Hull no. 721- a fanfic

[Vianca]

Nice.

[Raesene]

Never draw the attention of Darth Vader, never ever...

good chapter, although "I" would have liked to shoot at the Falcon.

[Phantasee]

Fantastic. Perfect for a boring afternoon at work.

I'll put up some more detailed commentary after, but yeah, nicely done.

[Vehrec]

Solo, eh? Was that really Han, or a Han Impersonator that has been sent out to send Imperials on a wild goose chase?
The reference to the missile boat as a flying dustbin is nice, and It's a pitty that some of those other designs were never considered. I would have killed to fly the PulsarWing in TIE fighter.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

Thanks, guys, I wasn't sure if I had that one right. Easier when you don't have to do it on camera, I suppose. With dialogue and everything.

Raesene, um, you did. HIMS Obdurate is a Demolisher-class medium frigate; "you" followed the drop point calculated for you by Black Prince's nav team, blindsided the, let's call it the Sunfighter Franchise for now, by literally blasting aside the Kuiper belt object it was using as cover, and spraying LTL fire at the light freighter until it ran away.

On the subject of Demolisher-class frigates in general, this is the same class of ship as from the Droids cartoon; as I was looking at them and trying to fill in the blanks of what they were capable of, this is what I came up with.

Basically, they're the same or slightly later vintage as the Rendili Dreadnaught, and something of a companion piece. Where the Dreads carry large numbers of MTL and large troop complements- I reckon two regiments- the Demolisher class are faster, carry a larger fighter complement, four squadrons, are better equipped to launch them quickly, and carry a smaller number of heavier guns.

Where the Dreadnaughts functioned as slow enforcers and peacekeepers, the Demolishers were the hunting and pursuit element, the Dreads doing positional warfare and the Demolishers search-and-destroy.

The cartoon gives them a fairly built-up superstructure, and I choose to interpret the blocks either side of the bridge as square-set turrets, two each side for single mounts of the same grade of HTL as the Imperator-II. That should do for getting through a mere kuiper belt object- although most of it broke up rather than melting.

That, incidentally, is how she managed to deal with a Victory-I. Missiles seem to be most effective at long range, when they come in fast enough to minimize engagement time, or close range where they have the energy to be radically evasive. At Zelpher's Rift, Obdurate found the sweet spot- the zone at medium range where they were least effective- and used her superior acceleration to stay at the same relative distance, using her fighters as missile defence and pounding the renegade Victory-I with HTL fire until it broke off and fled.


The Rebellion uses a lot of tramp freighters; in some ways, they're the Star Wars' equivalent of the "technical", the pickup truck with the pintle mount on the back. They don't have too many people who can fly like that, though.
There may not be much of a part for him to play; picking off fighters is one thing, but a hundred and two squadrons' worth? Primarily, it would be smuggling; agents and special operations teams in, information and escapees out.
They could conceivably try to trap him with Jhareylia as bait, but it would be an amateur or very foolhardy rebel intel officer who accepted the word of an agent who had been so long in enemy territory without contact at face value.
Of course, this is assuming no-one calculates exactly how unlikely it is that she's remained untainted. As soon as someone mentions the odds...


I've been in a field for the previous five days, so 25a is a bit behind schedule. Expect it in a few days' time.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

Okay, here we are...
Introducing a main cast character seems to have opened some kind of floodgate, because we have another one here. Not in a particularly good mood, either- and not greatly surprising, considering.
I thought it was about time I took a look at Jorian Lennart at his worst, with the remnants of his student-radical days showing through; unpredictable, irreverent and probably unpromotable.
Something else, too. I am a Moorcock fan, and the near- coincidence of names between one of his minor characters and one of SW's just added another ingredient to the pot.
This is definitely not one of his better judged acts- probably not one of my beter written segments, either, I have the feeling I may have pushed the boat out a bit too far- and I may revise it later, but for the moment here it is.


Ch 25a

‘No. That is not how this will happen.’ The overweight man behind the desk said.

‘Did you actually manage to read as far as the signature?’ Vehrec growled back. Years of private trading between the wars had taught him finer grades of perception, that not all bureaucrats were rear-echelon scum; there were good ones and bad ones. The hutt-for-a-grandmother lardass in front of him was definitely one of the bad ones.

Unfortunately, he was also a full Commodore and the Commander, Base Station Altyna.

‘Counter-orders from Sector Group.’ The Commodore brandished the datapad.

‘Let me see that.’ Vehrec took it.

The orders came from the office of the sector Admiral, countersigned by the private secretary to the Moff; and in their own twisted way, they were a masterpiece of evasion.


They couldn’t counter Adannan’s orders directly- the best they could do by that was enforce delay and garner suspicion; but they could modify them. Sector considered, it said, that this was a mission of unusual importance and danger.

Usual flowery verbiage- all loyal subjects encouraged, et cetera- but the kicker was in the last statement. For all personnel not specifically mentioned by name, it was to be considered volunteer duty only.

‘Now I wonder, where are you going to get a crew for that corrodo-mobile?’ the commodore taunted him.

That was the biggest single problem. Not enough pilots, but between fellow-instructors and advanced training/refresher courses, he could put together a capable cadre, enough wing and squadron commanders to lead the rest and bring them on- most of the lower ranks would have to come from planetary defence forces across the sector.

They would take time to assemble and work up. Re-equipment would be a problem too, and then, kriff it, controllers, ground crew, building up from a semi-retired, run down training ship to a fully active combat unit again- where were they going to come from?


He understood carrier operations, but mainly from the outside. What happened under the skin of the parent vessel, he knew enough about to understand just how little he really knew.

‘You know, it would be a good move for the Alliance to strike here. Bomb the base facilities, kill the admin staff- they could do some real and lasting good for the Empire that way.’ He vented.

Bile aside, that might work as the seed of an idea. The Base Station encompassed the Voracious and two smaller- escort- training carriers, a handful of freighters and transports to play exercise target, and a local-defence line based around a Dreadnaught, two Carrack and a handful of corvettes, as well as the ground facilities.

He was willing to bet that a fair proportion of them would be in a sufficiently advanced state of cafard- bored out of their minds, essentially- to want to go and fight. That only left the problem of how to turn them into a worthwhile crew.

‘Collect whatever wrecks, relics and maniacs you can. I will be interested in seeing how far under strength they are. Dismissed.’


Vehrec saluted, trying not to extend two fingers in the process and almost succeeding, and stomped out.
Seventy-four hundred crew to find, less the skeleton thousand already on board- no, assume half of them wouldn’t go. Sixty-nine hundred then. First stop, the signals shack.

It wasn’t a particularly appropriate title for a square kilometre of antenna farms, deepscan domes, control bunkers and subsidiary facilities, but it had stuck.

Primarily range monitoring gear, it also kept track of all confidential publications and information dissemination to the facility.

What he needed was for them to, essentially, place a want ad in the local issue of the Defence Journal. Find the officer of the day, explain, possibly indulge in light bribery-


‘Sorry, no can do.’ Which was not the response he wanted.

‘What do you mean, you can’t do it?’ he asked the duty senior lieutenant.

‘Thing is, Group Captain, the operations of Objective Pursuit Squadron 851-Yod are, um, we’re not allowed to put out anything about them. Classified beyond belief. Top security. We could probably be arrested just for talking about it.’

‘Hm. Really? Well, if it makes you feel better about it I can shoot you, it certainly would improve my mood.’ Vehrec said.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, this is- this is kriffing ridiculous. I’m supposed to find volunteers for a mission that’s so heavily classified, I’m not allowed to talk to anybody about it and ask them to volunteer?’

‘Put that way, Sir, I can understand how shooting people might start to seem rational.’ The duty officer said, smiling nervously and sidling away to use a memory stack as cover.


‘I think I’ll start with the commodore.’ Vehrec walked out, leant against the outer wall of the main admin block of the shack. Options. Examine options.

One, walk back in and threaten, bluster, and possibly shoot people until he got what he wanted. That had it’s drawbacks, however temporarily satisfying it might be.

1a, do the same from the cockpit of a fighter. Advantage, bigger explosions, less effective countermeasures. Still unproductive.

Hack in. Problem, he needed a slicer for that, which meant finding a suitable cadet or hiring a private contractor- both insecure and legally dubious. Might not work, anyway.

Appeal to higher authority. Could work, they could as easily hang him out to dry, assume that if he couldn’t solve a simple problem like that he wasn’t worth bringing along after all. He would look inept.

Lower authority? Spread the word via the noncoms, flight technicians, and the rest of the bush telegraph? Speed and clarity of transmission would be a problem. Nemoidian whispers. That would be the backup plan.

Find a loophole. Promising, but there had to be one there to be found.


Ah. Technically, according to his own orders, he was part of this unmentionable, unquestionable, ultra- classified outfit. All he had to do was make that work for him.

He strode back in past the guards. Draw his gun and put a shot into the ceiling? Nah, there were dish antenna up there.

‘Lieutenant, read my orders. Our preceding encounter was a test. Let’s see if you can do better this time. On my authority, as the senior ranking officer of the Sweep Line, Pursuit Squadron 851- Yod,’ waving the datapad with his orders encoded,

‘I commandeer this facility. By security regulation 1227-LF90A, signed by the Sector Admiral and confirmed by the Base Commander, this operation is top secret. You may not question, you may not discuss among yourselves. Clear?’

The signals people looked blankly at each other, each trying to work out if this was legitimate or not. Time to yell at them again.

‘Why are you impeding the progress of an important, dangerous and highly classified operation? This is what I need; a clear secure terminal connected to the main subcom broadcast tower, Station-wide access. Move it. Now.’


The stormtroopers shrugged. They appreciated an elegant solution to a problem as much as anyone else, and it was pot and kettle anyway, one attempt to fiddle the system countered by another. Until further orders were received, he had the right of it.

The signals team collectively reached the decision that they were equally likely to be blamed either way, decided they resented the Commodore more, and stood aside.

‘Base Station Altyna, this is Group Captain Konstantin Vehrec. As you may not know, training carrier Voracious is due to be recommissioned as a fighting destroyer, attached to a regional support unit, 851- Yod.

For whatever reason, Sector considers this to be unsafe, and has decided on a volunteer- only crew.
I’m going. This is a front- line, active service duty, with all the promise of action, promotion and preferment that implies.’

Which was pure sales pitch, as anyone who had ever even come close to understanding the meaning of the word ‘casualties’ knew.


Hold on a minute, mate, part of his brain reminded him, you took absolutely no persuasion at all.

Shut up, he told it, and carried on. ‘Many of you, I’m sure, joined up to do something, not just sit here and slowly fossilise, to serve the empire, not be a glorified servant- to fight for the Empire and take your chances doing so. Well, this is the chance now.

When we have a crew, we will be moving to join a subdivision of one of the most distinguished combat units in the Starfleet.

‘If I have to use my personal bird and stretch a tow cable, Voracious is going to war. I want a fighting crew, because I expect what we’ll mainly be doing is fighter based search and destroy.

Because of the level this was classified at, you’re not supposed to be listening to this- but I’m ranking officer present, and if I decide that it’s worth sacrificing security for efficiency, then that’s between me and the commander of 851-Yod.

We can use people in any capacity- but I mainly need ground crew, gunnery and engineering for the ship. Anyone who’s interested, get a message to me or my office.’

Which usually meant cockpit. Not a bad plan, actually- might keep him from being arrested.

The signal shack was filling up with people, a mix of a few would-be volunteers and rubberneckers come to watch the chaos; among them the second shift.


‘Group Captain?’ one of them asked. Shift commander, a senior lieutenant.

‘Yes?’ Vehrec looked him over. It was a big base, he knew most of the people on it vaguely. Caliphant, that was his name- not a range officer, base com team.

‘Sir, consider me a volunteer.’ Enthusiastic but trying not to look too eager, good. Young, late twenties maybe, dark haired, broadshouldered, medium height.

‘What can you do?’

‘Navigating Officer on an Interdictor, acting captain on a class-1000.’

‘How did you end up running a shift at the shack?’ Vehrec asked.

‘My own fault. We captured a rebel courier, reeled it in and we were holding it for analysis, and I started playing with their computer. Only managed to crack the cursed thing wide open. Nobody believed me when I said it was pure dumb luck, I got transferred to signal analysis.

I didn’t fit in- didn’t really want to- got tagged as trouble, bounced around a bit and ended up here. If this involves open combat, count me in.’

‘Yeah, you look like you could use some laserfire in your life. Consider yourself pencilled in as navigator, for now.’



Commander Vianca Falldess was a survivor, and the descendant of survivors. Roughly a thousand years ago, her planet had been literally bombed back to the stone age.

It had happened during the chaos of the Light and Darkness War, when most of the galaxy was looking away. The mode had been unlike either side- small high- relativistic projectiles, aimed or self-aiming at centres of industry.

Kilograms each, megatons of yield, not enough for extinction, never mind geological damage. Just enough to leave a defenceless and exploitable resource and population base.

Perhaps it might have happened that way if the war had gone on longer, but whoever it was- and they had gone to some lengths to cover their traces- had run out of time. They had not followed up with invasion, and the attack remained a bolt from the blue, endlessly argued over and reanalysed.


Rebuilding was a long and painful process- not helped by smugness, patronising interference, and rampant corruption and graft that nearly ruined the planet all over again.

The republic reconstruction crews had been evicted at spearpoint, the money ploughed into an autonomous orbital defence net, and the inhabitants of Bya Amadi had decided they would be better getting to their own feet.


In rebuilding the technology of the past, they had managed to make many of the mistakes of the past all over again. Unified planetary government had been a casualty of the bombardment, and combat between troop blocks armed with pike and musket was still well within living memory.


Commander Falldess was very much a warrior- aristocrat, and the daughter and descendant of warrior aristocrats; she had put in ten years on sailing warships before the death of the Republic, starting from when she was only nine years old.

When their world had been approached by the Empire, it was in the first flushes of the new order; before, as some would have it, the revolution had been betrayed.

Imperial Army construction units had done a thorough and honest job of ending factionalism and bringing their world back into the space age, and then-Acting Lieutenant Falldess had applied without hesitation to join the Imperial Starfleet.


It had been a long, hard road to get this far. After a ten years’ apprenticeship, in command of drunks and lunatics who were a far greater management challenge than the relatively well drilled and behaved sailors of the Imperial navy, leadership was almost trivial. Even space tactics came without too much difficulty.

What made her head spin was the mechanical side. She had no instinctive feel for the technology at all. On a sailing ship, you could feel the forces that acted on her directly, you could know in your gut what the state of the ship was and what she was going to do next.

On a starship, for all the romantic nonsense about sailing the infinite sea of night, no. They were simply too big and too stable; for years, every morning, she had woken up in a state of advanced panic, total absence of subliminal clues leading her subconscious to think the ship had hit a rock and gone aground or something.

She had had to virtually relearn how to see to be able to make sense of holographic displays.

She had managed to struggle through on a mixture of cramming and memorisation, guesswork, bluff and dumb luck amounting to a minor miracle. Also partly on aristocratic poise, I leave that sort of thing to the menials don’t you know, let the little people take care of it.


She had been at first ashamed and embarrassed by that, and then absolutely horrified as she realised how many of her fellow cadets were flaunting the same attitude, without seeming to think there was anything wrong.

At the very least, they had the elementary familiarity of growing up with it all. She didn’t.

She had indeed been often wrong, but had held to the other half of the old adage, never uncertain. Deck officer, section officer, up through the ranks to exec and her own command eventually- many times confused, sometimes embarrassed, occasionally totally lost in the technicalities.

What she did have was the determination, and in some respects the primitive instinct, of her apprenticeship. She read people much more easily than she read machines, sifting real from false confidence, fakers and bluffers from professionals. What she didn’t know herself, she could pick a crew who did.

There had been blunders and mistakes along the way, gains and losses. She had lost one ship, a Carrack damaged beyond economic repair in a brawl with Republican revanchists, married and been widowed, and eventually found herself here with a heavy frigate command, on escort covering patrol.

Early middle aged, late youth she kept telling her reflection in the mirror, perhaps she could go further- but she was unsure whether, in the atmosphere that pervaded Vineland Sector Group, she wanted to.


Too many times, they had received positive orders that had put them in the wrong place. Far too often, negative orders not to be concerned, not to worry about or react to something that had later turned out to be important.

At the very least, the sector group was far more concerned about making sure there didn’t appear to be a problem than they were about dealing with it, whatever it was.

At worst, active complicity. Whose? Not everybody, surely? There was no evidence. She may be suspicious- morally near- certain- but without knowing exactly who and exactly what, there was nothing to do but try not to breathe too much of the stink.


Now this. She had looked Jorian Lennart up in the dictionary of naval biography; a quasi- official production, crippled by security regulations and frequently informed by no better source than gossip or prejudice. In the absence of a real Navy List, it would have to do.

There was certainly a wealth of gossip and prejudice to go on. Joined at the end of the early period of the Clone Wars, present as a navigation officer in one of the ships of the covering force at Geonosis, strong hints of exceeding his authority- as nav,

he performed as the de facto exec, as exec he ran first a Meridian, then Venator, as de facto captain. Present and decorated for his part over Coruscant.


Transferred to an Imperator, one of the earliest- same ship he commanded now, in fact- the captain, relative of a notorious rebel, had resigned in circumstances dubious enough to trigger an investigation.

They had decided to court-martial Lennart, and for some inexplicable reason busted him down three grades, from commander and acting-captain to lieutenant.

That made no sense. It was far too light for a severe punishment, far too severe for light punishment. Either he had done something which he should have been shot for, and the court had been friends of his, or they had wanted his blood but that was the worst they could make stick. Probably the former, considering.

Logistics command, then planning, then training, then four years on the staff of the Raithal Naval Academy- extraordinary for someone whose career should have been dead and gone.

The DNB admitted that he was one of the best purely combatant officers the Starfleet had, as he had proved once he got his ship back, but called him all sorts of unreliable and unpredictable stopping just short of outright traitor.

Whether she trusted it’s judgement any more, considering what it said about her own sector fleet- not as much as she used to. This would be interesting.


That and, if she was reading the org chart correctly, her ship was going to be the most senior in the second heavy recon line, with a Demolisher, two Strike, three Carrack, two Servator, two Bayonet and four Marauder attached.

Fifteen ships total, mounting ten heavy and eighty-six medium turbolasers between them and carrying six battalions and eighteen squadrons; a force shaped far more for meeting engagement and encounter battle than strict reconnaissance.

Who was going to be in charge of that lot? Not her, surely?

Excitement and terror combined. As senior officer, she had led a four-ship skirmish line- of basic Corellian and improved Assassin-class corvettes, with crews of no more than a couple of hundred each, even counting troops and pilots.


Escort duty; co-operation with the other ships of the skirmish line had been easy, in face of the common enemy- the merchantmen.

The regulations on the behaviour of private haulage ships were draconian, and for good reason. Keeping them in formation had been a never-ending misery, that had reduced itself into the navy attempting to provoke the merchants into behaving badly enough that they had an excuse to shoot them themselves, the merchants trying every trick they knew to annoy the navy, or simply leave the convoy.

They considered they were at more risk from their escorts than they were from pirates and separatist remnants, and after a sufficiently long period of both sides messing each other about, it was probably true.

That was it as far as multiple unit command went. Now four ships of real force, five medium and six small, and a purely military mission. Half of her wanted to leap at the chance and the other half was scared to death.



‘Signals, we have the link? Good.’

‘Yes, sir, we’ve been asked to wait- here he is.’

A long-faced man with hollow cheeks and bags under his eyes appeared on the holotank; substantially better uniformed than Lennart. Which was pretty much inevitable under the circumstances.

‘Afternoon, Firmus.’ Lennart began, casually. ‘How’s the new toy shaking out?’

There were shocked gasps and stifled laughter from behind Lennart as his crew realised who he was talking to, and how.

‘Captain Lennart,’ Firmus Piett began coldly, ‘we are very busy, and this is the wrong time for a social call.’
‘That’s Captain of the Line Lennart, me old chucker.’ Lennart said, putting on an outrageous accent.

‘I do want to know what that big bird can do, but- in accordance with regulation whajamacallit,’ the text appeared at the bottom of the image as Lennart waved a hand dismissively, ‘reporting contact with one of the fake ID’s at least of someone your current lord and master has an unhealthy interest in.

Pretty good, might have been the real thing. One of my squadron put about twenty or so LTL into him, didn’t seem to do much…you’ll probably catch up with him eventually, tell him I said hi.’


Piett was having difficulty keeping a straight face. ‘The sheer unlikelihood of your remaining in the service continues to amaze me. You are living proof that no personnel reliability program can ever be one hundred percent dependable.’

‘And thank the force for it. Have you ever met a hundred percent dependable personnel? I’ve got one at the moment, swap you. Trust me, you’ll be wanting to bang his head through a bulkhead within days. Maybe even succeeding, if the rumours about how far the mass saving on your ship went are true.’

‘Considering the state of that moving heap of dirt and indiscipline you call a command, I don’t see what you’re basing that on.’ Piett snapped back. He was in a state of high irritability.

‘Losing control of your tongue already? I do sympathise. It must be exhausting, running a crew of toy soldiers brainscrubbed out of the initiative they need to blow their own noses.’ Lennart retorted.

‘Demanding and rewarding, far more so than being in command of a gang of privateering tinkerers.’ the officially acceptable officer said.


‘Ah, now there is a tempting notion. Have you considered just how much a renegade star destroyer could get away with, and for how long? If they sent you and that overgrown steam blimp after us, we could manage to get away with it dam’ near forever.’ Lennart prodded him.

Piett reddened slightly. ‘Careful, Firmus.’ Lennart continued. ‘You’re in danger of looking like you’re not undead.’

‘I have more important things to do than to listen to you insult the finest ship in the Imperial Starfleet. Good day.’ He disconnected.


‘Skipper, you really think you can get away with that? Calling Lord Vader’s flag captain “me old chucker”?’ Brenn asked.

‘It won’t make things any worse than they already are. He’s loathed me ever since I met his half-brother.’ Lennart said, grinning.

‘Who? He’s not listed in Piett’s file.’

‘No wonder- different mothers, he spells it differently, and they hate each other’s guts. I bumped into him when I was at Raithal.

If I ever write my memoirs, in the chapter headed “Things I don’t understand how the kriff I managed to get away with,” surviving a night on the piss- actually, a fortnight- with ISB Colonel Max Pyat without being either shot, court martialled again, dying of liver failure, being displaced into a right-angled reality or simply driven into a straitjacket will head the list, even above the Palmus Viridis.’


‘The practical purpose of that, of course,’ Lennart said in a rather more sober tone of voice, ‘the regulation I almost quoted is entirely genuine.

We were obliged to report that, and a standard form fired off through official channels would do exactly what it was supposed to- direct official attention to the situation.

I think I pretty much managed to do so in a way that guarantees it won’t be taken seriously. The chance to take a few pokes at Firmus Piett is simply a bonus. I mean, he was almost as unprofessional as I was, except I was actually trying.

Look at the colour of the man’s face, how old before his time he looks, how badly he’s lost his sense of humour. He looks under so much stress, there is simply no way he can possibly be enjoying that job.’


‘Just in case, Captain, in the exercise schedule- would you like me to insert a few games of hide and seek with the Executor?’ Rythanor, who as sensor officer was responsible for that, suggested.

‘Probably just as well.’ Lennart agreed. ‘Assume they’ve finally managed to get the bugs out.’

‘I didn’t know you were so against the new fast dreadnoughts.’ Brenn said.

‘Oh, any ship which gives so many accountants heart attacks can’t be all bad.’ Lennart joked. ‘Seriously, what’s that thing’s natural prey? It’s gross overkill when it comes to the rebellion.

We only need to win one battle in ten to grind them down to nothing in the end, and we’re doing a kriff of a lot better than that. By the time that ship could see enough action to justify herself, the rest of the fleet could kill the Alliance off with decades to spare.

So what is she actually for? Neither of us brought up the words ‘renegade’ and ‘privateer’ by accident.’

‘Makes sense.’ Brenn admitted. ‘We’re the only people with ships that hard to chase down and kill. She’s for internal security, then?’

‘Piett made his reputation bringing down pirates, the choice of him as a flag captain does rather point that way.’

‘So you’ve just managed to infuriate a renowned pirate hunter, in charge of a ship whose unstated mission is to find and kill dissenters- why do I suddenly feel much less safe?’

‘You and most of the battleship and cruiser commanders in the Starfleet.’ Lennart pointed out.


‘Bridge, Engineering.’ Junior link officer. ‘Search teams found the Kestrel to be carrying one replacement prow turbolaser unit. Commander Mirannon intends to mount it in the third axial socket.’

‘Good. Tell him to carry on.’ Lennart replied. It was such a single-answer question, he would have known there was something else seriously wrong if the chief had thought he needed to discuss it.

‘Now all we need is another hundred or so and we might be able to give the Executor a run for her money.’ Brenn underestimated.

‘The other thing is, skipper,’ he said very quietly, ‘you’re playing both sides against the middle, aren’t you?’

‘What, you mean going out of my way to leave barbs that’ll stick in Piett’s mind, fester, get him thinking and trigger some kind of investigation? Would I drop Adannan in it like that?’ he almost managed to sound innocent.

‘Of course you would.’ Brenn said, accurately. ‘Report to him that you made it all sound like an irrelevance, too- but Piett, isn’t that just playing with antimatter, more risk than the objective’s worth?’

‘Considering what I’m starting to suspect that Adannan actually wants, no.’



There was a knock on the chamber door. ‘Jhareylia? Take it. If I shout, duck.’ Aldrem ordered, flipping the fire selector on his T-21 to full auto, moving to cover her.

Jhareylia glared at him. ‘Easy on the melodrama, it shouldn’t come to that.’

‘Optimist.’ Aldrem said.

‘Put the blaster down, I need to talk to you.’ A female voice none of them recognised came from outside the door.

‘Damn, she’s sharp. What do we do?’ Hruthhal hissed to Aldrem.


‘I’m starting to feel conspicuous out here. That and I don’t think you can shoot me through an armoured door.’ The voice said.

Jhareylia cracked the door open. Kick it the rest of the way, Aleph-3 thought, go in low and use her as cover, hit him stomach or groin, grab his gun- and hope there weren’t more than, say, four of them.

Jhareylia’s eyes widened at the sight of an exotic variant stormtrooper, she tried to slam the door again.
Kriff, Aleph-3 thought, shoved it open and grabbed the woman in the steward’s uniform, used her as a human shield while she tried to work out what was going on.


Fifteen of them. No, eighteen. One with a squad-support blaster she was looking right down the muzzle of. She glanced at his rank and ID patches; high noncom, gunner.

Probably was good enough to blast her round the human shield. The others- huddled in a corner were Adannan’s two twi’lek pets. Both without their leashes.

This was definitely the trouble she had come looking for. Throw her human shield at the gunner and follow up? No, he would simply pivot on his back foot, clear line of sight and blast her to red mist. She released Jhareylia who ducked away, put her hands up.

‘I think I might be on your side.’

‘Dewback. Stormtroopers follow orders. Whose orders are you acting on?’ the senior chief said, aiming at her centre of mass.

‘Somebody has to be the exception that proves the rule.’ Aleph-3 said, trying not to sound too aggressive- or too submissive.

‘We know she’s with him, Pel, take her now.’ Gendrik advised.

‘No.’ Jhareylia- and Suluur- advised him.

‘You’ve met my sister?’ she said.

‘Clones.’ Suluur grunted. There were only slightly more of him than there were of her.


‘If I’m under anyone’s orders, it’s probably Chief Mirannon’s. He said you had a problem you might need professional help with.’

The rest of them had closed the door behind her, brought more light up. This was a heat control chamber; they were in the control room for one of the giant neutrino emitter banks, visible beyond the transparisteel.

‘So what kind of professional help can you offer?’

‘Apart from being a qualified field interrogator? Apart from being special operations? What sort of professional help do you think you need- actually, don’t answer that.’

‘You are either legitimate, or a very good actress.’ Aldrem said, not lowering the gun.

‘Both. Although you’d better hope I’m not- because legitimate is a kriffing strange idea coming from someone who’s just kidnapped the Special Assistant to the Privy Council’s personal pets. You need a medic as well, by the way.’

‘Would that be you, too? With a medkit in your belt pouch where we have to let you draw it, oops it goes bang, or have one of us play human shield again?’ Aldrem said, still not trusting her.

‘Relax, I know my limitations. In close quarters like this, I could take any six of you, maybe any eight- but not all sixteen.’


‘So we outnumber you two to one. Right.’ Suluur said, impressed by her totally matter of fact tone. ‘Pel, we can shoot her or not shoot her. I don’t see how vaping her would get us any closer to sorting this out, might as well take the chance.’

‘Whose side are you on- sorry, damn’ fool question under the circumstances.’ Aldrem said to Suluur, and to Aleph-3 ‘Get on with it.’

‘I have done the basic field medic course, and had to use it a few times. I’m the best you’re going to get without having to answer too many questions,’ Aleph-3 said, kneeling down beside the two twi’lek and unsealing her first aid pack,

‘but the squeamish may want to look away, because I don’t think keeping this pair alive in the long term matters. Just long enough to extract a little evidence from.’

[Vianca]

Okay, here we are...
Introducing a main cast character seems to have opened some kind of floodgate, because we have another one here.
This is definitely not one of his better judged acts- probably not one of my beter written segments, either, I have the feeling I may have pushed the boat out a bit too far- and I may revise it later, but for the moment here it is.

It's oke, it's only logical to bring him in like this.
Good change that the only thing we hear from him, is the fleet-group that comes to check out Pursuit Squadron 851-Yod.
And that might be his last act before he dies in the solar system of that Ice planet in espiode 5.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

You seem to have more confidence in my writing than I do. As fun as that was, and as much as I enjoyed the sheer absurdity of a Piett/Pyat connection, it is simply too big a risk for the characters to take under the circumstances. Post-combat stress relief might explain doing something that nuts, but I think Lennart ought to have the sense to think about it first, enjoy the fun of the idea but realise the practical problems, and stop himself actually doing it.

Part of the pencilled endgame always included the chance that the whole mess would end up in Vader's lap, but- not then, and not for that.
There is, logically, someone else Lennart should be reporting to, his own squadron commander. I thought about it, wrote it up.

I'm not going to edit out the original version. Let it stand, as an exercise in chaos, but try cutting and pasting this segment in in place, and see if the tone isn't more consistent, and if it doesn't make better drama.
'Urbanus' class, incidentally, are Dr. Saxton's Anonymous Star Cruiser #1; the 3.1km smoothly rising superstructure type. I needed something to call them, a great many navies have gone for town and city names for ships, it seemed reasonable.



‘Signals, command hookup enabled? Good.’

The crest of Fleet Destroyer Squadron 851 hovered in the display tank for several seconds- the round-headed winged mace- before fading out to a flag bridge, the nerve centre of the Urbanus class light cruiser Jorvik, squadron lead ship.

Ranked tiers of com and sensor consoles around central display platforms.

‘Admiral Rawlin? Lennart.’ For once, he saluted, properly.

The rear- admiral was a giant of a man, he radiated personal authority with the effortless determination of a man who did not need to shout to make himself heard, did not need to draw himself up to be seen.

‘Jorian.’ They had known each other since the clone wars. ‘Advice, fire support, both?’


‘Both, probably, but first I need somebody to backstop my judgement on this.’ He asked. He explained the situation. The initial rebel contacts, the discovery of the sector group’s fudging the numbers, Adannan, attack, infiltration and trap, and now this.

‘So you have managed to get yourself in the position of attacking a fortress planet, with possibly unreliable assistants- at least one crack ship in there, though- a dubiously loyal sector group at your back,

under the political command of a man whom you suspect may be about to go renegade and try to take you with him, and a political time bomb to deal with even if you succeed. You don’t get into trouble by halves, do you?’ Rawlin said, amused and worried both.

‘I was hoping that just this once, there might be enough to share with the rest of the squadron?’ Lennart admitted. ‘Honestly- it’s the politics of it that scare me more than anything else. What do you remember, personally, about the hundred and eighteenth?’


‘H’m. We do know that the destruction of the Jedi was accomplished by some kind of neural trigger, an emergency insurance system embedded into the clones. We’re not supposed to know that much, and certainly not supposed to speculate further along those lines.’

The admiral said, clearly intending to do so. ‘Are you assuming that Ord Corban has remained relatively untouched, apart from what use the Alliance has managed to make of it?’

‘Them or whoever else. The Sector Group is training a lot more pilots than it needs, and I can’t help wondering where they all end up. Between that and the Falleen Moff- you know the rumours about Prince Xizor.’ Lennart suggested.

‘They are still rumours. If they do turn out to be true, though, half the fleet will be racing each other to see who can get him first.’ Rawlin said. ‘If I’m reading between the lines of your report correctly, you’re suggesting that the real prize of Ord Corban is hiding in plain sight, in front of their noses.’

‘Special Orders One through Sixty-Five.’ Lennart confirmed.

‘Or with less drama, a chance to closely analyse, maybe duplicate the loyalty control and neuroengineering techniques that made however many Orders there actually are possible. That would be a very powerful tool in the hands of a renegade.’

‘Even if all he intends is to blackmail his way to a higher position of authority, it’s still a massive risk.’ Lennart opined.


‘The fleet was very enthusiastic with it’s bombardments in the Geonosian revolt. I wonder if that was why- to bury, vapourise, the details of what was done and how?

In theory, you could find them in any veteran stormtrooper’s head, but the number of people and facilities capable of reverse engineering that- low enough that they will all be very, very heavily watched.

I don’t think there are any other clone versus human incidents that could provide as direct a path to the answers. You’re right, this is the flashpoint.’ Rawlin agreed.


‘Even if I’m wrong-‘ Lennart began.

‘There are still more than enough traces of rebel, criminal, renegade and possibly alien involvement to justify a deployment. One thing about your operations plan; the work up time.

What do you expect the rebels to be doing during the period of grace you’re giving them?’ the admiral asked, and with good reason.

‘They’ll be executing either a panicked instant withdrawal, personnel only, or a covered, staged withdrawal removing as much of the machinery of the yards as they can. Third option, they do a Yavin, hole up and make a proper battle of it.

With the first option, we jump straight to dealing with the internal problems. Acceptable. Second option, we have a running fight with a lot of traces to follow and a trail to another base further down the line. Again, acceptable.

Third option- we’ve beaten them in loose, open engagements often enough so far that this is unusually probable. Fight a proper set-piece under cover of Ord Corban’s defence net, beat back the Imperial strike force- us- and withdraw in good order.

If I were whoever’s in command of the rebels, assuming I still had any force to do it with I would opt for that.’


‘You’re physically detached from the sector group network, and there’s bad blood between the sector Moff and the operation’s political commander. If their intelligence is good enough to work that out, then I should rate it a near certainty.

If their subversion and destabilisation arms are good enough, you could be on course to be the first ship attacked by Imperial and Rebel forces simultaneously.’ Admiral Rawlin said, joke masking serious warning.

‘What, the rebels take advantage of our internal troubles to get Xeale and Adannan shooting at each other- if that happens, they’re more likely to stand off and then try to take the survivors. How much support can I expect?’ Lennart asked.

‘Peltast and Daring are within easy reach, Speaker, Varangian and Tigress within five sectors. They can be there within three hours and within six respectively.

The rest of the squadron, depends on existing commitments. Eleven days’ warning and I believe only Aeneas and Venabulum would be unable to deploy. Can you justify giving them those eleven days?’ Rawlin said, worried.


‘If we moved now, with what’s ready, it would be militarily more successful.’ Lennart admitted. ‘Sometimes I wish I really was the frothing madman I get made out to be, so I could do crazy things like that without worrying about it- but the political situation needs to play itself out further, so we can fight a battle that actually achieves something besides increasing our kill score.’

‘The high-risk, high stakes option.’ Rawlin said. ‘Looked at that way, from you it makes perfect sense. You sound like you have enough trouble to be getting on with, so don’t go looking for any more, d’you hear? Two private wars at once is sufficient.’

‘Relax, Admiral. If I get this right, I should only have to deal with one at a time.’ Lennart said.

‘If you get it right and they get it wrong, you mean. Good luck- oh, and transfer this line down to engineering. Engineer-Constructor Captain Sholokhov wants several words with Commander Mirannon- starting with “deranged kleptomaniac pack-rat kitbasher”, I believe.

It’s either a reprimand or an invitation to Scrapyard Scramble. I can’t disapprove of increasing your command’s fighting potential- but do try not to give your Chief too many more excuses to rebuild bits of your ship.’

[Vianca]

Mmmm, both have their point.
And because of that, I can see both happening......


Thats it!!!!

Do them both.
Though you might want to lessen the anoy Piett thing. (Maybe shock him)
It would balance out the extra ships with ships he doesn't know, that can apear out of nowhere.

[Phantasee]

Ace! Thanks for the cameo/minor role!

Also, ACE! This story is getting more and more ridiculous and publishable every time a chapter goes up.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

All right; both stand, and this is the rest of 25b.


‘Where are they?’ Adannan growled.

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one with the extrasensory perception”, Laurentia thought, decided against saying it. In his better moods, Adannan allowed her to speak her mind freely- behind the assumption that as he could read it clear anyway, she had nothing to lose by being blunt.

In a mood like this, deference was clearly her best option.

‘My Lord, the ship has been substantially refitted on many occasions. Her deck plan has been altered, there is a higher than usual chance that they are simply lost.’ She said, trying to sound properly sceptical.

‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’

‘After meeting some of the crew, I would consider virtually anything possible. If Igal and Reni were unfortunate enough to find someone prepared to give them directions, they could be anywhere from stem to gudgeon.’

‘Star Destroyers have neither of those things and you know it. This is not the time to be facetious.’ Adannan reprimanded.

‘My Lord, if you wish to understand how the crew of this ship think, facetiousness is absolutely essential.’ Laurentia said. ‘The only things they take seriously are those that go without saying- and if I may ask, what do you think happened to them?’


‘Kidnapped and murdered, or tortured for information.’ Adannan said, matter of fact.

‘You sound as if you were expecting that.’ She said. And he had let her wander off on her own, too. She was not given to questioning the tides of life that had brought her here, but moments like that made “why me?” seem reasonable.

‘It was one of the possibilities I foresaw.’ Adannan said, infuriatingly. ‘They were expendable, in pursuit of the greater prize.’

She wasn’t daft enough to ask if she was. The answer would be ‘of course’. Anybody and everybody was, and he was not shy of risk himself- if he could see a benefit in it.

‘Isn’t that perilously close to a declaration of open war? At least, rebellion?’ she asked.


‘On whose behalf? We’ll find them squashed into ooze at the bottom of a malfunctioning turbolift; carbonised, and not the cryonic version, by a power grid accident; atomised by heatsinks. Something evidence-destroying yet deniable. That’s how I would do it.’

‘My lord, obviously there is tension- a more than half renegade like Captain Lennart would be at odds with anyone- but would he go so far as kidnapping and murder?’

‘If he is the man I took him for, if he is worthy of the Dark Side of the Force, then yes.’

‘Are Igal and Reni no longer useful to you? What about Myfara?’ Their pilot. ‘She wasn’t even expended, she was simply thrown away.’

‘By what right,’ he said, low menace in his voice, ‘do you claim to know any part of my plans?’

‘Practicality, my lord. It is more difficult than need be, to carry out my part in a plan I don’t understand.’ She took a chance asking that. ‘You’re not a spaceman, Lord, you need her simply as an interpreter.’

‘You can nurse her back to health, if you want.’ Adannan said, dismissively.


‘Thank you, lord.’ Laurentia said, inwardly groaning. This was not what she was good at.

‘I expect Lennart to try to decipher my intentions. Such active, aggressive probing is a good sign. For the license it gives me in dealing with him, as much as the information it conveys. Now I need to feed him and lead him accordingly.’

‘Lord, the watcher who reported him- she may not be objective. She may have been severely over-reporting his ability to learn the ways of the Force.’

‘She?’ Adannan said, intrigued.

‘Yes, lord. A- a kinswoman of mine.’ She said, hesitantly.


For a moment, Adannan wondered about the possibility of some sort of substitution. Either way. ‘What does
this clone do?’

‘Jedi hunter. Part of a reinforced squad attached to legion HQ.’ Laurentia said, tentatively.

‘I can feel your fear.’ Adannan said. ‘You’re afraid of me. Of what I can order you to do.’

‘Yes- also, I don’t understand. When are you going to start trying to teach Lennart the ways of the force?’
‘Once I have measured him. Once I know how he will try to use what powers I give him against me.’ Adannan declared.

‘I confess I could waste day after day trying to understand how he has recreated this ship in his own warped image. In his own way he is more of a threat than most of the Alliance; open enmity we can deal with, alternative methods of being on the side of the Empire less easily. I could try to frame him as a defector in place-‘

This was something that Laurentia understood; he was using her as a sounding board. Talking his ideas out. Lennart did the same- except he expected the people he was talking to to understand and participate.

‘- but that would require more political capital than I choose to expend, as yet.’


Right, she thought. Since when were you given to playing it cautiously?

‘My lord, if I can suggest- you can’t measure him from a distance. You need to be closer than that to probe him, get under his skin and find his vulnerabilities.

Also I don’t think you can afford to take your eye off him. Leave him and his crew of maniacs alone for long enough and they will begin to conspire against you.’

‘What,’ he snapped, ‘makes you think I am unaware of that?’

‘The fact that you don’t seem to be doing anything about it, Lord.’ She said, diffidently.

‘There is nothing they can find that matters more than their attempt to do so condemns them.’ Adannan said. ‘Don’t you understand?

All it took was a little melodrama, a touch of scenery- chewing, and I nudge them into a mode of thinking that provides me with all the evidence I could ever need against them, and some amusement besides.’

‘It’s still subtle, Lord. Very subtle.’


‘Too subtle, you mean? If I give him enough rope to hang himself, he might manage to rig a trebuchet out of it?’ Adannan smiled. ‘Even if he could, he won’t. You talk so glibly of a crew of maniacs- don’t you understand what that means?’

‘There’s only a twist of fate in it between their being an Imperial and a Rebel crew. They are utterly, utterly nonconformist, Lord, that’s what I understand by it.’ Laurentia said.

‘They’ve shocked you out of using your wits. I must meet your sister.’ Adannan decided. ‘Look at Lennart’s file; to most people, a homicidal looney hanging on to his security clearance by his fingernails, good for the bloody work but not to be trusted in the sensitive details;

he has successfully avoided postings to three fleet flagships and the Death Star through that. The fact that he is the chief madman in a crew of madmen- to me, that stinks of thwarted ambition. The big fish in the small pond, you see?’


‘Are you saying that-‘

‘Of course I am. He’s been playing the system all along. He is the chieftain of his own little circle here, his own pocket kingdom. He’s done an excellent job of defending it’s borders, true, but now it is time for the wider galaxy to break in on him. We-‘

‘Lord Adannan. We have a problem.’ It was the Givin. ‘A holonet transmission was made from this ship-to the Executor.’

‘Perhaps not as isolated as you thought, then.’ Laurentia couldn’t resist.

‘Get him for me.’ Adannan said, angry and scared. ‘Get him for me at once.’



‘Well. Lessons learnt?’ Lennart asked his command team. This was the post- exercise analysis; Lennart had taken one of the formations in the Caderath’s computer- now about to rejoin the strike line as a fast pursuit element- with one bridge crew shift and a lot of computer assistance, his command team and second shift the Pursuit Squadron- average examples of the ships, they would individuate out the performances later.


It was scarcely believable that Caderath had been less than two weeks ago- no, even less than that.

Tactical Rebel, strategic Imperial victory. Lennart had kept his ships closely grouped in hunting packs, picked off individual Imperial scouts, forced the heavier units of the squadron to divide in pursuit.

He whipsawed back and forth between threatening them and preying on trade routes, stinging tactical bombardments on poorly defended worlds- arrive, spray shot in the direction of bases and planetary shield generators before they could be raised, hopefully, leave-done damage and inflicted losses, but ultimately been hounded out of the operational area.

‘Same old story. Same logic they used to justify the Death Star. You can’t stamp out a rebellion that has nothing to defend. Give us a target we can strike at and they’re toast.’ Wathavrah said.


‘There’s a school of thought,’ Lennart suggested, ‘that suggests that’s why we haven’t bombarded Dac into vapour yet; we gain more by keeping them in one place and whittling away the calamari home fleet a tentacle at a time, than hammering them and making them scatter to the edges of the galaxy.

Which is a digression. This particular exercise?’

‘Collective fighter operations.’ Olleyri said. ‘That and heavy use of hyperspace capable fighters. We need the TIEs in close, need the defensive screen against Rebel strike fighters. I reckon, operate in packs of small ships, use recon fighters to make up the difference.’

‘The objective pursuit squadron is based on the idea of a fighter blanket; we scatter TIEs to do close inspections of an entire inner and mid system simultaneously, then jump in heavy ships to deal with whatever they find.’ Brenn counterpointed.

‘The first we know of a system’s being rebel held is when the recon fighters start getting jumped. Under competent command, they can punch enough holes in the sensor net to escape, then bounce the elements that move in for close inspection.’ Olleyri pointed out.


‘Thank you.’ Lennart acknowledged. ‘That’s why I want as many hyperdrive fighters as possible- first response, cover the sublight dispersed screen. That’s why the Venator, and specifically an older example. We may end up using Clone Wars craft with booster rings.’

‘The maintenance nightmare that would involve, our readiness would plummet.’ Brenn pointed out.

‘True, and I’m already starting to worry about that ship’s ability to project even standard fighter types. She seems to be in much poorer shape than I was expecting; my own damn’fool fault for assuming Sector was following standard procedure, and using the ship to train ground crew as well as pilots. Solutions?’

‘How permanent is this arrangement? I was thinking of transfers.’ Brenn suggested.

‘Farm out some of our techies? We’d need to import some in return, and get them all back when we’re done.’ Olleyri said.

‘We are overmanned.’ Lennart pointed out. The Imperator class had been crewed on the assumption that post- War, natural born crews would be just as inefficient and indifferent to duty as prewar republic crews.

The Clone War mainstay Venators ran on seventy-four hundred crew and half of them ground staff for the fighter complement, the Victory- class and their derivatives forty-eight to sixty-four hundred; clone crews, capable and disciplined.


An Imperator manned as optimistically would run to only twenty thousand, six hundred crew; the designers had nearly doubled that so they could be sure of throwing enough people at the problems that some of them would stick.

One of the biggest challenges any captain faced was keeping them all busy. In that respect, Mirannon’s ‘improvements’ were a distinct advantage.

The Clone War era designs were arguably undermanned with modern crews, but that had it’s benefits, too; driving the crew to exhaustion was one way of keeping them out of trouble.

‘Yes, I think the first ship we need to do that with will be the Dynamic. Swap out enough of our own to form a working skeleton crew, take some of those from the Dynamic’s crew who seem capable of improvement. Work on them from both ends.

Screen the crews on the sector group provided ships, too, look for ISB and political agents. Assuming we actually have anything from Voracious to screen- what was the latest on that situation?’

‘The base commander managed to fiddle the orders enough to make it a volunteer only operation.’ Olleyri reported. ‘That could actually be good for us, provided we can live with total chaos.’

There was a brief moment of silence, then everyone else, including the captain, said simultaneously ‘Not a problem.’

They all laughed. ‘Galactic Spirit help us if we ever get transferred back to normal jobs.’ Lennart said. ‘Tactical question; probing and reconnaissance of the objective, no, yes, if so how much?’


‘From what we’ve been picking up,’ Rythanor said, ‘the rebels’ relationship with sector group is one of armed standoff; no close ties. We have no evidence, really; they know that, at least.

‘This operation has to be of importance to them- is this overanalysis? I think this probably looks different a couple of levels up the Alliance chain of command.

From the top, all right, we have a covert production and fleet support operation that depends, and so far has got away with, relying on political secrecy.

The local Alliance elements, even the region, know we’re out for blood. They probably want to make a fight of it. They’ll also be wanting regional and strategic reserve support, MC-80s or better.

High Command may take the risk- but it’ll turn into a sure thing if they know that they’re blown, for instance if we run too many recon fighter overflights.’


‘We can’t count on their stupidity.’ Brenn said.

‘No, but we can give them every possible opportunity to exercise it. Local alliance command will be calling for reinforcements; how do we get the maximum possible information out of Ord Corban without reinforcing their case?’ Rythanor asked.

‘The squadron includes two dedicated recon ships, the carrack Ungovernable- good name for a rebel, that- and the radical-variant Strike class Blackwood. Also our own hyperwidget.’ Lennart said. ‘Long range passive on their part is the minimum position- we need some tactical data, after all. How much more?’

‘Why do I sense another exercise coming on?’ Brenn said, sounding tired.


The display table crackled to life. A man in a black hooded robe. ‘Captain Lennart. Is this some bizarre plan to get rid of me, by driving my blood pressure through the ceiling?’

Wathavrah muttered something about him finally starting to fit in, Brenn about being able to come up with much more bizarre plans than that; Lennart ignored both of them.

‘Remember the theory- we need to do this nearly properly? We recorded that conversation, and you may want to take a look at it before you make any decisions.’

Without waiting for permission, Lennart started the record of his call to Captain Firmus Piett of the Executor. Adannan’s entourage and Lennart’s bridge crew both watched it like a piece of cinema- a short, absurdist skit on military protocol maybe.

‘I could have resorted to officialese, translated into civil service speak, but there was the terrible danger that he might actually have been able to make sense of it- are you all right?’

‘My brain is still reeling from the concept of placing a prank call to the flagship of the Death Squadron.’ Adannan said, with the stunned transparency of honest confusion. ‘To take such an utterly ridiculous risk, and in such an utterly ridiculous way.’


‘How else could it reasonably have been taken? Solo is the man who backshot Vader- Vader himself; there are standing orders to report any sighting or contact. Given the impossibility of doing so through normal channels, what else was left?

Disobey the order- and I suspect enough of the ships we chose have residual loyalties to the sector group, enough to report us anyway, and that would look extremely bad, wouldn’t it?’ Lennart suggested.

‘So you chose to do so in a way that could not possibly be taken seriously. An elegant, imaginative, and completely insane solution.’

‘But nonetheless fit for purpose.’ Lennart pointed out.

‘You will clear it with me before you do anything like that again.’ Adannan said, and dropped the connection.


‘You let him off very lightly, Lord.’ Laurentia said.

‘I’m trying to decide whether he inhabits a parallel universe, or whether I do.’ Adannan said. ‘But you live in my world, understand?’

‘Of course, Lord.’ She said, voice carefully level. ‘I repeat my point about it not being safe to take your eye off them, though.’

‘Kidnapped and tortured for information? On the strength of that I’m more likely to get Igal and Reni back as qualified jet-unicycle riders.’



The turret crew had watched Aleph-3 prodding and probing the Twi’lek; the injured female, she had more or less fixed up-injected the right drugs, anyway, she thought- and tried to push her from a state of shock into one of hypnotic suggestion.

Watched in varying states of queasiness. Jhareylia was one of the worst, but she forced herself to pay attention; a valuable lesson in Imperial field interrogation technique, she was telling herself. Aldrem held her as they both watched, fascinated and appalled.

Aleph-3 preferred to work without an audience, but needs must. Both were difficult-unnaturally difficult- to deal with. They struggled, physically and mentally- took skill to control, never mind extract from.

‘This is not good.’ She said, standing up. ‘Let me take a look at that.’ She said, pointing at the collar.

Tarshkavik tossed it to her; she caught it, popped open the seals, started looking at the circuitry. ‘Oh, this
is bad. They are heavily conditioned, but it all resides in their heads. If I didn’t know it wasn’t legal, I’d suspect someone of playing with their neurology.’

‘What has legality got to do with it?’ Gendrik said. ‘Last time I checked, slavery was illegal enough to be getting on with- what’s another moral outrage or two?’


‘Depends who it is you’re driving to a state of rage, does it not?’ she said. ‘Can you contact the Captain without raising too much attention?’

‘From here? I think.’ Suluur said. ‘Just got to route it so that it looks like it came from somewhere we’re actually supposed to be.’ He set about doing that.

‘Captain Lennart? OB173.’ She said, as soon the link was established. ‘I, ah, captain…’ she didn’t want to talk to him in company, didn’t want to have to explain. Nothing else for it. Never mind knowing no fear, there were times when knowing no shame was more important.

‘I got involved in the, ah, special business.’ She said, hoping no-one other than him was listening. Apart from the team listening over her shoulder. ‘Can I speak freely?’

‘Moment.’ Lennart said, retreating to his day cabin, responding with a shrug to Brenn’s raised eyebrow.

‘What do you want to talk to me about, that diverges so drastically from your duty? So desperately unofficial?’ Lennart said carefully, fencing with her.

‘From you, Cap…Jorian, that’s rich. You order your own men to kidnap two of the personal servants of an adept of the dark side, and you talk about officialdom and duty?’ she said, letting the stress in her voice show.


‘You sound almost as if you’re about to lose the plot. Go on, dive in, I did years ago.’ He said, trying both to deflect whatever she was about to say and to warn the turret team.

‘I was asked to make a choice. Don’t make me regret that.’

‘What choice was that?’ Lennart said, more aware than she was about how almost- hysterical she sounded.
‘Between Adannan’s side and yours.’

‘Do you really think it’s come down to that? He or I, and damn the Empire that we both serve?’ Lennart asked, knowing perfectly well that it had but wondering how she had managed to work it out.

‘No, Captain, I know it has. I have some evidence for you.’

‘And quite a lot else to say, too. I may want to make this very, very public, and you have the secure line you wanted anyway- the gun team couldn’t really be in this any deeper, you might as well say it out loud.’

‘Captain, Adannan’s slaves have been…more than just programmed, more than just beaten and abused into submission. Without full medical facilities I can’t be very specific, but it is my professional opinion that their reaction spectra are so different from their species normal that their neural architecture must have been severely modified.’


‘He sliced their brains.’ Lennart said, sounding as if he was expecting it.

‘You don’t sound at all surprised.’ She said, slightly indignant. ‘Precognition at work?’

‘Parallel investigation. You have the contacts for this part, though- can you find out what Adannan was, before he turned to the force? As a Dark Jedi, presumably he does have a past, isn’t a mad-monk blank slate.’

She weighed the difficulties involved. ‘Yes. Can I ask what it is you expect to find?’

‘Isn’t it obvious by now? I expect to find that he was a doctor, or at least medical student.’

‘That approaches common sense.’ She said, calmly, wondering what sort of story, what kind of lies she would have to tell, to get access to the information.

‘So I’m not yet fully clear of the charge of possessing uncommon senses?’ he quipped.


‘You never will be.’ She half- shouted at him, strain showing. ‘You can fight him any way you choose, but unless you actually bring him down with his own weapons, it will be from outside the charmed circle, and you will be under suspicion forever.

You have to take up the use of the force, then at least it will be within the circle, acceptable to his masters.’

‘So you think you have me cornered at last?’

She opened her mouth to shout at him, realised how undisciplined it would look, decided on sweet reason. Even though she felt like grabbing Lennart and trying to shake some sense into him.

‘It’s hard to do that when I’m trying to stand behind you. Look, Captain- you may be in charge, but I’m the
relevant specialist.

I know the theory of the Force, the laws written and unwritten concerning it, and the place of the Force within the Imperial power structure, a great deal better than you do. So why do you persist in avoiding letting me tell you about it?’


‘You know, when you put it like that, I can see that you actually have a point.’ Lennart said, somehow managing to push her even closer to the edge by being reasonable.

‘Come up to the ready room. Oh, Port-4- the pair of kidnap victims. Can you dress their scars and injuries up-‘ it was a safe bet that they would have some- ‘to look like a credible accident, and dump them on Medical?’

‘Yes, Sir, I think we can manage that.’ Suluur said. ‘I though we were just going to shoot them and melt the bodies, though.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going soft, there’s a reason.’ Chiefly, it involved further playing with Adannan’s head. ‘One other thing. Aldrem, your team are now a security problem.’ Lennart said, trying not to make that as sinister as it sounded.

‘Sir?’ Aldrem said, slowly and carefully.

‘The situation works nicely. TDY. I’m sending you and your team to HIMS Dynamic, as instructors- that ship barely shoots three point two. By transferring you to lick them into shape I solve two problems at once, that and getting you out of the immediate reach of the owner of those two Twi’lek.

It also means, Galactic Spirit knows why, that I can take this opportunity to bump you up to Lieutenant.’

‘Er, thank you, Sir. I think.’ Aldrem said. He had pretty much given up on making officer; it meant actually having to obey the rules instead of pretending to do so, hanging out in the wardroom- he was by no means sure he wanted it, now that he actually came face to face with the prospect.


‘Pack up and move fast, and while you’re on Dynamic keep your mouths shut about the politics, except with Captain Dordd. That and start with the basics. I want that ship to have the same number of gun barrels when you’re finished as when you start, clear?’

‘Not entirely, Captain.’ Jhareylia said. ‘What about me?’

‘Ah. Instruction assistant, that would be- we can fake that up too.’ Which means I have to explain to the Exec what’s going on. Kriff. ‘Anything else?’

‘A whole bunch of questions I don’t think we want to actually ask, Captain.’ Aldrem replied.

‘I’m starting to wish I’d said that to begin with. Carry on, Lieutenant.’

[Phantasee]

To be honest, I dont' have much to contribute after this chapter, other than "Awesome!"

I really enjoyed this chapter. I figure at this rate you should be done the story by...May? And then I can spend four months slowly going over it and proofreading it for you.

That would score me a free copy of the book, right?

[Vianca]

Nice.

Will they try to let Adannan make Pursuit Squadron 851-Yod an official non-temporary (sub) Squadron of fleet group 851?
Or atleast making them part of 851?

Afterall, the only thing they have to really do is to change the dates on those papers from: "To the end of the operation." into: "From the beginning of the operation."

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

As far as fleet compositions go, Fleet Destroyer Squadron 851 belongs to what I'm considering to be the old system, the small/police craft at Sectoral level and major assets held at Region, of the Republic fleet. Which largely existed only on paper. I reckon the pre-war Republic fleet was a contributing factor in it's downfall; as often taking part in local conflict as stopping it, riven by regional and factional loyalties- what little effective power it had was on the wrong side as often as not.
The theory, though, was that a sector force could police it's territory, and apart from a token force for showing the flag and protection of major worlds, the larger ships- cruisers and better- would be held at regional level.

Before Tarkin, this almost worked; I reckon a Sector Group would have possibly a battleship or battlecruiser flag, probably a small mixed but possibly a light and a heavy cruiser squadron, and enough heavy destroyers- probably a small squadron- to act as escorts and supports for the conventional line destroyers that make up the fighting backbone of the group.
At Regional level, the majority of the heavies live; one to three Mandator dreadnoughts, just starting to be supplemented by Executor- class fast dreadnoughts, full battle and battlecruiser squadrons- in the sense of a squadron of battleships, that is- and multiple cruiser squadrons, backed by scouting and hunting Fleet Destroyer Squadrons.

With Tarkin's concepts, ultimately 851 is likely to be reinforced, probably by merging with similar units, up to the strength of- and converted into- a newer- pattern Oversector Group. That probably would involve drafting in lighter units to make up the small craft strength, and preferentially those they've already worked with.

Homogenous, older- pattern Squadron strengths vary from six ships, in two divisions of three, up to sixteen theoretically in four divisions of four; 851 actually consists of one light cruiser, Jorvik, a heavy division composed of two Allegiance and two Shockwave heavy destroyers, a line-heavy division compsed of two Imperator- I and three Tector, a line division composed of four Imperator- II, and a light division composed of three Venator.

Finished by- well, this is the close season come on again, no more summer madness, so the winter should be fairly fertile. If I can stop myself wandering down any more side plots, I reckon we're about 60-67% there.

[Phantasee]

Don't stop yourself. Side plots are good, and if they get too silly/pointless, I'm sure you'll be able to cut them off before you post anyhow.

Oh man, two thirds?! What will I read next? (hint: sequel!)

[Vianca]

Don't stop yourself. Side plots are good, and if they get too silly/pointless, I'm sure you'll be able to cut them off before you post anyhow.

Oh man, two thirds?! What will I read next? (hint: sequel!)

Nea, book II
The sequel only starts with the next three books, meaning book IV till VI.
Atleast, that is how it is with the Trawn trilogy (and so).

Side plots, and lots of them.

[Phantasee]

Lennart as the next Thrawn? I'm wondering what happened to him after the Empire fell, then. I mean...could he have survived and just lain low?

[Raesene]

Lennart as the next Thrawn? I'm wondering what happened to him after the Empire fell, then. I mean...could he have survived and just lain low?

Perhaps he gets sent to the Unknown Regions and serves under Thrawn - if he survives Adannan.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

We've already got a Thrawn; consider, for a moment, what Jorian Lennart isn't good at.
He served his apprenticeship in the dying days of the Republic Starfleet, and his command style is pretty strongly marked by that. He doesn't hide behind his rank, and he demands a far higher professional than personal standard from his crew.
Imperial discipline is vastly more formal, and arguably he hasn't really adapted to it all that well. He is fortunate that he is able to find enough trouble to make it worth higher authority's while keeping him on, rather than falling on him from a great height.
So, task force command, professionally he could do it. Personally, though, the picture's not as good. How well would he do in command of, say, a Superiority Fleet- five other ISD or variants thereof, almost four hundred other ships? All commanded by arrogant, aggressive beings, eager to exploit any weaknesses their superior shows in order to move into his position.
At the very least, there would be an efficiency- draining culture clash, at worst, accusations of unprofessionalism and incompetence, and worse, flying in every direction. Until the shooting started, at which point they might begin listening to him.
You'll notice that he basically did a Boyington when picking units from the sector fleet to make up 851-Yod; creamed off the most promising of the troublemakers.

Anyway, the first half of the next chapter. The only reason I myself don't consider the middle section 'too silly' is that it would be like calling the night too dark. Dr Nygma, this is your curtain call. So, yes, expect the wierd.

Ch 26

The squadron was starting to come together now; almost all the ships assigned to it were in place. Fleet tenders had arrived to tow away the remnants of the Kestrel and Penthesilea- said nothing about the bits missing, any attempt to slice through their computer systems would be made at the dockyard.

At least, any further attempts.

The only unit of major importance still to join the squadron was Voracious. Altyna Station was in a state of uproar. Vehrec had moved into the old Venator, taking up accommodation in the fighter control bridge tower, and started taking stock.

The old ship had seen use during the Wars, dented and repaired a few times- minor incidents, nothing requiring major structural rebuild- but, as sometimes happened, the fighter complement she had had when she was retired to training duty was a very mixed bag.

Apparently for personnel rather than mechanical reasons, she had served her last active tour as a transport-carrier, ferrying replacement craft to front line units and damaged fighters back.

The collection of odds and sods she had acquired was one of the main reasons she had been transferred to training duty, in fact; at best, black flag Aggressor work, nominally a wide range of experience. At worst, a wider range of ways to screw up.


The main initial flight and gunnery trainer was a twin- cockpit version of the TIE Bomber, with room in the removed ordnance space for four further trainees.

Four squadrons of those; with enough ground staff, they could be reconverted to Bombers.

Officially, nine squadrons of /ln. In fact, that was two squadrons adapted with wing hub missile racks as attack trainers, two squadrons of old TIE Starfighters- greyish-white hulled proto-/ln- converted to side by side twin seat, two squadrons of twin- seat /rc as electronics trainers, and three of standard /ln as combat manoeuvre trainers.

One squadron of Interceptor variants, flight each of abortive /rc and /fc types based on the Interceptor rather than/ln hull, and a flight of the heavy zerstoerer-version with ten medium lasers- as many as could physically be bolted on, more than it could efficiently power or retain speed and agility with.


The relics; two squadrons of Aethersprites, removed from service and supposed to have been broken up- somehow they had simply been dumped in a storage chamber and forgotten about.

Four squadrons of Actis and three of Nimbus, part of the original complement- all that was left of the original fifteen squadrons of each, most of them had been broken up to keep these flying.

Superb craft, wonderfully sensitive, and fast almost past belief. Why had Kuat ever stopped making them?
Politics, he supposed. A shame; they could run rings round most of what was in service now.

Three squadrons of garrison types, one mixed PTB-625 and Y-wing, one squadron Z-95s and Y-wing, one squadron R-41 and Y-wing; they mainly did aggressor duty, and the ground crews had got used to dealing with them by now.

Two squadrons of V-19 Torrent light fighter-bombers, aggressor, courier and, to be honest, joyrides. Two squadrons of early and one squadron of late- model Avengers, long range navigation and recon trainers, one of which was Vehrec’s craft of choice.

The remainder of the fighter bays, and the deck space formerly allocated to the LAATs, was tenders, transports, tugs and targets.


As far as personnel went- things could be better. They could also be a whole lot worse. Numbers, good; he had been right about a lot of the crews of the defence squadron and a lot of the base personnel being bored enough to volunteer for combat.

Several of the commanding officers were reluctant to allow their men to go- but enough, especially the commanders of the two Dreadnaughts, were willing to put the Empire’s good before their own.

At least, that line had had a certain effect on them. One good thing, all the activity, all the slogans flying back and forth, it made it easier to spot who the agents were.

There were a lot of them about; so many ISB personnel taking an interest, he could have formed a Wing out of them. Kidding, of course- but the thought was tempting. Use them as first shock element, get them all killed off.


Where, and under what circumstances, were cops ever popular? Especially political police, and that counted double for new political police out to establish their reputation. They had set out to be hated and feared.

That and they were too often political in every sense- took sides in internal faction fights and used their powers of indictment and arrest for one side or the other.

ISB Internal Affairs were a joke; they spent all their time on mole hunts, used that as an excuse not to look too closely at each other. The agents sticking their noses into this, most of them seemed to be rooting for the Moff.

Careful, Vehrec told himself, just because the moff’s a prat doesn’t mean the other side are right. Although it does make it distinctly more likely. One thing; the nominal captain of the ship had refused to volunteer.


That meant the acting senior officer, and the man responsible for assigning the volunteers to crew stations, was Senior Lieutenant Ludovic Caliphant, who, largely as a result of his own time loosely associated with the intelligence services, shared Vehrec’s hatred.

When they worked out the pattern, which they probably would eventually, not all of them were complete sadistic morons, he was going to need to look for another job. Probably with the Rebel Alliance.

Until then, the routine deck-swabbing, venturi- polishing, fresher- cleaning dreckwork was oversubscribed.
The problem was, there weren’t that many unimportant jobs to be done on a ship as lean- manned as a Venator, with so many of her complement ground crew for the air wing.

Even if they got enough people, which they might, they were going to be seventy-four hundred separate individuals, not a single crew seventy-four hundred strong.

They were severely short of petty officers, the professional glue that held any ship together, and of senior officers capable of serving as department and subdepartment heads.


The first thing they had to do was sort out what talent they did have, and pick out those competent enough to assess and train the rest. Caliphant was spending time doing that, functioning as a glorified recruitment consultant, when the tender emerged from hyperspace.

It was a military version of a civilian superheavy freighter; the normal bulk- load FSCVs could transport objects that could be broken down easily enough, parts and components and fuel cells, anything containerised, but for large single objects, they were less effective.

The smaller tenders like the Sahallare helped ships conduct underway replenishment and minor repairs, the larger ships like this one transported craft to and from shipyards. This one was transporting the remains of the Penthesilea.

‘Ouch.’ Caliphant said, looking at the tangled mess. ‘Considering most of the station can see that, how many more volunteers do you think we’re likely to get?’

‘Well, it was the unit we’re supposed to be moving to join that was responsible for that. Pretty precise gun-work; flight deck and engineering shot up, most of the rest intact.

It was supposed to be a trade- Sector weren’t going to detach this ship unless they got something to replace her. I think we’re about to get a wave of voulnteers; all the techies who’re otherwise about to be told to put that thing back together. That should do the engine room some good.’


By the end of the day, it had turned out to be so. The old ship had hundreds of problems posted, but they were all relatively minor ones- emergency lighting being blown out, four or five ‘g’ worth of compensator flutter in the troop bays, sticking doors, pinhole leaks, galley ranges shorting out.

Gripes, not true operational deficiencies, accident- making perhaps and worth bitching about, but not enough to make men pause in the process of bringing their careers back from the dead.

As a training carrier, she had been kept in serviceable condition- not spick and span, not like an active fleet unit, but fit for use. Which was the point.


Their biggest problem was still the people.

They divided into four categories; the old hands who knew what they were getting into, the Johnny-raws who still liked the sound of a fight, the bored and cafard-smitten, and the offloaded, people who had been ‘encouraged’ to volunteer- in the traditional manner of military forces shedding their problem children on to a new unit, a habit which had probably started about half an hour after the invention of the regiment.

Some wit had reported disembodied voices in the plumbing; Vehrec suspected a practical joke being set up, and intended to keelhaul whoever was responsible. Lengthways.

The security types, of course, were lumped into category four. Command level was still the biggest problem. Vehrec was the highest ranking officer present; he wasn’t line, knew enough to know he couldn’t command the ship and do his own job as well.

Caliphant was the senior ranking line officer- one of the Dreadnaughts had ‘donated’ their deputy gunnery officer, also a Senior Lieutenant but Caliphant- whose nickname seemed to be “Uckers” for some antiquarian reason- had more time in grade.

That made him acting Chief Officer- it sounded like a merchant service title, but it was standard procedure for a warship under the control of another branch of service, in this case the Starfighter Corps.


That, and SenLt Garant Kirritaine would have to be physically restrained to stop him drooling over the Venator’s main battery and planning to use it on everything in sight.

He was a living illustration of the shoe fetishist theory of economics; somebody with a particular kink towards something, like a shoe fetishist and shoes, would be prepared to pay more for that something, and accept longer hours and less pay to work with it, than a normal person.

Increased dedication was one way of putting it. “Rabid” and “Friendly fire hazard” were others. Better than indifference, Vehrec supposed– with fingers crossed behind his back- and they would find out how good a master gunlayer and gunnery tactician he actually was before long.

They didn’t have a proper Chief Engineer, they had a committee; half a dozen specialists, not one with the all round experience and clear seniority for the top job. That was a big potential source of dangerous mistakes right there.

Com/Scan, now there they were laughing. If there was one thing a training and testing range could be expected to be good at, it was com/scan work.

If something did go catastrophically wrong in Engineering, they could scream for help really well. Although that probably was excessively pessimistic.


As for the fighters, they could man twelve squadrons, there were enough advanced trainees and instructors for that, and dilute those out to cadre a full complement if they had the pilot and flight officers for them.

Not perfect, they needed a lot of working up, even more practise in working together, but they were more or less mobile, and ready to move.

‘I don’t suppose you could plot a move to jump stations that accidentally catches the commodore in our ion wake?’ Vehrec asked, not meaning it- more than half, anyway.

‘Afraid not. Collateral damage issues.’ Caliphant reported, then got serious. ‘We are ready to proceed.’

‘Nervous? Relax. I saw ships in much worse condition than this still in use back in the Clone Wars.’ Vehrec said, casually.

‘Before or after, Group Captain? Helm, get us moving. Head for the nav buoy. Comms, signal Black Prince we’re on our way.’



‘Captain, I think I’ve found him.’ It was Cormall. ‘The individual responsible for the nose art?’

‘Good. We have a line?’

‘What’s brown, and green, and purple and blue?’ the unfamiliar voice came over the link. Cultured, educated, and quite nuts.

‘An Ithorian on a rollercoaster.’ Lennart answered. ‘Who is this?’

‘Doctor Nygma, Captain, at your disservice. Operations Oversight and Administration, Patrol Command.’


‘Visual.’ Lennart ordered, and got an identikit picture; a formal, stylish brimmed hat, apart from the electric green colour, over a blur of rapidly changing features, cycling through the range of human, near- human and alien possibilities.

A quick search through his own console’s image files, and he transmitted in return a portrait of the man the ship was named after- in full armour, touched up with the visor down.

‘Well, I know which one of you you aren’t, but which of me am I?’

‘Oh, purely at random- that one.’ Lennart said, freezing the image- on an absurdity with one Wroonian and one Mon Cal eye, a long Glymphid hose-nose, a Coynite crest just sticking out, an Ithorian neck, and an absurd little goatee beard.


‘That’s hideous. The face of a personality that’s split dead against the grain. I’m sure I could come up with a much more subtly abnormal non-solution than that.’

‘Surely, but when you depend on random chance, don’t you have to take what you get?’ Lennart said.

‘Not if you believe in non-random chance.’ Nygma said.

‘Isn’t that just the same thing as spectacularly incompetent predestination?’ Lennart suggested. ‘Either way, remind me never to play you at sabacc. Actually,’ he added, realising, ‘patterns-‘

‘Precisely. The quasi- random actually dependent on unrealised, hidden factors, the signals in the noise, the almost randomised- ah, the underlying nearly sense of it all. It almost drove me sane.’


‘What a desperate fate that would be.’ Lennart said, deciding to play along. ‘Is that why you obtained permission for the corvettes to bear nicknames and artwork, to get the measure of the crews by seeing what they came up with?’

‘Inexactly!’ Nygma proclaimed, tone of voice hiding his precise word. ‘How did you work that out?’

‘Just thinking about how I would try to justify it. I wouldn’t expect to be taken seriously, mind you.’ Lennart said, his own tone making it a leading non-question.

‘What a terrible, terrible hypothesis. Actually I’ve always wondered what a hyperthesis would be, haven’t you? Anyway, what is there to be taken seriously except the mind, in all it’s signs and voices, spoor and stigmata?

Especially when it’s trying to leave no consistent trace at all. Was it for any specific reason that you decided to find me out?’


‘Afraid so.’ Lennart said, no longer feeling quite as confident about the answers he was likely to get. ‘I’m interested in the sector fleet’s patrol routines. A general overview, to begin with.’

‘Over, squidgy underbelly, inside, round, through and down the rabbit hole? Very generic, very easy to approximately answer. Could you be more definitive, or shall I just deluge you with a shimmering rain of factoids?’


‘What proportion of the sector’s light and medium corvette strength is part of old style Patrol Squadrons, and what part of new pattern Light Squadrons tasked with patrol duty?’ Lennart asked, deadpan.

‘The sector’s space soldiers seem to successfully slide from superannuated, superceded system to a schematic system sanguinely securing sanctuary for syndicated space salesmen. Supposedly.’

Lennart blinked. Brenn whispered to him, ‘Sir, this is karmic retribution for what you did to Captain Piett.’
‘You could have a point.’ Lennart admitted. ‘I think I might be better off with the rain of factoids.’

He turned back to the warped alien face on the monitor- now morphing itself into a smiley face with question marks for eyes- thought about it for a second and said

‘Apres that astonishing assault against my aural alertness, you mean that the patrol requirement’s been scaled back to the bare minimum necessary to satisfy oversight, and the majority of the light squadrons are theoretically on escort duty?’


‘Congratulations, captain. Most people start yelling at me and telling me to make sense about then. Yes, officially, the area is considered- well held.

I thought you may have endured a sufficient barrage of sibilants, no? Patrol consists mainly of clearing the flanks of convoy routes. Deep range scouting, inspecting potential sites for rebel activity, reduced to a pittance.

Monitoring the aliens and the free traders, the strength is there, but the pattern, the shape- they’re too concentrated. Formations to fight, not to find.

Once in a very great while, they catch something, and manufacture a mediatastic moron’s mummery out of it- I’m doing it again. Down, Smiley. Bad smiley. No.’ he added, apparently talking to himself.


‘I can either translate in my head and perhaps get it wrong, ask you for a more prosaic explanation, or perhaps you could proceed in a way suited more closely to someone who is thinking mainly of what lies on the other side of the door?’ Lennart suggested.

‘Prosodie per prosequor par poetia proscriptus, indeed. Even, positively.’ Nygma mangled the Galactic Standard almost gleefully.

‘The exec’s signed out all our protocol droids, hasn’t he?’ Lennart realised. ‘Correct me if I’m right, Doctor, but you’re working on the theory that anyone with no sense of humour, no flair for the absurd and ridiculous in life, is far too uncivilised to be trusted with the plain, unadorned facts.’

‘Alas, it is only a theory. It would have required several more millennia of po-faced corruption and lies before it could be considered a fact in it’s own right.

It is also the most appalling heresy and deviation from Correct Thought. Exactly the sort of thing that the parakeets of pattern, those copying, cawing, noisy little lesser lights of the analytic, love to weave with.’


‘Those would be the interminably spotted, white- breasted variety?’ lennart said, slightly emphasising the i, s, b. ‘I’m not surprised that they plague you. I am surprised they haven’t yet found an excuse to gnaw you down to bones.’

‘Oh, they’ve found them, but they keep drifting away. You have to love people whose minds melt when they walk into a hall of mirrors.’

‘Because no one else will? Because what they take so desperately seriously now may be next generation’s bad joke- if we’re lucky?’ Lennart suggested. ‘For all the mental exercise this is, I’m afraid we may have to resort to being serious ourselves at some point.’

‘And quite right to be afraid, too. Can’t you get at all of this anyway?’

‘Yes, we can get the raw data. No, we don’t have the long term perspective to draw strong conclusions from it. I’m going to have to pass those conclusions on to men of the meanest understanding, and possibly do a little weaving of my own with them, wherever the thread leads. You see we need the most robust, least elaborate version.’


‘Which boils down to a polite way of saying keep it simple, stupid.’ Nygma sighed. ‘Why does no-one ever say “keep it complex?” it’s discrimination in favour of the lowest common denominator, I tell you. Frontal lobes need exercise too.’

‘On this deployment, we’re in danger of becoming overtrained. Doctor?’

‘Oh, all right. Although I really should throw a few more puzzles at you just to get your head limbered up properly.’

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t. The data as well of course, but would it be right to say that your overall impression is that the sector group is being deliberately mismanaged?’

‘More than that. The sector group is being allowed to be deliberately mismanaged. Now I like aliens; been one myself a few times, the things you can do with a properly managed fugue state- the different perspective, the foreign viewpoint always comes in handy. It is simply not procedure to let them sprawl.’


‘Hmm.’ Lennart thought about it. ‘That would involve hounding someone on a procedural charge, an offence maybe or maybe not wrong in itself but surely wrong by law, and in doing so endorsing- parroting, in fact- the parakeets.

Things would have to be very wrong for that to seem like a valid option, and I thought you said no more puzzles?’

‘That wasn’t really a puzzle, it was just a decision gate. About those aliens, though, they might be innocent- but there are a lot of pointers facing the other way. Just because you’re paranoid?’

‘Act leery enough for long enough, “they” usually decide to get you anyway.’ Lennart pointed out.

‘Ah, but if there’s more than one of me, then they can only try it one at a time.’ Nygma said.

‘Are you claiming that you’re a gestalt intelligence, or simply trying to become one?’

‘Well, I am already unparalleledly parallel. So much so that I can pit my wits against the twits and prevail in a hail of…ah…my rhyme scheme’s thrown a bearing, I must rebuild it with geometric logic. Back in a moment.’ The image ducked off the screen.


It came back as a- something, an unintelligent animal with wrinkly green-blue skin Lennart didn’t recognise, and started morphing through a range of possibilities, again.

‘No, have to go back to that one. Where/when were we? Ah, yes. Patrol routines. What do you make of this?’ the creature on screen then, looked like a furry spider, sneezed out a starmap. The creature and the map both continued to morph, the creature- Lennart wisely decided to ignore it.

The map showed what seemed to be the evolution- devolution- of the sector’s light force tasking. A red zone, brightness as patrol density, changing as the orders changed.

A spastic amoeba; twitching and wriggling, throwing out pseudopods as the mood caught it, a surge here, a lance there. Generally, though, shrinking, contracting around the major worlds, around the trade route. Thinning out beyond usefulness in the further reaches.


‘So.’ Lennart said, trying to make sense of it. ‘Only the major worlds, and the trade route, get proper cover. Enough to prevent any incidents large enough to call their judgement into question.

Enough to point at and say “look, we’re well defended.” Out there in the dark, though, any good they’re doing is from sheer deterrence.’

‘Worse than that.’ The tempo of the display slowed, and the thin outer veil resolved itself- became first scintillating, then a series of threads. ‘Total sortie count.

Given that they manoeuvre in close company far more often than not, the picture becomes more like this.’ Blob, blob. A few sudden surges of activity, hunting sweeps, splashes of red breaking up a black background.

‘This amounts to proof of negligence. Barely satisfying the paper requirements, no more, and allowing who knows what to happen- who else knows about this?’ And in whose interest? Lennart didn’t add, yet.

‘Who would I tell? I’m just a poor, cracked old sense-data snuffler, a meaning- miner with delusions of candour.’

‘Indeed.’ Lennart said, sceptically. ‘How would you say the trend has developed over time?’


‘Ah, now that is a leading question, isn’t it? The how and the who come back into focus, do they not? Who has developed this trend?’

‘Hmm. One would be a powerful pointer towards the other, wouldn’t it?’ Lennart suggested. ‘I might even go so far as to use words like ‘indictment’ and ‘bearing witness.’ Who would be in a position to?’

‘You’re in a better position to answer that than I am. I mean, any of the very small circle of humans and not so humans with the authority, they also have hordes of ruthless thugs prepared to execute their every whim.

The word may be mightier than the fist in the long run, but the words I keep thinking of are “no, please, help, no, stop, go away, no, urgh.”’


‘Right. Send us as much raw data as you can and we’ll take it from there. Personnel details, especially of anyone who’s moved on and out, to a different sector fleet or to Region.

They might be able to add perspective, may be readier to talk. If my brain ever starts to rot from lack of use- Galactic Spirit hasten the day when it has the chance to- we may need to get in touch with you again.’

‘Squirt underway. Don’t worry, I’ve only encrypted it a little bit.’ Nygma said; the image changed to a flood of text, orders and reports, in…some language or other. He disconnected before they could ask anything else.


‘I sometimes play the fool,’ Lennart said, sitting down, ‘with the goal in mind of achieving the fool’s freedom, to be able to criticise and pass judgement as if I was an outsider.

I’ve just played straight man to a galactic-class wise fool. I probably should call him back and ask for lessons in applied lunacy.’

‘I think you got one anyway, skipper, whether you wanted it or not.’ Rythanor said. ‘We’ll start trying to make sense of the data.’



Black Prince had pulled in a shade over eight thousand live rebel prisoners, roughly two thousand of those seriously wounded by damage to the ship around them, or by a stormtrooper shooting for a limb rather than wasting a second switching to stun.

Most of those were in Medical, at least the ones too badly hurt to attempt to escape, but what to do with the rest?

They needed to be put in a place where they couldn’t escape from, learn about or damage the ship from, and didn’t get in the way of the normal routine.

Every Star Destroyer had detention cells, nominally a thousand on an Imperator, but Black Prince had taken advantage of the security facilities built in to convert most of hers to armoury space.


The remaining cells were being used to hold officers and sergeants of the rebel ground combat units; people who might successfully organise resistance.

They were in solitary lockdown, monitored and under heavy guard. The bulk of them were in the most suitable space- the stormtroopers’ quarters block.

Semi- isolated from the rest of the ship anyway, Mirannon had spared a work crew- grumbling bitterly about lost person hours- to complete that. The only way out for sixty- one hundred prisoners was through a solid bulkhead or through a Legion of stormtroopers.

M’Lanth was escorted through the outer areas of the barrack block, allowed to see just what would bar his way- E-webs on every major passageway, generator fed T-21s on most of the minor, grenade launchers and flamers filling the gaps and the transverse passageways.

‘So this is how the other half lives.’ He said, as they entered the inner zone.


Not entirely what he was expecting; he had anticipated open barracks, no privacy at all. All on view, nothing to hide.

It was actually a row of ‘coffins’- individual sleep tubes, against one wall, storage locker by each, opening onto a platoon common area. Canteen row at one end, freshers at the other, tables and racks in between.

For all the jokes about the re-braining process, Stormtroopers simply couldn’t be that far removed from human; it was almost a relief to find that they might have personalities after all.

They played dejarik and sabacc, at least, and apparently cheated if the fine fingernail marks on the back of the cards were anything to go by.

The rest of the rebels present, he did not recognise; different ships, and from all branches. Mostly officers, though. Thirty all told.

‘What happened? How did you all…I got taken out in the preliminary fencing. I missed the rescue attempt. What went wrong?’


The senior ranking officer was a lieutenant-commander, systems control officer shields, from Penthesilea. ‘Welcome to the birdcage. We were led into a trap, and suckered royally. Any idea what they’re going to do with us?’

‘Yes. I had it from an imperial pilot, who, hm, was in the sickbay with me. The spacers and grunts, five to ten years hard labour.’

‘What, he’s not going to shoot them outright? Poor man must be losing his wits, that almost counts as mercy. What about us?’

‘The noncoms and petty officers- longer sentences. Ten to thirty years. Officers and politicals- shot and dumped into the biocycler tanks.’

‘Kriff. I knew I should have stayed in bed. On the other hand, it simplifies things; what have we got to lose?’

‘You’re thinking about escape?’

‘They shoot us later at their leisure, or we take a chance now, maybe still get shot, probably even, but do some damage and maybe win free.

We were played for fools, they lured us in and sucker- punched us, still don’t know how, but I don’t feel done fighting yet.’ The systems officer said, belligerently; the rest of them nodded.

‘I think they went out of their way to show me just what they have waiting for anyone who tries.’ M’Lanth
said. ‘Platoon and squad support weapons covering the corridors, flamers everywhere. It’s going to be ugly.’

‘Uglier than getting recycled? Uglier than broken down into component chemicals? They’re Imperial; what guarantee have you that they’ll even bother to shoot you first, not just let you get solvented to death?’ a junior lieutenant power tech whined.


‘I know, let’s all cut ourselves and let the wounds fester so we can give them blood poisoning from beyond the vat. I’ll just go and crap on my stylus, shall I?’ a young gunnery lieutenant said, angry. ‘Escape is our only guarantee of anything.’

‘Look, we’ve been kept in separate barrack blocks, but there can’t be less than about five thousand of us. That’s enough for a fighting chance.’ The systems officer called them to order.

‘To do what? Escape- or do as much damage as possible to this ship on the way out?’ M’Lanth said. ‘If we get to the bays, then what?

We can’t steal enough shuttles for six thousand men. Whoever does make it, the Imps’ PD and fighters will try to chase them down. We need to cause chaos on board first.’


‘You have a plan?’ the systems control officer asked.

‘Bare bones. Basically, we split into two teams- one to release as many of the rest of us as they can, the other to go after the guards and take them out, and steal their guns, then go and take more of them out with the guns- you get the idea. Punch a hole, a nice big hole.

Then we split again, two groups; one heads for the shuttle bay and tries to get out- into hyperspace if they can, down to the planet to hide if they can’t- while the rest, whoever doesn’t mind trying to die a hero, goes after gunnery and fighter control stations.

Their job, well our, would be just to buy time for the rest to get away, stop the Imps shooting or sending fighters. Probably get killed, but we’re not all going to get out alive anyway, so why not?’

[Enigma]

Whoohoo! Another great chapter! Especially since I was in it. Thanks.

[Phantasee]

What the hell? Uckers?

I think it's hilarious that I'm Oliphant now, when I'm pretty sure you called me Caliphant in the previous chapter.

This was an amusing chapter, and I think those Rebel scum are retarded.

[Eleventh Century Remnant]

Dammit, you're right. Blame the mental confusion that results from writing someone actively simulating madness. I'll go back and fix that.

I basically flipped through a book of names, looking for something slightly off the beaten track that I could morph into something that sounded right, and the first thing that came up that wasn't hopelessly mundane was Ludovic.

Now, John Winton in his history of the british submarine service mentions uckers, and describes it as "A form of crude submarine Ludo", an off duty boardgame popular about the time of the second world war.

Add this to a mildly-catastrophic shuttle splash landing in Sen. Lt Caliphant's past, and the sequence becomes obvious, Ludovic-Ludo-"Uckers" becomes more or less inevitable.

How it got into the Star Wars universe is the baffling part, but I was letting myself go writing the middle section anyway- if anybody can say the line at the end of paragraph 19, the one with all the S's, three times fast they deserve some kind of prize. Probably tongue splints.

Bit of a confession- Dr. Nygma's behaviour is partly based on a friend of mine, a failed medical student now attempting paleontology who has, to be honest, moderate mental problems made very much worse by his own quickness of wit. He plays with his schizoid-affective disorder and the altered states of mind it involves, to the point where I wonder if he isn't the cause of his own problems.

The rebel scum are desperate; Lennart isn't disregarding the regs as much as he is shaving the margins, and the rank and file are getting off as lightly as the penal code allows. Insultingly lightly, in fact- as if they aren't worth taking any more seriously.

It's the officers, who are slated for execution and by any reasonable interpretation of the law quite right too, who are planning a mass breakout. Given that it's a choice between dying on their feet or on their knees, they can't really be blamed for wanting to try- although how many of the relatively innocent lower ranks are they going to get killed in the process?
There will, naturally, be a certain amount of on board chaos associated with this, the fallout from which should be interesting.

[Phantasee]

I was just thinking from Mirannon's perspective. He'd be pissed if he knew what they were up to.

Hell, I bet he'd go and cut them all down himself if he caught wind of it.

[Enigma]

I was just thinking from Mirannon's perspective. He'd be pissed if he knew what they were up to.

Hell, I bet he'd go and cut them all down himself if he caught wind of it.

Nah he'd adust the grav to Jupiter standard.

[Phantasee]

That would be...efficient, yes. But I don't know if I've read his personality right. Are you sure he wouldn't just start cutting and stop once he had made his point?

Homemade lightsabres are quite effective in that regard.