, keeping his gun hand trained on the closed door.

“Truul here.”

“I hope you’ve found our escapee, Major,” a dry, female voice said over the tiny speaker.

“We’re close, Captain,” Truul replied, apparently unsurprised by her knowledge and interest in the matter. “We’ve tracked her to junction room B-5 on Deck Eight, but she’s sealed herself inside. I’ve also got a dead marine down here, and a wounded crewer. A security detachment would be appreciated right now, and engineering detail if you can spare one. Our blasters aren’t going to be opening this hatch any time soon, and it sounds like she’s doing some damage in there too.”

“So we’ve noticed,” Ryceed replied. “Operations is reading power fluctuations throughout the internal monitoring and defense grids. Your support teams are on their way. Just hold your position, and keep me informed. Ryceed out.”

“You heard her,” Truul said, lowering his communicator again. “Let’s move them out of the line of fire.” He indicated to the two crewmen. The Chief moved to help the living tech to her feet, but Jacen still lingered at the hatch. His face focused, almost trance-like, he placed his palm against the solid metal barrier.

“Why is she doing this?” he asked, more to himself than the others.

Truul grabbed the dead marine’s shoulders and began to drag him out of the field of any potential fighting. “Who knows? She was on Deep Space Nine, and if I’m remembering names right, I was one of the ones who found her, right in the middle of the worst of it, barely alive. Surviving that kind of slaughter can leave all kinds of wounds that bacta can’t fix. She probably just snapped. I’ve seen it happen half a dozen times before, and for a lot less reason.”

Jacen shook his head. “No, I’ve felt breakdowns before. This is different, much deeper. I can feel her mind at work in there, but… there’s something wrong about it.” He paused, and then closed his eyes in concentration. “I can feel a darkness hanging over her, unlike any I’ve ever felt before. It’s powerful, like… like a hunger. Driving, forcing her to do something. I just can’t…”

His eyes shot open. “We have to get in there. Now.”

Truul eyed him incredulously, but he withdrew from his grisly work and moved to the Jedi’s side nonetheless. “Alright, alright. But I don’t think we can get through this hatch without the engineering teams. We’d need a trained slicer to bypass this lock electronically, and the hatch looks likes it pretty well reinforced.”

Jacen looked down at the weapon still clutched in his right hand.

Truul followed his gaze, and then stepped back. “Ah.”

With a hiss that resounded down the hallway, a pillar of green light erupted from Jacen’s clenched fist. He braced the weapon in both hands, set his feet, and then plunged the lightsaber’s blade straight into the seam between the hatch and its bulky frame. The durasteel around the beam of energy glowed red, then white hot. Jacen gritted his teeth as a wave of heated air washed over him from the boiling metal, and then began to pull his weapon down along the door’s right seam, leaving a fused, blackened trail in its wake. The cacophony beyond the bulkhead started anew, and the deck plates below their feet began to tremble perceptibly, but the young Jedi’s concentration remained unbroken.

When he had drawn a swath nearly a meter in length, Jacen stopped, peered intently at the door as though he could perceive its internal workings, and then plunged his blade even deeper into the metal, to the point where its projection cone was almost flush with the pool of molten material. The hatch around the blade now glowed hot enough to combust any flesh that touched it instantly, and yet Jacen stayed within arm’s reach, the heat shedding away from him in wavering sheets.

“Chief,” he grunted. “The seam.”

The Spartan moved behind the Jedi quickly and clamped onto melted line of metal with both hands. The alloy sizzled and distended beneath his armored fingers, but he held firm, and began to drag the hatch away from the wall. For a moment, it sat motionless, immovable even under their combined onslaught. Then, with a prolonged, wet rumble, a sliver of empty space appeared between the door and it’s mounting, then widened to a crack. Jacen exhaled sharply, withdrew his weapon in a single, smooth motion, and stepped away from the hatch just as the super soldier tore through the weakened locking mechanism and let the door swing open on its reinforced hinge.

Truul was ready with his weapon trained on the new opening, with the Chief close behind, but Jacen still managed to get through the entryway first, ducking through the frame with his lightsaber still activated.

The junction room ran parallel to the adjoining walkway, and was constructed in the same, low, hall-like design. Its walls were covered with diagnostic panels, fuse cores, and circuit boxes, but the devices were now all but unrecognizable, pitted, splintered, and melted along with a large portion of bulkheads upon which they were mounted. Cast in the bleak illumination of the chamber’s only remaining functional light fixture, a large hand blaster lay discarded on the floor, its barrel partially melted and poker hot. Nearby, flattened against the burned and sparking remnants of a control station, a woman stared at them with bloodshot eyes, her simple white garb torn and soiled.

“Stay where you are!” Truul ordered, leveling his pistol with the red-haired woman’s chest.

Jacen placed an arm across the Major field of fire. “Wait! Let me talk to her! She’s unarmed.”

“You heard the doc’s report, Solo. She’s just as dangerous with her hands as that blaster.” Truul grimaced as the Jedi walked past him, towards the stalk-still Bajoran. “Listen to me, blast it!”

“Kira,” Jacen said slowly, ignoring the older man. “We’re not here to hurt you. We just want to take you back to the medical bay, where you’ll be safe.”

The woman did not reply, and her face, contorted with pain or fear, remained unchanged. One hand closed reflexively over the burned, frayed remnants of a bundle of metallic wires that hung from the ruined terminal. Their jagged edges cut into her palm, and a trickle of blood began to drip onto the deck.

Jacen thumbed his lightsaber’s control stud, and then slowly lowered its inactivated hilt, spreading his own arms in a gesture of goodwill. “There are doctors on their way now. Just stay where you are. We don’t want to hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Kira’s eyes suddenly met Jacen’s, and her cracked, bloodied lips opened. “Let? You won’t let? You can’t stop her.” The voice was small and fragile, barely more than a whisper.

“Jacen…”

The Jedi blocked out the Major’s warning once again. “Whoever she is, I won’t let her get you. It is my duty to protect people from darkness, like the one that hangs over you now. Trust me. I can save you from it. Just trust me.”

Kira shook her head. “No. No, you can’t. Nothing can stop her. Not when she’s close… so close.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“But it doesn’t matter now. Its over. I’ve done it. No more.”

Kira let her arms fall to her sides. “I was weak. I couldn’t stop her. But I won’t let her have me any longer. Tell them… tell them that I broke free.”

She looked into Jacen’s eyes in silence for a moment longer, and then her gaze fell. In that instant, the Jedi felt a familiar, urgent pressure in the back of his mind, and his muscles tensed instinctively.

The Bajoran leapt from the wall and plunged straight towards Jacen. In her bloodied hand, a long, sharp piece of machinery she had wrenched from the wiring probed forward, aimed straight at his unprotected neck. The Chief fired a shot when she had crossed half the distance, but the luminescent bolt only grazed her shoulder, and she pushed onward, her speed undiminished. Before the either soldier could fire again, Kira was on top of Jacen, slashing at him all the strength her thin limbs could muster.

There was a flash and the sputter of evaporating blood.

Kira went limp, and her weapon clattered to the floor in a pool of deep red. She slumped against him, her face centimeters from his. The Jedi felt her last exhalation, saw her ridged nose twitch. The corners of her thin mouth crested into a smile. Then, as he looked on, life left the woman’s eyes.

Trembling, Jacen let his lightsaber die, and then guided Kira’s body to the deck, trying unsuccessfully to tear his gaze from the small hole that bisected her from sternum to spine. He laid the woman on her back, and then let himself fall into a sitting position next to her. Still shaking, he raised his hands before his face, and then clenched them. His eyes closed fast.

“You alright, Solo?” Truul was at his side, and the command in his voice was replaced by gruff comfort. “I don’t think she got ya.”

He placed a heavy hand on the Jedi’s shoulder. “I should have brought her down before she reached ya. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m not hurt,” Jacen said, his eyes still closed.

“Alright. Just sit tight. I’ll go see what’s taking those support teams.” Truul glanced at the fallen Bajoran one last time, shook his head once, and then disappeared into the hall.

After the Major had gone, Jacen slowly pulled himself to his feet, slipped his lightsaber back into its loop, and finally opened his eyes. He turned his gaze briefly to the Chief, staring as though something else filled his field of vision, and the looked back at Kira’s body.

“She’s close,” he echoed at length, and then fell silent.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Great chapter .

I loved the bit with Master chief musing about the state of Trek ground forces . I see that you're going to run into the same troubles I had in one of my fics with "The master chief" now being a "Lieutenant general" (Though at least he has a first name, who the hell calls himself "The scotsman" grumble mumble).

[Dominus]

I really liked this chapter, Ire. I've always been a fan of the 'vignette' style of chapter arrangement, and you pulled it off with aplomb here. I admit that I care for your style of prose much more so than the one I seem to favor, for it is a rare author indeed can paint such a detailed and comprehensive picture of his characters and their environments without giving into the urge to write flowery, over-elaborate 'purple prose'. If anything, you've only improved since the last chapter.

Ah, the Zerg. Admittedly, I don't know much of them -- aside from the fact that they remind me entirely too much of the Tyranids -- but this latest move was... certainly unexpected, to say the least. Mind-controlled infiltrators was one of the last things I expected out of them. How did the Zerg queen get so close without anyone noticing?

Like everyone else, I must admit that I laughed for about five minutes straight when I read John's commentary on the state of the Trek universe's ground forces. And of course the massive, massive technological and military superiority enjoyed by the Republica is amusing in a strangely nihilistic fashion.

Ah, and I see you made good on your promise to deliver unto us more Chief-centric chapters. And Jacen has finally returned to the limelight as well. Now it seems that the troupe of extragalactic exiles is ready to be reassembled again. I do hope that their sudden resurgence isn't indicative of plans you may have to start killing off major characters, however...

[The Grim Squeaker]

Ah, the Zerg. Admittedly, I don't know much of them -- aside from the fact that they remind me entirely too much of the Tyranids -- but this latest move was... certainly unexpected, to say the least. Mind-controlled infiltrators was one of the last things I expected out of them. How did the Zerg queen get so close without anyone noticing?

No doubt in the same way she did to a Dark Protoss Queen with millenia of experience and psychic powers, or how she controls her minions across light years.
Mind controlling some schmuck running around near Zerg is a relatively pitifully easy task (Just have a few seconds pinned down with a Queen near you or Overlord or some other form of "higher" Zerg life-form as a psychic node or "Focus")