The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

Volume I: Exigence

PART I: TO GALAXY

I: To Have an After

This is a day for Roboute Guilliman.

In the earliest hours of morning when night still makes argument of its supremacy, he receives petitioners. One could be forgiven for thinking that given the incredible circumstances, such matters of state and governance would be unnecessary or even presumptuous. Their ignorance need be corrected - however – as it was precisely because of these incredible circumstances that such mundanities were now more important than ever.

He receives petitioners from the Mechanicum: magi who genuflect and burr the politest of complaints about impossible demand and insufficient flesh resources to meet output. He receives petitioners from the Army: officers who stare fixedly at the ground and stutter through reports of insubordination, lethargy and restive confusion. He receives petitioners from the Navy: proud and battered, who bring him every day yet more requirements he can never meet. He even receives petitioners from the world they orbit: a population that for seven months now has labored under the rule of true civilization, of proper authority and Imperial mandate. These are the most varied of all and they come sometimes in forms not comfortably human.

He receives them all; he listens to their concerns and their plights, to the pleas and demands and then he sends them away. This fills an hour, exactly – sixty minutes by Terran reckoning and no more. He has far too much else to do. At the end of the hour his Invictarii shutter the doors to the reception hall and he retires to his own chambers. There, for a span of time until Macragge's Honour is illuminated by the local primary, he governs.

The petitions that he received were pointless. The petitioners wasted their breath and their time. He already knows. It is all here, laid out in endless, sputtering reports. The purpose of the audience is not to learn: it is to be seen. Now the Lord of Ultramar puts mind to solving these problems. The Mechanicum is cracking the planet beneath. They are hungry for – in truth – everything. The grand barque, Touch of the Motive Force, has disgorged a clamoring army of engines and vehicles that nestle and burrow into the flesh of the world below. Even diminished as their stores are, scarred by the losses of entire machine-cadre, the Mechanicum is never daunted. The exhaust of their industry stains the sky.

In classic, dour fashion, they were shaken not one iota about being forcibly ripped from the galaxy they understood, instead seeing a pristine, virginal world and a plethora of possibilities and tucking into them with relish. Though it is dishonest to demean it so, for the foundries that grow and the manufactories that sprout soon enough are providing for his own Legion.

That is what they come to demand, the Magi of Mars. They are hungry and they are excited and they, like the rest in this lost flotilla, are undermanned. Touch of the Motive Force lost her Magos Dominus in the slaughter over Calth along with many whole clades of tech-adepts. Great divisions of servitors and gene-bulked drafters were mashed and mangled by the hits the barque took. They want the Lord Primarch's dispensation to recruit from the local populace.

He can and will be free with allowance for many of their demands, but this is one he cannot grant. The situation on the surface is too fragile.

The petitioners from the locals, the indigenous population, bring fears. Rightly, this world is Imperial. Rightly, he has decried its compliance. Rightly, a Governorship has been established. Rightly, the diktats of the Imperium and Five Hundred Worlds now illuminate these locals. This is the truth of Terra, brought from far away. Eighty-four percent of the population is human, gene-normal. Minimal deviance. A true surprise. The rest are xenos of differing stripes and manner. He elected not to destroy the latter until he had a better grasp on the situation, and now, months later, he judges it too late. It is not to say that the alien taint could not have been removed – more that there is a greater benefit to munificence than there is for the exacting letter of Imperial Law.

The locals bring fears about their future. Though only a few millions, Roboute is loathe to simply sweep them aside. Already they have yielded an unimaginable array of information for his theoreticals. Now he knows of the scope of habitation, he knows of the major powers, the worlds that hold primacy.

And, as much as it pains him, his forces here are few.

They will need replacements.

No ship has a full complement: two are running on less than skeleton crews. Reorganizing the Army companies has yielded five full brigades, but of such mixed character and caliber that none could be yet considered battle-ready.

These are the issues he considers in this period. He devours the daily outputs of the foundries, he tracks the training of the newborn brigades, he examines the glacial repair of the warships. This is the time when Roboute Guilliman can lose himself in his work, when he can pretend for a moment that the Crusade is ongoing and he is managing the compliance of a new world. Which he is, by technicality, and that conceit is what keeps the rest at bay.

When the sunlight breaks over the limb of the world and spears through the armorglass to fill his chamber, he moves to the next span of the day.

He calls for Thiel. This is a flexible time, different each new day, as reactive as the Sergeant he has grown familiar with. His son enters his father's chambers smartly on time, the leather-bound grip of an electromagnetic longsword peeking over one shoulder. He is in full plate, just as ragged and battered as it had been seven months ago. Thiel has refused to have it restored. His son is wearing his scars on the outside.

Roboute is wearing them on the inside.

They speak for a time. Thiel is of an inventive and uncommon mind and has many theories.

They discuss Calth.

The deception of the morning is over and as the day climbs high they discuss high treason. Thiel voices things a sane mind should not consider. Roboute does not chastise him.

They have been dissecting the entire battle, from the earliest moments, to the very last. They began with the Campanile, months ago, and have just now reached the final stand at the governor's palace. Would that Ventanus made it offworld – their picture of that conflict is muddy and missing details. They piece it back together as best they can, cross-referencing with other Astartes, with Army, with magi.

On some days Gage joins them, or Erriod Paston, or other captains. Thiel is the lowest rank by far, in every meeting, but he never seems uncomfortable. Paston is Roboute's reference for entrenchment and fortification. In a way, he is a surrogate Dorn. If Rogal were here –

His son's secondment to that honorable Legion is a boon Roboute will not overlook.

Today, however, it is only Thiel, and together they pick apart the positions Ventanus, Selaton, Serotid and Sparzi took up around the governor's palace. A broad table, taken from a rating cafeteria, is their map. Even the Primarch's chambers had not escaped the fighting that had swept the flagship and much of his furniture is splinters. The ephemeral spoor of the invading xenoforms did not long last the death of the creatures and what remained of their erstwhile brothers was dumped into searing fusion fires for eradication. No more than deserved, but less than Roboute might have wished for as retribution.

Charts and datalooms clutter the edges of the table, but they use proxies to represent units and terrain. Thiel takes command of the Word Bearer forces, allegedly under one Maloq Kartho. The measure of this Word Bearer is decades out of date, related by word-of-mouth and recalled campaign tales. None of it is useful now, clearly. Kartho has superheavy assets, many regiments of fanatics and, uncomfortably, several of what they still carefully pronounce as 'daemons'. Roboute claims the position of Ventanus and the handfuls of Army regulars with field pieces.

They are not just discussing Calth or dissecting it – Roboute is winning it.

He is recreating Calth from the first moment to the last and he is winning every engagement.

Thiel punishes him twice. First, when he slaughters his own fanatics at the bridge with an artillery barrage and then a fusillade from Word Bearer berserkers. Then, while Roboute is frowning and trying to pick apart the tactical purpose of halving one's own command, Thiel murders Ventanus and the rest of the command cadre with a daemon summoned from the blood sacrifice.

Roboute is irritated and counters that this function is entirely conjecture. Thiel shrugs and in that the point is well made.

The second time is when Roboute-as-Ventanus is leading a counterpunch, savaging the left flank of Kartho's forces and claiming a baneblade kill. Thiel sends an elite troop of Word Bearers into the palace and slaughters Magos Tawren and thus the last hope for Calth. He entirely ignores Ventanus' strike force and allows the rest of Kartho's army to be comprehensively taken apart. Ventanus claims the field, but the planet is lost. A strategic trade.

'They are still Space Marines,' Thiel observes about the Word Bearers. 'Even if they want to pretend otherwise.'

Another point well made.

After midday Thiel makes his respectful departure. He has his own tasks – forming and training a demicompany of Ultramarines from across company and discipline, all who suit Thiel's temperament. Thiel is recruiting each individually, in person. It is exacting and time consuming work. He is going to need a new rank, one of these days. Guilliman puts it from his mind.

In the next arc of the day, as the sun now descends the far side of the sky, the Master of Macragge tackles the problem of the galaxy. Specifically – that this galaxy is not the galaxy. The complications that spin out from that are incalculable. In this place they are becalmed – the warp is calm, freakishly calm, according to the Navigators who survived the insanity Veridia unleashed, but there are no landmarks. There is no sense, no logic, nothing recognizable.

Without charts or maps, without the Astronomican, to enter the immaterium would be reckless at best, suicidal at worst. There are issues now that stretch far beyond the world he has claimed and the men and warships he commands.

To this he turns his mind, formulating plans and sketching out intentions.

They all point back to one result: return.

He will not imagine any other possibility.

When the sun slips past the far horizon and the stars once more are the only light that touches Macragge's Honour he leaves his chambers. His own flag is still recovering. The wounds of Calth, both internal and external, run deep. It will be years if not decades until the ship begins to resemble her former splendor. Before the taint is truly gone.

Now he needs to be seen. This is his Legion hour. He attends his captains, he meets with apothecaries and techmarines, he even trains from time to time. He has three thousand seven hundred and eighty two Ultramarines with him under new stars. There are twelve hundred aboard Macragge's Honour. The rest are scattered across Samothrace, Fourth Honor, and Mantallikes with squads assigned to the rest of the warships for security.

Three thousand, seven hundred and eighty two. Others survived Calth, he knows. Others fled into the warp as well, all escaping before he finally ordered the group under his direct command to disengage. Yet more lived on in the arcologies, still led, no doubt, by Remus.

And yet.

Three thousand, seven hundred and eighty two, out of close to two hundred thousand.

Roboute Guilliman knows the name of every single son who has escaped with him.

When the time he has allotted for his own Legion is expended, he returns to the audience chamber. It is the earliest hours of morning when night still makes argument of its supremacy. He receives petitioners.

II: Chase

Waybound did not so much revert from hyperspace as shudder back to sublight speed with a deep-bone vibration that trembled from aft to prow and a visible undulation that rocked the Nebulon-B frigate and drew groans from overstressed metal.

On the bridge, filled with the fear-stink of five different species mixed liberally with the scent of stale sweat on skin and fur, Captain Faranni slowly eased his grip on the edges of his seat as the shaking stopped. Pops and bangs throughout the superstructure eased into creaking barely at the edge of hearing.

'We're not dead,' he whispered, and louder: 'so that's something. C'mon. Talk to me, what's our status?'

Bleary eyes raked over holograms, most angry red and orange. Shaking hands rubbed at dried blood on cheeks or tenderly probed cuts and abrasions.

'Looks like that was the hyperdrive – engineering is saying…' Dorieke, a Chadra-Fan, leaned closer, sniffing, reading the text scrolling across her screen. 'Engineering says it blew out under the strain. We can't make any more jumps.' About what Faranni expected: the long chase from Telerath had pared away most of the ragged remains of the flotilla and left them hanging by the wire. This last jump, a random, hazardous one, hopefully would have put them just beyond the invader's tattooed reach.

'But we're holding together and still breathing. That's enough for now. Get damage control teams to the breaches along F and G deck. Who's still with us out there?'

'Waybound to fleet, Waybound to fleet: report in. Waybound to fleet, Waybound to fleet, report in.' Despite the hours and hours without sleep, hammered by stress, Akeyr's voice was calm and firm, one paw pressed to the headset as he broadcast through local space. The Bothan was the least injured of all of them. He had been lucky in his position on the bridge that most of the shredded transparisteel from the broad viewscreen had missed him when it had blasted inward. Even the briefest touch of the void before the armored shutters slammed down hadn't seemed to ruffle his fur. He held up a finger, only the slightest of exhaustion shakes quivering it.

'We have – Armiger reporting in, Taxman and Watch Your Back too. Devil's Dance squadron reporting in, Skyhopper and Waverunner both reporting pilots missing. Armiger is saying…Armiger says Equitable went down before they jumped. All hands.'

Faranni sighed, studying the holotank as it slowly resolved what remained of the flotilla. With Equitable gone, their only other frigate, they were well below a quarter strength from when they broke out of the blockade over the besieged world and fled into the deep black. Not to mention another few hundred souls lost.

'Tell them to form up on us and relay damage reports, replenishables and supply.' Raksim, the pilot, eased forward the throttle and everyone winced at the groans and quakes that ran along Waybound as its ion drives spooled up. Faranni turned to Ellaih, the other human on the bridge, overseeing navigation. 'Where are we, Ell?'

The man shrugged, wincing as it tugged on lacerations. 'Hard to say. Just inside the comet shell of a star system, that's for sure, and if I'm looking at the stars right, I'd say we're north of Comkin, probably into the Mid Rim. Give me some time to narrow it down. The whole navicomputer keeps trying to reboot, and I'm kind of afraid if I let it shut down it's not going to turn back on.

'And no signs of the Vong?'

'Nothing yet. Scopes are clear.'

'Akeyr, pass it along: we're going sunward. Get all our scopes looking in and seeing what's here. I want to know our options.'

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the bride as his crew redoubled their efforts. Nineteen hours without sleep. More for some. He was damned proud of their dedication, not just to themselves but to each other. To this ship.

'Then maybe we can see about rotating out for some rest. It's been a long day, folks.' He got a few weary nods and Ellaih mustered a sardonic 'hooray' while Raksim punched the air.

Waybound slowly burned a trail of ions down-well, toward the dim and distant pale star, the battered shapes of three corvettes trailing close and two dozen starfighters glinting like flitterflies in the dark.

...

​

It took only an hour for the damaged sensors and half-fried computers to make out the swarm of contacts clustered around the fourth world of the star. On a macro-scale, they had picked up the major orbitals in only minutes. Two ice giants, then the scarred remains of a long-dead planet. The fourth closest appeared to have an atmosphere, but Waybound was still struggling to pull readings as damaged buffers overflowed and crashed. Then another dead world, a hot giant and a tiny ball of rock skimming close to the corona of the star.

The fourth planet, then, with an atmosphere, seemed to have potential. With Waybound, Armiger, Taxman and Watch Your Back barely flight-worthy, it could be worth putting down on the surface if it was life-normal. Then they could maybe think about repairs.

That is, until the hazy and scattered projections started resolving contacts in low orbit over the fourth planet. A lot of contacts. A lot of very very big contacts. Some were even out farther from the world and thus closer, where the normal nav buoys marked reversion points. Nav buoys that were reported oddly missing.

Several of these ships were burning at alarming speeds out toward them.

'Shit,' Faranni sighed, looking at the blurry holos. 'What did we stumble into, a pirate's den?'

'Look at the mass readings on them though, Cap. They're fethin' huge, if you excuse my corellian.' Ellaih swallowed and pointed with a stylus at the brightest dot. 'Computer can't make heads or tails of any of them yet, but it's telling me that one is at least as big as a super star destroyer. I don't think its pirates.'

'Could it – could it be Vong?'

'Can't be Cap. We're getting radiation readings from them. They're using engines that make sense, or at least ones that make a lot more sense than bugs and rocks.'

Faranni mulled it over, looking at the projected intercept timers. At the rate the unknowns were piling on speed, they'd be intercepted just within the orbit of the first ice giant. They were really hauling ass, he mused, looking at the mass readings and the accelerations. Putting Star Destroyers to shame with the speed they were hitting, howling up from in-star. Yet despite the computer's inability to flag them, they were made of metal and moving like a normal spaceship should.

It was as simple as that.

'There's not much we can do, so we're going to hope they're friendly. They're not Vong, which makes them about a hundred times better than what we left behind. Akeyr, I'm going to record a message. I want it looped and beamed right at them.' The bothan nodded, tabbing through his interfaces, fingers dancing across haptic keys before he gave the go-ahead.

Faranni cleared his throat, and looked around the bridge. They were all watching him, waiting. Big eyes and fear buried under professionalism. Okay.

'I'm Captain Luek Faranni of the New Republic Frigate Waybound. We are fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong and have taken severe damage. We are not a threat and are requesting aid and docking rights. We have casualties on board. I repeat – we are not hostile and are requesting aid.' He slashed with his hand and Akeyr ended the recording.

'Not bad, Cap.' Dorieke rubbed her hands along her arms, ruffling the fur. 'Hope they're honorable.'

'It's just bad luck to turn down a call for aid, Dori.'

'Yeah, well, all we've had is bad luck.' Akeyr couldn't disagree, but Faranni waved it away. 'Tell me if they try to contact us. Keep listening across bands.'

...

​

The unknowns either did not contact them, or whatever means they had Waybound couldn't hear. As the minutes crept closer to intercept the scans resolved further and clearer.

Six ships inbound were roughly the same length as an Imperial Star Destroyer or Mon Calamari Cruiser. The shapes were all off and didn't match anything Akeyr or Ellaih could pull from the silhouette database. The rough holograms of them revealed the ships to be long and hard edged, bladed at the front like a knife, with heavy bastions and redoubts rising from the stern. Further details beyond sketches of the shape couldn't be resolved, not with most of the arrays blown out or turned into mush by coralskipper plasma. The seventh ship seemed a similar design, but tripled in size.

All in all, a huge force to send to meet a battered Nebulon-B and three corvettes.

With the kilometers fast scrolling down from 'astronomical units' to simply hundreds of millions of kilometers and falling fast, the lack of communication was starting to prickle the skin at Faranni's neck. His message continued to play on loop, over and over, sending out the call for aid to fall on apparently deaf ears.

'It'll be fine,' he kept saying, 'they're just being cautious with us.'

The unknowns passed the hundred million kilometer mark with less than an hour to intercept just as new contacts appeared directly aft. Ellaih didn't need to say anything beyond his stream of profanity: the new contacts appeared in exactly the same place they had, same orientation, same vector. It was obvious even before the holograms started resolving, showing the pitted coral and splashes of color across rocky exteriors.

Vong.

A capital ship analog and half a dozen cruisers. Overkill, bloody overkill, and the damned Vong started accelerating even as they appeared on sensors. Waybound and its fleet had only limped in-system on half-dead engines and leaking reactors: the invaders arrived in fresh and healthy vessels and the distance between them began to drop precipitously. Wordlessly, Raksim updated the main display, showing the Vong easily overtaking them before the unknowns could arrive.

'Raksim, how much more speed can we put on?' The Devaronian grimaced, fangs flashing between his lips.

'A bit? It's not a science, Cap. Engineering says our reactor is doing okay at this speed, but if we stress it we could risk blowing containment.'

'How big a risk, Dori?' The Chandra-Fan glanced at Raksim for support.

'A…good one? We haven't catalogued all the damage yet. We could push to combat thrust and be fine, or go ten percent higher and turn into atoms. We just don't know.'

Faranni looked at the chart, at the red icons advancing from the rear and the yellow from the fore. The Vong would kill them. There was nothing a frigate and three corvettes could do to even a single Vong cruiser on a good day and against six of them and a capital ship? They were dead.

But the unknowns…

Well.

Unknown.

'Crank us up, Raksim. Slow and steady. Akeyr, tell the others to follow suit. Get the squadrons back in the air. We're going to make it to the unknowns before the Vong catch us.'

'The reactor-'

'It'll hold or it'll blow. But if the Vong catch us we die, so I think I'll take the chance that we won't die today, Mister Raksim. Now crank us up, nice and slow, and Dori - tell engineering to listen with a stethoscope if they have to and let us know when it's about to go wrongways.'

Despite the white-knuckled grip on the throttle, to his credit the pilot slowly eased it forward.

The frigate shuddered and creaked, trembling down its spine.

For long minutes as Raksim teased more and more acceleration from the wounded starship they sat, teeth clenched, waiting for the sudden bright annihilation as around them metal and plastics spoke their indignation.

But they didn't turn into a star, the ship didn't crack in two, and the estimated times to intercept slowly changed.

Until the Vong would reach them at the same time as the unknowns.

Until the unknown's intercept overtook the Vong.

They could not outrun the Vong, not in a flat race. But they could simply delay being overtaken and it was enough. When the margin of error was satisfactory, at least in his mind, Faranni gave the order to stop. 'We'll run at this rate from now on. Lock it in, Raksim. And good job.'

Practically drenched in sweat, the Devaronian slumped back in his seat, boneless, and scrubbed his hands across his face.

'Cap, don't you ever make me do that again.'

'You've got my word. Never again. Akeyr, I want a new message ready to broadcast.' He cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck, and spoke.

'This is Captain Luek Faranni of the New Republic Frigate Waybound. We are being pursued by hostiles who will not accept surrender and do not understand mercy. This might not be your fight but I am asking, on behalf of my crew, for assistance. I repeat: this enemy will not accept surrender and does not consider mercy. Please, we are requesting assistance.' Akeyr cut the recording. He hated how desperate he sounded, how close to begging he came.

'Loop it, send it. We have forty minutes to intercept. Go clean up, grab something to eat. Nap if you can. There's nothing else we can do.' He remained sitting in the command chair, fingers woven in his lap.

None of his bridge crew moved.

'Forty minutes, Cap,' Ellaih spoke for the rest. 'I think I'll hang with you guys until then.'

...

​

The chrono ticked just past ten minutes to intercept when they got their first response.

Light flickered and flared, a stroboscopic burst illuminating the entire bridge in a sequence of rapid flashes.

'Holy shit!'

Faranni gaped, openmouthed, at the flashing columns of crimson light that blotted out the stars to either side of the rag-tag flotilla. Bloody-tinted hues painted the entire bridge, deeper and richer than the combat lighting, bisected by the armored plate over the missing central panel of the transparisteel. As quick as they appeared the weapons fire ceased, the bridge slumping back into the half-light of flickering panels and diffuse starlight.

'Akeyr,' he said slowly, clearing his suddenly dry throat. 'What was that?'

'Weapons fire,' the Bothan breathed, wide-eyed and staring blankly at scatter of holos around him. 'A lot of it.'

'From our friends?'

'From our friends.'

'The Vong?'

Akeyr shook his head, blinked hard, shook his head again like he was trying to get water out of his ears.

'Gone.'

A pin could've been heard striking the floor.

'Try again?' Dorieke said, half-standing in her chair.

'Gone, sir, gone, they're damned gravel!' Akeyr's voice ramped up, nearly shouting out the last word. 'Dead!' Faranni was out of his chair, limping over to peer over the Bothan's shoulder. There was nothing but expanding clouds of debris far behind them.

'That was from them?' He gestured at the yellow contacts still more than a million kilometers distant.

'Concentrated laser fire. Blew right through them!'

'Dorieke, is that possible?' The Chadra-fan shrugged, nose twitching.

'I have no idea! I'm engineering, I've barely even serviced a turbolaser before!'

'At that range?' Raksim gaped, craning his neck to try to spot the flecks of light through the forward panes. 'I wouldn't believe it if it hadn't just happened in front of my eyes.'

Faranni moved back to his chair, resting forearms on the worn leather back. So these fellas just blew away a squadron of Vong like a ronto swatting dung-fleas with its tail. The upside is that they chose to swat the vong, and not the Waybound and its fellows. That had to count for something. Even if they were playing coy and choosing not to talk, that was about as bald a statement as could possibly be made.

'Well, I guess we've got some friends, then.' Luek blew out a breath, relief at having the vong off their backs well worth the trepidation at whatever-the-hell they were that were still barreling toward them. 'We still shouting, Akeyr?'

'Still are, Captain. Should I stop?'

'Hell no. Append a new message. Tell 'em thanks.'

…

​

Faranni was half convinced the contacts were just going to blow past Waybound and its little fleet at the speeds they were going, but only a few minutes ago they started decelerating, hard. Hard enough he winced at the poor bastards on board, doubting even the best inertial dampeners could totally mitigate that kind of force. Akeyr and Dorieke were pouring over the latest pics of the ships, having finally gotten to within a few hundred thousand kilometers, close enough for the intact telescopes to get clear images.

'They're ugly as sin.'

He wasn't sure he quite agreed with the assessment, but the six ships were certainly a – ah – particular kind of design. One that, apparently, favored ornamentation. A lot of ornamentation. The prow of the biggest ship, the big whopper that was a hefty four kilometers long, was covered in what looked like relief etchings. Avians spreading their wings, screaming through razor-sharp beaks, talons grabbing zig-zagging lightning bolts and bundles of twigs. The smaller ones (smaller meaning only the size of an Impstar) had what looked like wreaths and lightning bolts around odd, U shaped emblems on their flanks and blunter prows. Big black slots on the smooth prows of each ship seemed to hint at the origins of whatever kind of crazy turbolasers they were packing that spanked the vong.

The most striking feature, though, was the damage. All of them looked like they'd been through the wringer. Scorch marks obliterated what was probably a lot more paint and decoration, but it wasn't just superficial. Huge bites were taken out of some of the ships, exposing rib-like decks to space. Radiation readings were all over for one of the ships, probably indicating a very unhappy reactor, according to Dorieke.

'You think they've already encountered the vong,' Akeyr wondered, pointing a claw at the scorch marks and craters in the armor of the warships. 'Maybe that's why they were so trigger-happy.'

'Maybe, but they blew right through the guys on our tails. Makes me wonder if the Vong would trouble them too much.'

'Maybe it was a lot more of the scarheads.'

'Maybe,' Faranni conceded, rubbing at his chin.

Two of the smaller ships were launching starfighters from ventral bays, whole wings of the things dumping out into the void.

'Reel in the squadrons, tell them to hug us close, no threatening moves. I don't want a twitchy jock getting us all killed.' The Bothan nodded, spinning away from the sensor holotank and tapping into the air patrol bands. Faranni steepled his fingers and tapped against his lips, tense. Two of the contacts kept up the deceleration, soon to be visible to the naked eye. The other four, still slowing, looked like they were planning to continue past. Probably form a cordon, maybe. Or head for the still-expanding debris field that used to be a bunch of angry scarheads.

Still no communication. At this point it had to be incompatibility. But they'd heard, right? Why else had they shot the vong but not his rag-tag command? Maybe they could receive but not send. Maybe they were just being assholes and playing it coy. Who knows.

Devil's Dance, Skyhopper and Waverunner pulled in close, the starfighters hugging their motherships while the flights of unknown fighters thundered past, barreling by within a hundred kilometers or so, give or take, arcing around to encircle and settle into a very obvious combat air patrol. Faranni wasn't keen on throwing a handful of E-wings and old V-wings out into that kind of a meatgrinder if he didn't have to.

'Any time now,' he muttered, waiting for Akeyr to tell him that finally someone was talking.

Nothing.

The two largest craft came to a relative crawl, keeping range off the bows of his flotilla at a range of two hundred kilometers while the other four ranged out, engines flaring and altitude bells blasting adjustment exhaust to orbit at a farther range.

'The hell do they want us to do?' Faranni had to agree with Raksim. Dorieke nodded as well.

'Wait, I guess. We're on their turf, so it's only fair.' The Devaronian blew a raspberry.

'Fair my ass. I'm gonna have a heart attack from the stress.'

'We'll miss you. Akeyr?'

'Still nothing,' the Bothan confirmed, his fingers tapping here and there, double and triple checking there wasn't anything out there. 'Just radiating what you'd expect a big ship to be radiating. I mean – maybe they've been trying to talk to us on a band I've never heard of, but, well, I can't help that. Maybe they could just use blinky lights instead.'

'Might just come to that.'

The unknown fighter squadrons kept up their patrols, neat formations of chunky starfighters criss-crossing in the void around them. The big ship, the one hanging ahead of his little force, cruising backward to keep its guns trained right on them – that one he could see himself. A miniature through the viewscreen, no bigger than his thumb for how far away it was.

'What do you want…' Faranni muttered, rhythmically squeezing the cushion-less arms of his chair.

The answer was quite beyond expectations.

It began with Akeyr frowning, fiddling with his console. 'That's strange,' the Bothan said.

'What?'

No response so Faranni had to repeat himself. 'What?'

'The big one's reactor output spiked. Like – hard. It's a really big bloom.' Sudden concern swept him, Faranni looking back at the viewscreen.

'Like they're going to shoot?'

'No, this is higher than the readings when they blew up the vong. And it's like – it's ramping up – what are they doing over there –'

'Captain…' The hair on the back of his neck stood on end along with on his arms. A strange buzz crept into his head, setting his teeth rattling against each other. Ozone suddenly filled the air, bitter on the tongue.

A fizzing, cracking little ball of purple light and snapping tendrils of lightning hung in the middle of the bridge. The bridge of a Nebulon isn't large, but was at least comfortable. Perfectly in the middle, equidistant from the walls and consoles, all eyes were locked on the phenomenon.

'Akeyr. Are they doing that?'

'Two plus two equals four. I think so.'

'…shields?'

'Up, Captain.'

'Are they…trying to talk?'

'You don't pay me enough to know the answer to that.'

The little pocket of lightning dimmed for a moment, seeming to pull inward, sucking up the stray ergs and little whips before all hell broke loose.

There was a violet and blue flash like lightning and a crack that had his ears ringing.

In the center of the bridge, sucking up all the air, red-eyed helmet scraping the overhead, Luek goggled at an enormous war droid, painted a deep oceanic blue and covered in entirely too much gold that caught the lumes and dazzled. One arm sported a massive slab of metal with an ornate U in white while the other fist gripped a huge, blocky gun that pointed not quite at him and not quite away. Lightning crackled along its limbs and grounded off to the floor even while frost formed and melted along blocky limbs in shimmering waves. Akeyr swore as Raksim dove under his console. Dori was simply frozen. Elliah looked fit to pass out.

Slowly it raised the muzzle of the cannon until it pointed straight up and swept the bridge with its burning lenses, everyone rigid with shock. Luek's tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, cold sweat chilling his back.

'Stand down.' The droid's voice was grating and grumbling, modulated and harsh and Luek almost laughed crazily at the madness of the command, because no one was even thinking of doing anything violent. Not when something as big as a wampa fething teleported onto your ship.

'I bear peaceful greetings and a warning that you have entered the sovereign realm of the Imperium. Your ships will be guided into orbit. Make no violence and you will not be harmed.'

Brother Sergeant Ascratus clenched his teeth as the whine of the teleportarium peaked, physically and mentally bracing for the shock of translation. Through the flickering arcs of lightning and blurring skin of reality he could see the magi operating the arcane controls beyond the platform, mechandendrites awhirl and skittering. He bore only a bolt pistol, a storm shield and short gladius. Nothing more for this action for the intent was not violence but amazement. A gesture more suited to the VIth than his own, but the theoreticals were relatively sound. If a bit more fanciful.

A metallic taste filled his mouth and his bones shook and then his boots hammered to metal decking, vision clearing and the world left suddenly so much quieter.

Where he found himself was tiny compared to the vast, vaulted hall of the teleportarium. He thanked the prowess of the magi, taking in the cramped confines, realizing that even the slightest error would have fused him to the bulkheads or worse. A risky calculation, but his Primarch had been…irregular…of late. Directly before him and in a lone seat that appeared likely the command throne was a human and another human cowered at a small console, but the rest of the tiny strategium was crewed by xenos. A remarkable array as well – one was minute and furred with a squashed, bat-like nose while another bore a disturbingly demonic visage and the last appeared vaguely reminiscent of Martian cyberhounds. Without the augmetics, of course.

All were cowering, stricken, and Ascratus saw no weaponry. Not even a pistol at the hip of the captain, and behind his helm he frowned. To be unarmed was unwise and indeed strange for the lord of a ship to not have at least a laspistol or whatever local equivalent there was. If for no other reason than to impress their authority.

He remembered the briefing, his orders.

'Stand down,' he commanded, though knew it was a frivolous command. Even should all by some madness overcome their terror and hurl themselves bodily at him, he would need but one hand to subdue them all. The red-skinned xeno was even hiding beneath their station.

'I bear peaceful greetings and a warning that you have entered the sovereign realm of the Imperium. Your ships will be guided into orbit. Make no violence and you will not be harmed.'

The local tongue sat ill in his mouth, unaccustomed as he was to anything but Gothic. Lord Guilliman had instructed all of the Thirteenth to study the trade speech and so dutifully Ascratus had done so but had not dreamt of needing to use it.

The motley collection before him seemed dumb or deaf to his words. He rapped his storm-shield against the decking, ringing adamantium against steel. The captain started while the tiny alien cried in alarm.

'Your names?'

The human's mouth flapped several times, no sound emerging. It was the xeno that spoke first, the larger furred one. Ascratus suppressed his distaste, for the first time appreciating the patrols that had been enacted on the surface of the world, when he had to learn to stay his hand at the sight of humans and xenos rubbing shoulders. It made it much easier to truly listen to the xeno now.

'Akeyr,' it said, its tone warbling and tremulous. Likely due to its degenerate biology. It pointed a clawed and furred hand at the human captain.

'Luek.' Then it pointed to the others and gave their names as well, all strange to Ascratus' ears. Raksim and Ellaih and Dorieke. At least – he assumed these were names. Perhaps the alien was merely speaking some oddity in its own tongue and not using the local trade language. This was resolved, though, when it pointed back to itself.

'I'm Akeyr.'

Ah. Names indeed.

The captain found his tongue.

'You can't,' he spluttered. 'You can't just – uhm, I mean, ah-' he coughed into his fist. 'I'm Luek Farrani, captain of this ship.' The man glanced around to his crew, seeming to draw some manner of strength from them. Even the xenos, which Ascratus forced himself to overlook.

'Who are you? What, ah, gives you the right to board my ship without –' he cleared his throat 'without permission?'

Ascratus raised an eyebrow. For a mortal first meeting an Astartes, he was impressed by his temerity to actually speak back.

'I am Brother Sargeant Ascratus of the Thirteenth Legion. My right is your presence within Imperial Space.'

'I haven't – we haven't – we didn't come here on purpose. We were chased.'

'As I am aware. For that reason, you are forgiven trespass. It is understood that no slight was intended.' He looked around the strategium again and slowly holstered his bolt pistol. They were all unthreatening and he read no malice or hostility nor sufficient terror to cause unwise acts.

'Yet be that as it may, your presence is a concern and must be managed. I am here to facilitate such.'

'You-' the xeno who had already spoken made to speak again, but the captain – Faranni – cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

'I shall guide your squadron to high orbit of Eboracum. Your ships will follow the flight plan. Any threatening actions shall be responded to accordingly. Follow my instructions to the letter and your crew will face no harm.'

The human argued the need for the ships to land due to damage and injuries of the crew, but Ascratus had his orders. After bringing the world into compliance and establishing the outpost, Lord Guilliman had decreed that no communication should enter or leave this system and all traffic to be interdicted. The strange locale they found themselves in, perhaps even another galaxy, was one beyond the knowledge of the Imperium or Mechanicum and thus the utmost necessity was security. These new ships, claiming to be a squadron of the supposed local power, threatened the careful bubble that had been constructed here.

If they were to be allowed clearance to land it would not be Ascratus' decision. His orders were clear. Board and guide the New Republic warships to high orbit. There they would be examined by armsmen of the Navy and by magi of the Mechanicus to determine their threat, if any. The crews would be isolated and likely interrogated.

It was not his concern. His concern was simple.

To do his duty.

III: Closed Doors

After Kalenda had left there'd been a round of discussion about the news brought by the officer – turncoats, traitors, treason and threats. Bogen was dismissive of it all, but then, that was to be expected. In her estimation, there were few things the blond man didn't smirk at. Perhaps he thought it made him seem in control, but the reality was he revealed himself a fool each time. Viqi Shesh, freshman senator for Kuat and her holdings, fingered through the brief one more time. As useless as Bogen might have been, he did have a minor point about bringing this directly to CSI. The Council for Security and Intelligence did, of course, deserve to be kept in the loop on this Intelligence operation, but an in-person briefing? This Elan and her pet Vergere were an interesting development, but far more critical was the loss of Obroa-Skai and the ramifications of that much intel in the hands of the invaders.

'What are we doing about that, anyway?' she said aloud, cutting off something Marab was waffling about. It likely didn't matter.

'Ord Mantell?'

'No, Obroa-Skai. Bel-dar-nolek might be an odious little man, but he raised a fair point. We have to assume the Vong have the full libraries of the Obroan Institute. That seems to me, though I admit I am new here, to be a rather serious security problem.'

Praget waggled his hand, reclining as he was toward the head of the conference table. 'Not quite as much, Senator Shesh. The Obroans cared more about historical and cultural documentation. Sensitive information, at least as pertains to security concerns, wouldn't have been in their libraries.'

Marab, surprising Shesh, narrowed his bulbous eyes and cut in.

'I believe I might see the Senator's point. If we agree that these invaders are indeed from beyond our galaxy – which is still under examination – then even data that we might see as common is still precious to them.'

'Thank you, Senator,' Viqi favored the Mon Calamari with a nod. 'I'm not afraid of the vong gaining a schedule of our fleet movements, not at all. Senator Praget is quite right about that. But even just access to a comprehensive map of the galaxy or an index about species and cultures? Well. We all sit on this Council, I don't believe I need to remind anyone how powerful that sort of information can be in the right actor's hands.'

There was a moment of silence, considering previous crises and flashpoints that had erupted after the dissolution of the Empire, leaving sectors riven by cultural divides once kept locked down under Imperial authority. Some of those wounds were fresh indeed.

'We've read the briefs about Rhommamool and Ossarion, among others, that argued a link with the Yuuzhan Vong,' Praget admitted, finally nodding along. Miatamia, across from him, leaned back, pensive.

'Perhaps we can assemble an assessment. Work with the Institute-in-exile to look for cracks that Yuuzhan Vong might exploit.'

'That's really all I ask, Senators,' Shesh said with a light smile, shuffling her pile of durasheets and pushing them aside. 'If that is all, though...?' Another meeting loomed in just under an hour, and after that a planned dinner.

'Actually,' Praget spoke up. 'Considering Kalenda's implications about Ord Mantell and Senator Shesh's concern about Obroa-Skai, perhaps it might be worth moving up this particular tidbit.'

Bogen grimaced.

'Are you keeping things from us again, Krall?'

'It's Senator Praget, Senator Bogen. This crossed my desk this morning, from an associate of mine in the Ploo Sector – Senator K'farn. It wasn't classified, per se, but after viewing it, I acted on my authority as a member of CSI to lock it down.'

This raised eyebrows, or equivalents, around the table.

'Go on then, Senator Praget,' Viqi said, mentally condemning the man if it was some overreaction. Rescheduling that meeting was going to be disappointing and she'd be damned if she missed the dinner. Krall Praget fiddled with a datacube for a moment before commandeering the local holotank. A classified seal resolved in mid-air as Praget took the opportunity to stand.

'This is a message that was passed up local holocomm lines. Its origin is a system locally called 'Pirva', rimward of Comkin. You wouldn't know it. Apparently, it had stopped monthly connections about six to nine months previous, but that wasn't entirely unusual. No one really lives there. This transmission was the first to bounce up the chain to the local government who immediately sent it on to Coruscant after viewing it once. You'll understand why.'

Praget manipulated the controls at the conference table and the seal faded away, revealing the interior of some manner of starship. Praget, helpfully, filled in that it was the conference room of a Nebulon-B, looking rather smug about this knowledge as well.

What caught all attention and had Viqi straightening in her chair, were the occupants. One man stood center frame, looking pale as a ghost and incredibly nervous. A handful of clean bandages were visible, wrapping around one hand, his upper arm and about his head. Most importantly, he was wearing the uniform of the New Republic Navy along with the tabs of a captain. The others in view...

One was a human man, looking particularly weathered and gnarled, in a wildly decorated uniform that dripped gold trinkets and braids from nearly every inch. None of the icons meant anything to Shesh at all, but gold was usually a universal indication of 'important'. The other figure was, well, probably also a human male, save that he towered over both the unnamed Captain and their bedecked companion. At first glance one might be forgiven for assuming him to be a war droid or something like that, as he wore a suit of massive armor that would put even Dark Troopers to shame. But for his bare head, revealing sharp eyes and short-cropped hair along with a neck like a wroshyr trunk, he was entirely encased. Like the other strangely dressed man, this enormous armor was done in blues and golds with a repeating symbol of a sylized U present everywhere.

Externally, Viqi Shesh merely raised one manicured eyebrow.

Praget pressed play.

The New Republic Captain cleared his throat, hands twitching at his sides, and began speaking.

'I'm Captain Luek Faranni, commanding the frigate Waybound of Taskforce Mousetrap. I'm speaking on behalf of the, ah, Imperium.' He cleared his throat again and then as Viqi looked closer, she saw the motion of his eyes as he clearly read from a prepared statement out of frame.

'The Imperium extends its greetings, having recently found themselves in this region of space. They wish to establish cordial communications with the New Republic in the hopes of fruitful dialogue and discourse. They confirm engagement with a common enemy, the Yuuzhan Vong, and would especially like to discuss the topic of this common threat. A response through the local holocomm network is encouraged before any face-to-face meeting.' Faranni glanced to the side, muscles bunching in his cheek.

'I'm also allowed a short personal message. Mousetrap Taskforce is almost gone. Waybound, Armiger and Watch Your Back might be all that's left. We were chased by a vong squadron that had a capship and six cruisers. Whoever is receiving this message – these guys killed a vong capital ship in ten seconds. Just blew it away, along with all the escorts. I don't know who they are, but for-' The captain took a deep breath. '-talk to them. Please. I lost too many friends this past week.' Faranni half nodded and the holo froze.

Silence reigned in Room 030. Praget sat back down, looking pleased, especially at the expression on Bogen's face.

Alright, Shesh considered. This was maybe worth a missed dinner.

She steepled her long fingers, fixing Praget with her full attention. The other Senator noticed immediately, turning more serious.

'What else is there?'

'Attached were verified files from one Waybound, registration number 9981/22, confirmed to be part of Taskforce Mousetrap, a local group responsible for patrol around Telerath and along the Vaathkree. Luek Faranni is definitely one of ours. Those files included-' Praget produced a handful of datacubes and scattered them across the table carelessly. Shesh snapped her hand down, stopping one, and slid it closer.

'You can read them yourselves and we'll need to triple verify it, but the sensor records from Waybound back up what our Captain here said. One capital ship, six cruiser analogs. This 'Imperium' blew them away with a single salvo from four ships. Four ships. No details on them and there's evidence of tampering there. Someone wanted us to see what they could do, but not what they were.'

Marab turned a datacube around carefully, looking it over.

'This is an incredible claim. The Yuuzhan Vong invader has proven a match for our best vessels.'

'More than a match,' Viqi countered. 'Let's not mince words here. This conflict has been a disaster so far. Our losses are completely disproportionate. To remind us of earlier, that's why Obroa-Skai was lost. Feyl'ya wasn't wrong about not being able to spare much more.'

'But such power?' Miatamia harrumphed, folding his arms. 'I'm inclined to believe this is a fake. How could a group so powerful have avoided drawing attention to themselves? Didn't we just discuss how the Yuuzhan Vong could not have been a lost civilization in the Tingel arm, for just these reasons?'

'We did, Senator, but from the initial checks, the only tampering of the records is the data for the Imperium's ships. The rest comes clean.'

'Then perhaps the Imperium ships were not ships at all. A defense array, maybe, or a powerful station. Like Centerpoint!' Tolik Yar added his own thoughts, joining the conversation, but Shesh held her tongue.

What was the angle? She'd just asked that of Elan and Vergere not twenty minutes ago. What did they want? Neither of the two 'Imperium' representatives spoke during the recording. One nail creased along the edge of her datacube as she gazed at the frozen image. The man to the left of Faranni looked tanned and scarred, as grizzled as any old General. At his waist was a holster on one hip, filled with a chunky firearm of some kind, while on the opposite hip was slung low what looked like the hilt of some blade. A sword, perhaps. The frogging, braiding, trinkets and medals – a martial society, clearly, if this was the sort of thing they showered on their officers.

The other man, to the right. Towering over Faranni and the other man at a height of at least seven, maybe eight feet tall in that armor. Was the armor what made the difference, or was the man that big too? He looked human, but humans came in so many varieties across the galaxy. Shesh herself was a hair over six foot, as befit the fine breeding and genes of Kuat. The armor itself spoke to the inclination of this Imperium. Everyone knew the Stormtrooper. White armor, black visors, the symbol of Imperial might across the known galaxy.

The contrast couldn't be clearer, she considered. Stormtroopers were clinical and precise. Their armor was exactly what was necessary to intimidate and protect. This man's armor – it was covered in gilding and symbols even more stylish than the 'General'. Underneath it though, Shesh eyed plates that looked like starship armor.

She was a Senator, but she was also Kuati. War was in her veins as much as politics and she felt it, looking at those two. War wasn't a profession for either of them. War was a state of being.

No one could dress like that and be anything else.

Shesh smiled.

'Senator Praget, you were entirely correct to bring this to our little Council.' Bogen, who'd been talking, trailed off, scowling, but didn't interrupt her. 'New Republic Intelligence seems to be all-in on their little Elan project. I propose we move forward about this 'Imperium'. Let's reconvene in say, two days, with a full dossier on our Captain Faranni, Taskforce Mousetrap and with verification on just how accurate the attached data is.'

Nods agreed with her around the table.

'I feel there really might be something at the root of all this, Senators. It'll be up to us to winnow out just what that is and how it can benefit the New Republic.'

Yes, she concluded, as the meeting broke up and the holotank spun down, fingering the precious little datacube, the durasheet brief from earlier forgotten. Yes, tonight's schedule was definitely going to be cleared.