His missile boat roared through the cloud of debris; the only trace the Rebel had left of his presence in this galaxy. Lieutenant Commander Shimir Sheerelk allowed the briefest of smiles to intrude on his stony face before pulling hard on the stick and bringing it to bear on another retreating X-Wing.
"Hell of a shot kid, that's four for you today!" Major Tempest's maniacal laugh engulfed the cockpit, as the Major's missile boat could be seen sending another Rebel to the void through the plexiglass canopy. Shimir allowed another smile, larger this time, to take root on his face before ruthlessly killing it. Tempest began again: "Let's give these bastards another..." He was cut off mid transmission. Shimir swiveled in the cockpit again, throwing an anxious glance towards Tempest's missile boat, and was greeted by a mixture of relief and confusion as he spotted it drifting safely in space, untouched my the now distant Rebels and with no signs of mechanical disfunction. His voice came again, and even over the comm system, which made you sound monotonously dull, he sounded grim.
"Shows over boys, let's head back to the Sovereign."
"But Major" Shimir began, throwing a longing look out the cockpit towards the blueish pinpricks of the X-Wings sub light engines.
"I said NOW Elk! Head for home and meet up at debriefing." Tempest had never been known to yell. Something must have seriously caught him the wrong way to make the soft spoken Squadron Commander raise his voice, much less give an order in anything save a kind tempered tone. Whatever happened, Shimir figured, it wasn't going to be pretty.
A babble of excitement permeated the atmosphere in the debriefing room of Wing Two. The semicircle of stadium seats seemed to be alive with the whispers and rumors now flying back and forth from side to side. Almost like a wave the latest gossip would travel down from one side to the other, and then back up again, reaching it's original location soon enough for the next tale to be spun and sent on it's way. As Shimir edged past the various huddles of pilots and crewmen, he caught some of the taller tales ("Ronin was killed in a freak bedroom episode") and some of the chillingly believable ones ("We lost a pair of outposts near the Minos Cluster; no idea who did it") The intense cacophony of several different conversations continued on for several minutes. At that point a man entered the room, not an uncommon occurrence during a debriefing, and for the briefest of passages, he went unnoticed. After everyone's eyes had raked him once, and had undergone the subsequent double-take, the room fell silent. Admiral Proton now took the pulpit, flanked by two cloaked figures that Shimir could only guess were rather surly behind their hoods. Proton's own light saber dangled from his waist; the Admiral's left hand never far away from his weapon. He now addressed his pilots. He spoke in not his usual sure winded voice, but instead in a slur, a collection of half hearted mumbles and rambling.
"I just finished telling Wing One the news, and thought you guys should be next to know, seeing as you are the second wing, which was obvious....anyways. Early this morning, Grand Master Firefox and a cadre of his officers fled the moon of Eos and entered hyperspace on an unknown trajectory. The slaughtered over fifty loyal members of the Brotherhood, taking others hostage during his escape. It is rumored that several members of the Brotherhood have sided with this rouge faction and left Eos in freighters. Their whereabouts are, at this point, still unknown." Several members of the congregation grabbed their flightsuits and made a start for the door. Before they could make it to the exits, Proton bade them to sit. Between the Admiral and his pair of guards, none felt inclined to disagree. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated gentlemen, albeit misguided. We have no idea of the location of the rouges, and any attempt on our part to ascertain their whereabouts would most likely meet with failure." Proton paused to collect his thoughts. "High Admiral Patel has commissioned the Sovereign to return to Aurora for refitting and to be prepared for an operation the Grand Admiral himself has designed. While the exact nature of this operation is classified, I can tell you that the Sovereign will be playing a large role in the drama of the galaxy in the months to come.
This last statement enticed another whispering of excitement. For the last few months the Sovereign had stagnated with boredom, regulated to tedious live fire routines, and an occasional clash with Rebels near it's posting in the Minos Cluster. It had been quite some time since the flagship had been on the offensive. The whispers were again silenced by the stalwart figure of Proton, standing erect and at attention behind the podium, waiting for attention to return to him.
"There is, however, an alternative to returning to the Triad Platforms. General Pelleaon, your Wing Commander, has volunteered to lead a patrol around our territories to root out any other rebellious factions. He has called for volunteer pilots to join him. The patrol will be for two months, without any rest or hiatus. Survivors will be rewarded, and have my personal gratitude. Any takers?" Several hands around the room shot up. Shimir's was one of them.
For the first few hours after the news broke, life on the Sovereign was much like it typically was. Pilots laughed around a crowded table at the cantina reciting jokes and reliving moments from their latest furballs with the Rebels (embellished considerably, as usual.) Tales were long and cheerful, faces upbeat and eager. Most seemed unable or unwilling to admit to themselves or their colleagues the gravity of the situation. The pilots and crew fought off any feelings of doubt or despair through sheer willpower, too ashamed and afraid of showing the slightest signs of weakness around their comrades, too shocked to allow the sensation to settle in.
But settle in it did, as all such feelings have a nasty tendency of doing. Like a virus it would set in. Invisible and undetectable, but none the less very much present to the victim. It would take it's foothold in the outermost layer of your skin, pricking at you ever so gently, tugging softly at the outermost realms of your consciousness, making itself known. It would then begin it's conquest, cell by cell, chilling with it's icy grip, freezing the waterways of your bodies and lighting fires beneath your cheeks, demanding more and more attention from your mind. The more you try to suppress it, the further it spreads, the more obvious it becomes, reaching your stomach and twisting and contorting it into a knot of anguish. Rushing now up into your heart, through the valves and arteries to the very core, where it nestles itself deeply and begins to dissect your heart at it's leisure.
The first victims of this plague did their best to contain it, to quarantine themselves. They claimed they needed to relieve themselves, to write home, or simply to get another drink. But it spread throughout the belly of the ship as a stiff breeze would, dancing from group to group, completely random, and completely devastating. The lines at the Holonet terminals began to snake their way back through the Sovereign; longer and thicker as each minute passed. As it progressed, the crew did away with excuses all together, jumping up from their tables in a frantic scramble to reach the terminals. When they arrived there, they found the news far worse than expected. Friends and family of Dark Jedi aboard the Sovereign sobbed openly at the sights presented of Eos. Jedi, wounded, maimed and crippled, stumbled aimlessly across the bloodied, marble courtyard. In the background, the bodies of the fallen could be seen being loaded into hovercraft, for transport to the ceremonial burnings, being held just a few miles away, the smoke and ash rising into the dusk sky. Many of the survivors, unable to accept the events, and ashamed with themselves for having not died with honor chose to take their own lives, falling upon their multicolored energy blades in an attempt of reprieve from the chaos and madness permeating the atmosphere around them. Over in the corner of the room, a single solitary figure remained seated, amongst the chaos and activity, Shimir Sheerelk sipped slowly and lazily at his drink. Upon completion, he flipped a small credchip to the bartender, and strode out the door.
Major Tempest gave a sharp rap on the barracks door of Kappa Squadron before entering. Inside, he found Shimir reclined in one of the cots, with a pad in hand, scribbling away furiously at what appeared to be the initial draft of another of his projects. Tempest sat down gingerly on the cot opposite, and studied Shimir intently for the next few minutes, before eventually speaking.
"How ya doing 'Elk?" Tempest did his best to remain professional while still retaining a hint of concern. Shimir was usually known for his vibrant personality, and enthusiasm inside and out of the cockpit. When he went into these reclusive, isolationist-like states, it meant he was brooding about something.
"Just fine boss, thanks" Shimir answered, level-toned and icy, without so much as a glance up from his pad, scribbling even faster now. Tempest gave a sigh, and stood up, beginning a quick pace back and forth across the narrow confines.
"Don't try to pull that shit with me Shimir, I know when something's eating you and I'd like to help. I'm your bro man, but you gotta let me in on what's wrong." Tempest came in hard, taking the pad from Shimir and sending it whirling to the other side of the room. Shimir jumped up and gave a hard shove to Tempest's chest, who was summarily knocked back against the cot. He sprang up and brought his fists up to confront Shimir, and for a minute both men stood like that, pulse's racing and breath hard, before both sat back down again, Shimir returning to his prior sulk, managing to grunt out a hoarse apology. Tempest nodded in return, and both remained silent before Shimir spoke again.
"I had a friend in the Brotherhood, he died a few months back. They say he fought bravely against some pretty tough odds. It was on a mission that Firefox himself had sent him on, my friend was always proud of that. I took solace in the fact that he died for something he believed in." Shimir smirked an evil smirk before continuing. "In truth, it turns out that he died for a traitor, died for nothing." Tempest suppressed a look of pity before crossing the room and taking a seat on the cot next to his friend, throwing an arm around Shimir.
"He died for the Empire Shimir, died for you and I. He died because he was loyal to his friends, and to an ideal that he believed in. He died a hero. That is a title that Firefox will never be able to claim." Tempest's words were no longer harsh and sharp, but instead soft and smoothed, oozing into the room and quickly subduing all the anger and hatred built up inside Shimir. And, for the briefest of instances, all pretense between the two men were gone. They were no longer battle-hardened veterans, but scared little boys, away from home, and staring death face to face. Shimir's head lolled down onto Tempest's shoulder, and for the first time in countless years, tears flowed freely from his eyes, leaking onto Tempest's shoulder. The commander grabbed his young pilot by the head and embraced him tightly, two brothers weeping in the dark of the night, rocking back and forth, letting all emotion, pain, anguish, despair and hope pour onto the cot between them. And as quickly as the moment came, it was gone. Both men sat upright, and pulled away from each other, embarrassed and ashamed at their brief indulgence of emotion. Shimir grabbed his flight bag, and snapped a quick salute at Tempest, who looked at him quizzically.
"I'm leaving with General Pellaeon on the Summer Patrol sir" Shimir explained quickly in-between suppressed sniffs. Major Tempest nodded in understanding before returning a crisp salute.
"Kappa Squadron is with you Shimir. My the force be with you, and the Dragons watch over you." Shimir turned to leave, but Tempest caught him by the wrist. "I think Thyree was looking for you Shimir, might wanna try to find her." Shimir nodded and left, the door hissing shut behind him, leaving the Major in silence and solitude.
Shimir shuffled once again into the Wing Two briefing room, although this time he was joined not by his wing-mates, but instead by members of squadrons from all over the Sovereign. They all wore their dress uniforms, as was custom in pre-patrol briefings (if you were gonna get fragged, might as well make a good impression before leaving) and Shimir quickly spotted pilots of all different statures. He saw flight members, with little decoration or insignia on their uniforms, banded together in a tight huddle. Veterans, chests full of medals and citations; scarred faces throwing icy looks around the room, eyes darting from corner to corner, perpetually in motion, a side effect of having survived for so long. They paced the room, eagerly exchanging manly handshakes with old friends, and chuckling about the "old days" or clasping a heavy hand on the trembling shoulder of a younger pilot, and assuring them that they were going to make it back. The door whooshed open, and four more pilots stepped in, clad not in blue, but imperial red. They strode in unison, made an abrupt ninety degree turn, and took their seats without so much as a word. Everyone in the room paused for a second to acknowledge them for a second, before returning to their conversations. Shimir took slightly longer to think about them. Omega, the elite of the fleet. To be accepted, you had to be perfect. No emotions, no regret, only skill, talent, efficiancy and accuracy, bundled in flesh, and designed to defend the Grand Admiral at any cost. They alone were allowed to wear the red, and they alone were allowed to fly the TIE-Guardian, one of the most advanced ships in the fleet. The foremost in tactics, skill, strategy, and weapons usage, by the time you realized they were hunting you, you were most likely dead three times over. Their presence here could only mean one thing. The Grand Admiral was seriously agitated about the incident, and wanted to inflict some serious pain on whoever was unfortunate enough to cross his path. All conversations abruptly ceased as General Stele Pellaeon entered the room, and flicked the holo projector to life, displaying the territories held by the Emperor's Hammer.
"Gentlemen, welcome to the patrol. I am very pleased with the turn-out we have today" Pellaeon began, rocking back and forth on his toes. The General was known for his exuberance and kind hearted nature, and even in light of recent events, his gleaming smile could be spotted behind his dark complexion and close cropped brown hair. He continued: "I must warn you that we expect to see a fair amount of action during this patrol, as is is classified as an offensive patrol. For some this may be your last engagement. Anyone wishing to bow out at this point may do so now." Nobody moved. The General allowed another quick smile before continuing. "For this patrol, pilots will fly one sortie per day, over the course of nine weeks. We will travel up through the space held by the Emperor's Hammer, tracking the defectors. Upon reaching Heir, we shall travel along the border intercepting and engaging any hostile elements we come in contact with." As he spoke the holo-map zoomed in and panned to follow the route he was describing. Everyone in attendance studied the map closely. It vanished, and was replaced by the familiar bulky outline of an Escort Carrier. "I've commissioned the Escort Carrier Endurable and her crew to leave the Sovereign and act as our support ship for the duration of the patrol." The General explained, giving a gracious nod to the captain of the Endurable who stood in attention at the corner of the room, jaw set and eager to get underway. "We will be receiving orders via holonet from Admiral Proton..." General Pellaeon began, but Admiral Proton silenced him with a wave of his arm before briskly striding up to the podium, the harsh overhead lighting playing waves upon his short graying hair. He addressed General Pellaeon:
"That will not be necessary General. I'm coming with you." Several faces around the room lit up with confusion. Proton had once been a great fighter pilot, and his exploits had nearly rivaled those of High Admiral Patel. But now he was resigned to flying a desk, and commanding the pride of the Emperor's Hammer, the Sovereign. Now he was legendary for his incredible learning's of strategy and tactics. He had won several decisive victories in the Minos Cluster with the Sovereign and was gaining Thrawn-like recognition as an excellent tactician. It was, however, rumored that his personal TIE-Fighter, the Desperate still graced a landing plat in the Sovereign's main hanger bay, collecting dust, and slipping further and further into disrepair. The General spoke again, for once as confused and bewildered as his pilots.
"Sir, the Sovereign needs you here. If we lost you, and the Sovereign were to engage the enemy the consequences would be..." Again the General was cut off before his thought could be completed.
"I am leaving the Sovereign in High Admiral Patel's capable hands. Should any misfortune befall the flagship, I am confident in the High Admiral's ability to handle it." The Admiral paused for a second here, and it seemed like all his countless years of fighting and killing washed over him in that brief instant. "For too long I have been safe and secure behind my durasteel walls, unfazed by the war happening around me. I want to know what it feels like again, General. I want to wonder if today is the day when I die for my Empire. I want to feel the thrill of gunning down another pilot, and the horror of twisting and spiraling away from his lasers as he fights to stay on your tail. I want to know what it feels like to be a pilot General, to be one of you again." His arm shot up to his brow in crisp salute. "I request permission to accompany you on the patrol General." General Pellaeon smiled again before returning the salute.
"Permission granted sir. It's good to have you with us." Stele now turned to the rest of his pilots. "We leave in an hour. Use that time to gather any personals, and say goodbye to anyone who might miss you should the inevitable happen in the weeks to come."
Shimir ran his hand down the course of his missile boat, the Zantesuken pausing to examine the tip of the laser cannon, caressing it with his hands, and examining closely the joints from the cannon to the fuslilage. The technicians were sometimes lazy about maintaining the craft to their utmost potential, and Shimir often liked to perform his own rundown of his ship. Behind him, he heard the service door slide open, and before he even had time to turn around, he had a good idea who it was.
"So... your leaving again, aren't you?" Thyree's question came in-between sniffs and suppressed sobs. Before even turning to meet her, he could already sense the stains down her cheeks here the tears had run, smell and taste the salty complexion of her face and mouth, feel the wetness of her skin. He spun around to face her. She stood slightly shorter then him, with dark brown hair that cascaded down her back, falling in waves and crashing just beneath the blades. She had a deep mocha complexion and vibrant brown eyes that sung with life and excitement. That excitement seemed to have been replaced with despair now. She was still wearing her white Medical Corps nurse's uniform, which appeared to be bloodstained in some spots; she must have just come out of surgery. Shimir gave a brief nod, unable to look her in the eyes, and turned back to his ship. Behind him, Shimir heard the angry clank of a sheet of scrap metal as Thryee threw it angrily to the flight deck. Shimir turned around again to face the angry storm he knew was about to come. "Why the hell do you have to do this 'Elk?" The sobs were no longer of self-pity, but out of anger, even hatred, and as Shimir scanned the length of her body, he noted with particular distrust the large metal pipe in her right hand. Her hair was no longer straight, but knotted and frizzled, and hung down in front of her eyes, obscuring large portions of her face. "Why do you have to be out there every second without a day off, without a night alone together?" She swung hard at a nearby fuel tank, spilling its contents all over the floor, where they cycloned into a drain in the middle of the landing plat.
"Because it's my duty" Shimir answered, taking a slow breath and trying to keep his tone even and emotions level.
"But who has the right to ask such a duty from a man? No God nor General should have this power Shimir. Nobody should have the power to take you away from me" The sobs were softer, and the pipe slipped between her spindly fingers and clanged hard against the flight deck. Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor, consumed by violent sobs, and self-pity. Shimir ran over to her, and fell to his knees, wrapping her in his quick embrace, and rocking her gently. It was a while before either spoke, and when Shimir finally did, it came out choked, almost as if the words were willing themselves not to be formed, the ideas, not to be known.
"My parents died when the Rebels attacked the station my father was assigned to. The station's whereabouts were supposed to be secret, known only to a select few. When the Rebels dropped into real space, the station had no chance. It was a slaughter." Shimir turned away for a second, gathering his thoughts and his courage to proceed. "The Rebels had learned the location of Crix Maidine, an Imperial officer who had defected. Maidine and my father had been best friends throughout the academy, and remained close after that. They thought about naming me Crix, but instead, made my middle name Maidine." The last word was said with pure disgust and hatred, and no attempt on Shimir's part could hide it. "They died because somebody they knew and trusted sold them out. Because a friend decided that his well-being and ideals were worth more then his friends lives. He was a traitor. Just like Firefox is a traitor. That's why I have to find him, and make him pay. Because to be a traitor, is worse than to be the enemy." It was Shimir's turn to lose himself to his tears, for the second time that day. Thyree let out a long sigh, and pulled Shimir close to her. She tilted his head back, and kissed him. A kiss free of want, ambition, or lust, a kiss free of hatred or oppression, a true kiss, the purest kind of kiss. A kiss that only true lovers can know. As they kissed, Shimir felt all the worries, troubles, and misgivings ooze out of him, and for the first time in a long while, he too felt pure; untouched by this war. By all the death, pain and anguish. For the first time since his parents died, Shimir Sheerelk felt happy, truly happy. Not the false kind of happy he showed for the boys in the bar, or the briefly happy he felt after flying a good mission. But for once, he felt as if the veil of darkness that had been a constant for so long had been lifted. There was no war, no Sovereign, no patrol, no treachery on Eos. There was only himself, and Thyree. And that was all that mattered.
The Sovereign continued it's perpetual shrink on Shimir's back scope as the pilots of the patrol continued their outbound vector.
"Think we will ever see her again?" An unnamed pilot's voice came clearly over the comm system.
"Some of us will" Another pilot answered in a distant tone, wondering if he would be one of them. The forty small craft formed a rough circle around the Endurable. The General had announced that the pilots would spend most of the day in cockpit, and that the Escort Carrier would be seldom used.
"Okay boys, I'm sending you telemetry for our next jump. We go in thirty seconds." General Pellaeon sounded in over the system, as writing sprang up on Shimir's computer. Punching several buttons on the console, Shimir entered the coordinated, and flipped the hyperspace lever to "standby."
"Can't help but feel sorry for them..." Proton said, from the cockpit of the modified Desperate. Many pilots undoubtedly raised their eyebrows at this, although Shimir was the first to verbalize it.
"Why's that Admiral?"
"Because those poor bastards have forty of the best pilots in the galaxy hot on their heels. And we aren't coming back until we bloody our hands at their expense." There was a holler of excitement throughout the channel as everyone gave an enthusiastic agreement. Then, Stele gave the order, and the forty-one ships jumped into hyperspace. The hunt had begun.