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The battle had been joined over a small planet, on the outer fringes of the rimward Imperial frontier.
Captain Krayd Hasperre's great fleet had descended on the Imperial dockyard around the planet, their ragtag but coordinated ships diving on the Sith warships lying at their moorings. They struck quickly, and without warning; starfighters crippled their heavy weapons, and the Hasperre fleet's collection of aging capital ships pounded them into scrap metal as the half-crippled hulks sortied to meet them. They belched clouds of TIEs to screen themselves, but it did them little good; the pilots of the Hasperre Gang cut into them like scythes through wheat.
Triter Zone remembered watching it from the cockpit of his fighter, listening to the desperate requests by the Imperial vessels to the planetary defense force for backup against the invaders; no help came, of course, Captain Hasperre had already convinced the planetary government to sit out his attack, letting his forces deal with the hated Imperial forces occupying their world. Their ships could be seen near the planetary horizon, safely out of range and silent on the subspace channels...
It was all too easy.
All too easy.
Had Triter been older, and more experienced, he may have understood that better. The planet was remote, certainly, but the Empire knew better than to leave their borders so incompetently guarded.
It was as the last of the Imperial garrison's ships were left burning in space that everything went to hell.
All of a sudden, dozens of hyperspace signatures lit up Triter's sensor scopes, almost every one of them a Star Destroyer class vessel. They came endlessly, their sheer weight of numbers dwarfing the Hasperre fleet.
Triter remembered what happened next as a blur.
Brave, desperate fighter battles came first, squadrons of pirate starfighters wading into clouds of Imperial TIEs and other small craft. They took down thousands, but eventually, the numberless enemy took its toll, and the fighters were beaten back.
When the capital ships began to fight, broadside to broadside, it was as if mountains had come to spit lightning at one-another. When the first of the star destroyers fell, it bolstered the fleet's confidence a little, but then another came, and another.
There was ultimately no way to stop the duranium continents as they crashed through the formations of the Hasperre fleet.
Triter remembered seeing his wing-men shot out of space around him, remembered the harsh warning tone of an enemy target lock. He whirled and dived, watching helplessly as ships of the fleet were ripped apart by turbolaser fire one after the other. Others, he saw, simply turned and fled.
He remembered a return to Captain Hasperre's ship, his home, coming in for a rough landing in the vessel's hangar. He had joined his Captain on the bridge of the Starkiller, the older Amaran directing the battle with a cool, tense fervor as he tried to salvage something of the forces he had gathered and led to what had become a slaughter.
He remembered, with terrible clarity, the fateful orders.
"Escort squadron! We're going for that interdictor! The rest of you, as soon as the field is down, retreat! All ships, retreat!"
Shortly after, Hasperre had given Triter the order to sortie again, and join the retreating forces. Something about having a better chance in a starfighter than a drifting escape pod. The young Amaran hadn't really understood, but he had obeyed, taking his fighter and fleeing the battlefield for the prearranged rally point.
Before he left, he saw his Captain's ship charge that of the enemy commander, burrowing itself deep in the command tower under a hail of turbolaser bolts.
It was days before the Captain and some of his surviving crew had arrived at the rally point, and by then, the already scant remnants of the fleet had dwindled to almost nothing.
But Triter had waited.
Indeed, it seemed he had never stopped waiting, since that day...
A soft but insistent tone brought Triter up out of the pit of his memories.
It had been over 10 years since that fateful battle, shortly after which he and his mentor, Captain Krayd Hasperre, had finally gone their separate ways. Since then, Triter had grown, making a small name for himself as a freelance brigand fighting for smaller pirate groups, or for the various shipping concerns they preyed upon, depending on the situation. It was a hard life, but he had survived so far, even if he was still young by most standards.
Not as young as his diminutive stature made him look to most races, unfortunately, but the Amaran had learned to get used to that.
Checking his instruments, Triter saw that he was about to come out of hyperspace around his target planet. Stretching as best he could in the cramped cockpit of his starfighter - the same one he had flown all those years ago - he prepared for the reversion, setting his autopilot for the landing on the remote, backwater planet of Kinooine.
He wasn't entirely sure why he was here, aside from needing a place to stop on his long flight where he could get a meal and a decent drink. The planet, he had been told, was home to a small Firrerreo colony, and they would probably have a cantina or two.
The ship left hyperspace, and the landing was uneventful, Triter taking a landing bay at a small spaceport in the planet's southern hemisphere. Stepping out into the dusty street, he wrapped his long cloak around himself, ears flattened back against the wind that had come up, whipping dust against his fur and eyes, which he clenched shut for a a moment. Walking quickly, he made for the nearest cantina, stepping inside and looking around.
I think I could use that drink about now... he thought to himself, noting some of the other patrons as he walked over to the bar.
Scrabbling up onto the tall bar-stool, he rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing a handful of credit chips and dropping them on the bar with a clink.
"Whatever this'll get me; I've had a long flight in a small ship."
The bartender collected the coins, reached under the counter and produced what looked like the cheapest syrspirit Triter had ever seen. That said, it came in a bottle almost half as tall as the young Amaran, which was placed on the bar in front of Triter with a chipped snifter beside it.
Shrugging, Triter picked up the bottle and poured his glass full, taking a sip. As expected, it was practically rotgut, but it relaxed the spacer easily enough.
He sighed, and glanced down at the distinctive silver ring on his right hand.
Maybe this stuff'll help me forget why I still wear this thing...
Captain Krayd Hasperre's great fleet had descended on the Imperial dockyard around the planet, their ragtag but coordinated ships diving on the Sith warships lying at their moorings. They struck quickly, and without warning; starfighters crippled their heavy weapons, and the Hasperre fleet's collection of aging capital ships pounded them into scrap metal as the half-crippled hulks sortied to meet them. They belched clouds of TIEs to screen themselves, but it did them little good; the pilots of the Hasperre Gang cut into them like scythes through wheat.
Triter Zone remembered watching it from the cockpit of his fighter, listening to the desperate requests by the Imperial vessels to the planetary defense force for backup against the invaders; no help came, of course, Captain Hasperre had already convinced the planetary government to sit out his attack, letting his forces deal with the hated Imperial forces occupying their world. Their ships could be seen near the planetary horizon, safely out of range and silent on the subspace channels...
It was all too easy.
All too easy.
Had Triter been older, and more experienced, he may have understood that better. The planet was remote, certainly, but the Empire knew better than to leave their borders so incompetently guarded.
It was as the last of the Imperial garrison's ships were left burning in space that everything went to hell.
All of a sudden, dozens of hyperspace signatures lit up Triter's sensor scopes, almost every one of them a Star Destroyer class vessel. They came endlessly, their sheer weight of numbers dwarfing the Hasperre fleet.
Triter remembered what happened next as a blur.
Brave, desperate fighter battles came first, squadrons of pirate starfighters wading into clouds of Imperial TIEs and other small craft. They took down thousands, but eventually, the numberless enemy took its toll, and the fighters were beaten back.
When the capital ships began to fight, broadside to broadside, it was as if mountains had come to spit lightning at one-another. When the first of the star destroyers fell, it bolstered the fleet's confidence a little, but then another came, and another.
There was ultimately no way to stop the duranium continents as they crashed through the formations of the Hasperre fleet.
Triter remembered seeing his wing-men shot out of space around him, remembered the harsh warning tone of an enemy target lock. He whirled and dived, watching helplessly as ships of the fleet were ripped apart by turbolaser fire one after the other. Others, he saw, simply turned and fled.
He remembered a return to Captain Hasperre's ship, his home, coming in for a rough landing in the vessel's hangar. He had joined his Captain on the bridge of the Starkiller, the older Amaran directing the battle with a cool, tense fervor as he tried to salvage something of the forces he had gathered and led to what had become a slaughter.
He remembered, with terrible clarity, the fateful orders.
"Escort squadron! We're going for that interdictor! The rest of you, as soon as the field is down, retreat! All ships, retreat!"
Shortly after, Hasperre had given Triter the order to sortie again, and join the retreating forces. Something about having a better chance in a starfighter than a drifting escape pod. The young Amaran hadn't really understood, but he had obeyed, taking his fighter and fleeing the battlefield for the prearranged rally point.
Before he left, he saw his Captain's ship charge that of the enemy commander, burrowing itself deep in the command tower under a hail of turbolaser bolts.
It was days before the Captain and some of his surviving crew had arrived at the rally point, and by then, the already scant remnants of the fleet had dwindled to almost nothing.
But Triter had waited.
Indeed, it seemed he had never stopped waiting, since that day...
A soft but insistent tone brought Triter up out of the pit of his memories.
It had been over 10 years since that fateful battle, shortly after which he and his mentor, Captain Krayd Hasperre, had finally gone their separate ways. Since then, Triter had grown, making a small name for himself as a freelance brigand fighting for smaller pirate groups, or for the various shipping concerns they preyed upon, depending on the situation. It was a hard life, but he had survived so far, even if he was still young by most standards.
Not as young as his diminutive stature made him look to most races, unfortunately, but the Amaran had learned to get used to that.
Checking his instruments, Triter saw that he was about to come out of hyperspace around his target planet. Stretching as best he could in the cramped cockpit of his starfighter - the same one he had flown all those years ago - he prepared for the reversion, setting his autopilot for the landing on the remote, backwater planet of Kinooine.
He wasn't entirely sure why he was here, aside from needing a place to stop on his long flight where he could get a meal and a decent drink. The planet, he had been told, was home to a small Firrerreo colony, and they would probably have a cantina or two.
The ship left hyperspace, and the landing was uneventful, Triter taking a landing bay at a small spaceport in the planet's southern hemisphere. Stepping out into the dusty street, he wrapped his long cloak around himself, ears flattened back against the wind that had come up, whipping dust against his fur and eyes, which he clenched shut for a a moment. Walking quickly, he made for the nearest cantina, stepping inside and looking around.
I think I could use that drink about now... he thought to himself, noting some of the other patrons as he walked over to the bar.
Scrabbling up onto the tall bar-stool, he rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing a handful of credit chips and dropping them on the bar with a clink.
"Whatever this'll get me; I've had a long flight in a small ship."
The bartender collected the coins, reached under the counter and produced what looked like the cheapest syrspirit Triter had ever seen. That said, it came in a bottle almost half as tall as the young Amaran, which was placed on the bar in front of Triter with a chipped snifter beside it.
Shrugging, Triter picked up the bottle and poured his glass full, taking a sip. As expected, it was practically rotgut, but it relaxed the spacer easily enough.
He sighed, and glanced down at the distinctive silver ring on his right hand.
Maybe this stuff'll help me forget why I still wear this thing...
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