The Accelerated Coup
Posted on Mon Dec 5th, 2022 @ 12:04pm by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare & Valavai Tarses
3,821 words; about a 19 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VI: The Last Bastion
Location: Across Bastion Space
Timeline: Shortly after "Two-Bantha Race"
The lights on Moff Hemley's comms panel were blinking erratically as it held back the tide of incoming signals from his various subordinates around the base. They had come without warning: Tarses-loyalist troopers at every entrance to the base, equipped with anti-air weaponry and declaring the facility on lockdown and demanding that he comply.
While less than an hour beforehand, he had received a rather different order from Moff Anthark to ready their ships to rendezvous with the GalactaWerks cruisers on the fringes of their space and escort them to Bastion.
Removing his cap, he lightly swept a few trickles of sweat from his brow before firmly placing it back atop his balding head and carefully selecting the outgoing channel.
After a few short moments, the familiar form of Edwoff Anthark appeared in the holocom pedestal, as well-groomed as ever but his posture spoke to a hidden tension and frustration concealed beneath.
"Kriston," came the first words from the would-be leader of the Bastion Moff Empire. There was a tinniness to his usual crisp Bastionite accent and what appeared to be a slight delay between the movement of his lips and his words, indicative of other powers at work in interfering with the communication's signal. "Brave heart now, my leal friend," he said, mustering a small smile, although his eyes were darting either way, as though assessing whatever developments were occurring in the background of his own position. "Tarses' dogs, those foreigners and aliens he dresses in our uniforms, are now looking to supplant us all, for daring to preserve the legacy of our forebears. They do not have the weaponry nor the support to win this. Hold the fort, stand the line, and I will bring salvation to your walls in the coming hours. Tarses' treachery to his own people will not go unpunished - and your resolve will be rewarded!"
He raised an arm in salute. "Long Live the Em-"
The image suddenly disappeared, Moff Anthark's weak attempt at rousing his follower cut short. Behind where the image had stood, the doorway to Moff Hemley's chamber parted. Hemley's two stormtrooper guards raised their weapons at the interluder, but dropped them as soon as they saw who the arrival was, but one raised a hand to his helmet, as if listening to an internal communication. A harried-looking adjutant, Major Haffuth, was half-striding, half-staggering, attempting to reach his commander quickly without tripping over his own feet in the process.
"Moff," Haffuth said quickly between gasping breaths. "Moff... Moff Hemley, Tarsist forces have breached the perimeter. They-"
Two blaster shots rang out in close succession, causing Hemley to jolt in surprise - a feeling that was matched by the shocked expression worn on Major Haffuth's face, his mouth agape. The major's eyes juddered as they looked down at the scorch mark forming on his chest, within his tunic. He staggered awkwardly to the side and looked behind him, falling to his knees as he watched one of the stormtroopers collapsing against the wall, a melted hole in his pristine white armour, whilst the other held his rifle, its shining black muzzle still steaming, up and trained on Moff Hemley.
"Moff Kriston Hemley," said the stormtrooper through his voice-distorting helmet, "you are under arrest for treason against Grand Moff Tarses."
An explosion in a distant part of the facility rocked the room, the lights briefly flickering as Major Haffuth finally concluded his collapse to the floor.
Hemley's upper lip trembled slightly, matching the twitching of the Major's dying body on the floor, the sweat still clinging to him now feeling icy cold, "I don't..." he managed to gasp, before composing himself and allowing his brow to fall down like a curtain across his dark eyes, "Very well, trooper. No, it was 'Vernley', wasn't it? Well, Vernley, you will regret being on the wrong side of history."
He shot a glance to the other trooper to see that he too had turned his weapon around to face him. Shaking his head, the Moff began to raise his hands in the air, "Let us hope today does not see Bastion set back to the dark times."
ST-9871 of the 81st Legion ducked behind the large durasteel statue that was the centrepiece of the far-stretching suspended Remembrance Sky Bridge, suspended between two large sky-piercing plazas of Dubrillion's luxurious capital, as a flurry of green-hued blaster bolts pelted the metal, the heat palpable to ST-9871 even from behind her reinforced helmet's visor.
She glanced to the side to the open space between her and the next section of cover, which was another metal-spun statue, where more troopers from her battalion were entrenched, only occasionally taking moments to mount an attempt at returning fire. Between them, over a dozen slain white-clad comrades were strewn about, as they mounted a desperate defence of the palatial plaza district, which Dubrillion's moff called home.
Further along the bridge, where they had rapidly lost ground to forces loyal to the upstart Moff Anthark, was a sizeable deployment of opposing stormtroopers, their ranks bolstered by a variety of ochre-hued battle droids emblazoned with the black-and-red sigil of GalactaWerks. There had been almost no opportunity to evacuate civilians before the assault had taken place, and ST-9871 struggled to not notice the small form heaped beneath one of her fallen colleagues further along the makeshift battlements.
She flinched suddenly as a helmet-muted war cry rang out from a short way back. Spinning her head around and gripping her weapon, ST-9871 saw a familiar, but imposing figure charging forwards, spewing blaster fire back across the bridge in a directed but disorderly fashion, aiming towards the opposing troops and machines. It was ST-9450, a heavy stormtrooper and also a fellow member of the 81st. It seemed the purpose of his assault was to lay down some covering fire for several troopers further back, whom she saw darting across behind him and into cover. It was not long before he drew some fire himself and a green bolt clipped his shoulder plate just as he drew close and skidded behind the statue alongside her.
"Holy smokes!" grunted ST-9450, "I think that was one of those droids that tagged me there, blasted machine! I swear, I'm not being taken out by a bloody tin can, you hear me, Reesa? The only thing worse would be being one of the TRAITORS ACTUALLY WORKING WITH THOSE DAMNED THINGS!"
He raised his voice as if to be heard across the bridge, but the sound of explosions and blaster fire meant it fell largely on deaf ears.
He pushed his back up against the statue and gave his shoulder a brief glance before continuing, "What do you think, eh? Think we can keep em' from getting across to the plaza?"
9871 finished adjusting the heat-sink controls of her blaster before she looked back to ST-9450. The visor concealed the concern creasing her narrow features, but she was certain the other trooper could read her body language after all this time serving together. Not once, however, had she ever anticipated having to fire on her fellow stormtroopers.
"Of course we can," she said on a private com to him, mustering as much faux confidence as she could. She glanced down at her rifle, at the various scrapes and notches that this battle alone had caused, in their harried retreat across the bridge, from the multitude of explosions and heavy weapons fire that had dawned on them at the start of this unexpected conflict with their brethren.
Meanwhile, a short distance away, another battle was raging in the skies.
"Bantha piss-headed idiot!" the lead squadron pilot cursed from under his helmet mask. "You asked for this!" He pulled the trigger on his throttle controls and blasted a fellow TIE fighter that just tried to wreck him into chunky flaming bits. With the immediate airspace clear for the moment, he exclaimed with barely contained rage in his tone, "All wings report in!"
"Six, this is Blackout-Four," one of the other pilots chimed in over the comm. "We lost Five and Two, sir. Can't believe our own people would go at us like that."
"We'll avenge our boys, Four," Blackout Six replied as he mentally noted that he was now down to two escort fighters and two bombers.
"The GW droids opened AA fire on us when we got close to the bridge," Four added. "They were even shooting at Stormtroopers on the ground."
"Those bloody backstabbing corporate--" another pilot cut in.
"Pipe down, Three!" Six shot in. "One, any luck with cutting through the interference?"
"Actually, sir, I think someone just found us," One answered.
"More TIEs on friendly transponder codes?" Six asked, hands on his flight sticks tensing up as he checked his radar display.
"This is Commander Symon Tarses on emergency channels to all units still loyal to the legitimate sovereignty of Bastion," came an almost droid-like young man's voice over the comm. "By order of Grand Moff Tarses, I am assuming command and control of Dubrillion's defense forces. From this point forward, you will address me as 'Keeper'. All air support squadron CAGs, reply immediately with your authorization codes over encoded channel 071138."
Six did as he was told and received a direct reply from the younger Tarses himself.
"Blackout-Six," Keeper advised, "point-to-point contact established. Your code is authentic."
"Your comm code has been verified, commander," Six said. "Blackout Squadron awaiting orders."
"We see you've lost two wings," Keeper noted. "I am deploying additional wings from Spearhead Squad to rendezvous with you at Remembrance Sky Bridge. Set IFF codes to squawk 7465 so they see you as friendly. Your mission is to obliterate that bridge and then provide additional air support for stormtroopers defending the capital. Good luck."
"Orders received and acknowledged, Keeper," Six affirmed as he and his remaining TIEs came about in perfect formation and began their high-speed charge on the bridge. "Three and One, cover us. Four, arm torpedoes and take the left half of the bridge. Commence attack run."
From below, still crouched behind the now laser-scarred statue, the two troopers heard the low-shifting pitched screech of TIE fighters descending towards their position. They turned to see two TIE bombers escorted by a lone TRI fighter swooping in the direction of the bridge.
“Haha! Woo!” cheered ST-9450 pumping his fist in the air, apparently forgetting the pain from his recent shoulder burn, “Here comes the cavalry, just in time. That’ll show those traitors what for!”
The weak, hopeful smile ST-9871 wore beneath her visor faltered within a moment of appearing. She rose up from her crouched and covered position and looked to the skies. The tell-tale call of TIE fighters approaching was usually a sound that brought reassurance, that the might and supremacy of the Imperial Navy had arrived to wipe clear those that opposed their ancient Empire. But, this time, Reesa, the child of agricultural workers on Bastion itself, felt no reassurance.
She placed a gauntlet-covered hand on 9450's shoulder. "Jek," she began, her visor reducing the glare of the sunbeams stretching out from behind the oncoming starships. "I... their flight path..."
The dull scream of the bombers intensified as they got a better look at the long chain of ordinance lining the bombers looming at them.
“I think…” ST-9450 began, his voice notably hollower than before as he looked up, “You might be right. We need to get everyone back... right now!”
The pair of troopers shot a momentary glance between them, knowing the odds against them, before picking themselves up and charging backwards, raising the alarm as the shadow of the bombers fell upon them.
Industrial Sector Lambda-001 served as the epicentre of Karavis' Lambda district's technical operations; huge cranes, transports laden with supplies and machinery, and excavators of almost stellar proportions lined the horizon and busied themselves across the dark, torn landscape. The almost apocalyptic visage was balanced only by the advanced technology and sky-lining pods and floating structures that served as the world's primary source of accommodation and bureaucratic workspace. Small figures could be seen milling within these structures and pods, either going about their business or observing the display far beneath them, across the broad road that served as the main public parade.
The sun had already set on Lambda-001. Massive suspended spotlights cast brilliant-white lighting across the hulking martial walkers parading along the walkway. Eight AT-AWs pummelled the concrete beneath them with their six massive appendages. Banners, coloured in navy-blue (rather than the typical crimson that typified the Moff Empire's usual standards) were draped either side of the behemoths, praising the ascendancy of 'Grand Moff Anthark, the 'Saviour of Bastion', with a number of much-smaller, but heavily-armed GalctaWerks two-legged GW-MDWs flanking them.
Stormtroopers, wearing armbands of similar colour to the Anthark-supporting banners, marched either side of the walkers in tandem with droids of GalactaWerks construction and GW Marines, who also wore the blue colours of the new supposed-Grand Moff of Bastion.
A young Near-Human, his skin a faintly-blue hue, stepped up beside his manager on one of the hanging platforms that dotted the sector. He wrung his oil-covered hands in a dirty rag as he nudged his manager, who had been watching the peculiar spectacle in the near-distance. They were both part of the evening shift, and were currently assigned to starfighter modifications devoted to increasing velocity during planet-side operations. It was uncomplicated work, really, as most of the technical elements were decided by beings in R&D, back on Bastion itself.
"What's going on down there, guv?" The Near-Human mechanic asked, nodding towards the martial display, which was beginning to draw attention on other platforms, they could see, and had gathered a crowd that was lining up to watch the machines and soldiers. "Another Empire Day parade?"
His manager, a slightly older Human male with a shaved head and a whisper-thin goatee beard, spared a glance away from the apparent festivities, “They were just broadcasting it on the Holo,” he answered plainly, crossing his arms as he did so, “Seems our wise governors have ousted Tarses in favour of that snooty younger chap Anthark.”
He shrugged as he turned back towards the parade, which had attracted a modest crowd of equally confused or ambivalent onlookers, “Doubt it will make a difference to our bottom line, though. They always want more fighters and I’m not of a mind to care if they slap red or blue paint on em’ at the end of the day.”
"Hmm." The Near-Human only managed a slight murmur of agreement, but he found his pale eyes unable to look away from the parade, as if something about it had entirely transfixed him. The walkers continued to shuffle lazily along, their armour glinting from the various light sources shining down upon them, as well as the digi-cams being held by the onlookers, flashing and capturing this peculiar event for posterity.
The young mechanic finally decided to pull away from the view when a bright flash drew his eyes back. A mere moment later, the resounding sound of an explosion met his ears and the pod beneath their feet shuddered lightly. "What on-" A number of other mechanics clamoured to the edge to see what had happened; far below, one of the walkers fell forwards, crumpling into several soldiers and droids. Screams, barely audible, erupted from the crowd, and the stormtroopers in the vicinity could be seen scrambling into combat formations.
Before he had a chance to say anything more, the Near-Human's eyes were lit up by another explosion consuming the second walker, and then by a bright light erupting from one of the pods hovering just above the display, causing it to spin out of control and down towards the gathered onlookers. Within a few seconds, blaster fire rang out, bright-red and golden-yellow laser blots flying in all directions. From his poor position so far away, the Near-Human could barely make out what appeared to be another garrison of stormtroopers firing into the parading group, but with the combination of white armour and crazed civilians, it was hard to be certain of anything. Carnage was rapidly taking hold.
Ears and eyes still reeling from the sudden outburst before him, he flinched violently as he felt a firm hand descend upon his shoulder and spin him about. He was now face to face with the oh-so-familiar manager, but gone was the gaze of apathy, replaced with a fiery determination the likes of which the young man had never seen.
“Quickly son,” the man growled urgently but protectively, “Don’t wait to grab your gear; just climb back up and then get the turbolift straight down before they get any closer.”
He shunted him in the direction of the central ladder back to the main superstructure, keeping his own eyes set on the fiery sky before him. He raised a fist in defiance, “Don’t care who burns in your path, all of you bastards!”
Another detonation then shook the platform to the point that metal could be heard bending and creaking and, with a burst of adrenaline, the young near-human turned away and took off up the ladder, praying he could find a way down before gravity offered him an unpleasant alternative.
"Lord Serus?"
Thane opened his eyes, his meditative reverie broken by the softly-spoken voice of one of the various Imperial officers manning the command centre of the BSD Absolution. The unnatural golden glint abated, giving way to a sea of blue that queerly mirrored the twisting miasma of hyperspace beyond the transparisteel viewport.
He turned his head towards the officer, finding his Sith moniker spoken aloud both peculiar and fitting at once. "Commander?"
The uniformed figure looked between both Thane and the Ithorian figure next to him with cool deference, showing none of the concern that some previous figures had at addressing the two foreign warriors.
"The rebel forces are nearing the Masserix Belt. The mass shadows are turbulent; as predicted, they have been drawn out of hyperspace early. Grand Moff Tarses has been notified."
With a nod, Thane offered his thanks but only briefly looked back to Bomoor and, just a few feet nearby, Amare, before turning his gaze back to the familiar, ethereal glow of dimensional distortion enveloping the ship.
"Peace is a lie," the nascent Dark Lord then said to his companions. "Bloodshed is inevitable in this conflict."
“It certainly seems that the old Sith code holds water at times like this,” Bomoor’s deep voice answered, his own eyes still closed but clearly still aware of each and every entity in his vicinity, “Every move we take on this misadventure has led us to more bloodshed, between Thendleton and your own personal GalactaWerks assassin, it seems any chance at peace was dead on arrival.”
He took a deep breath in both sides of his neck as though consuming hyperspace before him, “We have crossed a threshold where more people will suffer for our inaction than as a result of our inaction. This poisonous GalactaWerks-Bastion alliance must be met head-on and quashed before it bears any fruit.”
“Have either of you ever tasted an omelette?” Amare asked rhetorically without turning to either man next to her, her lips curled into a wry smile as she delighted in her subversive subject-changing words. Her eyes were like twin little oval monitors displaying near-perfect reflections of the surging FTL field in them, as if hyperspace itself were rapidly falling into two black holes, and her corrupted soul was the singularity beneath the darkness.
Amare continued without pause, “A gourmet chef visited the club on Nar Shaddaa when I was there and for two nights, we had the best food on the Smuggler's Moon. He claimed to be a war veteran and he introduced me to an omelette made from Pikobi eggs. I'll never forget how simple yet so warm and satisfying a breakfast it was. The other girls were so jealous. The chef took such great pride in his work. He then said the most peculiar thing to me: 'In war, you have to learn to break a few eggs to make an omelette'.”
Her nostalgic smile faded, and she then turned to the Lord of the Sith, “I know how you are when it comes to bloodshed. You're not afraid to kill, but you're not fond of it. This civil war we've been drawn into is regrettable, but for the first time, a military officer just addressed you by the name you have been reborn into; your true identity. I felt how much it meant to you, and I see it now. Our studies of Sith knowledge have prepared us for this very moment, right here, right where we stand. This...” she returned her gaze to hyperspace, gesturing out to it, “...this is where we start to break the eggs. The question is how good will the omelette be when it's all over.”
Thane eyed Amare with a cautious sidelong gaze. Whilst he had become prone to the occasional bouts of hyperbole himself when ruminating upon the nature of the Dark Side and the part of their Sith within this shifting, twisted galaxy, he was regularly amused and surprised by the peculiar lens through which his apprentice viewed the universe and the philosophies they adopted and moulded between them.
Nevertheless, she was right. It had felt fitting to be so publicly addressed by his Sith name. His true name, as Lady Amare had so appropriately named it. Or, perhaps, 'the verity of that which you are and have been for longer than you know,' as the holocron of Darth Bane had so boldly claimed, all of that time ago.
He looked quickly to Bomoor, whose own intense gaze seemed more troubled beneath the surface than he really ever recalled in their storied past together; the thoughtful and once-kindly Ithorian seemed ill at ease, albeit confident and powerful, as if there would be no peace until he conquered whatever foe - real or psychological - plagued his reality. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if this was right, if that, in spite of the request from Rift Knight Theon, Bomoor would have even come to Bastion but for his lead and suggestion, or that he would have even countenanced speaking with Grand Moff Tarses and entering into this alliance, or into this galaxy-defining war.
He turned back to the viewport, the molten-gold invading his eyes once again as he assured himself that Bomoor made his own decisions, and that they both knew what they were doing - what they had done and what they would do, all three of them - was right. Right for them, right for Bastion, and, ultimately, right for the galaxy.
TBC
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