“Adjust our formation, Dreadnoughts front and center, mixed between model Ms and Is. Venators in second line, CD-710s on our portside flank with our Mon Cala and Tionese ships, starboard side with our Fondorian ships. Acclamators in the second line, light ships and pickets spread throughout. Launch strikecraft and see if we can figure out who’s in command.” I order rapid fire.

  The enemy had thirteen battleships, thirty heavy cruisers, twenty cruisers, ten light cruisers, twenty frigates and forty one corvettes and pickets. A sizable force to be sure, but nothing I hadn’t faced before. Especially with a force of ninety ships of the line and over a hundred light ships and pickets. That stops me for a moment.

  I can’t stop myself from chuckling: “Maker damn it, we still outnumber them.”

  “Suppose its not that fair then.” Mi-Kus says with a smirk.

  “Suppose not. Begin inching the formation forward. Shields double front unless the enemy makes a strikecraft charge.” I order.

  “ID on the enemy, sir.” An Adjutant reports, “Admiral Varth is leading from the Imperial class battleships Reinvigoration.”

  “Varth … he served with Tennant in the north.” I mutter, “Calm under fire, cunning, but not overly original with his formations. Rather skilled in preparing a field though.”

  “The field looks rather unprepared to me, sir.” Mi-Kus surmises.

  “That it does.” I agree, “He must not have had much time to prepare here.”

  The Imperial formation remained stagnant, keeping itself above the world, yet titled downward to intercept us if we don’t come up to meet them. That and the known anti-orbital battery on the world’s southern continent ensured we should have to fight the enemy head on. Maybe we should attempt to swing above him? Spin on our axis and try to get on top of Varth’s force? I consider the possibility for a moment. No, he would be able to compensate too easily with his maneuvering thrusters alone, Varth would get too good an angle on us that way. So unless I was willing to leave a considerable force at my back, we would need to face Varth head on.

  “Or maybe he did.” I correct myself. As if I’d leave an enemy to attack my rear and assault my supply lines.

  What to do, unless I wanted to burn time I would have to face Varth head on. Not something I was particularly interested in. Now how to best take advantage of his position. His forces were well above any point where atmospheric hindrances would interfere with their shields. His angle was … sufficient enough to ensure we wouldn’t be able to come at him from below or behind and he could adjust his formation into a trio of teared lines to take us on with minimal repositioning.

  “Sir?” Mi-Kus asks as we continue to inch forward.

  I let out a sigh, I really didn’t want to do it like this: “All ships, adjust interception vectors for head on engagement of the enemy force. Prepare strikecraft and a skirmishing picket group. Commodore Strom will have command of it.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Prepare a missile salvo. Ion cannons and heavy turbolasers may fire at will. Concentrate on the enemy Dreadnoughts and the Imperial, then move to the Tectors and enemy cruisers. Targets of opportunity are acceptable. Remind everyone to coordinate with their nearby ships. No reason to beat a dead mudpuppy.” I order.

  “Understood, sir. Load concussions and target that Imp Dreadnought dead ahead.” Mi-Kus orders.

  “Adjusting course.” The Helmsman reports, “Enemy now dead ahead.”

  “Enemy entering range.”

  “Open fire.” I order simply.

  A cacophony of weapons unleashing from both sides are my reply.

  Cal meditates in the corner of the ship, he finds it easy. Ships had been his home for three years of his life, be it the Albedo Brave, or for a short time, the Little Revenge. He can feel the thrum of the engine and it calms him when the people around him do not. Greez is relatively easy to understand. He is honest and gentle, though Cal still keeps a respectful distance. Cere is more difficult. Promises of a rebuilt order and ancient knowledge sound enticing, but he has lost too much in the past.

  He feels a familiar lurch as the ship exits hyperspace, Greez grumbling all the while: “I don’t understand why we need to be here. Pirates are no laughing matter Cere.”

  “The entire Perlimian and north Hydian are locked down for priority movements to the Tion Cluster.” The tired woman reminds her partner, “We can’t risk being inspected because we fly an uncommon ship.”

  “Bah! You mean a fine ship.” Greez corrects.

  “Sure, Captain.” She replies, “But I would still rather trust pirates than an Imperial clerk and we’re running low on fuel.”

  “I know, doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.” Greez grumbles.

  “We’re meeting pirates?” Cal asks.

  “We, are doing no such thing, I will be meeting with the Port Borgo authorities to assure the fuel we’re getting is reliable.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Cal decides.

  “No you’re not.” She insists.

  “I’ve met plenty of pirates.” Cal says, “I know how to behave and I know how to get them to treat us right.”

  “Let the kid go, gives me time to get some minor repairs done.” Greez insists, Cal giving him a smile of appreciation in return.

  “Fine, but you stick with me.”

  The journey is short, the flimsy looking transport getting them into the hollowed out asteroid quickly enough. Cal keeps his head held high and his eyes on a slow swivel to keep as many of the pirates in sight as he passes their transport’s pilot payment and a tip to keep silent. He then rushes to catch up with Cere, continuing to keep his eyes open.

  A few Weequay and Nikto are playing cards. A Quarren and a Gotal are drinking together at a bar. A handful of Zeltron are sparring with knives, a small crowd gathering around them, placing bets and giving various shouts of encouragement. A Neimoidian is arguing with a Mirilian, though Cal can feel that it shouldn’t end up violent. All the while, he keeps following Cere to the administrator’s office.

  She places a handful of chits into the deskjockey’s hand and he opens the door for them. Inside they find a Neimoidian with a robotic eye glancing up from a datapa, a Commando droid placing down a cup of tea for the sentient as they enter the room. A droidika stands at attention in the corner, shield deactivated, but blasters and sensors following them closely.

  “Ah, Miss Junda. Welcome back to Port Borgo, shadow port extraordinaire. Home to Sabaoth Squadron and safe harbor of any and all pirates, ne’er do wells, former privateers, smugglers and former merchantmen, for a fair price. Here to ensure your fuel is up to your high standards are we?” The Neimoidian asks boredly.

  “Varteb. I see you continue to run a tight ship.” She responds.

  “And who is this? A new orphan?” He asks, his cybernetic eye spinning and narrowing in on Cal as he speaks while his organic one continues to pin down Cere.

  “Indeed.”

  “Hm.” The Neimoidian says his robotic eye revealing a cylinder by having it emerge form the ball and its lens narrow slightly, “Well orphan, why are you here?”

  “I’ve met pirates before, thought I’d see if any I knew were here.” He replies honestly.

  “You’d better hope they aren’t.” The Neimoidian scoffs, thy cylinder in his eye returning to the ball, “A pretty human like you might sell well over in Zygeria nowadays.”

  “My fuel, Varteb?” Cere presses.

  “Yes, yes. As long as you continue to pay premium, you shall receive premium.” The Niemodian waves her off, then takes a sip of his tea.

  “Good.” She replies before depositing a sack of wupiupi on the Neimoidian’s desk. He inspects it for a moment before nodding and giving a small gesture to his commando droid, “If that is all.”

  “It is, come along Cal.” Cere says.

  “Pleasure meeting you.”

  “I’m sure it is.” The Neimoidian says, scoffing to himself and taking another sip of his tea as they leave.

  They march back through the stalls and passages of the asteroid when someone grabs Cal’s shoulder. Cal lets them spin him around, pulling his blaster as he does and pointing it at the Weequay’s gut.

  “Cal!” Ohnaka shouts, ignoring the weapon as he gets in closer, “I thought it was you, what are you doing here my little friend? This is no place for someone of your age. What would your Master and the dear Admiral think?”

  “Hondo.” Cal says blankly, “Why am I not surprised.”

  “Well there is the whole revolt going on in the Tion Cluster. Many of my men are busy harrying trade and Imperial convoys there, buuuut I wished to take my Privateer to see if I could entice the Sabaoth Squadron remnants here to join us in fighting the dastardly Empire!”

  “I’m sorry what?” Cal asks.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Well, after the Empire canceled my contract, made me an outlaw for attacking a neutral-ish convoy in neutral-ish space, declared our dear friend Dericote a traitor for his stunt over Dac, killed a couple of my men and a very enticing offer from said friend over Dac, I decided to do some recruiting on his behalf! After all, I am a very rich man and you know what they say about rich men!”

  “Big egos?” Cal asks.

  “Big influence!” Hondo corrects, “So I figured I would offer Dericote the service of meeting with some of my competitors, see if they were interested in the kind of contract some of my friends have taken up with our beloved Black Hussar and get a small signing bonus for all the eff-”

  “Who is this, Cal?” Cere asks as she places a hand on Cal’s shoulder, stopping the pirate from continuing to slowly drag Cal towards some of Ohnaka’s pirate gang.

  “Cere, this is Hondo. He and I worked together … technically.”

  “And what a wonderful time it was!” Ohnaka agrees before eyeing Cere, “And what have we here? Another lost child of Coruscant? Why if I didn’t know better I would think you were trying to encroach on my … friend’s student in the art of war. Though such a pretty thing like you would fit rather well in my crew as well.”

  “I am not his student.” Cal says as he gently removes Hondo’s arm from his shoulder.

  “Ah, very well.” Ohnaka says, backing off slightly, then he hesitates, “You know, Fondorians value friends and family very highly. If you ever need his help … I am certain he will answer your call.”

  “Sure.” Cal grumbles slightly, “Come on Cere, let’s go.”

  “And if you need someone more charming, I’ll be happy to help too, for a modest fee!” Ohnaka adds as the two former Jedi leave. Hondo watches on for a moment before checking the tracking device he planted on the kid, “Hope Dericote wins, liked the kid well enough when I was entertaining him over Balshebr. I’d hate to kill him for his bounty.”

  “Move the second line forward to allow the first to recharge their shields.” I order as the first line halts in place, continuing to fire long and medium range salvos at the Imperial force opposite to us.

  We had entered this ballet when both forces entered maximum range and we were getting the better side of the exchange as both forces slowly inched towards one another in a series of leapfrogs. Mon Cala’s shielding techniques doing very well on the various ships that had it equipped, while the skilled arms of the Fondorian and CD-710 detachments made up for their equal shields when compared to their opponents.

  It was a slow grind, something which I was not particularly happy about. I had already requested Krugwolt and his Corps make planet-fall to see if they could secure the southern anti-orbital battery, but they had had little success against a division of entrenched Imperial Army infantry and another division’s worth of local militia. Sure, Krugwolt had the numbers, but he didn’t have the same knowledge of terrain these men had.

  So we were stuck in this back and forth of fleets, slowly coming closer to one another as a few ships slowly drift towards the planet below, emergency crews evacuating the ships’ crew and attempting to haul them to safety as we continued along. No real chance at fancy maneuvers unless I was willing to make it very obvious and give Varth ample time to react and no opportunity to charge in unless I wished to trade ship for ship, trusting that our veterans were more skilled than Varth’s core of veterans.

  Sure, we likely had more men who had bit their teeth on Hatha, Operation Vengeance and the various forces of the Rimma Trade Split than the enemy had the veterans of the Perlimian, but I wasn’t willing to put money on that. Best continue slowly and methodically here. Our Scout Sections had yet to detect an incoming force from over two systems out, in fact it seemed the Imps had consolidated all the local garrisons for this taskforce. Something I was sure the various Pirates in my employ were taking advantage of.

  “We’re burning sunlight.” I grumble.

  “Unless you’re willing to sacrifice more men and material, sir, this is the pace we will have to take.” Mi-Kus says.

  “Exchange rate?” I ask.

  “We’ve lost seven Dreadnoughts and an Acclamator one, all disabled and being moved away for recovery. Enemy has lost twelve Dreadnoughts, one Tector and five Acclamator twos.” Commander Hursk reports.

  “Hm.” I grunt. A slow grind, waiting for the moment when we would all pounce on one another. I had yet to order a strikecraft assault, despite us outnumbering the enemy almost two to one. After all, they could easily replace their strikecraft, while we could not.

  I sigh as I tap R4 for a deck of cards, I hated waiting. She hands them over and I begin shuffling the deck, hiding a card up my sleeve here, sorting a suit there. Working slowly and deliberately as I continue to watch the exchange of fire beyond us. A heavy turbolasers smashes against our shields a few degrees off of our bridge and I almost fuck up my shuffling.

  “Press the portside flank. Close to light turbolaser range and launch protons. Do the same on the starboard flank.” I order, “Shields back in the center?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then inch the center forward, first line back in front.” I continue.

  Sure most of the enemy Dreadnoughts were missile capable models, but that didn’t guarantee they wielded proton torpedoes, after all, those were expensive ordnance, better used by fighters and bombers for pinpoint accuracy. Just because a cruiser was capable of firing them didn’t mean they had to, best continue to fire the old reliable concussion missiles instead.

  At least that was the bet I was willing to make.

  On a distant world, a knife plunges in the sleeping body of an Imperial Army Colonel. The Agent flees the army camp, while leaving the knife still embedded in the Colonel’s back, and sends her confirmation codes. The Agent then heads into a bar, buys a drink and gets bagged by her comrades in arms, being dragged off to a shuttle that would take them back to Headquarters.

  In one of the many vineyards of Derellium an ISB plant continues their job of preparing the bottle their intelligence agency planned on planting on the Rebel-sympathizing Governor so the coward and traitor might either drink it and kill themselves, or pass it on to the notorious drunk and rapidly approaching Admiral Dericote. The Agent never manage to finish re-attaching the cork as a plastic explosive someone had planted within their briefcase detonates, fatally wounding the man. He might have survived, if only he hadn’t sneaked into the lowest cellars while everyone was away for a public holiday. His body would only be found a day later by a very surprised vintner who had planned on selecting one of his finest bottles to gift the Exarch.

  A former Separatist Spy feels a rather inappropriate amount of satisfaction as he nails the Imperial intelligence operative in the head after kicking the man in the balls. Shows that fool what for! And after the operative had been named the godfather of the Separatist’s child too! Shows how well you actually know someone. At least the Republic dogs revolting alongside his fellow countrymen seemed honest in the intelligence they were providing. He supposes he might as well send them the confirmation code, just to be polite.

  On Raxus a Gozanti finishes its approach, a full company of veteran Clones to be deployed to bolster the recently stripped defenses of the former Separatist Capitol from the approaching rebels and the garrisons newest commander in its hold. As its power is adjusted away from its shields and weapons to keep it flying in its descent its co-pilot detects various incoming objects at rapid speeds. He doesn’t manage to shout out a warning before half a dozen rockets smash into the ship's cockpit and starboard engine. The Gozanti crashes into a barracks filled with sleeping soldiers and four B1s exchange high fives with one another as the former Separatist Intelligence operative and former Imperial Intelligence Spy exchange nods and discard the launchers in a bin in a nearby ally. They wouldn’t need to worry about the ISB investigators soon anyway.

  Meanwhile, far away in a well guarded room, Brigadier General Green looks over his datapad as Lieutenant Commander Lins of the Removal Platoon within the Rebel Intelligence Brigade stood at attention. They were waiting for the first confirmation of success or failure. It had been surprisingly easy to establish the platoon. Ne’er do wells, a couple women and men of the night, cats-paws, former Separatist Intelligence operatives and sympathetic Imperial officers serving as the members of the platoon so far. Though the formation, as well as the Brigade proper, would likely expand in the coming months.

  Soon enough the datapad lights up green, then begins flashing. Mostly green, though there are a few reds and yellows as well. General Green quickly scans over each report before nodding and handing it over to the Commander.

  “Very good. Pass along our next intel batches for the men and provide them with their next possible targets. Let’s make the enemy fear the ghosts of the Republic and Confederacy.” Green orders.

  “Very good, sir.” Lins agrees with a feral grin.

  Faxe orders the adjustment like it’s instinct: “Down fifty meters, portside rotation twelve degrees stat!”

  “Onit.” His Helmsman reports.

  The Constellation bears down on his Buckler, a medium turbolaser passing above his corvette by a meter before smashing into the larger capitol ship behind him. Her shields absorb it well, and a return shot smashes against the Nebulon-B that decided his corvette was a good target. The frigate buckles under the precise shot and its’s beaten armor doesn’t put up enough resistance to avoid it being broken in half along its central spine.

  “Adjust the Corellian Comet’s position to bear down on the enemy Dreadnought at our eleven o’clock. Focus fire of the MC40a light cruisers on those Acclamators and request our strikecraft adjust their focuses. Enemy strikecraft are gone, focus on those damn cruisers already!” Faxe orders, tapping his comms chief’s shoulder as he does.

  “Roger.” The man says gruffly as he transmits Strom’s most recent orders.

  “Enemy looks to be pulling back a bit, sir.” His Adjutant Captain reports.

  “You sure?” Faxe asks as he orders a cruiser to adjust their positioning through his tactical display.

  “Yes, sir. They’re moving back their center.” The Adjutant says, pointing at the slowly pulling back Acclamators from the center.

  “Pass it along to Thraken. Advise him to push the center harder unless he wants another fight with Varth.” Faxe replies as he orders a trio of corvettes to reposition themselves to push the Imps harder.

  That should push the local frigates closer together. A full defeat, if even one enemy ship escaped they could be in deep shit. Last thing anyone in revolt needed right now was more fights when speed was of the essence. Thraken had been unusually hesitant, securing battlefields instead of pressing the advance like they should be. Faxe inhales deeply for a moment, then lets the breath leave him in a hiss as another medium turbolaser punches his Buckler’s shields, he had to control himself.

  “Adjust positioning, up fifty, angle thirty starboard.” He orders as he adjusts the positioning of another cruiser on his tactical display.

  “Orders from the Admiral.”

  “Why do I feel I won’t like them?” Faxe asks.

  “He’s pressing the assault, but orders we intensify our assaults as well. Knife fighting range, disable enemy ships when possible. We need the resources.” His secondary comms officer reports.

  “Damn.” Faxe mutters, “Hate being right sometimes.”

  Naomi sits quietly in the cell. It was fine, spartan, but the bed was soft enough for her tastes. She wouldn’t complain about the food, Maker knows her own cooking wasn’t that much better. She also knew the Empire could not simply hold her here forever. Not without actual charges beyond being related to an alleged traitor to the Empire. She scoffs at the thought. As if one could become a traitor to a false state. It would be like being disowned from someone else’s family.

  “Ridiculous.” She mutters.

  So instead she takes the weeks she has been detained to properly mourn. Owen’s death had been so sudden she had simply continued through the motions. Maker she hadn’t even tried to sort through his office and had stacked pillows onto his side of the bed. It wasn’t the same. His old clothes had even started to lose his smell.

  She sighs, she had circled the thoughts of loss repeatedly. Thank the Maker and ancestors that she had managed to stay strong until all her children were off world. Thraken to his conspiracies and Elix and Alice away on a food run for Fondor’s rations. She really wished the two of them would finally just get married already, Thraken would complain, but he would understand.

  She also wanted some grandbabies. Thraken had been perfectly honest with Owen and her that he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of making them himself and he was so absorbed into his career that he would likely not have the time to find one fit for adoption either. Good thing they had found Elix and his Alice then.

  Now if only Owen could be there to see them be happy.

  Her thoughts are interrupted by the door sliding upwards, opening to reveal the Imperial Governor and an Imperial Intelligence Officer, a Major from what she remembered of the rank plaques.

  “I am terribly sorry, Naomi. This has gone on for too long.” The Governor says gesturing for her to stand.

  She does, slowly and methodically while the Intelligence Officer speaks: “We’ve cleared you of any wrongdoing. However your connection with the former Fleet Admiral Dericote has brought some complications. We require you to disown him and elevate your adoptive son as soon as possible.”

  “I can’t disown the Dericote, I married into the family.” She says.

  “Yes, we know that, but most do not.” The Intelligence Officer says.

  “Naomi, we need you back at work. Your subordinates have been doing good work in ensuring things run, but we really do need your diplomatic expertise. The Defense Force is grinding up against the Imperial Garrison and the Syndicates are looking for any casus belli for them to strike. If I want to ensure Fondor’s continued production quotas, I need your help.” The Governor says.

  “And all I have to do is fake disown my son?” She asks skeptically.

  “Yes. It doesn’t even need to be public. A simple statement will do.” The Imperial Intelligence Officer answers.

  She thinks on it for a moment. Thraken would still hold his position in the family. He couldn’t be challenged for the weapons of his ancestors. She could actually help her family again and she would be out of this damn cell, filled with memories and hurt.

  She sighs, for the good of her children and family, she would be willing to hurt them. She nods in agreement.

  As the flanks enter knife fighting range with the enemy, fighters and bombers racing between them as they go, my center fully enters light turbolaser range and unloads our proton torpedoes into various lightly damaged enemy ships, focusing on the Imperial Star Destroyer at the enemy line’s center. As heavy turbolasers smash into Dreadnoughts, ion cannons barrage various ships in sight and lasers chase strikecraft the previous slow shifting turns into a rapid series of duels above the atmosphere of the world below.

  As the flanks begin pushing the enemy towards the center, the brawl being moved skillfully by the commanding officers, I can see the moment Admiral Varth decides to cur his losses. His Reinvigoration begins reversing slightly, at a snail’s pace to continue to support the main line without compromising it fully.

  More of the less damaged ships begin pulling back as well, slowly yet deliberately. That could be beneficial. Fighting him twice and beating him twice. I nod to myself, I could always smash his remaining forces at Derellium and then enjoy a local vintage to celebrate.

  “Focus fire and strikecraft attacks on the ships not currently pulling back.” I order.

  “Sir, that will allow Admiral Varth to retreat.” Commander Hursk says.

  “Good, unless he manages to pull another fleet from his ass, we will simply smash him a second time.” I respond.

  “Not sure how wise that is, sir.” Mi-Kus cautions, “He could retreat from the Sector and make a nuisance of himself somewhere more … susceptible to his forces.”

  I consider it a moment as an enemy cruiser nearby goes up in flames. Varth could end up wreaking havoc behind our lines. But to do that he would need to get around our force, something I doubt he would be able to do easily. Not without the maps of the locals who had to know how to get between lesser worlds without joining the primary hyperspace lanes and clogging them with traffic.

  “No, let him flee with his tail between his legs. No need to pressure our men for more when the battle’s already sapped us of a chunk of our strength.” I double down.

  “Very well, sir.” Mi-Kus says as a duet of medium turbolasers smash against our weakening shields.

  “And remind me to formalize the retrofits the 1st Loyalist’s Dreadnoughts received into a new model for future standardization of production.” I add.

  “Very good, sir. Suppose it got lost in the council meetings?” Mi-Kus asks.

  “More important things were up for discussion at the time.” I sigh as another Imperial Dreadnought goes up in flames.

  Without the support of the less damaged ships the Imperial line was faltering more and more. As the Reinvigoration and her fellow retreating ships turn away from the battle some more rebellious ships attempt to join them in a rout while some more clever officers surrender their ships outright.

  I watch closely as the line disintegrates with the loss of their direct fire support. A few holdouts remain, a crippled Tector and three wounded Dreadnoughts making a good stand against the Constellation, Corellian Comet and their direct escorts.

  Our ships begin peeling off to secure the surrendered ships and scavenge the destroyed ships for survivors and intel. The battle petering out with a whimper, Imperials in retreat and the rebels victorious in orbit,