I pace my bridge like a cornered animal. It’s almost been almost four days since the coup began and we were but a single adjustment and jump away from Coruscant. The chronometer strikes midnight. Another full day had passed and the scattered messages we had gotten, or rather those we hadn’t gotten at all, weren’t painting a pretty picture. There was yet to be an announcement from the Senate on the legitimacy of the coup. Various formations in the north had placed themselves under Fleet Admiral Coburn and had begun a careful approach along the Namadii Corridor and were maybe a week away from Coruscant at most.

  Sure, the Caridans and Anaxsi were still stuck at Grizmallt, the impromptu minefields should continue to slow their advance for another two days, yet would it actually? How much longer until they reached Alsakan and from there Coruscant itself? I almost feel the shifting sands of an approaching gator on the hunt just as easily as I could see the outcropping of rock that may give me a chance at survival.

  I continue to pace the bridge as we enter hyperspace. I inhale deeply, then exhale in a hiss. This was worse than my usual pre-battle jitters.

  “Maker damn it.” I mutter as I helplessly wish for a drink, only holding myself off due to the importance of the next twenty four hours, “Damn it all.”

  After all things were said and done, Solomahal wasn’t surprised Gentis was the first of the conspirators to die. The bastard had a problem found throughout the veterans of the ground forces. It was a rather simple flaw all things considered. These officers somehow gained the idiotic idea that if the Jedi can lead from the front, then the other Generals must do so as well, to uphold the legacy of their ancestors of over a thousand years ago. It was pathetic to the Lutrillian, not to mention foolhardy, deadly and damaging to morale.

  He looks over the corpse of his comrade in arms, the man’s sole remaining pup trying to hold back his tears in front of the holograms of Zsinj, Jerjerrod, Gerra, Hornblower and Bush. Solomahal strokes his fur as he considers their positions. Hornblower had lost most of his cruisers, but the rest of his ships had managed to link up with Bush and the two of them had made it to friendly lines.

  And yet Honor had managed to secure the orbital defense platforms and towed them into positions that would only harden her line. It was a matter of time until her forces, as exhausted and low on munitions as they were, to overwhelm Zsinj’s men. Jerjerrod was clearly blaming himself as he hadn’t considered Honor foolhardy enough to take on every single tank of tibana from the merchant ships, drastically lowering the quality of her munitions yet keeping her own reserves barely in the green.

  “So … what now?” Solomahal asks.

  “Dericote should be less than a day out.” Gerra says hopefully.

  “And Benoni two days out after that.” Hornblower adds.

  “With Dericote’s second and third battlegroups a week or so out after that.” Bush points out.

  “That isn’t fast enough.” Zsinj decides, “The only reason why Honor hasn’t put the pressure on us yet is because she was securing her munitions and the various orbital facilities for the first two days, got distracted by trying to maneuver Hornblower and Bush around for the third day and has been probing us the last twenty eight hours or so. By now she’s likely found the weakpoints she’s been looking for.”

  “The ground campaign is looking desperate.” Jerjerrod agrees, “Vader’s survival and occupation of the Senate district has made legitimizing our coup impossible. We still control the palace, most of the Military Operations Heaquarters, the smoldering remnants of the ISB headquarters and the planetary comms relay, but we’ve lost the Imperial Intelligence building, various blocks around the Senate District and far too many men.”

  “We still have a chance.” Gentis’s kid says.

  “One that’s escaping our grasps.” Solomahal admonishes, “The moment the Anaxsi and Caridans arrive it’ll be too late. I’ll begin briefing my officers on our emergency protocols. Plan Besh may be over and Cresh is likely doomed in the aftermath, but we can still place hope in plan Dorn.”

  “That’s particularly defeatist of you, General.” Jerjerrod says.

  “Realistic.” Solomahal corrects.

  “We cannot give up so easily!” Gerra snears, “An Elite battlegroup is less than a day away!”

  “That doesn’t mean what you think it does, kid.” Solomahal says.

  “The 120th isn’t suitable for a line battle at this scale.” Zsinj says, “I’m barely sure Dericote’s 9th Irregular would be able to make much of a difference. Too many cruisers, not enough battleships, not enough strikecraft, not enough long range firepower.”

  “Well I won’t give up this easily!” Gerra barks.

  “No matter what, we will sell ourselves dearly.” Jerjerrod offers in compromise.

  Solomahal sighs: “We’ll wait on our reinforcements and adjust our decision once they arrive. Until then, long live the Republic.”

  The warcry is echoed quietly by all the officers present in one way or another. Then, one by one the holograms go out, leaving Solomahal alone with Gentis’ boy. The General sighs again, and it had all started so well.

  The Captain stares at his Colonel in shock as the Lantillian finishes: “-And so we are to prepare for the worst. Command doesn’t expect us to keep everyone, though we’ll still try. Priority is to lay low until the next major revolt, then make our way there asap.”

  “You can’t be serius, sir.” The last remaining Major of the regiment says.

  “I’m afraid so. Vader’s resistance did too much damage and we’ve been told to expect more Imps in system any day now. Whoever can is to make it for the underworld and await further instructions.” The Colonel reiterates.

  “What even constitutes a major revolt?” A Lieutenant that had somehow ended up in charge of one of the battalions asks.

  “Kark if I know. I suppose we’ll try and make for whoever has the best chance once we’re done here.”

  “How much longer do they expect us to hold out?” A different Captain asks.

  “Until ve’re ordered otherwise.” The Colonel spits, “Until then, start talking with those ex-Seppies that joined us. Let’s see if they can harbor some of us or get a company or three offworld somehow.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.” The first Captain says, “Imps’ll have this system on a harsher lock-down than they did on Skako Minor.”

  “They’ll still need to move about soldiers.” The Colonel offers, “Supplies and equipment too. It may be in squads, but we’ll eventually make it out. From there … we wait for further orders.”

  Various officers sigh, the Major rolling his shoulders before he responds: “Roger that, sir. Long lif the Republic.”

  The warcry echoes through the room, quietly, yet also filled with determination.

  Tarkin stands at the head of the bridge, the freshly commissioned Imperial Star Destroyer racing through hyperspace at the head of the entire Imperial garrison over Kuat and almost every Volunteer, TK Stormtrooper and Clone unit aboard the various ships. Imperials, Victories, Acclamators, Carracks, Arquitenses, Nebulons and Gozantis, a menagerie of ships that would make the new backbone of the reformed Imperial Navy, their hangars filled with V-Wings and TIE prototypes.

  It was a fleet that would have broken the back of the Separatists over Anaxes in less than a week and forced them back along the Perlimian in less than a month. It was a glorious formation, one he was leading to destroy traitors to the very order they had all fought to bring into reality. It was disheartening that so many had apparently been swayed by the nostalgia of their childhoods, convinced the Republic they perceived as young foolish, idiotic, safe and idealistic children was better than the Empire that not only promised better, but was delivering on it.

  “Exiting hyperspace in thirty, sir.” An Ensign reports.

  Tarkin nods as he counts down the seconds. Soon he would retake Coruscant for the glory of the Empire. He would be victorious here. It would be symbolic, the last remnants of reactionaries and hardliners of the old Republic destroyed by the might of the nascent Empire. Yes, Tarkin liked the symbolism of that.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Exiting in five, four, three, two, one.”

  Hyperspace recedes as the Imperial class Star Destroyer enters realspace in a jolt, followed closely by another, then another, then twenty seven more. An entire squadron of Imperial Star Destroyers at Tarkin’s fingertips, how glorious to wield such power that an officer out of the first year of the Clone Wars could only vaguely dream of.

  “Assemble us into an arrowhead formation and bring us about. Hail our allies and get me a status report.” Tarkin orders.

  “Receiving transmission from Fleet Admiral Honor.” A comms officer reports.

  “Front and center.” Tarkin orders.

  “Tarkin, come to join the traitors?” Honor asks.

  “I have come by order of my Emperor to see the loyalists to a defunct Republic destroyed.” Tarkin replies.

  “Of course you would be the one who arrives first, why am I not surprised. Very well. My ships are running low on tibana and have been forced to use the tibana of various merchant ships in system to supplement and replace our stores. I would ask you to lead the assault against Zsinj and her co-conspirators. Try to take the leadership alive.”

  “I will see what I can do, but I will make no promises.” Tarkin replies before turning to an Adjutant on the bridge, “All ships all ahead full, focus shields double front and ready firing solutions for the center of the enemy formation. We shall break them here and now.”

  “Roger that, sir.” The Adjutant replies.

  Excellent, things were already going his way, Tarkin mused.

  “Ma’am, I’ve got thirty Imperials, forty Victories, two dozen Carracks, a dozen Arquitenses and another dozen Nebulons!” Her sensors officer yelps in a panic.

  “They’re on course to hit our center, baring any sudden changes.” An Adjutant supplies.

  “Damn.” Zsinj mutters.

  “Ma’am, your orders?”

  “Deploy our third line to the second and the second is to join the first. We either win here or die here, deploy any strikecraft undergoing rest, rearmament, or minor repairs, we need to destroy those damn Imperials asap!” Zsinj barks in order.

  “We won’t survive this, will we?” An Adjutant whispers quietly.

  “Then we will sell ourselves dearly!” Zsinj barks, then falling into a poem and battlecry her husband had once told her about, “Remembered is the first man the sands consume! Blood has already stained it, let the stains form an ocean, to remake the world anew.”

  “Death!” The handful of Fondorian crew she had transferred to her flagship echo.

  “Now then.” Zsinj starts, “Having gotten all the existential fear out of our systems, prepare to focus fire on those Imperial battleships, load proton torps and prepare fighter and bomber wings. Warm up our engines, we may as well end this in a way befitting the honor of the Navy.”

  “Righto!” Her Adjutant Commander replies.

  Zsinj turns to the approaching fleet. Victory may be impossible at this point, but she could at least make them hurt. That would have to be enough.

  “Sir, enemy reinforcements are coming down the skyhooks.” A Colonel reports to Solomahal.

  The Lutrillian sighs. So it came to this: “Prepare our rearguard and begin disseminating our orders of retreat to the lower ranks. Begin shelling the Operations Headquarters and the Imperial Intelligence Headquarters. Deploy explosives on the Imperial Palace and prepare the old Jedi temple for demolitions. We may lose, but we can make Coruscant expensive to rebuild at the very least.”

  “Very well, sir.” The Colonel replies.

  “I’ll begin making my way to the Temple while overseeing the evacuations efforts. I hate to do this, but we’ll be fighting this guerrilla war for months at least and years at most.” Solomahal admits.

  “I’ll inform the men on your expectations.”

  “Any who wish to try and surrender have my blessing.” Solomahal offers.

  “I … don’t think the Empire will be taking many prisoners after this.”

  “I doubt it myself.” Solomahal says.

  “This will break down the command structure and could compromise the rally points under the surface.” The Colonel worries.

  “A risk worth taking in these trying times. Better give them an option, even a bad one, than to force them down this road.”

  The Colonel sighs: “Very well, sir. I’ll flag down a shuttle and escorts for you.”

  The Colonel snaps a salute before marching off, Solomahal turning towards the sky as an Acclamator docks with a Skyhook. Thousands of troops likely disembarking onto the station before being shuttled down planetside. Solomahal pulls a flask from his boot and takes a deep swig, however this ends, it won’t end well.

  A heavy turbolaser smashes into the bridge stalk of her ship, making the floors shudder under the pressure placed upon its shields by the nasty hit. Zsinj ignores it, focusing on the battle. The first line was holding up surprisingly well, though most of the credit went to her veteran strikecraft pilots who were doing good work against the rookies that had guarded Kuat alongside the remnants of her defense fleet. Yet as more and more fighter squadrons go dark, she begins to worry.

  “Prioritize fire on the enemy command ships. If we can cut off the heads of those vile snakes we may have a chance.” She orders, turbolaser batteries adjusting their positioning to redirect fire upon the various lead ships of the two Kuati spearheads. It had been surprising that Tarkin, because of course it would be Tarkin, had split his formation.

  “Report from Jerjerrod, his command is being overrun by a Clone detachment of the 442nd Siege Battalion. Either he gets air support or his position will fall.”

  “We don’t have the fighters to spare. Tell him I’m sorry for what all that that’s worth.” Zsinj replies before switching back to the battle at hand, “Divert Warhawk Squadron to make a run on Tarkin’s flagship, I want that piece of shit full of protons by the next time I look at it.”

  “Roger that.”

  The ship shudders again, her Venator, her Retaliation, was straining her shields as more and more green heavy turbolaser bolts smashed against her. Zsinj knew her ship well, she knew Retaliation wouldn’t be able to last much longer, yet she would not abandon her ship, nor would she allow Tarkin of all people to take her alive.

  “Shipwide transmission, prepare my command codes for transfer.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You heard me.” She says, tone stone cold.

  “Transmission ready.”

  “All hands, abandon ship. I repeat, all hands abandon ship. Flood turbolaser chambers with tibana, destabilize the reactors and abandon ship.”

  “Codes ready for transfer.”

  “Hornblower is next in command.” Zsinj says simply.

  “Roger that, ma’am.”

  “Now get out of here. I think I know how to fly a ship well enough for this.” Zsinj orders.

  “That is an order I won’t be able to follow, ma’am.” Her Adjutant Commander says.

  “She said it herself, remembered is the first man consumed by the sands.” A Fondorian Lieutenant says grimly.

  “I’d rather keep steering if it’s all the same to you ma’am.” The Helmsman says, “One last hurrah, eh?”

  “Very well. Plot a course for Tarkin’s flagship. Give our men another few minutes to clear the battle lines. I shall give the order.” Zsinj says, “Rest of you, out!”

  “It was an honor ma’am.” An old deckhand says.

  “The honor was mine.” Zsinj replies.

  Captain Adjunct Zsinj, son of the Zsinj now the Zsinj himself, manages to make it to his escape pod easily enough a mix of shame and sadness filling his soul. He hadn’t stood by his mother, wouldn’t stand by her in her final moments and yet he would survive. He would prove his family’s loyalty and ensure his name would overshadow this betrayal by his mother.

  The escape pod jettisons into the turbolaser and strikecraft filled void above Coruscant. Zsinj manipulates it skillfully to show the Retaliation as it pushes its engines as far as they will ever go again, lurching forward, a few of the surrounding pickets following her to ensure she reaches her target, another dagger pointed at the heart of the Empire.

  Soon enough, like two swords meeting, the Retaliation pierces into the hull of the Imperial class battleship, tearing into her armored hull as the other ship tears into hers. He can barely make out various escape pods launching from the Star Destroyer as the two ships continue their deadly collision. The Retaliation’s engines push further until a fire begins erupting from within her superstructure, bulging the remaining armor outwards until the ship is replaced for a moment by a new star, burning and scorching and wrathful.

  “Ma’.” Zsinj hears himself utter in disbelief as the automatic light dampeners on the escape pod return to normal.

  Where once there were two battleships, there was now only burnt and scorched debris.

  Solomahal was running through the hallways of the ruins of the Jedi temple, blasterbolts echoing through the halls and corridors. He was running out of time. He had made a mistake. A miscalculation. A fucking error.

  He continues to run as he rapidly punches in his codes into the datapad. His network had to be salvaged and transferred to his heirs if he was to die here. He had to ensure his work, the intelligence he had salvaged, the men he had sent to ground on Coruscant, the Clone deserters he had established a link with and the various contacts he had begun working on within fledgling resistance movements. It all had to survive him!

  A blasterbolt whizzes by his ear and the General jumps into a room. He finds it empty and quickly runs for the window, firing his blaster pistol into the window repeatedly until it shatters and he leaps through. He falls and rolls down the angled wall. It’s a bad landing and he feels one of his legs break as he finds himself in one of the gardens a lone tree prominently displayed.

  Solomahal tries to stand, yet he collapses from his own weight. He won’t survive this, he realizes. He will die. His instincts start screaming at the Lutrillian, but he pushes it down. Solomahal sighs, grabbing the tablet that had fallen beside him, finding it broken beyond any chance of repair. The Lutrillian General sighs again, soul deep, then laughs, after trying to survive the Republic’s slow descent into tyranny he had tried so hard to stay alive and now? After years of work, he was going to die. He could already hear the roar of TIEs and LAATs approaching his position and shouts of young recruits through the helmets of those damn TK Stormtroopers.

  Solomahal pulls his flask from his less broken leg’s boot and unscrews it. He downs the half-full contents, then pulls out his blasterpistol and runs his tongue over his fake tooth. He would take down as many of these dogs as he could. He manages to stand and lean against the wall, pain screaming and throbbing from his legs all the while. He may not be able to move, but he would at least go down standing. He quickly fires a bolt into the broken datapad to ensure no data could be recovered from it, then exhales deeply.

  A Stormtrooper comes around the corner and the Lutrillian blasts him in the head, the smoking corpse collapsing onto the man behind it. The Lutrillian fires again, suppressing the possible entrance as a blasterbolt hits just above his head from behind him. The Lutrillian spins around and nails a Clone in the colors of the 181st Clone Armored Division in the chest, then two more who had advanced behind their brother.

  A blasterbolt hits the Lutrillian in the side and he knows what must be done as he nails the perpetrator in the groin. He bites down. Electricity arks through his head, then nothingness.

  After a moment’s hesitation the mix of Clones and Stormtroopers approach his corpse, prodding it before the only officer remaining, a Clone Sergeant, sighs and taps something into his comlink: “Found one of the ringleaders, Colonel Veers. He offed himself before we could capture him.”

  The voice of an Army Colonel comes through the other end: “A pity, continue to secure the palace and bring his remains to be inspected by Imperial Intelligence once practical.”

  “Understood, sir.” The Clone says before turning to look at the broken window above. That would not have been a fun fall.

  The Little Revenge exits hyperspace like a slug piercing flesh, stopping some hundred thousand clicks away from the nearest ship in system, closely followed by the other vessels of the 120th Battlegroup. I race to the edge of the viewport as the redlights flash a few more times to ensure everyone made it to muster stations. I snatch up a pair of macrobinoculars and zero in on the exchange of turbolaser fire.

  “Maker no.” I exhale.

  There, thousands of kilometers away from us bare remnants of forces emblazoned with the emblems of my allies were being torn apart by the ships marked with the sigils of the Home Guard and Imperial Kuati Defense Fleets. They were dismantling them one by one with a surgeons precision I could recognize from Fleet Admiral’s final actions during the battle of Coruscant during the dying days of the Republic.

  “Dammit no!” I bark as I throw the binoculars at my feet with a violence born from rage.

  “Sir, incoming transmission from Fleet Admiral Honor.”

  Fuck.

  I inhale deeply as I remove my officer’s cap to run a hand through my hair, tussling the hair needle as I do. Dammit all to the nine hells. I quickly adjust the needle back into place before I return my officer’s cap to my head, After a slow exhale I finally respond: “Front and center.”

  “Dericote. A pity you could not arrive earlier or with more ships.” Honor says in greeting.

  “Apologies ma’am, but the route we took didn’t leave many ships to pick up. I assumed speed would serve us better.”

  “A fair enough assumption. I am currently in command as Moff Tarkin is currently undergoing surgery and emergency medical treatment. I would ask your ships to begin securing escape pods and the debris from the traitors, I think your men’s expertise in boarding actions will serve you well in that. I’ll finish up the battle quickly and then offer air and orbital support to the battle.”

  I nod resignedly: “As you command ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to commend your quick arrival despite your inability to assist in the battle proper.” My sponsor consoles.

  “Thank you ma’am.” I reply, the hologram going out moments later.

  I inhale deeply before sorting through my thoughts. I may not have been able to save my co-conspirators, but I could save their men. It was the least I could do at this point. A final act of the coup’s perpetrators.

  “Corvettes, begin making haste to the debris fields. Begin securing escape pods and incarcerate their occupants. Once they’ve been secured in batches of double the corvette’s crew you are to dock with a cruiser of your choice for transfer. Continue doing that until ordered otherwise. Prioritize offloading to the Little Revenge, Constellation, Fondor’s Daughter and the ships of the 111th Colonies Cruiser Squadron, then work down the roster. Deploy our strikecraft and send out a pulse that we’re open for any refueling and rearming needed. Deploy a squad of arms-men to the hangar bay to bolster security there. Any pilot, not from the 120th, is to be removed from their bird and moved in with the other … detainees.” I order.

  “Roger that. Transmitting orders.” Commander Slas says.

  I nod as I return my attention to the battlefield before me, corvettes and Arquitenses racing towards the debris fields as the rest of the formation begins a slower pursuit. I quickly punch my rapidly forming plans for how to deal with my fellow conspirators into a datapad before handing it over to Mi-Kus. He takes it with a nod before marching off as I stare out into Coruscant and the dying battle above it.

  “Damn it all.” I mutter again.