GEN Presents:

A Conflict of Loyalties
By Admiral Kyle Kessler

Prologue

<NETFEED/NEWS>DEFENCE CRUMBLES ON ARGIMILIAR II AS TIE CORPS WITHDRAWS.

VIDEO: Y-Wing Fighter Bombers, unopposed, release Proton Bombs on Hammer’s Fist garrison defenders. Camera view is rocked by explosions. a building collapses in flames and Stormtroopers dive for cover as X-Wings strafe landing fields. In the foreground, a Trooper slings his blaster rifle to help a badly wounded TIE Corps Officer crawl to cover...
VOICEOVER: It’s all over for the defenders of Argimiliar II. Rebel Forces raised the flag of the so-called "New Republic" over the colony at sunset yesterday, after almost a week of bitter fighting, both in orbit and on the surface. Early statistics estimate Hammer’s Fist losses at over 85% of defenders killed or captured, but it was the failure of the TIE Corps to break the blockade which sealed the fate of the Imperial Battalion on the surface. With the loss of all three escort Frigates and faced by a vastly superior enemy force, the ISD Challenge was forced to retreat in order to save the ship from destruction or capture. It’s well acknowledged that the TIE Corps can ill-afford to lose a ship as valuable as an Imperial II Class Star Destroyer, but bitter voices in the Ground Forces are asking just how valuable High Command deems a whole battalion of crack Stormtroopers? These and other questions will doubtless be asked at the Command Level Inquiry which has already been convened to investigate just what exactly went so wrong at the fiasco that was Argimiliar II.
VIDEO: Montage of three battle scarred freighters surrounded by support vessels on an Aurora Prime landing apron. Streams of wounded Stormtroopers and civilians are ferried from the ships to waiting paramedics.
REPORTER: This was the scene at the Palpatine Memorial Starport today as the sole survivors of the Battle of Argimiliar arrived on Aurora Prime. From an original group of seven civilian vessels which attempted to break the Rebel Blockade, only three escaped. Their cargo - critically wounded soldiers and civilians, too ill to fight or defend themselves, many of whom died in the two day long transit from the battle zone.
VIDEO: A middle aged spacer sits exhausted at the boarding ramp of a light freighter, blood soaking his arms to the elbow. At this feet, a body is covered in a tarpaulin, the white-booted feet of an Imperial Stormtrooper protrude from underneath the cover. The tarpaulin is soaked in blood. Teams of medics rush past the boarding ramp shouting instructions to FX-7 Medical Droids. The spacer wears the cap of an officer in the TIE Corps, but with that one exception he is dressed exclusively in civilian clothing.
REPORTER: Retired TIE Corps officer Kyle Kessler was the captain of one such freighter - the Corel’s Dream." Colonel Kessler, how did you become involved in the evacuation of the wounded from Argimiliar II?
VIDEO: The spacer looks up at the camera slowly and shrugs. "I was delivering electronic components for the factory they were building to supply themselves with homegrown machine tools. I dropped out of hyperspace just ahead of the Reb assault fleet. Had to ditch my cargo in a hurry and tear my engines up getting planetside before the A-Wings caught up with me..." He shakes his head, dazed. "We were all stuck down there through the bombardment...went on for days. Once the Fleet retreated, we knew there was no way we were getting relieved early enough for it to make a difference. A bunch of us had hidden our ships under cover of the jungle to the east of the colony, so we offered General Donner the chance of getting his most badly wounded offworld before the Reb Commandos had us encircled. He gave us his four remaining TIE Interceptors for cover, but it didn’t make much difference, out of the seven cargo ships that launched, three didn’t even make it into orbit. Another was disabled and boarded before we could all jump out, but the TIE boys stopped the Y-Wings long enough to let the rest of us get the wounded out. Last I saw there were around a dozen X-Wings closing on those boys, but they couldn’t come with us - no hyperdrive, see. I don’t know if they made it back planetside in one piece...
VIDEO: Graffiti-daubed wall bearing the painted slogan: "Traitors!" adorns the perimeter wall of TIE Corps Fleet Headquarters on Aurora Prime. <CUT> Off duty TIE Corps pilots pelted by angry crowd as Hammers Fist Trooper patrols watch without action.
VOICEOVER: Whatever the outcome, it is certain that despite the bravery of a handful of private citizens, the Battle of Argimiliar II has been an unmitigated disaster for the forces of the Emperor’s Hammer as a whole, and a public relations humiliation for the TIE Corps in particular. Divisions have been sown here that even a Command Enquiry may be too late to heal. The Gold Wings of the TIE Corps were once a badge of honour in the Emperor’s Hammer’s domains. Now, opinion has it that the Corps should hang its head in shame in over what many are coming to call "The Betrayal at Argimiliar."

ONE.

The bar was called "The Weary Trooper." It was a favourite of off-duty Stormtroopers stationed at the Aurora Prime Capitol District. The owner and barkeeper was Curzon; a retired Master Sergeant who made it his business to ensure that Troopers were always welcome and made to feel at home. The decor wasn’t anything to write home about, more art militaire than art nouveau, but it suited his patrons and that suited him. Lights were kept low, regimental mascots and plaques covered what little drab olive paint showed beneath the mass of battle honours and Nominal Rolls of fallen comrades in arms. Pictures of grinning youths in pristine fatigues shoulder to shoulder with stills of grizzled veterans in battle - scarred armour holding aloft defiant Company Colours. It was a soldier’s bar, with a soldier’s sense of occasion and circumstance. Rough, no-nonsense; on occasion melancholy, for every soldier has an old comrade in whose memory it is sometimes necessary to raise a glass in salute.
There were a lot of glasses being raised in The Weary Trooper today. Curzon watched the regulars with a wary eye. Soldiers are a curious lot if you don’t know them. A bar full of drunken, raucous soldiers isn’t the disaster waiting to happen that most civilians assume it is. Unless the civilian in question tries to join in, of course, in which case he should have had the sense to know better. But a bar full of soldiers steadily drinking can be very dangerous, especially if they’re going about it quietly and purposefully. Curzon was worried. It was very quiet today, but the bar wasn’t empty. It wasn’t a case of if trouble was going to start, it was a case of where and when. He flicked a glance at the window table. There. That was where it was going to start. Ordinarily, Curzon would have politely suggested that it was time for the newcomers to leave, but not today. Not today of all days, and especially not these newcomers. His own regulars would cut his throat if he tried to suggest it. One way or another, however, someone was going to take exception to the TIE Corps cap that the oldest of the three was wearing, and when they did, it was going to get ugly.
Kessler grunted as Kerrigan nudged him in the ribs a second time. With the minimum of effort he looked over at the lean spacer and raised an eyebrow.
"Refill?" Kerrigan slurred, pointing at the empty glasses. Kessler grunted in the affirmative and kicked at the slumped figure snoring in a puddle of brandy at the other side of the table.
"I think Van Basten’s had enough" he observed.
"Like crap he has. I’ll get him another, he can finish it later" Kerrigan argued. With some effort, he raised himself to his feet and walked to the bar. Curzon raised three fingers and Kerrigan nodded in assent. "How much credit we got left?" he enquired of the barkeeper.
"You men can keep drinking all night as far as this lot are concerned" Curzon answered. "After what you three did today getting those boys out of that hell-hole you’ll be hard pressed to find a Trooper in this sector who wouldn’t buy you a drink." Curzon was careful to keep his voice and manner steady. "However, these guys tend to get a little surly when they’ve had a few, and your friend over there..." a nod in the direction of Kessler "...is wearing a cap that isn’t likely to make him very popular once these guys have had enough to drink." He carefully placed the last drink on Kerrigan’s tray. "Someone might get themselves the notion that he thinks he’s being funny, if you know what I mean."
Kerrigan considered Curzon’s advice. "Look, I’ll ask him, but you don’t know what he’s like." He shrugged apologetically.
Curzon nodded. "Fair enough. But I know what this lot are like." He resumed polishing glasses. "Don’t say you weren’t warned, and you’d better pick a side quick when it happens, because these boys don’t give as much warning as I do."
Kerrigan picked up the tray with the exaggerated care that only the truly drunk possess and slowly made his way back to the table. Picking up his first glass, he raised it in salute.
"To the boys of...which one are we up to?" he asked of the crowd in general.
"Third Platoon, B Company" someone offered.
Kerrigan shrugged. "I’ll drink to that." He downed the drink and slammed the glass upside down on the table, a motion that was repeated around the bar. Several regulars stood to refresh their drinks. It was then that Kessler did it. In retrospect, Kerrigan should have seen it coming, but in all fairness, it wouldn’t have made much difference. Kessler had that dangerous look in his eye again, and Kerrigan knew from experience that when he brooded on something you only had one choice, pick your side or walk out.
"Here’s to the memory of Lieutenant Commander Horn, Lieutenant Franks, Lieutenant Carlyle and Sublieutenant Pellaeon; Arbiter Squadron, Argimiliar Garrison. Unsung heroes of the escape from Argimiliar and four of the TIE Corps’ finest. They gave their lives so that others might live." Kessler’s gaze wandered from table to table, his glass raised. Patrons at the bar froze, the tension in the air ratched up half a dozen levels.
"Oh shit." Kerrigan wondered if he could make it to the door in time with Van Basten over his shoulder. He doubted it. Curzon slowly reached under the counter for the stunstave he kept there.
"What?" asked Kessler of the deadly quiet room. "No-one want to drink to the memory of four TIE Corps officers who volunteered for a one-way trip to try to save the asses of a bunch of groundpounders?" A couple of patrons rose to their feet, their expressions indecipherable.
"Here it comes" thought Curzon, wondering why it was taking the duty watch at the garrison across the plaza so long to respond to the silent alarm he’d just triggered. "Surely the brave men of the Hammer’s Fist will drink with me to the memory of Arbiter Squadron? Hell, they lost sixty percent of their men on the first damn day of fighting trying to stop those bombardments and they still volunteered to fly cover for us even when the garrison troopers were spitting on their boots every time they ran past to scramble against the latest bomber raid." Kessler’s arm wavered, his glass trembled. "Ah well... guess I’ll drink alone then." He drained his glass and set it down in one swallow, the crack of glass hitting table ringing about the bar like a gunshot. Looking around defiantly, he reached for another drink. "I guess Arbiter Squadron goes unremembered then? Okay, maybe you’ll drink to the memory of the crews of the Frigates Emperor’s Fury, Tribune, and Hammer’s Vengeance then?"
"That’s enough, Kess" Kerrigan tried to force Kessler’s arm down and succeeded only in spilling some of his drink, but it was too late. Four troopers were pushing their way through the silent crowd towards their table. Kessler seemed oblivious to the threat. He contemplated the spilled alcohol seeping into the floor and shrugged. "Oh well, I suppose only the lice get to drink to their memory."
The first trooper squared himself off in front of their table and looked Kessler up and down. "Word has it you boys did the Legion a proud service today, for that you get some slack." He leaned down and brought himself face to face with Kessler’s eyes. "But don’t push your luck, flyboy." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "And as for your choice of headgear, I reckon it’s a little inappropriate. I’d suggest you get rid of it. Now."
Kessler smiled and pushed his TIE Corps forage cap further back on his head. "And who’s going to make me, you steroid-sucking, sorry-assed, stack of horseshi..."

<NETFEED/NEWS>FLEET ADMIRAL KAWOLSKI AUTHORISES RECALL OF ALL TIE CORPS RESERVISTS TO ACTIVE DUTY.

VIDEO: Fleet Admiral Alan Kawolski, TIE Corps Commander, stands at lectern reading from a prepared statement at Fleet Command Headquarters.
Fleet Admiral Kawolski: "...and until such time that the Fleet Academy can make good the training shortfall in manned strength on the rosters of the Battle Groups, a total recall of all trained Pilots, Flight and Starship crews is in force. All nominated personnel should report to their nearest TIE Corps office for their postings and uniform issue. Rest assured, the failure of the Fleet to break the blockade at Argimiliar will not go unavenged, but Fleet’s priority has always been, and will always remain, the safeguarding of Aurora Prime and the Core Colonies first, and outlying colonies and outposts second..."
VOICEOVER: Despite demands for his resignation and accusations of treachery within the TIE Corps, Fleet Admiral Kawolski remains adamant that all that could possibly have been done, was done to save the colony at Argimiliar II. Dismissing the idea that the TIE Corps had betrayed the Hammer’s Fist Legion, he cited chronic undermanning at Squadron and Battle Group level, as well as overwhelming Rebel numerical superiority and the Aggressor Strike Fleet’s continued inability to repel Rebel incursions throughout the Minos Cluster as a whole. Showing a rare hint of divisions within the Command Staff, Kawolski seemed to hint that he felt responsibility for the Betrayal at Argimiliar should lie with the EH Directorate, rather than with Fleet.
Fleet Admiral Kawolski: "The colonisation of the Argimiliar system was always deemed risky in the view of this Fleet Administration. The system was too close to the front lines and too difficult to effectively resupply and patrol. Any Rebellion sponsored incursions would always have been extremely difficult to repel in the first six months of any colony that deep within the Minos Cluster and that close to the Rebel border. Until such time as a System Defence Platform can be built, the only alternative defence in this kind of situation would be to permanently station an ISD insystem. <Uproar from assembled reporters. FA Kawolski raises a hand.> That proposal was completely unacceptable to Fleet, and goes against all our established doctrine. We simply do not have the ships to maintain that level of security, let alone the crews; and in any case, as events have shown, even the arrival of the ISD Challenge and her support ships was insufficient to reverse the situation at Argimiliar. The Directorate gambled, despite grave TIE Corps reservations, that the Argimilian Colony would remain unobserved or untroubled by the Rebellion long enough fortify to a self - sufficient level. We lost that gamble, and General Donner’s 3rd Battalion of the First Auroran Shock Legion paid for that mistake with their lives...<Increased uproar from assembled press, Kawolski raises his voice> ... As did the crews of the TIE Corps Frigates Emperor’s Fury, Hammer’s Vengeance and Tribune!"
VIDEO: Hammer’s Fist Veterans Association march in protest outside Fleet Headquarters. Focus on banner bearing the slogan: "FIST DOES THE DYING, CORPS JUST DOES THE FLYING" Imperial Naval Troopers have assumed responsibility for policing the march. The regular Stormtrooper patrols are conspicuous by their absence.
VOICEOVER: Members of the Hammer’s Fist Veterans Association today staged a protest march outside Fleet Headquarters. It is clear that many feel that the TIE Corps should have done more to save the troops stranded on Argimiliar. It is equally clear that TIE Corps Headquarters no longer feels it’s security should be entrusted to the men of the Legion, as evidenced by the Fleet’s own Imperial Naval Troops which have this afternoon taken over security duties at all Fleet facilities from the Stormtroops who until today were responsible for guarding all key Emperor’s Hammer military installations. An official communiqué was recently released by Fleet, claiming the changeover of security responsibilities was due to Hammer’s Fist troops being recalled for redeployment to more vulnerable areas of responsibility. Prefect Thrawn of the Hammer’s Fist was unavailable for comment at the time of going to press.

Related Articles: ISD Challenge undergoes repairs. EH Directorate Colonisation Programme under review?

Kessler nursed his bruised eye and sore head gingerly. His head hurt. A lot. Actually, the state of his head wasn’t the least of his problems. He’d lost his cap, too.
Kerrigan had been released from the E.R half an hour ago, while Kessler was still waiting for minor surgery. He had no idea what had happened to Van Basten, neither did he care. They were all men thrown together by circumstance, just dumb and unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with ships that were theoretically capable of breaking the blockade. He touched his forehead and winced, he was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten any prettier after that Staff Sergeant had danced on his face. He shook his head and sagged lower on the E.R waiting room bench. There was a news report running on the holo, something about blame for the disaster being apportioned? He squinted, fairly sure he knew the face onscreen..."Fleet Admiral Kawolski? Wasn’t he a Vice Admiral last time we spoke?" With a sigh of resignation, he admitted to himself that perhaps he hadn’t been keeping up with current events as much as he should. He ignored the rest of the report, waiting for someone to bring him some painkillers. That damn patrol had taken it’s time breaking up the fight...
The doors to the E. R burst open with a startlingly loud crash and a gurney was rushed in bearing another victim of the evenings’ festivities. Kessler struggled to his feet, it was about time he made his way home. He needed some sleep.
The Corel’s Dream lay deserted on the landing apron. The flurry of activity that had consumed her and her two sisters earlier in the day had long since subsided. A light was on in the cockpit of the Far Trader. He assumed Kerrigan had made it back in more or less one piece and was sleeping off his battle wounds. Van Basten’s Lady Alyssa appeared battened down tight. Not his problem.
The Corel’s Dream was a standard YT-1300, built on Aurora under licence from Corellian Engineering. Reliable, reasonably fast, but most importantly, cheap. There were millions of these ships plying the space lanes throughout the galaxy. Favourites of smugglers due to their modular component design, it was relatively easy to upgrade them. Corel’s Dream was about as standard as they came, however. He didn’t have the money or the inclination to go tooling up some hot-rod of a ship these days. A retired TIE Corps Colonel’s pension didn’t stretch very far, and for a man who’d spent his entire adult life in the cockpits of various military vessels, life on Aurora Prime was just too...tame. So Kessler had bought a cheap ship and worked out a few reasonably profitable, safe trading routes. He enjoyed the change of pace and the chance to visit cultures without having to look at them from the wrong end of a targeting scope for a change. Gradually, he lost touch with his comrades in the Corps and his extended family. It had been six months since he’d bothered answering his mail. If pressed for a reason, he’d probably say he never had the time to get around to it, but the truth was he didn’t have an answer. Since retiring from active service as the Wing Commander of Wing X on the ISD Challenge, he’d begun to find it too much effort to keep acquaintances going with men and women still in the Corps. Their respective lives were just too different now. Kessler had taken the path of least resistance and simply let his past fall by the wayside.
Reaching the cockpit, he slumped into the pilot’s station and cradled his chin in one hand. His head still hurt, but his major problem was lack of sleep. Cursing, he noticed an insistent red light on the Comms Array demanding his attention. It was a recorded message from starport control. Move your ship to the civilian quarter of the port area by midday tomorrow. You are reminded that this is a military installation. Your co-operation etc, etc. Some things never changed. He erased the message and sighed, wondering how he was going to be able to afford the docking bay rental. He closed his eyes, that was tomorrow’s problem. Tomorrow was another day.
Someone’s insistent banging on the boarding ramp hatch was what woke him. The second thing he noticed was the "Incoming Message" alert on the Comms Array. Groaning, he wiped the sleep away and winced as he touched his injured eye, forgotten in the just-woken funk.
"Allright already" he mumbled, making his way aft to the hatch. He triggered the lock release and peered down the ramp into the bright sunlight outside. Two Navy Troopers were waiting impatiently below.
"Captain Kessler? Owner of the Corel’s Dream? Registration D223476C?"
Kessler sighed. "Do you have a point, son?" He’d never been a morning person. Catch him late at night and he was your kind of man, but anytime in the first two hours after he’d risen and especially before he’d had at least his first two mugs of java, and you were guaranteed not to catch him at his most receptive.
"Captain Kessler, the Tower has been trying to contact you for half an hour. You’re overdue raising ship. We have military transports queued to use this facility. You are required to raise ship and relocate to..."
Kessler checked his watch. It was half past twelve. Shit. He triggered the ramp closed, ignoring the rest of the demand and cutting off the indignant squeal of outrage from the stunned Trooper. "Yeah, yeah, yeah" he muttered as he groped his way back to the cockpit. "And that’s Colonel Kessler..." Firing up the thrusters, he began switching systems online. He rubbed at the cramp his neck had developed from sleeping in the cockpit acceleration seat as he completed the last of his pre-flight checks. With a slight lurch, Corel’s Dream became airborne. He kept her in the hover for a second as he fumbled with the comms headset, then flicked to the Tower Control frequency and requested clearance to lift. An officious sounding controller cleared him and wished him a slightly too rehearsed "good day", then he slowly pulled her about and gained a little height, trying to get his bearings and locate the Commercial Port Control’s nav beacon. Once locked on, he requested a docking bay. Within minutes, he was cleared and landed in the cheapest place he could get. Once safely powered down, he made himself a pot of java and returned to the flight seat to check his mail.
There were three messages, according to the computer. He settled back into the seat and sipped at the scalding hot liquid. "Play" he ordered.
"Captain Kessler of the Auroran registered trader Corel’s Dream, D223476C. You have been fined C500 for contravention of Port Administration article 0312.4: Failure to follow instructions from Tower Control; and article 1734.1: Unauthorised Use of Military Landing Facilities. This fine must be paid within seven days or your license will be suspended and your assets may be repossessed to recover any legal costs..."
"Erase. Play next." Assholes
"Uncle Kyle? Hi. This is Risua." Kessler’s eyebrow raised in surprise. He never admitted it, but he was always secretly pleased when his niece sent him one of her infrequent messages. It had been a long time since he’d replied to one, but Risua Darkfire Cantor never gave up on him, a fact which he was both grateful for and which he knew he didn’t deserve.
"Well I figure I missed your birthday, wherever you are these days, but Happy Birthday anyway. Hope you had a good one! How old are you now anyway? Fifty? Sixty?" He laughed. Cheeky kid....I’m forty four and she knows it!
"Well I don’t have a lot of news to tell you that you probably didn’t already know just from watching the news, but here goes. Dad made Admiral at last, he’s taken command of the Aggressor Strike Force, uhh, I guess that was what used to be the Aggressor Wing when you were second in command there. Whatever, anyway, he’s real busy of course, so we don’t see as much of each other as we’d like, but you know how it goes I guess. Same with Uncle Piett, did you know he made full Admiral? He’s in charge of the Battle Groups, which is basically what he’s always wanted, so we’re all happy for him. Of course, that means I get to see my second favourite Uncle almost as little as my favourite Uncle, which brings me to point of my message. I know you’re still alive Uncle Kyle. I saw you on the news last night. I...I know you’re here on Aurora this time, and...well, I’d like to see you again if I could. I guess you’ll be here if you can make it. You know my address, I still live in the same place."
Kessler’s gaze dropped from the Comms Array. Risua had been his favourite relative. For all the wrong reasons. She was bright, cheerful without being perky, a beautiful girl grown into a fine young woman, the smartest of all the Cantors by far; but there was one problem with Risua that caused Kessler to find her company painful on occasion. She reminded him at times too much of her Aunt Kayta, and the memory of that love could still cause grief even twenty years after her loss.
"I miss you, Uncle Kyle. Please come. Goodbye."
He cleared his throat abruptly. With the exception of the patient beep of the Comms Array reminding him that he still had one message cued, the cockpit was silent.
"Save message, store in "Family". Play next."
"Colonel Kyle Cantor Kessler, service number TC-WCR1011..." He began to pay attention. It had been a long time since anyone had bothered to get his name and rank correct.
"As a registered member of the Fleet Reserve Corps, you are ordered to report to your nearest TIE Corps Office for compulsory re-enlistment within two standard days of reception of this recall message. Upon presenting yourself at such offices you can expect to be immediately reassigned to active service pending a short refresher course of no more than one week’s duration. Failure to comply with the contents of this message will be construed as a deliberate act of desertion, punishable by the full weight of military law, with all the consequences which that entails."
All in all, it was turning out to be a pretty shitty week.

It was later that same night when he ran into Kerrigan again. The bar was called Safe Landings. He hated the name, but it was a spacer’s bar and he knew he could blend in there. Kerrigan took the seat at the bar next to him and waited for him to speak. Kessler glanced over at his one-time partner and ordered another pair of drinks. They both waited patiently, listening to the jukebox play some tuneless popular melody while the barman got their order, then raised their glasses and drank.
"You look pretty" Kerrigan observed.
"Your mother thought so" Kessler shot back.
Kerrigan laughed good naturedly. "Isn’t it about time you learned a new joke, Kess?"
"I’m too old to learn a new joke," Kessler grunted back. "Besides, you’re too dumb to understand them anyway."
"Kess, you are an old joke, and you’re the only one who doesn’t get it." The two raised their glasses again, the same old ritual of greeting complete.
"So," Kerrigan continued. "You got your recall orders yet?"
"Yep."
Kerrigan waited. "So?"
Kessler took another pull of his beer. "So what?"
"Don’t give me a hard time, Kess. When are you reporting for duty, and what are you doing with the Dream? I could give you a good price for her. I’ve been looking for a cheap ship to expand my line."
Kessler leaned back in his chair in mock surprise. "Since when have you been rich enough to afford to run two ships?"
"There’s a lot of stuff about me you don’t know you ugly old fighter jock, and answer the bloody question." Kerrigan eyed him suspiciously. "You’re not, are you? You’re not going to report in at all are you?"
"What I do with my life is my business, Kerrigan, and keep your voice down in here goddamn it!"
Kerrigan raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Okay, Kess, but can you be serious? The Corps will have your ass in a sling before you can say "Juri Juice!" Besides, the way you keep boring everyone with your old war stories I’d have thought you’d have jumped at the chance to get back in the saddle..." Kerrigan hunched himself over his beer in a fair imitation of Kessler’s traditional drinking pose. "When I was in the TIE Corps..."
Kessler threw a mock punch at the younger spacer. Kerrigan avoided it easily, but stopped laughing at the troubled look on Kessler’s face. For all his feigned levity, Kessler seemed serious.
"Shit, Kess...why?"
Kessler seemed to struggle for a response for a while, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don’t know Kerry. It’s just not the same Corps I retired from anymore."
The two men nursed their beers silently for a few minutes. Kerrigan was the first to speak..
"It’s the Argimilian thing isn’t it?"
Kessler paused for a long while before answering. "I don’t know, Kerry. It’s a lot of things, I guess, but one thing I do know - when I was in command of Wing X, we would never have left those men to die on that godforsaken rock. We’d have found a way to save them, somehow." He raised his glass to his lips, then set it down again without drinking. "It’s just not the same anymore. I just belong in a different day and age." He cracked a humourless grin. "I guess it’s true what you young punks all say about me. I am getting too old for this shit."
Kerrigan signalled the barman for another round. "Well, I’m not about to try to tell you how to run your life, but you gotta realise that you can’t stay in Hammer space with a Desertion Notice over your head. The Bounty Hunters Guild will track you down, and I mean sooner rather than later." Kessler nodded. "So what’s your plan?"
"It’s a big galaxy."
Kerrigan’s eyes widened. "You mean you’re making for New Republic space? You’ve got some balls, Colonel Kessler. You know what they do when they catch Imps over there? Have you heard the word "spy"? They still execute them in this day and age."
"Yeah, well, first of all, that’s Rebel space, not "New Republic", and secondly, I’m happy to take that chance." He took a long pull of his fresh beer. "But that’s not exactly what I mean to do, and I might need some help doing it." He set the glass down and turned to face Kerrigan squarely. "You still have contacts who can set me up with false ID codes and papers?"
Kerrigan grew interested. "Maybe, but it’ll cost you."
"I’ll find the money, that’s my problem. I also need a partner with a fair amount of storage space for a little high risk, low profit enterprise I’ve been thinking about. I ain’t kidding you, Kerry, it’ll be dangerous."
Kerrigan gave him a long hard stare. "Kess, what exactly are you proposing?"
"I’m an Imperial Officer, Kerry. I always have been, but there’s something I need to do back on Argimiliar II before I can lay my past behind me."
Kerrigan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Kess, you simply cannot be serious."
"I need to find out what happened to the men we left there. Once I’ve done that, I can get on with my life, wherever that may take me, but I need to know what happened. You with me?"
Kerrigan looked uncertain. He was a businessman after all. "Kess, running Imperial licensed ships into Reb territory isn’t exactly good business sense."
"Don’t give me that crap, Kerry. I know you do a little smuggling on the side, you already admitted you could fix me up with fake ID. Besides," he lowered his voice. "I know you don’t feel any better about what happened than I do."
"Maybe so, Kess, but I prefer to deal with my regrets from the right side of a prison stockade. You’ll have to prick more than my conscience if you want to get me interested."
Kessler set down his glass on the bar. "Okay, I figured it might take more than my relying on your spirit of human compassion. If I don’t make it out, you can have Corel’s Dream. I’ll sign my ownership papers over to you and in the event that I drop the ball somewhere along the line, she’s yours. Lock, stock and barrel. Deal?"
Kerrigan thought about it for a while, but not for too long. "Deal."
"Okay," said Kessler. "But you get to front the money for the fake ID’s and transponder codes." He grinned. "I’m out of cash. That cargo I dumped when we got jumped by that Reb blockade on the way in was all the collateral I had."
"Asshole."

TWO

<NETFEED/NEWS>HAMMER’S FIST DEPENDENCY ON TIE CORPS - A RETROSPECTIVE VIEW

VIDEO:The ISD Grey Wolf and VSD Aggressor patrol an un-named system deep in the Minos Cluster. TIE Avengers make regular sweeps past the camera, vigilant for trouble.<CUT>Hammer’s Fist Stormtroopers file into an Assault Shuttle, fully equipped for battle. In the background, other shuttles lift off and exit the docking bay<CUT>On the surface of a nameless world, Navy Flight Controllers co-ordinate Shuttle landings from a hastily constructed command post. Stormtroopers charge from the ramps of newly arrived ships as distant turbolaser blasts shake the ground.
VOICEOVER: Two short years ago, the Hammer’s Fist was a truly independent fighting force in every sense of the word. Each Stormtrooper was dropped into battle from Hammer’s Fist Assault Shuttles or Landing Barges, carried by Hammer’s Fist Dreadnoughts. Fleet involvement with Fist Operations was limited to escorting Hammer’s Fist assault fleets and providing supporting fire or fighter cover wherever needed. All of that changed with the adoption of Command Directive 135, part of the Annual Defence Review, which called for tighter interoperability within all arms of the Emperor’s Hammer military forces. In essence, the Directive called for each Arm of the Hammer’s forces to look to it’s own practices and evaluate how best to evolve it’s procedures and tactics to conform to the new Doctrine of "Joint" Operations.
Simple on paper, but as far as the Hammer’s Fist was concerned, devastating in practice. The direct result of Directive 135 was that the Hammer’s Fist was stripped of it’s Assault Fleets and became completely reliant on the ships of the TIE Corps for mobility, firepower and support. In defence of the decision to suborn Fist Operations within Fleet Command, it must be acknowledged that the ships consisting of the Hammer’s Fist Assault Fleet were rapidly coming to the end of their operational lifespan in any case. The Fist retained autonomous control over any non-capital class vessels in it’s inventory, all others were turned over to the TIE Corps. Those few ships which were considered to have any remaining operational use were subsumed within the Fleet structure, those which didn’t, such as the ageing Dreadnought class, were mothballed. It cannot be denied that Directive 135 brought certain advantages as far as Fist operations were concerned. Having the support of Imperial Class Star Destroyers with their full complement of TIE Squadrons on combat operations was a luxury rarely experienced by Hammer’s Fist veterans. However, there were some who predicted that the loss of Fist autonomy and the reliance on Fleet for support was a recipe for disaster. TIE Corps’ most valued resource, it is generally acknowledged, are it’s Star Destroyers. In almost every situation in which there has existed a good chance that Fleet might lose one of its superships to enemy action, Fleet has turned and run. As far as Fleet Command is concerned, an ISD is simply too valuable to lose. The Hammer’s Fist has a radically different philosophy. It’s single most valuable resource has always been its troops. While the Fist was responsible for the running of its own operations, this single overriding factor has always been the linchpin of Fist operational doctrine. Put Fleet into the situation where it has to choose between the certainty of losing an entire battalion of Stormtroopers or the possibility of losing an ISD, and Fleet will sacrifice the troops every time. Fleet Command hotly denies this allegation, although recent events on Argimiliar II would seem to suggest otherwise. Whatever the truth of the matter, it is certain that while outwardly, Hammer’s Fist Command presents a unified public front with TIE Corps Command, inwardly, there can be few within the Hammer’s Fist who trust Fleet to look after their men with the respect and honour which they feel they require to function effectively as a "Joint" fighting force. The implications of this could have long-term consequences for all future Emperor’s Hammer Operations...

The navcomputer proximity alarm went off right on schedule and Kessler readied himself for sublight speed. He flicked the brand new and highly illegal transponder code modulator from standby to active and grasped the control surfaces as realspace coalesced about the cockpit. To external inspection, the Corel’s Dream was the Coruscant registered YT-1300 freighter Cardshark. He and Kerrigan had been over the plan in minute detail countless times. It was common knowledge that the Rebellion’s Medical Support Frigate Redemption had been critically damaged during the orbital battle over Argimiliar II. The remaining two MC-80 Class Cruisers and four Frigates, two of which were themselves heavily damaged during the brief battle with the ISD Challenge, would have been badly stretched to provide medical cover for all the combatants. Kessler and Kerrigan were gambling that neither a relief medical ship would have had time to be diverted to the battlezone, nor that the wounded and prisoners would have been evacuated from the planet yet. They were going in as profiteers, hoping to make a killing from selling emergency medical supplies, bacta and field hospitals to the Rebel forces on the surface. Once they’d gotten clearance to land, they hoped to play it by ear. With a great deal of luck, the Rebellion would be too busy fortifying and preparing for possible Imperial counterattack to worry about two civilians snooping around any prison stockades. With a great deal of luck. The plan had holes you could drive a Death Star through, but it was the best Kessler could come up with at short notice.
Kessler ran a short range sensor sweep of surrounding space. Kerrigan’s Far Trader dropped out of hyperspace two klicks to starboard. There were no Rebel ships that his limited sensors could detect within scan range. All going to plan so far.
He’d purposely dropped out of hyperspace far enough from the planet to be out of immediate sensor range of any ships in orbit, but the massive flare of x-rays generated by their exit from hyperspace would have been detected by now; there were no outlying planets in the Argimiliar system behind which they could mask their exit flares. Rebel sensor ops would be reporting their presence and fighter patrols would be vectoring to intercept right now. As far as the Rebel Task Force commander was aware, their hyperspace exit signatures could just as easily have belonged to two flight groups of Imperial Missileboats as to a couple of itinerant black market freelancers. There was no sense in giving the Rebs any reason to get any more twitchy on their trigger fingers than they already had reason to be, but it was necessary to arrive as far away from the Reb Task Force as possible, in order to allow themselves time to get the hell out, just in case everything went belly up early on. He spoke briefly to Kerrigan on short range UHF. "Going public, Kerry?"
"Roger that, Kess. Stick to plan and we’ll be okay."
He took a deep breath. "New Republic Task Force, this is Captain Coolidge of the freighter Cardshark, travelling in convoy with the freighter Shamrock. We are carrying medical supplies and request permission to approach, over."
IFF transponders worked on a relatively simple principle. A signal was sent to the ship’s transponder on a frequency agreed by interstellar law, querying the identity of the ship being scanned. The transponder automatically replied with a transmission containing registration details. This was sufficient to identify any civilian vessel. Military transponders operated on secret frequencies that were changed on a daily basis, however. The signals were also encoded, and the transponders wouldn’t reply to any signal unless they received the correct coded query on whichever frequency was being used at that particular time. Therefore, if a military ship queried your transponder and it didn’t get any reply, civilian or military - you were enemy until proven otherwise. Hence IFF - Identify Friend or Foe. Kessler and Kerrigan’s ships were transmitting on the civilian wavelength as usual, the only difference this time was that they weren’t transmitting the correct data. Their code modulators were supplying false registration details to the Alliance picket ships. That would be enough to get their foot in the door, but you could guarantee that this sort of trick had been tried countless times before, by pirates, smugglers and covert military operatives. Simply relying on their fake IFF codes wouldn’t be enough to get them in, they’d have to be boarded and searched first. At least, Kessler was praying they’d be boarded and searched. That would at least indicate that the Rebel commander down there needed the supplies they were carrying badly enough to agree to let them in. If they’d been resupplied by their own side already, Kessler’s plan was screwed. If they’d already moved any Hammer’s Fist prisoners offworld, Kessler’s plan was screwed. If the Rebel commander didn’t need any medical supplies, Kessler’s plan was screwed. Hell, if the Reb commander was just feeling plain suspicious today, Kessler’s plan was screwed. All in all, he was depending on a lot of good fortune to even get as far as Argimiliar orbit today.
"Freighters Cardshark and Shamrock. This is New Republic warship Drakensberg. Maintain your current course and speed and standby to be boarded. Ensure you have your cargo manifest, bill of lading and registration documentation ready for inspection."
A relieved grin cracked Kessler’s weathered face. They’d taken the bait. "Roger that Drakensberg. Standing by for further instructions."
Kessler waited nervously for the airlock to cycle. His DL-44 blaster lay holstered in his gunbelt, slung over his shoulder; his arms raised, palms open, facing the airlock. The light above the lock flicked to green and the hatch hissed open. He found himself staring down the barrels of half a dozen blaster carbines. Rebel troopers surged from the hatch, one relieving him of his weapon, another forcing him face down on the deck with the barrel of a blaster pressed behind his ear. Others took up covering positions on both entrances to the cargo bay.
"You boys go right ahead and make yourselves at home now" Kessler quipped.
His attempt at levity was ignored. The muzzle of the carbine pressed tighter into the back of his ear. "How many crew?"
"Just me, guys." He wondered how Kerrigan was reacting to this treatment.
"Take us to the cockpit. Now."
He was hauled roughly to his feet and propelled towards the cockpit with a rude shove in the back. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. At least they haven’t blasted me out of hand. Let’s see if they fall for the forged paperwork.
Once in the cockpit, he was spun around to face the Boarding Officer and his bodyguard, as the remaining members of the boarding party secured the rest of the vessel.
"Papers." The Reb officer had cold, blue eyes, like two chips of ice. He seemed professional about his business. Kessler hoped that meant he could rely on him to follow procedure. He’d been boarded before, he knew how this was supposed to work.
"Over there, on the Navigation Station." The bodyguard picked up the folder containing Kessler’s documentation as a third trooper entered the cockpit.
"Ship’s secure sir. Preliminary investigation confirms his story. He’s carrying medical supplies."
"Okay, private. Get the ship’s computer hooked up and run a match on these papers."
"Yes, sir."
A datapad was produced and connected to the S-Comp terminal of the Corel’s Dream’s computer. As the comtech worked, Kessler sat down slowly in the pilot’s chair.
"Make yourselves at home, boys. She won’t bite." He indicated the three spare seats in the cockpit.
The Boarding Officer seated himself, but the two troopers remained standing, carbines ready. The officer began studying Kessler’s registration papers.
"Captain..?"
"Coolidge." Kessler answered.
"Had this ship long?" the Rebel officer asked casually, studying the data before him.
"Six years, almost. She’s for sale if you want her."
A brief smile pulled at the corner of the Reb’s mouth. "Not today thank you. She’s a little long in the tooth for me." He flipped a page. "Where did you pick up this cargo?"
"Ord Mantell. Picked it up on the cheap. Been looking for a buyer for a week, then news came in about this little adventure you boys had going." He shrugged. "Figured we might be able to help you out in our own small way."
"And make a tidy little profit for yourselves into the bargain, no doubt?"
Kessler smiled, his very best shark’s grin. "Got to keep body and soul together somehow, Major." He deliberately overestimated the officer’s rank.
A trooper entered the cockpit and saluted. "Scanning crew reports all clear, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Data check’s complete sir. He checks out."
The officer looked slightly disappointed. He stood, handing the manifest back to Kessler. "Very well, Captain Coolidge. If my superiors don’t decide to just confiscate your stock out of hand, you’ll be met on the surface by an officer with whom you may negotiate prices. You may power up your engines and follow our fighter escorts to the surface. Give us a minute to return to our ship and she’s all yours."
Kessler smiled. "You’re too gracious, Major. You boys have a safe trip home now." Privately, he couldn’t give a good damn if his cargo was seized or not. After this stop, he wasn’t planning on returning to Imperial space to face his creditors anyway.
The airlock indicator turned red and the Dream lurched slightly as the Rebel Lambda class shuttle disengaged its docking tackle. He waited for it to get clear and powered up the ion drive, making sure to follow the two X-Wings ahead of him. This is it. We’re in.
The two freighters approached the embattled world at a cautious rate, escorted by a flight of X-Wing Space Superiority fighters. Not wishing to use his active sensors, Kessler was limited to the Dream’s severely limited passive sensor array to glean whatever data on the Rebel force he could. Orbital electromagnetic activity indicated the presence of several large Rebel ships, and navigational sensors confirmed at least one MC-80 Cruiser and three, possibly four frigates. There were almost certainly additional Rebel ships over Argimiliar II’s radar horizon, but they were undetectable from Kessler’s current position. If that was the case, it was seriously bad news. The Rebels had brought in additional ships to support the blockade already in place here. It was probable that these additional ships had been summoned when the ISD Challenge and her support ships had attempted to lift the blockade, but had arrived after the Imperial battle group had been ignominiously forced to retreat, leaving the men below to certain defeat. Kessler desperately wanted to ask Kerrigan his opinion of what the situation below might be, but he knew he couldn’t run the risk of his transmission being intercepted. He’d just have to be patient and play it by ear.

Checking his sensors, he realised he had another, less pressing problem. Where’s the damn colony beacon? He had to pretend he didn’t know the location of the colony, and that meant relying on the surface navigational beacon, unless the X-Wings were going to shepherd them in all the way. As a pilot, he hated having to rely on another’s navigation, flying blind, relying on someone else to do your pathfinding was something he balked at, but he realised that he should have expected security to be tight. All the same, just who were the Rebs expecting to keep the colony’s exact location secret from anyway? It was a captured Imperial outpost, after all. The forces of the Emperor’s Hammer knew exactly where the colony was located. Something just didn’t add up.
A sudden flash of inspiration left a cold, gnawing fear in his stomach. A moment later, his worst fear was confirmed.
"Cardshark and Shamrock, this is ground control, standby for deactivation of energy shield. On my mark... three, two, one. Energy shield has been deactivated. Confirm you have the colony beacon on your navigational plot, over."
There it was, the beacon, previously blocked by a defensive energy field, showed up loud and clear on the nav display.
"This is Shamrock, roger that ground control. I have you loud and clear."
"This is Cardshark." Kessler cursed silently. "Roger that also, I have your beacon five by five."
"Acknowledged, you are clear of the shield, re-energising. Welcome to Argimiliar, please follow your beacons to your assigned landing spots."
This was serious trouble. The one thing they hadn’t even briefly considered was that the Rebs would be able to get a shield generator up and running in the short space of time allowed to them. This changed everything. Shit. Kessler thought frantically. How the hell would it be possible to stage a breakout with an energy shield enclosing the colony? This venture had been doomed from the start. This was just the final nail in the coffin.
The colony itself appeared, low on the horizon. Ahead, the escorting Rebel fighters broke off and climbed away, returning to their patrol stations. Off to his right, Kerrigan’s ship flared its braking thrusters and began to decelerate. Kessler started the landing cycle himself, possibilities coursing through his brain. No matter which way he looked at it, their options were severely limited.

The outskirts of the colony proper began to fly past below him. Argimiliar II had been colonised two months before, primarily as a military outpost. It had taken just short of two weeks to offload and set up all the necessary equipment and troops to enable them to be mostly self-sufficient, then the first of the engineers had arrived to begin building the starport for the TIE Corps detachment which would control traffic in the system and begin construction of the orbital defence platform which would finally secure the system from threat. Once the necessary support infrastructure was in place, work began on the housing, power and subsistence agricultural facilities which would be needed to support the workers due to arrive once the facilities to provide for them were in place.
The plan was to turn Argimiliar II into both a strategically important forward base of operations in the Minos Cluster, and to begin converting the jungles into farmland to feed the ravenous billions in the Emperor’s Hammer domain. After two months of vigilance, the ISD Challenge had been required to leave in order to resupply with fresh equipment for the new colony. Her escorts, the Frigates, Tribune, Hammer’s Vengeance and Emperor’s Fury, were left to oversee the safety of the engineers constructing the factories which would begin to produce the agricultural equipment necessary to fulfil the Directorate’s second objective for Argimiliar. Work had begun on the orbital platform which would safeguard the first. As she was due to leave Aurora Prime, fully loaded with prefabricated parts and construction materials, word came in of lightning Rebel attacks on Imperial traffic and installations all over the Minos Cluster. The resources of the TIE Corps were stretched nearly to breaking point dealing with the Rebel hit and fade attacks. The Aggressor Strike Force was pinned down in several running battles with Rebel interlopers, and it was clear that the Rebellion was poised for a major attack somewhere along the line. Fleet analysts were frantically trying to predict exactly where the strike would fall. Quietly, the ISD’s of the Battle Groups and Auroran Home Guard were deployed to defensive positions around the Core worlds, while the ISDs of the ASF continued their holding actions as best they could within the Minos Cluster itself. The ISD Challenge returned to Argimiliar at flank speed, her orders to prepare the defence against possible Rebel attack. What happened next was history. Argimiliar had been the Rebel’s true objective all along. Upon her arrival, the Challenge had been jumped by an entire Rebel Sector Defence Fleet. Hopelessly outnumbered, and with her three escort frigates destroyed long before her arrival, Rear Admiral Torres had been forced to order a fighting withdrawal. Fully loaded with engineering and industrial equipment, he no longer had his usual complement of heavy assault equipment to deliver to the Imperial troops desperately battling on the surface. Without his transports and landing barges, he had no way of evacuating them either. It was a case of cut your losses and get out, or lose your ship and crew as well as the colony. Torres was forced to ignore the pleas for assistance from the beleaguered garrison and withdraw to the safety of hyperspace. He’d been lucky the Rebs hadn’t had any Interdictor Cruisers in their arsenal, or he’d never have made it out with ship intact and crew alive.
None of which mattered a damn in the eyes of the Hammer’s Fist or the public. The TIE Corps had betrayed the Stormtroopers on the surface. It was that simple. The problem was, no matter how well informed Kessler was on the subject, he felt the same way too.
The devastation caused by the orbital bombardment and the subsequent ground fighting was evident even from this altitude. The Rebels, however, had wasted no time in repairing the damage they’d caused and were even now using the colony’s heavy construction equipment to fortify and clear rubble. The Dream slowed over the starport, the TIE launch cradles in ruins, but otherwise, mostly intact. It occurred to him that the colony centre hadn’t been too badly damaged at all. Most of the devastation was confined to the perimeter. It appeared that the Rebellion had wanted to take the core colony complex intact. That would explain why they hadn’t asked twice about his offer of medical supplies, the fighting around the centre must have been savage if they hadn’t wanted to risk using heavy assault equipment.
The Corel’s Dream flared its braking thrusters once and landed amidst a cloud of dust in an open space amongst a small fleet of shuttles and transports, busily loading and unloading a multitude of cargoes. He was met at the boarding ramp by a dishevelled looking Rebel officer and a handful of wary-looking troopers. From the state of their uniforms and their generally unkempt appearance, it seemed that they were obviously having a busy time down here.
"Captain Coolidge?" The officer asked, shielding his face from the bright sunlight.
"That’s me," Kessler answered, stripping off his gloves as he descended the ramp.
"Welcome to Paradise, Captain," the officer greeted him. "As you can see," he indicated the battle damaged starport with a broad sweep of his arm, "we’re running a little behind schedule getting the landscape gardening finished. I’m Major Horn," he shook Kessler’s hand vigorously. "I understand you have some supplies for us?"
Kessler shifted his gunbelt and stuffed his gloves behind his waistband. "Sure thing, Major. I’ve got a shipful of bacta, surgical supplies, three packed-away field hospitals and half a dozen FX-7 medical droids in storage. Think you can make use of all that?"
"Oh, I think we can come to some kind of agreement," Horn smiled. He made a chopping motion with his right hand and the troops behind him filed up the ramp and onto the ship.
Kessler watched them go with a smile. "Now, Major...you haven’t even started to bargain with me yet." Taking a cigar from his shirt pocket, he bit off the end and spat it onto the dusty ground. "What kind of businessman are you?"
The smile left Horn’s face briefly. "I’m not a businessman, Captain Coolidge. I’m an officer in the New Republic Navy, and I have a lot of wounded men down here who need those supplies you’re carrying." He paused for breath, then his manner seemed to soften. "Look, Captain, we’re not going to rip you off. You’ll get standard market prices for your cargo. We’re the New Republic, not the damned Empire, after all."
Kessler grinned. Here it comes, the part about how you’re bringing peace and freedom to a troubled galaxy. But Horn appeared to be finished. "Okay, Major. I guess I can leave your boys to get on with unloading by themselves. You want to sign for my stuff now or when it’s all off the ‘Shark?" Idly, he patted down his pockets for a lighter.
Horn raised his eyebrows dubiously. "I may not be a businessman, Captain, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I think we’ll pay up after we’ve checked out your goods."
Kessler laughed good naturedly, clapping Horn on the back as he strode by him. "Hell, I like you, Major, you’re my kind of Navy. I won’t even charge you extra for my expenses!"
Horn laughed and turned to climb the boarding ramp as Kessler made his way to Kerrigan’s ship. The Far Trader, aka Shamrock was surrounded by a similar group of utility vehicles, already making short work of unloading Kerrigan’s stock. Kerrigan waved at Kessler as he approached.
"Top of the morning to you, Captain Coolidge"
"And the top of the morning to you, Captain Hart!" Kessler replied.
"A quiet word in your shell, Captain Coolidge, if you don’t mind" Kerrigan whispered. Kessler nodded, the two of them slipping away some distance from the noise and bustle of the unloading process.
Kerrigan produced a lighter and attended to Kessler’s cigar. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"
Kessler raised an eyebrow as he puffed away to get the cigar lit. "The energy shield?"
"The very same. We didn’t figure on this. I think we’re royally screwed, Kess. No way we can get anybody off this mudball with that shield in operation."
"Maybe."
Kerrigan stared at Kessler in undisguised horror. "Holy crap, Kess! Are you out of your tiny mind? What are you suggesting? One of us takes out the shield generator while the other one stages a mass breakout from the prison stockade we don’t even know exists yet, evades those turbolaser batteries, breaks for orbit, fights his way past the entire Rebel fleet and somehow gets into hyperspace before getting himself reduced to his component atoms? Are you freakin’ insane?!"
Kessler grunted. "Turbolaser batteries? Must have missed them. Where are they? South or West?"
Kerrigan gaped.
"Okay, okay, you’re right. It does look hopeless." He sighed. "Kerry, we’ve come this far...there has to be a way." He looked at the burning tip of his cigar for a long moment, refusing to meet the other man’s stare.
"Look, maybe we can at least find out what happened to the prisoners they took? Maybe find out which world they’re being held on? Maybe if you can get word back to someone, at least there’d be a chance there might be some rescue attempt?" Kessler’s eyes pleaded with Kerrigan, mutely. "Come on, Kerry, we have to try something."
Kerrigan gave up. "Goddammit, Kess! Okay, okay! But that’s it, allright? You’re just going to have to admit that TIE Corps screwed these guys over and left them out to dry, and there’s nothing you can do to make yourself feel any better about that!"
Kessler seemed to retreat within himself. Kerrigan wondered if he’d gone too far, nevertheless, there was something he wanted made absolutely clear.
"Look, Kess, I’m sorry okay? But you can’t keep punishing yourself for something that TIE Corps is responsible for. If this is some quest of yours for personal redemption you can count me the hell out. Now are you with the programme or are you going to flake out on me and do something real stupid at the worst possible time?"
"I’m with you."
"Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
Kerrigan grasped his friend by the shoulder and squeezed. "Okay, now get out of here and go dig us up some evidence, you old bum. I’ll meet you back at the Far Trader in an hour with what I find, okay?"
Kessler smiled, "See you in an hour."
"And don’t do anything dumb. I don’t want your ship that badly!"

The frenzied activity in the shuttle port was in stark contrast to the colony centre. The damage here wasn’t nearly as bad, confirming Kessler’s suspicions. Pock-marks etched the walls of the structures, indicating where blaster fire had made its mark, here and there were black scorches where thermal detonators had ignited. Apart from this evidence, there was very little substantial damage. The fighting had been street to street, house to house. The Rebels had obviously been made to pay in blood for every metre they’d gained. It must have been a vicious fight. You took plenty of the bastards with you, didn’t you boys?
In half an hour, Kessler had seen no evidence of any kind of structure that might have housed prisoners. The core of the complex had been rapidly repaired and put to military use. Weary troops rested on street corners or ate at field kitchens. The colony command centre had been restored to its original use and troops guarded the entrances, but no other building appeared to be guarded to any degree that might have indicated the presence of Imperial prisoners. Kessler began to despair of ever finding anything of use. It looked increasingly likely that the 3rd Battalion of the First Auroran Shock Legion had either fought to the last man, or had already been lifted offworld to serve out the rest of their lives on some penal colony.
He turned another corner, only to be stopped by the sight of rows of flyblown bodies, covered with sheets of plastic. A lone Rebel soldier stood over them, looking lost and forlorn. Kessler’s heart leapt, then he realised that the bodies were Rebels, not Stormtroopers.
He slumped onto a sidewalk in defeat. Look at me. Who the hell do I think I am anyway? This is hopeless. Did I really think I was going to personally save those men? Me?
"Got a light, mister?"
Kessler looked around in surprise. He was a Rebel Fleet Trooper, he seemed impossibly young, but his eyes told a different story. The last time Kessler had seen eyes like that was when he’d said goodbye to General Donner, after days of bombardment and perimeter fighting, just as these very Rebel troops were preparing to encircle the colony. Get my men out of here, Colonel Kessler, or die trying.
He hastily searched his pockets, but still couldn’t find his lighter. Taking his cigar from his mouth, he offered it to the Rebel soldier.
"Thanks," said the young man, once he’d managed to light his own. Kessler noticed that his hands trembled slightly. Battle fatigue? He returned the cigar to Kessler, eyeing him curiously.
Kessler grunted. "Those things’ll kill you one day you know?"
The soldier laughed. "Yeah, and I’m blaster-proof."
Kessler chuckled softly. "Well, when you put it like that..."
The two men regarded each other for a while.
"Who the hell are you, old timer?"
Kessler tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner. "Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a smuggler."
The soldier grinned. "I won’t tell a soul... you flew in on one of those old Corellian birds just now?"
"That’s me."
This seemed to satisfy the soldier for a while. Kessler decided to take a chance. "It must have been pretty tough here, at the end?"
The soldier nodded, staring at the patterns of blue smoke from the cigar before they were dispersed by the slight breeze. "You could say that. Got a bit like a starship boarding operation at one point, just before the end."
Kessler whistled. "That bad?"
The soldier nodded. He seemed to be having trouble holding his cigar steady. "It didn’t make sense. They just refused to give an inch. Even when we got one of their positions surrounded they’d just keep fighting. We had to clear the bastards out building by building. Hell, I even saw the wounded shooting at us. We’d lose a dozen men taking a position and when we’d finally overrun it, they’d be gone...like ghosts. Pulled back without any warning. Then they’d start firing at us from another prepared enfilade position further down the street. They just would not quit." The young soldier whispered softly. "Their position was hopeless the second we ran that ISD out of orbit, and they must have known it, but they point-blank refused to surrender." He shuddered. "Afterwards, when it was all over, we counted the bodies. There were hardly any of them! Compared to us, I mean. We must have gotten almost all of them in the bombing, but the few who were left fought like lunatics... I never want to face another Imperial Stormtrooper again as long as I live. Pirates, smugglers...at least they know when the game’s over, but Stormtroopers..." The young man turned to face Kessler, his eyes bright, his lips trembling. "You think they want this system badly enough to come back for it, old man? You think they’ll try to take it back?"
Kessler felt strangely responsible for the soldier’s misery. Awkwardly, he found himself grasping him by the shoulder, trying to reassure him. "Relax son, they won’t be back. You showed them who was boss this time."
The young soldier tried to smile anxiously, looking back at the long rows of Rebel troopers lying silently under the plastic shroud. "Yeah...we sure showed them didn’t we?"

Kerrigan was waiting for him in the cockpit of the Far Trader when he returned just before dark. He sensed there was something wrong instantly.
"You okay? You look like shit."
"Your mother didn’t think so."
He put down his drink and frowned. "No, Kess, I’m serious. You look terrible. What happened?"
Kessler heaved himself into the co-pilot’s station and picked up the bottle Kerrigan had carelessly left on the navigation console. "Ask me some other time." He took a long, hard swig of the bottle’s contents.
Kerrigan eyed him curiously but let it pass. "So...you find anything?"
"Not much. Hell, nothing. No prisoners, no bodies, not even any sign that there were any prisoners. You?"
Kerrigan sipped his drink. "Well I found something weird. A handful of prisoners being kept under guard in a warehouse overlooking the landing field." Kessler looked up, alert and hopeful. "Calm down, Kess. They were civilians, engineers mostly, no more than a dozen of them. They’re still here because all the Reb transport capability is being used to stock this place up with war supplies and so on...the weird thing is, they say they didn’t see any Stormtroopers being ferried offworld, at all, and I didn’t see anything that looked like it was guarded heavily enough to be a Stormtrooper prison facility."
Kessler nodded. "Me neither. So where does that leave us?"
Kerrigan spoke quietly. "Kess, I think we might just have to get ourselves used to the notion that they’re all dead." Kessler nodded, but something indefinable was bothering him. "I don’t know, Kerry. There’s something wrong here that I just can’t place my finger on."
"Kess, give it up, they’re gone, man."
"It’s not that, Kerry. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like that this time. Something’s wrong."
Kerrigan hissed in disgust. "Kessler, leave it, will you? Even if we had found prisoners here, we still haven’t come up with a way of getting them out of here in one piece! It’s over! Why can’t you just admit it?"
Kessler suddenly felt the weight of his years. Kerrigan was right. Maybe he was trying to find personal redemption for the failures of the TIE Corps on Argimiliar II. It didn’t matter, however. Whatever had happened to those troops seemed to be lost to history. They’d failed.
"I’m going to get some sleep, Kerry. See you in the morning, okay?"
"Okay, Kess."
Kessler paused on the way out of the cockpit. "Seems you won’t be getting your hands on the Dream after all. You can have my share of the profits on this trip to compensate you, okay?"
Kerrigan laughed. "Forget it, you old bum. I figure you’ll need all the collateral you can get where you’re going." He clutched at his shirt pocket suddenly. "Oh, nearly forgot!" He pulled a small metallic object from his pocket and threw it to the older man. "Your lighter."
"Thanks, Kerry." Kessler smiled. "You’re not quite the cold hearted, cash-greedy monster you make yourself out to be are you? You’re a good friend, Kerry."
Kerrigan’s expression became strangely unreadable. Regretful, perhaps? "You deserve better friends than me, Kess. Goodnight, old warrior."
Something about the way he said it troubled Kessler more than the acceptance that he’d failed in his mission. It wasn’t like Kerrigan to be fatalistic. Maybe his friend was more troubled about this whole affair than he liked to let on? It seemed probable. Nevertheless, it was a strange thing to say. Kessler shook his head thoughtfully. Kerrigan seemed full of surprises. 

THREE

That’s it! Kessler woke from his slumber with a start. The cockpit was almost pitch black, illuminated only by the glow of instrumentation on standby and the insistent winking of the "Message received" light on the comms array. The alarm accompanying it must have been what startled him awake. Outside, work crews laboured under arc lights, no respect paid to the lateness of the hour. Kessler shook his head to clear the cobwebs, the realisation that had gripped him in sleep slipping away like a dream. Think damn it! Something about why there weren’t any Stormtroopers left on Argimiliar? He clutched feverishly at half forgotten memories, something about what that scared Rebel kid had said... "Afterwards, when it was all over, we counted the bodies. There were hardly any of them..."
What was it about that that was so important?
Something was wrong. It took a moment for him to realise that the Far Trader was no longer on the landing apron. Something was very wrong. Across the far side of the field, armoured ground transports were springing to life. Work crews were stopping in mid-action. A siren began to wail mournfully across the complex.
Kerrigan you son of a bitch! What have you done?
"Play message!" He began to warm up the thrusters, skipping all but the most essential pre-flight checks. Something told him that he needed to get Corel’s Dream airborne now!
"Hi Kess, Kerrigan here. By now the Rebs will undoubtedly have noticed something amiss in those medical supplies we sold them. Those FX-7 medical droids have just begun to start murdering the wounded troops they’re meant to be treating. They’re not ordinary medi-droids, obviously. Each of them has been reprogrammed with assassin protocols. With any luck, one of them has even assassinated the Rebel ground commander and another has self destructed in the communications uplink. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware of any energy field generator when we uploaded their new programming or we’d have taken pains to ensure that one of them was programmed to take care of the generator, too, but I guess you can’t plan for everything, can you?"
"Son of a bitch, Kerrigan! What have you done to me?" He frantically flicked switches, bringing essential systems online. Kicking the navcomputer on, he began the calculations needed for a hyperspace jump. Panicking, he remembered something important. Shields! He threw the necessary switches and a blast rocked the ship on its landing struts. He heard a loud crack amidships and smelled something burning. Too late.
"Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, but we thought it might be useful to have something else down there to keep their attention focused, so you’re going to just have to do your best to get out of there on your own. I’d recommend you make for an area of heavy geothermal activity four clicks just west of your position. Don’t try to make for orbit, Kess. You won’t make it. At least the thermal activity will give you time to land, escape from the Dream and get under cover of the jungle before they can track you, but I wouldn’t waste any time, they’re liable to be very pissed at you.
Good luck Colonel Kessler. Serve the Empire above all others."
Too much happening, too little time to react. The engines surged into life and he lifted her into the hover. Boarding ramp! He withdrew the ramp and the Corel’s Dream turned about and surged into motion. Did he say due west? West was as good as any other direction. He killed his landing lights to make himself a less visible target and gunned the throttle. West? Wait a second...something was wrong with west!
The ship lurched over to starboard with a mighty roar and Kessler was thrown from his seat crashing into the cockpit canopy, the cabin briefly illuminated with a dazzlingly bright red flare.
Oh yeah...the turbolaser batteries.
Master alarm warnings were going off all over the cockpit. The Dream seemed to hover in mid air for a timeless moment, then he was thrown back into the pilot’s station as if by a giant hand as she dropped like a stone, nose first. With a desperate effort, he grasped the controls and heaved back, killing throttle power and willing the repulsorlifts to respond. Come on baby, don’t let me down now!
Without landing lights and with most of his instrumentation trashed, he had no idea how close the ground was. Pilot’s instincts told him he was approaching level flight, when a second lurch rattled his stricken ship and he almost lost the controls. A shower of foliage briefly obscured the canopy and the engines shrieked in protest. Metal screamed as it reached breaking point. He was caught on something! What?
Landing struts!
A second volley of turbolaser fire illuminated the night sky far above. At the very least, his unplanned crash-dive had thrown off the gunners’ aim and he was now too low for the turrets to track him. Well break out the booze...maybe I should be celebrating? He punched the landing gear retraction switch and something groaned ominously. Come on you ugly old bitch! Do me a favour here! Something broke below him and the Corel’s Dream surged clear. Think, damn you Kessler! You’re a Colonel in the Emperor’s Hammer TIE Corps! You’re too good to die in a damn freighter! His heading was still, by some miracle, due west. He’d passed the turbolaser batteries but even without the trashed damage indicators he could tell his ship was doomed. Something Kerrigan had said seemed vitally important. "Don’t try to make for orbit, Kess. You won’t make it..." That was obvious, he’d never make it past the blockade in this state, but Kerrigan couldn’t have counted on the turbolaser gunners being alert enough to take him out. There had to be something else
. His engines chose that moment to cough and die. The Corel’s Dream became very silent, save for the sound of wind whistling against a spider’s web of cracks on the cockpit canopy and the crackle and pop of burning wiring. All alarms died and the entire cockpit instrument panel winked out at once. You sabotaged me? He began pulling at the restraints on the pilot’s seat, clipping them into place onto the quick release catch. With seconds to go, he braced for impact. Kerrigan’s voice floated back to him, seeming to mock him from a distance. "You deserve better friends than me, Kess. Goodnight, old warrior..."
She hit the surface.

Something was burning and he couldn’t breathe properly. He tasted something salty in his mouth and coughed, spitting it out. Blood. His mouth hurt. He opened his eyes and realised that blood was leaking into them from a wound on his face. He took a shuddering breath and coughed violently. The cockpit was filling up with smoke rapidly. Releasing his straps, he clambered unsteadily to his feet. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he didn’t appear to be in any immediate risk of capture. Escape from his burning ship was his immediate priority. A quick glance at the smoke billowing from the fires raging deep within the Dream confirmed that there was no getting out the old fashioned way. He drew his blaster, thankful to find it was still holstered and fired a burst into the canopy. It shattered, already weakened by the multiple impacts of the crashes, he followed up with a kick from his booted feet and struggled through to clean air. Outside, it was too dark to accurately judge the distance to the ground, and the crash had cleared away any jungle vegetation within reach that he might have used to lower himself to safety. He gritted his teeth and dropped, trusting more to luck than judgement. The impact, when it came was embarrassingly easy. He couldn’t have dropped more than four feet, but he was winded all the same, caught off guard. He staggered to his feet, somehow still holding the blaster, and stumbled off into the jungle, tripping over roots and vegetation. The first time he’d been here, the jungle had hidden their ships from detection only because the Rebellion had no reason to know there were any ships in hiding. Any detailed scan would have picked them up easily enough. Today was different. He knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the Corel’s Dream as he possibly could.
"I’d recommend you make for an area of heavy geothermal activity four clicks just west of your position..."
He would have killed for Stormtrooper battle armour right now. The armoured suits weren’t just designed to protect their wearers in battle, they also contained night vision scopes, navigation aids, limited sensor packages and most importantly, they filtered out chemical and thermal waste elements, making their wearers virtually impossible to detect with typical battlefield sensor equipment. He could only hope that the myriad of wildlife native to the Argimilian jungles would confuse tracking long enough for him to make it to the geothermal vents and so avoid detection until he could figure out how to smuggle himself onboard a shuttle and somehow escape this mess.
Myriad of native wildlife? Just what kind of predators lived in the jungles of Argimiliar anyway? He checked the power level of the heavy blaster pistol, wishing it was something bigger.
"Halt. Drop your weapon and lie face down on the ground."
That was it, then. Game over.
He dropped the pistol as ordered, and assumed the prone position, trying to decide if it would be possible to take his captor by surprise.
"Perell, Cornell, check him for hidden weapons."
Okay, make that captors. Not a chance and he knew it. It was then that he realised the voice had come to him filtered through a helmet microphone. Rebel troops didn’t wear helmet microphones. With a surge of joy, he realised what had happened to the Argimillian Garrison.
"Afterwards, when it was all over, we counted the bodies. There were hardly any of them..."
Someone patted him down expertly and he was pulled roughly to his feet. He was facing two Imperial Stormtroopers. Their breastplates clearly identifying them as members of the 3rd Battalion, 1st Auroran Shock Legion, despite the accumulated grime and carefully applied jungle camouflage that had been diligently and professionally applied to their armour.
"Identify yourself."
Kessler straightened his aching back with some difficulty and turned to address his captor, a Stormtrooper Captain. "I’m Colonel Kyle Kessler, formerly Wing Commander of the ISD Challenge and currently of the Fleet Reserve Corps, and son, am I glad to see you!"

General Donner cursed softly as the spacer was marched into the camp. "Kessler. I’d hoped not to see you again so soon. I take it you didn’t make it, then?"
Kessler squinted into the gloom. "General Donner, sir? Is that you?"
Donner gestured and the two troopers escorting Kessler released him from his cuffs. One returned the blaster to his holster. "Yes, Colonel, still alive and still waiting for an answer."
Kessler stared around him at the makeshift command post. He’d counted thirty Stormtroopers on the way in, and that was just the ones he’d been allowed to see. Nearby, a trooper had plugged his helmet into a communications pack and seemed to be filtering through Rebel frequencies. A small field kitchen was in operation, preparing hot food, which was being ladled into containers and sealed for transport, presumably to outstations further off in the jungle. All around him, troopers either slept or stripped and cleaned their equipment.
"Colonel Kessler?"
"No, sir. Three of us made it back to Aurora Prime, we saved a hundred and thirty two of your men, all told. I came back with Captain Kerrigan to try to find out what had happened to you all, to try to get you out if we could, but Kerrigan..." Kessler searched for the words.
"Yes, Colonel?"
Kessler lowered his head. "Kerrigan betrayed me, General. I don’t know why. We found no trace of you or your troops and were preparing to leave when Kerrigan sabotaged the Rebel facilities and slipped away, leaving me to take the blame."
Donner motioned Kessler to sit and called for some food. A silent trooper obliged, then returned to his duties. "So you’re stuck here with us? That was your ship going down out there?"
Kessler sighed. "Yeah, I could have gotten you out if I’d known you were here. I guess that’s all academic now, though."
Donner chuckled. "You came back for us? Hell, Colonel, we’ll make a trooper of you yet!" He sobered abruptly. "But you came back in vain, Kessler. The gesture is appreciated, but we’re not going anywhere, we still have a mission here."
Kessler felt a surge of anger. "What are you talking about? Argimiliar is over, General. The Rebs won. Fleet ran for home with its tail between its legs and left you here to die." He stood, gesturing about him. "What you’ve achieved here is remarkable, but you can’t exist here as guerrillas forever. You’ll run out of supplies one day, or they’ll find you eventually and they’ll kill you all one by one."
Donner looked up at Kessler, his watery blue eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Colonel. We’re the Fist of the Hammer. Dying’s what we’re good for. And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re damn good at making sure we take as many of those Rebel bastards to hell with us as possible. That’s what we do. That’s all we do. You Fleet boys talk a good fight, but you don’t understand what it means to be a warrior." Donner stood and faced Kessler down. "Have you ever killed a man with a knife, Colonel? Ever twisted it in his guts and watched his face as his life drains away over your fist?" Kessler felt himself retreating under the force of Donner’s baleful gaze.
"When you kill a man face to face, you know what it means to be a warrior! Every man here would give his life to take just one enemy of the Empire with him. We’re the last, best defence of the Emperor’s Hammer. When all your fancy starships have given up and run for cover, when the enemy is knocking right on your door, we’re the ones who take his hand and rip it off at the shoulder, then beat him to death with the bloody end. We do not retreat, we do not surrender and we sure as hell don’t give up when we still have breath in our bodies to curse the enemy’s name and strength in our arms to smash his face into a bloody pulp. Do you get me?"
"Crystal, sir."
Donner’s craggy face broke into a broad grin. "Scared you there didn’t I, Kessler?"
Kessler swallowed. "In a manner of speaking."
Donner laughed, flicking his head towards the Rebel fortifications A short bark of a laugh that sounded like a gunshot. "Imagine how those sons of bitches must feel."
Kessler looked back at the distant lights of the garrison, remembering a scared, young soldier standing amid rows of dead comrades. "I think I know exactly how they feel, General."

Kessler sat gratefully as a medic tended to his wounds. "I guess you guys could have used those medical supplies a little more desperately than the Rebs?"
Donner nodded. "They’d certainly have come in useful, but we’re not desperate yet. We still have our field kits, and one of the somewhat double-sided blessing of this battle armour is that any shot powerful enough or accurate enough to get through is almost certainly going to be good enough to kill you." He chuckled. "We don’t get many wounded."
Kessler grimaced at the gallows humour. Stormtroopers, he was rapidly discovering, were just a completely different breed of people. He wasn’t completely sure Donner had been just trying to scare him earlier.
Something occurred to him. "You know something General? Apart from myself , my entire family were Stormtroopers. I was the first in my family to apply for TIE Corps training."
Donner looked at him calculatingly. "I’ll bet you broke your father’s heart."
Kessler didn’t deign to answer. Donner was uncomfortably close to the truth.
Donner chose not to pursue the matter too deeply. "Who was he? Your father, that is? Which unit?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Marius Kessler, Executive Officer, First Coruscant Shock Legion."
"He died at Hoth?"
Kessler was astonished. "The very same. You’ve heard of him?"
Donner nodded. "Well, heard more about the battle than your father per se. It was a fairly pivotal event in the history of Imperial ground warfare, I’m sure you’ll agree, but yes, I thought your name was vaguely familiar when I first met you. Strange that your father should be one of ours."
Kessler nodded slowly. He hadn’t really thought of it that way before. Hoth had always just been the place his father had died. Donner had at least been able to see it in the perspective of history. Perhaps somewhere, his father’s name adorned the wall of some bar frequented by old soldiers? Kessler found that strangely comforting.
"So, General, how do you plan to stay functional as a military unit out in this green crap?"
Donner appeared genuinely baffled. "We’re Stormtroopers."
Kessler got the sense that he was running up against a brick wall mentality. He tried a different approach. "I mean, how long do you think you can survive out here before getting picked up, without being detected by the enemy?"
Donner gave Kessler a long, hard look. "You still don’t get it, do you, Colonel? We’re Stormtroopers. We stay out here, doing whatever we can to harass and confuse the enemy without giving away the fact of our existence, for as long as it takes for Fleet to return in force, sweep the skies clear of enemy ships and give us the opening we need to storm that garrison and kill every last one of those Rebel sons of bitches. Do you get it now?"
"But General, don’t you realise that could take months? Years?"
"Yes, Your point?"
It was that stonewall mentality again. Surely Donner wasn’t stupid? "But how long will your equipment last out?"
Donner seemed to be trying to work out if Kessler was serious. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He unslung his blaster carbine and passed it to Kessler. "Do you know what this is?"
Kessler handled the unfamiliar weapon carefully. It was lighter than it appeared. "It’s a blaster rifle?"
"Wrong. It’s a Blastech E-11 Blaster Carbine. It has an integral targeting scope for use in low light operations and a folding stock which can enhance its use in confined spaces, like house clearing or boarding ops. It can be fired in vacuum, underwater and in extremes of temperature ranging from minus 45 degrees to 150 degrees Celsius. It can be fired with extreme accuracy in single shot mode as a sniper’s weapon or for controlled, aimed shots; or it can be fired in burst mode for rapid or suppressive fire with a variable fire cone of up to twelve degrees spread. It can be left propped up against a tree in the jungle and I can return to it ten years later, pick it up, wipe it down and kill anyone with the first shot. Are you beginning to get my point, Colonel?"
"I’m not sure."
Donner sighed. "Look, they designed this weapon to be Stormtrooper-proof. My boys couldn’t break one of these if they tried, and believe me, some of them do. All of our equipment is designed this way. Everything we use is built to be battlefield repaired, built to last for years without spare parts if it has to, because sometimes, it has to. Now, do you get the point?"
Kessler got the point. Donner was beginning to make sense.
"We don’t have the luxury of having a crew of dedicated support staff just waiting to check every system in our precious TIE Fighters every time we park them in the hangar to go and spend some quality time in the Officer’s Mess." He pointed to a trooper stripping his weapon down for cleaning. "Cornell there, he’s a Stormtrooper first and foremost, but he’s also a trained armourer, rated to strip and repair anything from that DL-44 you’re carrying in your pants to a Golan Anti-Infantry Battery." He pointed to the trooper preparing the meals on the field kitchen. "Clark there, Stormtrooper first and foremost, but also trained as a survival expert and battlefield cook. He can find nutritious foodstuffs in the middle of a desert or a polar waste, and use it to keep a squad on their feet and fighting fit for weeks if necessary." He paused. "Okay, it may still taste like shit, but it’ll keep you alive and fit enough to break someone’s teeth with the blunt end of your rifle."
Kessler laughed, some things were the same in every branch of service. You always complained about the food. He still wondered how Donner could tell the men apart under their blank, featureless helmets, though.
"Okay, General, I get the point. If Fleet arrives, you’ll be ready. But how long do you expect it to take?"
Donner grinned wolfishly. "Could be sooner than you think, Colonel" He sipped at his mug of java. "And when they do, we’ll be ready. We have every inch of that Rebel perimeter mapped out, we know exactly where their command posts are located and we have them scared to even step into this jungle without armoured support." He laughed mirthlessly. "They think there’s some kind of dangerous predator out here that keeps taking their patrols."
They were right.
"General Donner, sir!"
Donner grabbed his carbine and jumped to his feet. "Report!"
The Trooper manning the communications unit looked up, one hand pressed to the auditory speakers on the side of his helmet.
"The Rebels have repaired the damaged communications uplink, sir. I’m getting reports of a space battle. Fleet is in orbit, currently engaging the Rebel blockade. The Rebels count three Star Destroyers and numerous escorts are pushing the blockade back. It’s the Challenge, Relentless and Grey Wolf, sir."
Donner picked up his helmet, stared briefly skyward, then fastened it into place. "Send runners out to alert all positions. This is it boys, payback time. Colonel Kessler. You know how to use that hand-cannon you’re carrying?"
Kessler stood, brushing off dead leaves. "It’s not there for decoration, sir."
"Good, get yourself into a spare suit of armour. We could use every good firing arm we can get. Just don’t get in the way."
"Sir, I’m picking up a transmission from the orbital Task Force Commodore to the ground Commander. He’s assuring him that as long as the energy field remains up, TIE Corps won’t be able to land AT-ATs in the jungle to get beneath the shield. He’s ordering him to hold for two days in the event that they are forced to withdraw and reinforcements have to be sent. The space battle appears to be in the balance at the moment, sir."
Donner’s voice seemed to growl in feral satisfaction as he heard the news, Kessler wasn’t sure, it could have just been the voice filters built into the helmet mikes.
"Then let’s go and ask them to switch that energy shield off, shall we?"

The Rebel base was on alert. The outlying buildings, mostly wrecked by the previous bombardment, were deserted. The Rebels had pulled back to the more defensible inner perimeter. Donner’s men approached to within fifty yards of the pickets before holding position. At no point did any of the Stormtroopers use their radios. Secrecy was their primary weapon, any chatter on the electromagnetic spectrum might give away their positions. All orders were conveyed by hand signal. It was eerily efficient. Every man seemed to know exactly where to be and what to do. For the first time in his military career, Kessler felt like excess baggage.
Through the visor of the helmet he was wearing, Kessler could clearly see the Rebel Troopers on perimeter guard duty. He knew that they would be unable to detect the Stormtroopers stealing up on their positions with thermal imaging devices, they would have to rely on image enhancement equipment, and Kessler knew that only Rebel officers and selected sentries carried these. The problem with image enhancement gear, was that it only worked at its best against moving targets in stark contrast to their backgrounds. Donner’s men were making full use of that fact, moving with exaggerated slowness any time they were in direct line of sight of the Reb positions, their outlines broken up by the customised camouflage paint applied to their armour. Donner signalled to a Trooper back down the line, and a message was passed further back. A few seconds later, it began. With his amplified hearing, Kessler heard the faint whistle of something flying by, high overhead. Then the repeated low crump of concussion grenades detonating deeper within the Rebel perimeter. Something flared, bright in the night ahead of him and behind a cluster of buildings. then the night was lit up with a huge flash. Fuel dump. Kessler’s optics automatically adjusted to compensate for the brief flare of photons, protecting his night vision. The Rebel sentries weren’t nearly so lucky. He heard a strange noise, repeated several times and Rebel troopers clutched at their chests and fell, boneless, to the ground. He realised the noise was from the Stormtrooper’s carbines, but the helmet’s auditory pickups had tuned out any harmful high or low frequencies.
Donner’s men surged forward and Kessler stumbled to his feet, struggling to keep up with them. He cleared the first of the barricades and dropped into a combat crouch, searching for a target. Five dead Rebels lay about him. Sightless eyes staring accusingly at the stars. He began to run after the Troopers ahead of him, melting silently into the shadows and cover afforded by the utility buildings around him. Three Rebel troopers stumbled out of a bunkhouse in the road ahead, fumbling with their weapons and helmets. They were shot dead before they’d barely cleared the doorway. A thermal detonator was thrown into the building and it detonated with the same, strange crump Kessler had heard before. Three Troopers vaulted over the bodies and into the bunkhouse before the explosion had died, he heard more shots, then they re-emerged and the squad continued, hugging both sides of the street, without pause. They appeared as painted ghosts in the night in their camouflage and encrusted grime. Kessler was reminded of primitive warriors, daubed in warpaint, anointed for battle. He knew he couldn’t keep up with them, they were battle elementals and this was their playground. He didn’t deserve to be here, watching them perform their deadly rites to gods of blood and war. They were primeval warriors from another time. He felt vaguely ashamed, as if he had been caught spying on some sacred act.

All of this was so far removed from the realities of war as he was used to it. In space, you got your target in your sights and squeezed the trigger. Then you moved on. The technicalities were the same but the execution was radically different. Down here, in the blood and the dirt, you saw your target’s face as his life spilled out over your fist. Starfighter combat was antiseptic, clinical, removed from reality. This was reality. Down here in the real world with dead men all round you.
Kessler felt sick. He leaned against the bunkhouse wall for support, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Suddenly, he wanted to be out of this armour, he didn’t deserve to wear it, it was suffocating him, accusing him of unworthiness. He felt he was dishonouring it’s real owner, the man who’d died in it, the man who’d earned his warrior’s death. He fumbled with the hermetic seal on the helmet’s neck fastenings and it came free with a hiss of air.
Kessler smelled burned flesh and vomited.
Afterwards, when he’d purged his guts, he looked inside the bunkhouse. Dead men lay everywhere. Most had died in their sleep, denied a warrior’s death in battle, but these men weren’t true warriors. The true warriors were out there now, sowing death and destruction in the night which they’d claimed for their own.
He heard sounds in the distance, explosions and cries as men were sent to meet the gods, kicking and screaming at the injustice of it all. They didn’t deserve the honour they were being granted. Didn’t they understand how blessed they were that the Angels of Death were dancing amongst them tonight?
From they sky, Kessler could hear them, the screech of the banshees, calling out for blood and smoke. A shadow, thrown by the moon, passed over his head and for a second he was sure that they had come for him. He reached out, tears streaming down his face, stretching his arms heavenward in a gesture of supplication, he was unworthy, but he was ready. Another shape screamed overhead, and he seemed to recall it’s pattern from a distant memory. Then the world opened into flame and he suffered no more.

EPILOGUE

<NETFEED/NEWS> TIE CORPS RETAKES ARGIMILIAR II - HAMMER’S FIST GUERRILLA FORCES EMERGE VICTORIOUS FROM SECRET JUNGLE BASES AND DECIMATE OCCUPATION TROOPS.
VIDEO: The ISD Challenge and her sister ships fly victorious in orbit over Argimiliar II. Swarms of fighter and escort craft stream past the camera.
VOICEOVER: As a new day dawns on Argimiliar II, the Emperor’s Hammer has reconquered the world and returned it to it’s rightful owners. The ISD Challenge, in company with the ISD Relentless and the Aggressor Strike Force’s ISD Grey Wolf, has returned to the scene of its defeat and put right what most consider to be TIE Corps’ darkest moment. Rear Admiral Torres, commander of the makeshift Battle Group released this brief statement earlier today:

Rear Admiral David Torres: Today marks the conclusion of a successful venture in Joint mission planning that vindicates the adoption of Command Directive 135 into general Fleet policy. This operation would not have been possible without the dedicated efforts of TIE Corps, Aggressor Strike Force, Hammer’s Fist and Intel; all working hand in glove together, without the bickering and petty rivalry that has characterised Emperor’s Hammer operations in the past. This Fleet Administration fully believes that without the interoperability forced on us by the Fleet Commander’s decision to go ahead with Joint Operations, we would never have had the understanding of how our sister services operate necessary to pull off an operation of this complexity. A further statement will be issued in due course by Fleet Admiral Kawolski. That is all, ladies and gentlemen.

VIDEO: Smoke rises from several locations within the colony, most notably from the shattered power generator in the colony centre. A shield generator is still intact, so are several turbolaser batteries on the horizon, but without power, they are impotent
VOICEOVER: The most striking and surprising event surrounding the victory on Argimiliar II was the re-emergence of the believed lost 3rd Battalion. The martyred Stormtroopers were, in fact, far from lost, but were waiting for Fleet’s return in improvised bases, deep within the Argimillian jungle. It was largely due to their heroic efforts that the siege was lifted so quickly, catching the Rebel blockade fleet completely off-guard and swinging the balance in TIE Corps’ favour as their panicking crews attempted to evacuate the system. The majority of the Rebel ships were slaughtered as they attempted to escape, and almost all of the Rebel transports and assault ships on the surface were captured and quickly drafted into TIE Corps use.
Intelligence Division’s involvement in the success of this operation has been alluded to, but of course, such information must remain classified. Fleet knows, but they ain’t talking.

<light>
"This one’s still alive. Facial burns are pretty bad, he lost his helmet somehow, looks like he got caught in the blast of whatever created that crater."
"Let me see, I got him...yeah, he’s salvageable. He’ll need bacta treatment though. Better get him shuttled up to orbit before he goes so deep into shock that bacta won’t even help him."
"You got him?"
<grunt> "Yeah, he’s secured. You see anyone else here?"
"Nahh, just a lot of dead Rebs. Say, isn’t this guy one of the 3rd?"
"Are you kidding? Look at that armour, of course he is!"
"You don’t suppose he killed all these guys by himself?"
"Nahh, probably they all got hit by that blast."
"Wrong place, wrong time?"
"Yeah, dumbass Stormtroopers!" <laughter>
<Darkness>

Swimming. Cool darkness. Gentle tides, caressing seared flesh. Eyes open. Soft light. Faces.
How long, doctor?
Another four days General. He has regained semi-lucidity for brief spells, but we prefer to keep him under using artificial means, if necessary, in order to stimulate healing.
I want to see this man decorated, Major. He deserves that much at the very least.
Not possible, I’m afraid, General. He is, technically, a deserter, a smuggler and a Rebel defector.
Voices? Familiar. Disturbing.
Bullshit, Major. You and I both know the truth of this matter. This man did what he did out of pure and unselfish motives. He did it for his brothers in arms, but I wouldn’t expect a treacherous, backstabbing little Intel shit like you to understand any of that.
On the contrary, General, I understand exactly why he did what he did, that’s exactly why we knew how he could be relied upon to react when we pushed the correct buttons. Besides, we both know that your own motives aren’t quite as pure as you’d like everyone to believe. It’s your fault he’s in this state. You know as well as I do that you should never have allowed him to accompany your attack. He’s a starfighter pilot, and an old one, at that. He was a liability and you left him behind when he began to slow your advance.
You little shit.
True, General, but soldiers like you need little shits like me to do your dirty work for you. People who aren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty from time to time; and I repeat: He will never be officially recognised for what he did. His involvement will remain secret. We wouldn’t want him setting a bad example to anyone else with a conscience now, would we?
<Silence>
Oh relax. He won’t be punished. We’ll put him somewhere where his... unique talents will be appreciated. Who knows, he may even be grateful?
Excuse me, gentlemen, but the patient’s stress levels appear to be increasing. I must ask you to leave now. Nurse, another shot of cortrazine.
Darkness.

His cell was bare of all ornament, except for a steel bench jutting from one bulkhead.. A simple, iron grey box, he slumped, withdrawn in the corner. The door opened and someone entered, the hiss of the door closing behind him the only sound.
Kessler looked up. His visitor was wearing the uniform of a Major in Intelligence Division. He had a familiar face. Kessler didn’t seem surprised.
"Hello, Kerry."
Kerrigan smiled. "You look like shit, Kess."
Kessler didn’t bother to reply.
"Well I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to be overjoyed to see me." Kerrigan activated a datapad he’d been carrying under his arm.
"Let’s see...Colonel Kyle Cantor Kessler, Service Number TC-WCR-1011, you are formally charged with desertion, smuggling, defection and supplying aid to the enemy. The usual penalty for this sort of thing is death," he smiled. "But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that, do I Kess?"
Kessler dropped his gaze to the deck. "Go to hell, Kerrigan, or whatever your name is."
Kerrigan deactivated the pad and sat himself on the edge of the bench.
"You’ve responded well to bacta treatment, but I think you’ve picked up a few more scars to add to your collection."
Kessler raised his gaze and stared Kerrigan in the eyes. For a while, he matched wills with him. Kerrigan didn’t flinch.
"You knew they were there all the time, didn’t you?"
Major Kerrigan smiled, thin lips drawn tight across perfect teeth. "Of course. It’s now standard policy when a world is overrun by the enemy. Fleet Admiral Kawolski’s idea, I believe. Secret , of course, but standard."
"So why did you need me, Kerry?"
Kerrigan shrugged. "It’s your own fault, Kess. I was going in there alone as per orders to assess the situation until you showed up, all balls and conscience, determined to put right all the sins of the world as you saw them. I figured I could use you just like you were using me. You made it too easy."
"Don’t mention it."
Kerrigan’s smile widened.
"It really was a brilliant idea, Kessler. We had an assault force on that world for the entire duration of the Rebel occupation and they never knew it. That shield generator was a nasty surprise, though, but in the end, it’s presence vindicated the whole plan. Donner’s men took it out without an extensive orbital bombardment or the need for an opposed orbital landing, which would have been tricky in that terrain anyway. Once the shield was knocked out, everything fell apart." Kerrigan chuckled. "You should have seen the chaos in orbit! The Reb Task Force were actually fighting us to a standstill, but once that shield dropped, they panicked. They couldn’t understand how we’d managed to get an assault force past them and take the colony so quickly. They assumed the colony was lost, but in effect, all Donner’s men had done was kill the power generators and capture the communications uplink. The Rebs broke and ran, and TIE Corps butchered them. The men on the surface saw their fleet running and surrendered almost instantly our TIE Bombers began their attack runs."
"Sounds like you got it all worked out, Kerrigan."
Kerrigan nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, yes, I believe we did. Of course, Fleet had to endure a major public relations scandal until the operation was over. We couldn’t exactly broadcast the news that the 3rd was still mostly intact and in hiding on the surface, after all; but on the whole, the operation was a storming success. And the best part is, the Rebs probably still don’t know how we did it, so we can use the same tactic again." He grinned expansively. "Like I said, it’s standard policy now."
It was all coming together now, but Kessler still couldn’t understand one thing.
"Why me, Kerry? Why was I so important?"
Kerrigan at least had the grace to look apologetic. "I’m sorry, Kess, but you really weren’t that integral a part of events."
Kessler sighed. "Figured as much."
"Look, you were determined to go back there, with or without me. I couldn’t let you mess up my operation, so if I couldn’t deflect you, I had to control you." He shrugged. "Sure, I could have just turned you over to Military Police but I’ve heard all about your family, you’re as thick as thieves, Kess. I couldn’t guarantee one of your bloody House Cantor Admiral cousins wouldn’t pull strings and have you released, so I kept you along for the ride. As it turns out, you were the perfect fall guy for the sabotage we planted on Argimiliar, and your escape provided endless distractions for the Rebels on the surface."
"You’re a son of a bitch, Kerrigan."
Kerrigan tutted disapprovingly. "Now, now, Kess. At least I pointed you in the right direction to find Donner’s men, and I did leave you a tracking beacon so we could find you in case you managed to screw up too much."
"So that’s where my lighter went?"
"Exactly. Those things will kill you one day, you know that?"
"Spare me, Kerry. So what now?"
Kerrigan picked up his datapad and stood to leave. "Now? You’ll be returned to active service and all charges will be dropped. You won’t be put in a command position, of course, but you can keep your rank." He stopped as the door to the cell hissed open. "I understand Tornado Squadron on the Challenge have a few spaces open for seasoned pilots."
So this was where he ended up, right back where he began? He left the Challenge a Wing Commander, he returns as a fighter pilot? Funny how things worked out...
"I’ll see if I have an opening in my diary."
Kerrigan laughed, then paused, serious for a second. "Good luck, Colonel. You do deserve better friends than me." And with that he was gone.
Kessler made himself comfortable and waited patiently. Some things were inevitable. He seemed destined to live in the cockpit of a starfighter. He waited. Eventually, someone came for him.
Captain Striker looked up from the training report with barely concealed annoyance. "What is it?"
The door to the office of the Tornado Squadron commanding officer opened with a hiss of pneumatics and Lieutenant Commander Horn entered breathlessly.
"Sorry to disturb you, but some Colonel is on his way in, sir."
Striker groaned. "A Colonel? We don’t have any Colonels onboard! Hell, Wing Commander Taliesin’s only a Lieutenant Colonel....what’s he here for? An inspection? Who is he?"
"Sorry, sir, don’t know, but he’s looking over the ships in the hangar. I just saw him talking to Chief Tech Toranaga, they seem to know each other."
"It can’t be an inspection! We’re not due our quarterly until next month, you sure you didn’t recognise him? There aren’t that many TIE Corps Colonels around. Was he TIE Corps?" Striker stood and straightened his uniform, looking about for his cap. "Where’s my cap?"
"On your locker, sir. And all I can say is he’s pretty old-looking and he had a chestful of medals and battle ribbons." Striker gave Horn a sideways glance. "Not as many battle ribbons as you though, sir" Horn added quickly. "Whatever he’s here for, it looks official."
Striker sighed. "Well let’s get this over with." He stepped outside onto the hangar deck and spotted the offending officer immediately. He appeared to be in his mid forties, hair shot through with grey and a face that seemed to have drawn more than its fair share of scars.
Striker stopped just short of the tall newcomer and coughed politely. Once he had his visitor’s attention, he saluted smartly. "Captain Striker, Commanding Officer of Tornado Squadron, at your service, sir. How may I help you?"
The newcomer returned the salute. "Colonel Kessler, reporting as ordered, Captain." He handed over a movement order.
Striker seemed confused, but to give him his credit, he recovered quickly. "Colonel Kessler? Wasn’t there a Major Kessler who commanded Tornado a few years ago?"
Kessler smiled. "The very same, son. Made it to Colonel and Wing Commander before I retired." he waited while Striker studied the movement order. Striker’s eyes boggled.
"You’ve been reassigned here?"
Kessler’s grin broadened. "Yeah, makes you think doesn’t it? Where do you want me, Captain?"
Striker gave up. "Colonel...you’re an ex-Flag Officer and they put you in a Flight Member’s slot? Who the hell did you piss off?"
Kessler put his arm around Striker’s shoulder and led him off to the bar. "More people than you ever met in your entire life, son. But anyway, I was wondering if my old quarters were still available? You know, the cabin next to the Officer’s Mess turbolift?"
"The one with the en suite shower and toilet facilities that didn’t get taken out at our last refit? Well, we have Lieutenant Veers in there at the moment, but..."
Kessler nodded, smiling broadly. "That’s the one, but we can talk about that later. Did I ever introduce you to my cousin, Rear Admiral David Torres? He used to be Commander of Inferno Squadron. Do you know, I believe he’s Commodore of this very ship now?"
Striker began to get the feeling that things were only starting to get complicated.

The End

© (copyright) Paul Lee Charlton. All Rights Reserved

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