Lorya
Admiral Xen stood on a high balcony jutting from out from the governor's palace, hands clasped behind his back, the collar of his dark longcoat turned up against the biting wind. He was a tall man, his gaunt face nicked with minor scars and his nose crooked from repeated breaks. His black hair was streaked with grey and swept carelessly back from a high forehead. The slightly wild look in his green eyes completed the aura of piratical adventure he was so careful to exude.
Below him Lorya was winking to life in the frigid dawn. Nighttime blackout orders had been imposed by General Crovall until the shields could be activated and the heavy batteries brought online. So far, the presence of Xen's X-Wing squadrons had dissuaded what was left of the Imperial garrison's TIE force from attempting any bombing runs.
The sun crested the skyline, painting the sky pink and gold, illuminating the pale stone buildings and verdigrised copper roofs and spires of the city. A pretty place, built up organically over centuries, full of winding streets and crooked alleys and hidden squares and courtyards and gardens. The poorer sectors, where the miners lived, kept their old-fashioned charm, free of industrial sprawl which was mostly deep underground.
Some areas of the city, of course, were already scarred by the coming battle. Whole districts had been bulldozed to create space for the heavy turbolaser platforms Xen's fleet had stripped from Uslam's orbital defenses, hardened artillery installations, landing zones, and of course, projectors for the shield dome that would- if luck held out- soon encase Lorya.
"Admiral," the electronic voice of Captain Zyme crackled across Xen's communicator. The Skakoan was Xen's flag-captain, and was in orbit aboard the Right, "We've detected multiple hyperspace translations in-system. The Moff's fleet has arrived."
"Right on time," said Xen, sparing a backward glance to the governor's palace behind him. A grotesque Coruscanti transplant- grey ferrocrete and steel, so dissonant with the city over which it loomed like an unspoken threat. Like most of the Imperial ruling caste- graspers desperate for advancement and favor- the Moff had carefully derivative tastes in architecture. Not, however, in her wine cellar. Some truly choice selections, now comprehensively looted. The Admiral's storerooms on the Right were fully stocked indeed.
"Orders, Admiral?" Zyme queried.
"Recall all fighter and transport elements to the fleet. Intruder and Cutlass squadrons?"
"In position, Admiral," replied Zyme.
"Good, I'm heading for my shuttle now, will be with you shortly."
"Leaving so soon?" said a cool voice from the doorway behind Xen. The Admiral turned, smiling a little. A short man in the unmarked black fatigues of Alliance SpecOps stood just inside the palace. The left side of his face was something out a nightmare. A skinless mass of scar tissue studded with patches of bare skull, the expression frozen in a lipless sneer, teeth stretching back to the jaw. His left eyelid had been burned away, leaving only a bloodshot orb swiveling in its gnarled socket.
"Shang," said Xen. If the other man's appearance fazed him he did not show it, "Afraid I must be off. The Emperor's convoys aren't going to raid themselves. Can I tempt you to come with me? Would be a blow to the Alliance to lose you on Uslam, of all places."
"Afraid not, Admiral," said Shang, "Corvall's got some steel and knows what he's about on defense, but brave stands do not a victory make. Someone's got to take the fight to the Imperials down here."
"Still think we can win this thing?" asked Xen, and as he spoke there was an incredible azure flash as the shield projectors ignited in unison throughout Lorya. A majestic violet dome slowly unfurled itself over the metropolis, bathing everything in its faint purple light.
"I wouldn't have come otherwise," said Shang, "Don't forget us down here. We'll be looking for your supply runs."
"I won't. Never seen I blockade I couldn't run. Bleed the bastards white, Commander," said Xen.
"May the force be with you, Admiral," said Shang.
Admiral Xen snorted through his nose and swept past the other man, dark cloak billowing out behind him. Shang watched him go, his unlidded eye gleaming in the glow of Lorya's newborn shield.
-
Later, In Orbit
The long hull of the Ancestral Right cut through the void like an immense predator through the deep. A cloud of vulture droids swarmed around its hull. Agile, dumb and easily replaced, even TIE squadrons could slice with ease through these relics of the Clone Wars. Embedded in the swarm, however, were the Admiral's prized weapons: X-Wings in escort formation, dangerous not only to distracted TIEs but even to the Empire's beloved capital ships.
The rest of the Rebel fleet- an eclectic mix of aging Seperatist vessels, stolen Imperial cruisers, and a few Alliance escorts of modern design- followed in Ancestral Right's wake.
Admiral Xen stood not on his ship's bridge, but in the elevated observation chamber that made the Providence-class's profile so distinctive. Command staff of all races, even droids, bustled around him, busy with the business of looming bloodshed. Xen's eyes tracked the progress of his vessels across a holo-projection of Uslam's orbit, occasionally glancing to the chamber's large windows for confirmation of the virtual display, on which the red daggers were closing in.
The Moff's fleet was advancing on them from three sides, meaning to trap them against Uslam itself. There was a narrow gap in the Imperial alignment, highlighted on the holo-display- through which the rebels might flee without trading fire with the attackers.
Admiral Xen had a low opinion of the Moff's abilities, but not low enough to see such an obvious flaw in his opponent's formation as anything other than a trap. More to the point, he had no interest in retreating without killing some Imperials first. He studied the holo-display.
The VSD Punisher was the nearest vessel to hand, advancing in the shadow of the ISD Vronksr. Xen had his target.
"All vessels: the destroyer Punisher is our pound of flesh. She dies before we jump, and anyone who jumps before I give the word, I hunt down. You'll wish the Imperials had gotten to you," said Xen on the fleet's command channel, "Hutt formation, please- heavy up front, nice thin tail. You may absolutely begin firing when in range."
The comms channel filled with "ayes!" and "yes sirs!"
"Intruder and Cutlass Squadrons," said Xen.
"Reporting in," crackled the COs of two fighter-bomber squadrons noticeably absent from the rebel formation.
"You know what to do," said Xen.
"Yes Admiral."
"Sir," said a lanky Duro to Xen's right, "Transmission from the enemy fleet incoming."
The Admiral arched an eyebrow, "Let's hear it then."
A holo-projection of Moff Whyte replaced the battlefeed in front of Xen. He did not transmit an image of himself back.
“This is Moff Wyte. I advise you stand down and surrender now, fighting only prolongs the inevitable, this is your first and final warning.”
"We've been warned, gents!" said Xen to the command staff, to general laughter. Whyte's holodisplay flickered out.
"Would you like to respond, sir?" asked the Duro lieutenant.
Xen turned to the window, where the serrated dagger hull of the Punisher grew larger by the second against the huge white orb of Uslam. A flicker of turbo-laser fire, still inaccurate at this range, lashed out at the rebel formation from the ship. In the distance, the Vronksr was cruising at full speed to support its smaller cousin.
"We'll let our guns do the negotiating," said the Admiral, "Open fire."
