-= GCW =- Episode 1: Pilot

[Erasmar]

A long time ago, in a galaxy far,
far away...






STAR WARS
THE GALACTIC CIVIL WAR


It is a dark time for the galaxy. The Rebel
Alliance has been driven from its secret base
in the Hoth system and scattered into the
farthest reaches of the galaxy by the dreaded
Imperial starfleet.

Pursuing the fleeing Rebel forces, the Empire
has dispatched portions of its starfleet to
the Outer Rim, a vast territory of destitute
and dangerous worlds that has become the
hiding place of freedom fighters and pirates
alike.

Recovering from their desperate flight from
Hoth, Maas Farrier and his team of Rebel
operatives find themselves stranded on the
free trade Outpost Lyra, seeking a pilot with
the courage and skill to see them safely to
the Alliance fleet...

Episode 1: Pilot

Beyond the corona of stellar debris at the edge of the Javin system, a lone Lambda shuttle flashes out of hyperspace. It orients itself toward the three-armed Outpost Lyra, spinning silently through its deep orbit around Javin's star and abuzz with local freight traffic. The shuttle accelerates, the locator lights of its wingtips blinking and its ship identifier strobing the outpost, requesting permission to land.

The outpost delays its response, unsure of the portent of the shuttle's appearance. It has brazenly announced its identity as an Imperial shuttle, though the Empire has little influence in this region of the Outer Rim, the Javin sector. It continues to approach the outpost, slowly yet deliberately. A pair of Z-95 Headhunters emerge from the outpost, but the two bi-winged fighters veer away from the incoming shuttle on a routine inspection of the extremity of the station's sensor range.

Permission granted. The shuttle throttles up and finds navigation lights strung out in space blinking sequentially into one of the station's three hangars. The bottom wings of the shuttle fold up and the shuttle decelerates, spins, and backs into the artificially-generated gravity of the outpost.

* * *

"I've got a bad feeling about this," says Maas Farrier, watching the shuttle's approach on a monitor in Outpost Lyra's traffic control center.

The aging traffic coordinator that sits before him slips off her headset and swivels her chair to face him. "First time in the last ten years we've had Imperials declare themselves."

"The Empire has left you alone for ten years?" says Maas.

"Of course not, but it's the first time they've been so obvious."

Maas narrows his eyes as the shuttle folds up its wings and lands. He rubs at his jaw, freshly shaven, still damp from the shower he was almost physically pulled out of. "What do you think?"

She shrugs. "Could be anything." She looks back at the monitor too. "But probably not good. I think it's time for you to leave."

"Yeah. Me too."

* * *

Elia Neutris watches the shuttle's ramp descend from the Hangar Gamma lounge, three stories above the flight deck. Two others of the team are with her -- a team of Rebel operatives, not organized, but formed out of consequences and necessity. They and seventeen others had been aboard the transport Helios on its flight from the base on Hoth, and they had been one of the last transports to escape the system, which meant they had done so without the assistance of the planetary ion cannon. The results had been a nearly crippled transport and a short jump into the Javin system.

She can see legs moving down the ramp, but figuring out who they are is difficult from this angle, as the shuttle faces away from the back of the hangar where the lounge is located. It appears to be three pairs of legs clad in dark gray trousers. Just as they reach the bottom of the ramp and turn toward her, a larger personnel transport enters the hangar and obscures her vision. By the time it lands, the three figures have walked out of sight from her perspective, undoubtedly beneath the over-hanging lounge and into the corridors of the outpost.

"Elia, I said let's go, we're getting out of here." She turns from the viewport and sees Captain Farrier approaching in his civilian coveralls, tall, dark, and in some circles handsome but in most fairly plain. At least he's intelligent and seems to have a sense of humor, though she can't quite be sure if he's playfully sarcastic or just plain pessimistic. Either attitude fits their current predicament.

"Why's that?"

"Imperials play for keeps, and they don't just announce themselves around here apparently. That shuttle did."

Elia stands and feels the weariness in her body, the tautness of her ligaments from days of constant stress. "You think they're onto us?"

"Not sure, but we can't take any chances."

It doesn't seem likely to Elia, not that they were onto them, not specifically at least. Perhaps they suspected. The Imperial fleet had to know that the Helios wouldn't have made it far in the condition they left it, two-thirds of its systems down, barely enough hull integrity to keep its atmosphere on the inside. But the captain and Elia had made sure the remains of the transport wouldn't be found, returning to its bulk in a borrowed pair of Z-95s and blasting the exposed reactor, vaporizing the wreck.

She and the other two Rebels follow the captain out into the hallways of the outpost. Somewhere a couple stories below them, three Imperials are also walking around, possibly looking for them.

"And just how are we supposed to get out of here?" she asks. "Last I checked we didn't have the credits to pay for a ride."

"We still don't," says the captain.

"Hijacking?" The captain looks at her. "Kidding." They walk on for another minute, the captain leading the way. They seem to be heading toward the center of the outpost, back down the arm that leads to the hangar behind them. "What is the plan then, cap'?"

"Hangar Beta," he says. "And we get persuasive." Then he flashes her a lopsided grin. "Plus hope for a little bit of luck."

* * *

Three men descend the shuttle's ramp. They each wear the dark gray uniforms of the Imperial Security Bureau, an organization known for its subtlety, but there is nothing subtle about these three men striding through the hangar of the Outpost Lyra. A long personnel transport hovers overhead, waiting for them to clear the landing space it has been assigned. One of the men glances at it with annoyance though none of them alters his pace. They are deliberate.

They enter the main corridor that leads down the arm of the station like its humerus bone. People, creatures of all species, make way for them. Conversations die and eyes narrow. The ISB agents pay them no mind, though they cannot help noticing the smell. The station's air filters, they decide, should be replaced.

Following cracked and flickering signage, the agents navigate to the very center of the outpost and locate a bank of turbolifts that will take them up, up to the command deck. The station is open to all; there is little security, and certainly none to block their passage. They ascend to the command deck without incident, though they are apparently expected.

As the turbolift opens, everyone in the command deck ceases their activities and turns to face the three security agents. Bodyguards -- or mercenaries, either name -- edge toward them, hands shifting to their holstered blaster pistols.

The Imperials stand in a triangle, each about a meter apart. The one at the point and furthest into the room smiles, revealing a full set of black teeth. His eyes, one blue and one clouded red with a burst blood vessel, sparkle in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Just as suddenly, the smile and the sparkles vanish.

"By order," he shouts, "of the Emperor, this outpost is hereby seized to aid in the pacification of the Javin sector!"

Each person on the command deck looks around in confusion, and the bodyguards smile and draw their weapons, training them on the Imperial agents. "Get lost. We're free traders here."

The agent smiles again as hangar sirens and alarms blare, catching everyone but the three agents off guard. "No, you're not."

* * *

The long personnel transport sat quietly in Hangar Gamma, running lights off, engines cooling, for several minutes. Enough time for the ISB agents to reach the command deck. The agent's pronouncement is broadcast over a secure, military-grade comm channel.

A second later, the rear of the transport explodes open, and white-armored Imperial stormtroopers charge through the smoke, beginning the assault on Outpost Lyra.

[Erasmar]

Episode 1: Pilot (cont.)

"Imperial troops have entered the station! Imperial troops have entered the --"

Elia glances at Captain Farrier and the two other members of the team with them. Without a word, their pace toward Hangar Beta quickens to a jog.

Everything in that arm of Outpost Lyra had halted after the muffled sound of an explosion from Hangar Gamma rumbled through. They hear the sharp whines and growls of intermittent blaster fire now, growing steadier by the second. Some of the station denizens begin to panic, gathering their wares and desperately moving to the center of the station, undoubtedly to find their way off the station via another hangar. The majority of others though, some with determination and others with homocidal glee, pick up arms and head toward the sounds of fighting.

The four rebels reach an intersection of hallways near the center of the station, just before the hexagon expands into an open atrium that rises through all twelve floors. Three great trees grow there in the center, claimed to be ancients transplanted from Javin, though no one really knows anymore. They're draped with sheets of white, symbiotic moss like ethereal veils, beautiful to behold to some but unfortunate to touch, given the rashes likely to follow.

The group avoids the atrium though, likely to be a logjam of those trying to escape and those rushing to join the fight. Captain Farrier leads them down a hallway to their left, away from Hangar Beta, and Elia remembers maintenance in the corridor to their right. This would also take them past their rented storage unit that passed as sleeping accommodations, affording them a chance to snatch their belongings before committing to Hangar Beta.

* * *

The ISB agent with blackened teeth stands with his hands clasped behind him, feet shoulder-width apart, chest out and chin up. He stares down the nearest command deck bodyguard-mercenary. "Drop your weapons, or face the repercussions."

There are five armed guards in total, and each grins in response. One spits and then grins. All of them keep their blasters trained on an ISB chest rank insignia. Two of them have to switch their blasters from stun to kill, the charge packs whining at the increased energy output.

"Fine," says the agent. He nods to the ISB agent on his right, who taps a comlink on the back of his own belt, and immediately a violently high-pitched screech is emitted from the intercom speakers throughout the command deck. Every individual except for the three ISB agents and one space traffic controller collapse to the floor, covering their ears and writhing in agony.

Calmly, the agents gather up the small arms that are now scattered about the floor next to the downed guards. The traffic controller still on his feet rubs his hands together nervously and then plays with the aural inserts that have just spared him a great deal of pain. The screeching plays on.

"Thank you," says the agent.

"Now I get my payment?"

"No," says the agent, checking the blaster pistol he has picked up, extending his arm, and shooting the traffic controller in the chest. The man is thrown back into his chair and begins spinning slowly, gasping for air to fill his melted lungs. "The Empire does not tolerate traitors. But thank you for your contribution."

He gestures to the ceiling and the other agent taps the comlink on his belt again. The sonic assault cuts out. Several command deck inhabitants have passed out; most have vomited. He sincerely hopes none have died, as he will likely have his pick of the interrogations.

"Agent Cort," he says, watching as the shot traffic controller finally stops heaving and dies, "check in with all three assault teams. Agent Sethal, signal the Hammer."

* * *

The stormtroopers in Hangar Beta move quickly down the central corridor. There are twenty-four in all, twenty now that four have been left behind to keep the transport secure. All blaster rifles are set to stun, for there's no telling which of the station inhabitants are Rebel sympathizers and which are not. Most assuredly, however, sympathizers are onboard. It is impossible to consider the contrary.

Moving through the central hallway, fanning out down side corridors, the stormtroopers make short work of the light resistance. Most of the defenders are heavily armed, though few are capable of shooting straight. The Imperials lose one stormtrooper, killed when an errant shot ricocheted into a power panel, and one mildly wounded after five minutes of fighting. Piles of stunned defenders are left in their wake.

When the squad reforms at another intersection, the leader holds up his hand to halt them. They take up defensive positions around the intersection as he speaks into his helmet's comlink.

"Yessir," he says, his electronically filtered voice stern and calm. "We're approaching the atrium. ... Yessir. ... Yessir. ... Understood." He turns and waves the squad forward. "All right, men, we're moving forward."

Their armor clacking, the stormtroopers shuffle down the hallway, mostly not even seeking cover as defenders fire wildly around them. The answering stun bolts are precise, and the assault carries on.