A Life at War: Twilight

“How quickly can the Lusitania and Halifax finish off the emergency repairs on those corvettes? We need them to switch over to the next pair within the hour so I can finish assembling my reserve formations.” I ask as I stare down the Imperial forces just beyond the minefield.

“Twenty minutes, sir. They’re running full power and have reinforced their crew with contractors from Dellalt herself to maximize their repair rate.” Mi-Kus replies evenly.

“Barely keeping in with the time-frame, but it’ll do. Once they’re done with the next batch begin cycling in our corvettes that are still below seventy percent efficacy to get them back to snuff.” I reply, my gaze sharpening in on the bridge of the Coruscanti Pearl.

Why was Honor just … waiting? She had to know that our ability to receive reinforcements from Mintooine, Jabiim and Sy Myrth increased by the hour. Sure, I wasn’t actually betting on any of those getting here in any reasonable amount of time, but I also knew that the longer we held Honor the more likely getting those reinforcements was.

“Status on the taskforce?” I ask into the room, finally tearing my gaze away from where my former mentor was likely organizing her plan of attack.

“Down four wings in strength, mostly among Sykes’s and Paok’s forces. We’re already re-organizing their remnants into other wings.”

“We’ve lost nine Venators and two Recusant lights for battleships, again mostly from the Dellalt IV and Solar Ops Divs.” One Adjutant reports.

“We’ve also lost four Dreadnoughts, seven Acclamators, seven Hammerheads and three Arquitenses.” A second adds.

“Add to that nine frigates and forty corvettes.” Commander Hursk finishes.

“Twenty nine ships of the line fifty two light ships and pickets.” I sum up, “And our survivors?”

“Sixteen ships of the line with orange armor undergoing emergency repairs now. Another fifteen with yellow armor doing the same. Twenty nine light ships and pickets also undergoing emergency repairs, though the worst of them are already done thanks to the Lusitania and Halifax.” Mi-Kus answers.

“That’s another thirty ships of the line I cannot fully trust.” I grumble, including the Little Revenge. Should I relocate my flag? No, the last thing we needed was further chaos within the ranks, "Move them into the forward reserve division to act as possible reinforcements while they finish their emergency repairs."

"Understood." Commander Slas replies. I nod in reply. Maybe begin skirmishing operations? No, not yet, not until she’s at least entered within the minefield’s orbit.

“Honor’s pickets are returning to her now. She’s practically done us a favor by forcing half of our civilian light freighters and shuttles into a single point.” Mi-Kus interrupts my slowly forming train of thought.

“That assumes their mixed crews will be willing to move from their safe location.” Commander Hursk adds, clearly sharing some of my concerns about the mixed civilian and tertiary shift sailors we had assembled to crew the modified civilian ships.

“I don’t want to risk them unless we have little to no choice.” I reply, “Their armor and shields are … bellow acceptable levels for combat purposes. We’d need the Imps to be fully committed before any actions they take could be considered more useful than damaging.”

“I would counter with the fact that any actions they take, even if it’s only a few of them at a time, will distract Honor and inspire doubt in her commands by her underlings.” Mi-Kus argues, tone mild and intentions clear.

“I see your point.” I reply, “I would still wait a bit longer. Let Honor make the first move here.”

“Very well, sir.”

I nod in acknowledgment before returning to gaze at the bridge of the Coruscanti Pearl. Come on Honor, do something. Make a mistake. Commit.

Honor stared out from the bridge towards the golden winged blade piercing a broken chain on red painted above the bridge of her former protege’s flagship. She still didn’t understand why he bothered with the heavy cruiser. When she had still considered him an ally and friend she had indirectly offered him, repeatedly, the opportunity to change his flag to a more appropriate ship. A ship worthy of her chosen successor in politics. A ship worthy of her legacy.

She had almost expected him to switch over to the Fondorian made Tector he had used as his flag above Raxus. The Fondor’s Star had practically been gift wrapped for the various eccentricities of her former protege. Yet he had refused it in the aftermath of his victory. Clearly the crew of loyal Fondorians had unnerved her rebellious protege.

Honor suppresses a sigh.

What an idiot she had chosen as her successor. And now? Now she would put him down like the sick animal he was. It would be a kindness. Better than whatever Tarkin or Vader would demand of him. Maybe once they were no longer in Imperial favor and she had regained her influence she would softly un-redact some of her protege’s achievements, as a kindness to his cousins and family if nothing else.

“Ma’am, our remaining pickets have returned to formation.” Her Adjunct interrupts her musings.

“And Thraken’s forces?” She inquires.

“Damaged, but recovering. Those repair-dreadnoughts are doing an above average job of their duties.” He replies.

Honor hums for a moment, considering her possible avenues of attack once more. No defensive installations beyond those Thraken had assembled in the last days. No obvious traps, though the two moons could be tricky to keep stable lines with. Honor turns away from the viewport to take a closer look at the tactical display. She needed Dericote to squirm. To overreact. To commit to the wrong battle. To give up and open up the Ash Worlds and Mintooine to her forces.

“Hail Dodonna and Nantz. I would hear their council on how to approach this.” She orders.

“As you command, ma’am.” Her Adjunct replies.

Honor tilts her head slightly. All this force directed at a single direction. Something was … off, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Chain kinda hated this part of the plan.

“We’re in position, sir.”

“Good.” Chain replies, trying his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Should I pass that along to the Admiral?” The young comms officer asks.

“Go ahead.” He says, suppressing the urge to sigh in the process.

Chain was rapidly learning to sympathize with Commodore Strom. Being stuck in a stupid and dangerous position was not fun at all. Though at least Strom could leave under his ships’ own power instead of needing to wait for a LAAT/c to show up to transport him out.

“Sir, Heavy Arty in the old drydocks have just finished carving their last firing holes. They still need to actually remove the durasteel, but that’s it.”

“Good.” Chain replies. That meant the last of the SPHA artillery platforms were in position. Those alongside the brigade’s worth of AT-TE walkers would do decent work in a surprise salvo whenever the Imps tried to break through the minefield. Sure, the range on the various weapons weren’t exactly great in the void, the various mass driver and heavy turbolaser beams being purpose designed for operating in atmosphere, but they should still do enough damage to be worth it.

“As long as the LAATs and the fighter screen keeps.” Chain mutters. He did not like his chances of escaping the station he was stuck on without a decent fighter screen. He sighs again, it would have to do. He would trust in the Fleet Admiral to do whatever he could to win, he just hoped that if his Black Hussar did decide to sacrifice his men that it would be worth it.

Nantz exchanges a look with Dodonna’s hologram as Honor finishes explaining her thoughts on Admiral Dericote’s positioning. They were all in agreement it seems, Dericote was over-committing to the face off. Sure, the reserve forces at the precise entrances Dericote had used previously would probably delay whoever actually attempted to skirt the field, but there clearly was some kind of trap. Maybe they had already sprung it by slowly beginning to take apart the minefield with a long range bombardment.

“We should pull back.” Nantz finally says, “Disengage with Dericote and begin patrolling the system, tearing out whatever intel we can from the wrecks while reinforcements and resupply trickles in. I don’t like our chances without more ships, ma’am. Even with our Imperials, two to one odds in ships of the line will not be enough, neither will a two to one strikecraft advantage.”

“I disagree. Every minute we give Dericote is another he can use to repair and reorganize his ships.” Dodonna counters, “While a slow and methodical advance would certainly be beneficial in the long term, in the short term it turns this battle into a strategic victory for Dericote. Every moment we dawdle here is another minute closer to the Rebels at Mintooine coming to reinforce Dericote.”

Nantz considers that for a moment. It was true that the longer they waited the more likely it was that the Rebels would act in some way, either breaking through somewhere important along the Perlimian or reinforcing Derciote here. Never the less, he was cautious in advancing further without additional support. Last thing anyone here needed was Honor to crack again and order the destruction of another world in desperation.

“I think Dodonna has the right of it. While I certainly can agree with your point in waiting for reinforcements, Rear Admiral, the risk of Rebel reinforcements arriving before ours is too high for comfort.”

“Very well ma’am. The new order of battle then?”

Honor pauses for a moment, considering her limited options. Eventually she speaks the words Nantz had dreaded most: “Rear Admiral Nantz, take our Tectors, your thrust’s Venators and its five Imperials and swing around to the far side of Dellalt’s gravity well in whatever manner you deem fit. It appears that the minefield there is more sparse than it is here. Take a third of our remaining pickets and cruisers in support.”

“You understand, ma’am that I will be isolated.” Nantz checks.

“Yes, you will. However I have confidence in your ability. You are to land your attached ground forces to contest the world below and attempt to strike at Dericote’s rear while we press him here.”

“The casualties such a maneuver will cost are not insignificant.” Dodonna warns, “Further operations, even if our reinforcements and resupply arrive on schedule, will be … difficult.”

“I want half our strikecraft.” Nantz says, “If I am to be placed in such a difficult situation I will need everything you can spare and a bit more.”

“No,” Honor denies immediately, “I will not give you forty three wings just to appease you.”

“Do you want me to actually be a threat, or just appear to be one?” Nantz presses.

“Thirty three wings.” Honor counters, “More than your force would usually have, but a wing-group less than you want.”

Nantz frowns slightly, then nods reluctantly. He would continue to do his duty, for now at least. As long as Honor didn’t order what she had done to Argai be done again.

“Good.” Honor acknowledges, “While your forces begin to swing around to attack the far side of the gravity well, the remaining forces will advance slowly towards Dericote’s primary force. See if we can pin him down and force him to make uncomfortable decisions.”

“Will you be brute forcing the field, or shall I wait until the field has been broken open?” Nantz asks.

“We will hold until the field has been partially broken.” Honor replies, “Then you begin your advance with phase two Operations Division Tetrarch while I take command of phase two Operations Division Coruscanti Pearl. Dodonna you will lead the reserve under phase two Operations Division Tribune. You will have our Victories after I break the minefield as well as ten Imperials, our remaining Dreadnoughts and Venators. I will be taking the pickets Nantz doesn’t with the remaining ships and thirty six wings though I may take command of your allotted strikecraft if I deem it necessary, Dodonna. Any questions?”

“No ma’am.”

“Negative.”

“Very good, Begin assembling your new Operations Divisions and prepare your routes. Provisional beginning of phase two is in two hours.”

Minutes tick by, Honor slowly chipping away at my minefield as I wait for the emergency repairs to finish up. They wouldn’t hold as well as proper repairs in a shipyard would, Maker knew that they were sometimes barely better than simply leaving the holes in the armor belts, but they would do.

“I don’t like how those Venators and Tectors are moving.” Mi-Kus points out the mentioned forces on the tactical display.

“They may be falling for one of our traps.” I reply. Either the northern holes or our rear.

“I still worry that these traps won’t be enough to actually defeat any force significant enough for them to be sprung.” Mi-Kus cautions.

“They aren’t meant to defeat anyone.” I reply, “Only to blunt and delay. To give us enough time to send reinforcements or divert our reserves.”

Perhaps if the entire 53^rd were with us I would be able to mass walkers and heavy artillery in large enough numbers to actually threaten anything larger than a cruiser. Perhaps if I could convince the Calamari to move their ancient nuclear warheads outside of their own polity’s boarders I’d be able to force Honor at bay. Perhaps if I hadn’t destroyed Dellalt’s orbital infrastructure and held off on repairing and replacing it in the year that followed I wouldn’t be left high and dry after Caluula.

Perhaps, that damnable word was haunting me like a sandwraith of myth. I was going half mad at the possibilities and the consequences of my actions. Had everything simply been leading up to this? Had I died five years ago a few thousand kilometers away and was it only now catching up with me? Had all the death, the killing been … pointless? Pa’, Solomahal, Jerjerrod, Zsinj, Gerra, Dao, Benoni, Baraka, Molim, Di-Van, and so many more. Had it all simply lead me back here?

“Get me two wings of volunteers and organize our Hyenas and Tri-fighters into a separate wing.” I order coldly. If I was to die here, I would tear as many Imp traitors with me into the depths of the nine Hells.

“Sir?”

“I need a suicide run.” I reply evenly. To buy time, to bury Honor and sow chaos into the Imperial chain of command.

“Their target, sir?”

“The Coruscanti Pearl. I want Fleet Admiral Honor dead by the end of the day.”

Solo sits on the side of her darling Starchaser as she reads the request from her friend. Two wings plus a third wing made of their remaining droid fighters. A bit less than a tenth of their remaining strikecraft assembled for a suicide mission. She reads the message more closely.

Make a run through the minefield, intercept enemy interceptors and hold them long enough so that the Hyenas and their Tri-fighter escorts can slam into the Coruscanti Pearl and any other targets of opportunity. Pull back behind the minefield the moment the volunteers get outnumbered two to one and book it back to the relative safety of the main line.

Solo hesitates, then adds herself to the list, already three dozen names were on it and a dozen more come after.

“You sign up, Colonel?” Little Seven asks.

“Ayup.” She replies.

“Aight then.” Her current second replies before his name gets added, followed by the rest of Little Squadron.

“Not too late to pull out.” Solo reminds the pilots as she puts her helmet on, tossing the datapad at a techy.

“Yeah, but we’re Little Squadron. Gotta be in the heat of things or else it’ll just get boring.” Seven replies.

“Don’t worry boss.” Nine adds, “Worst case scenario the techs and mechs have to clean out our lockers for us!”

“That would not be such a positive for you if you cleaned yours regularly.” Four spits.

“Ah shut it ya pompous worrywort!” Nine retorts.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from NovelFire. Please report it.

“Neg.” Four replies with a grin, probably already thinking about beating the snot out of Nine’s tally-count in this suicide run.

“Shut it both of you.” Solo interrupts, “Get your pre-flights done and fuel up on extra ammo and light fuel. We’ll definitely need repairs after this so take the speed boost.”

“Roger that.”

“Aff.”

“Yesm.”

“By your command, oh Colonel my Colonel.”

“Fuck you Seven!”

Honor watches closely as the obvious strikecraft strike assembles near the south of the line. Could Dericote try any harder to be more obvious? She knew a double feint when she saw one. The real question was what his intended target would be. Five wings weren’t nothing, they were in fact usually enough to outright win the smaller, more numerous, battles of the Clone Wars. Here though, in the slogging match that had been Dellalt up until this point, five wings wouldn’t be enough.

The question then came to his intended target. Even if those five wings wouldn’t be crippling, they could still do significant damage. Possibly even enough damage to entirely blunt Nantz’s assault on their rear. Honor considers that a moment. She knew that Nantz was partially telegraphing his plan, but the timing should work out in their favor.

But if it didn’t she would have to rebuild Nantz’s division or entirely rethink her approach.

“Move our pickets from our wings to reinforce Nantz’s division until he departs.” Honor orders.

“We keep our central pickets?” An Adjutant asks for clarification.

“Yes, if that strikecraft group decides to change heading and take advantage of our limited pickets on our wings our center can still react promptly.”

“But we’re keeping our strikecraft the same?” Her Starfighter Corps Attache asks.

“That is the plan.” She replies.

“Very good, transferring orders package now.” Her comms chief replies.

Honor refocuses on the tactical display. Her former protege was just acting so … predictably. The same push and pull he always attempted when he was pushed into a corner. The same testing and prodding until he was confident in striking outright. Sure, it was tried and true and had won Dericote dozens of significant victories, but it felt … uninspired. No, maybe not uninspired, but … too typical of her former protege. Something was wrong.

“Addendum to my previous order.” She says.

“Ma’am?”

“Half the pickets are to continue as ordered, the rest are to return to an adjusted picketing position for their respective flanks.” She continues.

“Formation?”

“Picket formation wide-three.”

“That will leave them … isolated from direct support.”

“An acceptable risk.” She replies. Better to keep some forces adaptable while she continued to shred this pathetic minefield to pieces.

“Very good ma’am.”

Yes, it would be.

“Solo here, all squadrons make your final checks, there’s no going back now.” Solo orders into her headset.

“Copy that, Colonel.” Her fellow Wing Commander replies before a series of affirmative trills echo in her ear.

“Alright, all strikecraft we’ll be going full speed and finish assembling at point Aurek-Alpha-Null-One. From there we get through the minefield and assemble into a tight three-dimensional arrowhead formation with the droids in the center. Once we make contact with enemy pickets I want our interceptors on point to peel off in squadrons or flights to make sure they can’t run a gauntlet on us. From there we keep peeling until the droids have their shot. Once Suicide Wing gives us the affirmative we begin pulling back in an orderly fashion, that means those furthest in first and those who’ve intercepted hostiles first last. Any questions?”

“Spearmen Lead here, formation once we enter the minefield on our return?”

“First interceptors take the front, last to depart the original formaiton take the rear. Any other questions?” Solo pauses a moment, “Good. All Strikecraft, punch it!”

Engines roar across the entire front line of the Rebel fleet as dozens of starfighters rocket towards their target, a small patch of space with a few gunship sized tunnels that would allow the Rebel strikecraft to enter and leave the minefield without issue.

“Revenge to Solo.”

“Copy.” Solo replies as Little Squadron rushes into the first tunnel, half a dozen squadrons already on their heels.

“Distraction force has begun their feint. Honor seems to be seeing through it now. Remaining enemy pickets pulling into the center from the wings. Expect medium high to high flak and possible heavy turbolaser intercepts while entering and leaving the field.” The Starfighter Corps Major reports into Solo’s ear.

“Good copy. Pass it along for me, will ya?”

“Understood, good hunting ma’am.”

Maybe she had overestimated Dericote. It was in fact just a simple feint. A feint whose distraction had made her limit her available pickets and given the actual strike time to begin skirmishing with her fighter screen.

“Strikecraft assembling into a three-d arrowhead.” Her sensors chief reports.

“Probable trajectory is … our Venators in the center.” An Adjutant adds.

“Crippling medium to long term strikecraft capabilities.” Her Adjunct deduces, “Not a bad choice, but … not likely to be beneficial enough in the short to medium term to be decisive.”

“Though with his forces on the defensive, it could be enough to stall our strikecraft recall and redeployment enough to force us to slow our offensive actions.” A second Adjutant points out, “We only have so many pickets left, sir.”

“A good point.” Honor interrupts her subordinates’ argument before it can get heated, “Adjust our pickets and strikecraft patrols slightly, just a few clicks to make a possible interception of the enemy easier if they decide to make a run for our carriers.”

“As you order.” Her Adjunct replies.

“Any preferences?” Her Starfighter Corps representative asks.

“Do as you deem practical.” She replies.

“Nantz is beginning his maneuver.”

“Keep me posted.” Honor replies to the requested interruption.

“Enemy strikecraft peeling off. Seems like they’re trying to keep our pickets busy as they come.”

“They’re making a path for their bombers in the center.” Honor deduces, it was clever and she wouldn’t necessarily have expected Dericote to attempt something like this on his strikecraft, but she doubted it would be worth it. After all, it would leave his bombers vulnerable once they over committed.

“They’re certainly gaining ground ma’am. They’ve already passed our outer pickets and are rapidly approaching our front line.”

“Divert more interceptors.” Honor orders in turn.

“Diverting 55^th Operations Wing and the 67^th Operations Wing.” Her Starfighter Corps representative replies, “Estimated time of interception, fifteen minutes.”

A few moments pass as strikecraft battle during their race towards Honor’s reserve.

“Mostly droids.” An Adjutant mutters.

“Makes sense if they’re gunning for a suicide run.” A different officer replies.

“This can’t be worth it.” A third one interjects.

“How come?” The first one asks.

“Three wings, sacrificed for a chance at murking our carriers? There’s gotta be a better target than that.” The third one replies.

“Well what else is there back here?”

“We are.” Honor replies, eyes barely widening as she suppresses the instinctive response.

The three arguing Adjutants freeze at her words. Honor meanwhile takes a closer look at the three assumed trajectories on one of the secondary tactical displays. She waves them aside, then types in the coordinates of the Coruscanti Pearl.

It isn’t a clean match, but it’s close enough.

“Pull in pickets and move power into our laser batteries. I want triple our standard flak output. Pull in whatever pickets were covering the ships closest to us and adjust the remaining picket formation to compensate.” Honor begins snapping orders, the bridge rapidly falling into compliance.

“Adjusting power output.”

“Redirecting tibana reserves.”

“Shields should hold if we push more power into them when the missiles hit us.”

“They’re droids they’ll be using themselves as missiles as well as their actual torpedoes and concussions.”

“Adjust power intake for our shields and prepare emergency damage control teams from our arms-men.” Her Adjunct barks.

“Begin a retro-burn and buy us some more time.” Honor orders, calmly as dozens of Hyenas and their escorting Tri-fighters make their final adjustments for their interception of her flagship.

“Ma’am, it may be wise to move the flag.” An Adjutant suggests.

Honor considers it for a moment, then shakes her head: “No.”

The relatively recently forged droid had been given very specific orders by the Wing Commander.

Full speed, hit relay point, adjust course, destroy hostile target’s bridge at all cost.

“[Relay point met. Adjust course.]”

[Send return message: Affirmative, Squadron lead. Keeping to formation, minor drift detected.]

It would serve.

A flight of hostile V-Wings break into the formation, taking out the droid’s wingmate before a group of Tri-fighters move to counter and intercept the enemy in a revenge attack. They would be back shortly, only staying long enough to ensure the enemy quartet wouldn’t circle back to make another run the moment they passed them.

“[Pick target vectors.]”

[Send return message: Targets are predetermined and vectors are already set. This order seems unnecessary. Complying.]

“[Enemy fighters pulling back. Logic dictates enemy flak fields imminent. Prepare evasive maneuvers.]” The message from a veteran Tri-fighter gets relayed to the Hyena from its squadron commander.

[Send return message: Understood, preparing for evasive action as ordered.]

“[You are occupying unnecessary bandwidth, an acknowledgment ping will do, chatterbox.]”

The Hyena stutters, his processors suddenly heating up beyond standard as it tries to understand the reply from its superior.

Then it clicks.

[New designation for unit HYENA-ARGAI-Beth-0009, self unit shall now be designated as: Chatterbox.]

The code takes, the processors cool as the first salvo of laser-flak crashes into the formation.

The swarm adapts like a hivemind. Starfighters bank and bombers dive, Chatterbox spins portside then climbs, then spins in a slight dive starboard to avoid crashing into his remaining wingmate. All the while the bandwidth of the communiques practically crashes from the repeatedly transferred information and updates. Adjustments are made off of the message form a bomber two and a half clicks away in the microsecond after the message is received.

And throughout it all, chatterbox is reacting, commenting and living.

He feels alive for the first time since he was finished and deployed from the starfighter plant on Argai’s surface. Feels a bit of longing for the simplicity of her skies that he had flown in during his trials. Feels anger at being denied the chance of ever doing so again. Feels joy at fulfilling his purpose as lasers and explosions fill the space around him. Feels annoyance when a laser clips his lower starboard wing. Feels satisfaction when he compensates for the drag and loss of more precise stabilizers and maneuvering thrusters, even when it means he cannot launch his proton torpedo on time and will have to become the torpedo.

[Locked on target. Final message from self, designate Chatterbox of 2^nd Argai Droid Bomber Squadron to command: Hello Galaxy. Thank you for your time.]

Chatterbox crashes through the roof of the bridge, lasers firing beyond safety levels, so he could just get slightly closer to his target, clipping through durasteel and transparasteel alike. He feels his wings break away, leaving only his housing disk, his head and his bomb-bay as he crashes into the room itself. Finally, in a moment of pure satisfaction at a job well done, Chatterbox explodes in a glorious conflagration of pink and orange as his proton warheads are manually detonated.

I hand the macrobinoculars back to Mi-Kus as I turn away. There was a chance, that she had survived, but … Honor wouldn’t give up her flag, not if she didn’t have to. So Dodonna would have command. Now the question remained if he would continue as Honor would have, or if he would pull back, re-analyze the state of the battle and give us more time to prepare and dig in.

“Those battleships and their escorts are still moving along our flanks.” Cal reports.

“So their plan continues.” I mutter in reply. It seems I had my answer then, though perhaps Dodonna would be more aggressive, give me a gap to abuse, over-commit when he should have waited.

I could work with this.

“Strikecraft are starting to peel back. Enemy is holding position.”

“Losses?” I ask.

“Excluding our droid forces, who have suffered eighty percent casualties including the total eradication of the Hyena bomber squadrons, we have lost twenty one strikecraft.” Comes the report.

I nod, better than I had expected. It was surprising that any of the droids had made it out, though I wouldn’t spit on them by throwing them away again, not unless there was no other option. Their survival alone hinted at significant skill or incredible luck and those kind of pilots, never mind droid pilots, were hard to come by.

“Give them as much rest as we can afford.” It wouldn’t be enough for their efforts, but it would be reward enough for surviving.

Sykes watches carefully as the Imps pass behind his forces. Not slowing, using the gravitational shadow of Dellalt to pull them along in a slight curve. It would keep their momentum and should stop them from attempting to use one of the three trapped passes.

So they would be gunning for the debris field to their absolute rear.

Sykes frowns. That could end up problematic if the Imps continued to press them all in the front as well. Something they were definitely working towards with their bombardment of the minefield. The question then became, would Dericote be able to hold them off for long enough for victory, or would the Imps overwhelm them all with their superior numbers?

“New orders, sir.” His comms chief interrupts his musings

“And?”

“We’re to take the primary reserve force and begin moving behind Dellalt proper.”

“Orders received. Assemble a convoy formation, most damaged ships in the center, pickets around the edges. Does Dericote have any orders beyond our repositioning?”

“We’ve just received our orders package, sir.”

“Hand it over then.” Sykes orders calmly before taking the offered datapad.

Allow the Imps to break into the rear, then evacuate the debris’ defenders while attempting to push them back. If unable to do so, delay until further reinforcements arrive. One third of all strikecraft allocated for the duty alongside Reserve Operations Division.

Sykes considers his orders. Very open ended. He liked that. He could work with this. As long as the Imps didn’t outnumber him too much, he should be able to win with these orders.

Nantz watches as his ships maneuver to face their new target, thrusters engaged to counteract their previous momentum.

“That Carrack is out of position, pull it back.” Nantz orders.

“Roger that, sir.”

“We’re in position to begin the attack.”

“Inform the fleet. We will begin in t-minus five minutes.” Nantz orders, his ships forming an arrowhead to puncture and pierce the pitiful minefield and practically insignificant defensive formations of corvettes feighters and frigates that surrounded the various debris left behind when Dericote had scoured the system of its orbital infrastructure.

Nantz frowns, something was off about this. Even if Dericote had been foolish enough to only leave this for a rearguard, he should have deployed something here to reinforce them by now.

“Sir, ships cresting the horizon. Looks like it’s Fleet Admiral Dericote’s reserve.”

Ah, there they were.

“Ship count.” Nantz demands.

“Three Recusant lights, three Venators, ten Dreadnoughts, twelve Acclamators, ten frigates of varying makes and fifty corvettes.” His sensors chief answers.

“Plus thirty corvettes and corvette sized freighters spread around here.” Nantz adds to the tally.

Against eight Tectors, five Imperials, twelve Venators, half a dozen Dreadnoughts, twenty Acclamators, twenty light ships and pickets and thirty three wings. Nantz considers the numbers. He would need to play this aggressive. The Rebels had proven the sheer skill of their strikecraft pilots and their management of that talent in the hectic skirmishes from Argai to Dellalt. He would need to rush them.

“Adjust the formation. Tectors to the front, Two Imperials on either flank of the line, staggered, Venators behind the Tectors parallel to the Imperials, cruisers interspersed but prepared to enter a three tiered lattice above, level and below the line once we’re through the minefield, pickets and strikecraft throughout. We’ll have the flag in the second line in its center.”

“Sir, it’ll take us a while to get into formation.”

“Then get to it. Once the formation is almost done we begin our advance.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And remind our strikecraft pilots that they are on picket duty. No getting pulled out of their engagement zones, no entering our flak fields and no glory seeking.”

“I’ll inform them promptly.”

Chain watches through the macrobinoculars as the Imperial force advances, first slowly, then picking up speed. Seems they would be testing the armor of their Tectors to its limits, ramming through the minefields and debris his men were currently hiding in.

Great.

“They’re closing.”

“We got our calcs done?” Chain double checks, if he was going down he’d make sure the Imps went with him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tightbeam from Admiral Sykes, sir.”

Chain frowns beneath his helmet. That was an unnecessary risk of the man. They already knew their orders, Sykes had no need to change them now.

“Play it.”

“Commander. I would request you wait until the Imperials are at least partially through the minefield before you open fire for maximum damage. I will ensure your men are evacuated after you open fire by committing half my strikecraft to defending your extractions while the others busy the Imperials.”

Chain sighs. Great. Just great.

“Very well. Send him an affirmative ping, but try and bounce it off one of the sensor buoys.” The Clone Commander orders.

“Copy that, sir.”

A flash of light pulls Chain’s attention away from his brother as he glances over to a row of Tectors plowing through a minefield. Explosions rocked their shields as seeker mines sought out their doom upon the hulls of their enemies and previously dormant proximity mines exploded upon impact with an enemy warship. Blues and reds and pinks and oranges intermingling with the durasteel gray hulls of the enemy ships. Chain wished he could appreciate the beauty of it, but he knew that every explosion meant that the enemy was one inch, one meter, one mile closer to their destination. One centimeter, one foot, one kilometer closer to Dellalt.

And the mere possibility that Dellalt would be turned to glass like Argai had been was enough to remind Chain that his orders were absolute, even after 66, even after the Empire, even after the doubt and guilt, good soldiers followed orders.

“They’re beginning to pass into the gravity well proper.” His brother informs his Commander.

“Ready weapons.” Chain orders.

“Final adjustments are being made.”

“Possibility of comms intercept?”

“Very low, their proximity in their formation is a benefit to us and with us pinging off of various sensor buoys, it is almost zero.”

“Good.” Chain mutters.

“First line has passed us.” A different brother reports.

“All batteries reporting green for enemy front line.”

Chain inhales deeply, exhales slowly, then inhales again. He better not regret this: “All batteries, open fire.”

Nantz slowly exhales as his formation begins to fan out as they exit the minefield. The limited space present in the gravitational well of Dellalt would limit his full ability to bring his numbers to bear, but he should still be able to maximize his firepower and expand his front line if necessary to expand on that.

There would probably be no encirclement, though even if he managed to maneuver his enemy into such a position he wouldn’t commit to it out of fear that Dericote would send more forces to catch him out of position.

“Sir, we’re picking up short burst transmissions in the debris field.”

“Begin decryption, increase formation speed and keep me posted.” Nantz orders, probably a remote detonation order to catch him and his back line off guard. In which case, “And order our rear to adjust their shields to focus around their aft sections. No need to risk some trap from behind.”

“Copy.”

Then the ship rumbles under his feet.

“Sitrep.” Nantz orders calmly.

“Multiple weapons impacts on our ventral shields. Payload seems kinda low.”

“Not turbolaser grade.”

“Sir, damage reports from our front line, all ships reporting damage to their rear, the Imperative has lost her primary engine and two vessels are reporting significant damage to their ventral armor!”

“Scramble fighters and get me a trajectory!” Nantz barks.

“It’s originating from the debris field!”

“I’ve got visual. AT-TE and SPHA artillery platforms.”

“Get me confirmation.” Nantz orders.

“Visuals confirmed by various pickets and the Sarapin.”

“Divert five wings to eliminate these pests and continue forward, get us out of their artillery’s range.”

“Sir, the Imperative won’t be able to keep formation.”

“We’ll take her place, inform her Captain she is to take ours in turn.”

“Copy, transmitting.”

“Damage reports coming in. Imperative taking more fire, three Tectors entering orange rear armor, the rest are entering yellow and we’re suffering more hits in our second line.”

“Sir, enemy strikecraft incoming!”

“Coordinate your flak fields and send out interceptors stat!”

Another shudder.

“Shields holding, though at this rate they’ll break before we reach maximum range.”

“Fuck this. All Acclamators, abandon formation, target those damn artillery pieces. I want them gone!” Nantz barks, his left twitching in annoyance at being caught so out of position.

“Understood, sir.”

“It’ll take those on top a bit longer.”

“Fine, push forward and get us out of range!” Nantz barks in reply.

“Eta to max range ten minutes.”

“Keep power focused on our shields, we can let the get the first salvo off with our frontal armor but we cannot survive a long term engagement without our shields at a suitable level.” Nantz continues barking commands.

The ships shudders again as strikecraft and cruisers finally get into a position capable of suppressing or even outright destroying the usually ground based artillery and AFVs. Damn Dericote for this, damn Honor for sending him here and damn him for continuing on.

The ship shudders again.

“ETA four minutes.”

“We’ve entered formation in the front line.”

“Keep our trajectory, prepare for the line to adjust pitch on my command. I want to maximize forward firepower.” Nantz orders, the calm of battle overtaking whatever rage he had been building up towards.

“Roger that.”

“First groups of hostile artillery destroyed.”

“Keep me posted.” Nantz orders, “And give me another damage report.”

“We’re down to a fifty fifty split between orange and yellow armor along the rears of our Tectors. Shields are starting to come back piecemeal. Venators and cruisers steady between green and yellow. Shields in our second line slow to come back, shields in rear is looking patchy.”

“We’re looking alright. Minimal damage to our ventral and rear armor and shields are back.”

“Enemy closing, ETA one minute and closing.”

“Enemy strikecraft are heading straight for us.”

Nantz considers it for a moment, that was rather aggressive of whoever was in command: “Be ready to deploy interceptors, equal their number.”

“Preparing ten wings as ordered.”

“Incoming enemy fire. It’s coming in piecemeal and sporadically. I can’t nail a primary target yet.”

“Sensor relay from our cruisers below us is picking up unidentified object emerging from enemy formation. Either another wave of strikecraft or missiles of some make.”

“All ships, excluding our cruisers, have left enemy artillery range.”

“Hold position. Sitrep on shields.” Nantz orders.

“Shields across the front are back, second line a mix leaning towards active shields and rear at about fifty fifty.”

“Then adjust power prioritizing combat systems while stripping engine power as it becomes available. Once firing matrixes have been coordinated you may open fire,” Nantz orders.

A crescendo of heavy turbolasers anser Nantz’s call. Over a hundred blasts streaking through the void, past the various strikecraft of the Rebel Coalition and Empire before crashing against the shields of the enemy warships. Nantz’s eyes narrow, mind already racing to get ahead of his Adjutants tabulating the hit rate and total efficacy of his opening volley.

His frown deepens: “Adjust firing matries to focus on enemy Recusants, then their Venators. Either we push them back or break them, we can ignore their Dreadnoughts and Acclamators for now, or at least until they get into range.”

“Understood, transmitting.”

“Enemy strikecraft hiding multiple gunships among them. Looks life they might be trying to make a run for the remaining enemy artillery pieces.”

“Deploy our designated interceptors to stop them.” Nantz orders, best to break them before they manage to save even a single piece of artillery.

“Understood, sir.”

“Sir, previously unidentified objects on trajectory towards us have been identified as missiles.”

“Awfully slow for missiles.” An Adjutant mutters in observation.

“Adjust shields to double front for us and intensify flak fields. I don’t want a single one of those things to hit us when we’re already taking long range fire.” Nantz orders, filing away the off hand comment for later. Maybe the Rebels were low on quality grade munitions.

“Understood, sir.”

“Fighters moving to intercept.”

“Missiles pivoting downward.”

“What?” Nantz asks, we’re they gunning for his cruisers? That didn’t make much strategic sense unless the Rebels feared the cruisers were in their assault ship configuration instead of the far more widespread cruiser and cruiser/carrier configurations.

“They’ve pivoted. Currently on an interception course with our Acclamator cruisers.”

“Have them adjust their shields to a more rounded positioning, at least for those with their backs facing the enemy.”

“Understood, sir.”

A moment passes, turbolasers flying between formations, crashing like wave against shields as more and more artillery batteries are broken apart by Imperial forces. Nantz pulls himself away from that section of the tactical display, focusing once more on the approaching strikecraft and the missiles behind them. Something was off about it. If they were supposed to overwhelm him they needed at least parity with his strikecraft, if they were a distraction, they were serving well, but they were so obviously some kind of distraction that it was bugging Nantz. Dericote’s men were some of the best in the Slice, they wouldn’t do something so obvious, would they?

Then as if to answer his question, the strikecraft dive, hard. His interceptors, already closing into missile range, suddenly finding themselves with their targets accelerating and diving away from them, follow.

“Sir, enemy missiles detonating.”

“Oh fuck.” Nantz mutters before snapping at his comms chief: “Get me those interceptors, it’s a trap, they need to pull up NOW!”

“Transmitting!”

The tactical display shudders as formations break apart and attempt to counter maneuver to avoid the rapidly approaching shrapnel that had emerged from the fragmentation missiles. Nantz stares the projection down as one by one, strikecraft maneuver and evade, just for an equal number to be cut down, caught too deep in the formation, where they should be safest, to escape their doom.

And all the while the Rebel strikecraft launched their own attacks on his cruisers and the starfighters harrying the Rebel artillery that had already damaged his forces so significantly.

“Divert five wings and whatever remnants we can scratch together from that clusterfuck to intercept those Rebel fighters asap.” Nantz order calmly as the rabid tabulations are made. I flicks his wrist in a beckoning motion after a minute of watching the Rebels getting close enough to begin extracting the bastards that had shredded his rear-facing armor before a datapad is placed in his hand.

Nantz glances down, his frown deepens and he hands it back. A hundred and eighty strikecraft destroyed in a single salvo of fragmentation missiles. A wing almost entirely destroyed and two more crippled. Nantz suppresses a shudder, two years ago those kinds of casualties would have seen him court-martialed for incompetence. Hells it would have gotten even a Jedi thrown before a military tribunal outside of the major fronts such as the Perlimian.

And now they were par for the course, a loss during a bad maneuver that would probably barely even be acknowledged in the final status report for the battle.

“Sir, enemy strikecraft pulling back. It appears that they are abandoning most of the heavy machinery.”

Nantz considers that for a moment: “Continue the pursuit with half of the strikecraft and return our cruisers to our planned formation. The rest of our strikecraft are to rearm and conduct emergency repairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And deploy whatever LAATs and transport shuttles needed to extract those walkers and arty pieces. Stow as many of them as practical within the Tetrarch and note my wish that whatever cannot be fit inside our storage be moved into the Ubiquity of Purpose, the Rendili Redoubt, the Artillerist, the Red Sun and the Star of Hope. I doubt that Honor will be willing to reshuffle surface materials once we’re done here and I want my personal squadron as well equipped as possible.”

“Sir, our Victories are currently a part of the Reserve Division.” His Adjutant Captain reminds him.

“Then mark them for salvage by my Cruiser Section and have them grab them once the battle is over.” Nantz adjusts his command as another heavy turbolaser exchange rocks the ships of the Imperial and Rebel lines.

“Very good, sir.”

“Our cruisers are beginning to enter formation.”

“Strikecraft are moving too far ahead of us.”

“Pull them back.” Nantz decides, not perfect, but it would do, “Begin full advance, quarter speed, we’ll finish assembling into our formation on the way. Let’s force these Rebels back.”

“Understood, sir.”

Nantz inhales deeply before exhaling. Messy, this battle was messy, but victory was almost certain. If only it did not taste of the ashes of Argai.

Battle of Dellalt beginning of the final Phase:

Red: Rebel Coalition

Gray-Blue: Imperial

Pink: Minefields

Gray (light and dark): Orbital infrastructure debris