Capture of the Ta’charin System
The Avenger’s command room thrummed with tension, holographic displays casting a cold blue glow across the assembled crew. Captain Gregory Westner stood at one end of the briefing table, his cybernetic eye tracing the dry-docks’ sprawling shipyard. Eight months ago he’d been a prisoner here, freed by Sonya Blade during Grand Admiral Thrawn’s defection. Now, through some twist of fate, he commanded the stolen dreadnought that would help take it. His mind churned: this would be his first test under fire. Could the former fighter jock cut it as captain of a warship?
Grand Admiral Thrawn stepped forward, her blue skin stark against her URF uniform, her red eyes scanning the command staff with cool precision. “The Ta’charin dry-docks are the Empire’s backbone in this sector. Capturing them halts their shipbuilding and secures a URF foothold. To that end Lieutenant Blade has identified a maintenance shaft and outdated sensor grids as a weak point we can exploit.”
Sonya stood rigid, her muscular frame coiled. Her piercing sapphire eyes met Commander John Wilson’s skeptical glare. They’ll never see past my past. A flash of that cell—Seti’s oily voice, the pain—surged, but she shoved it down. “The shaft’s a kill zone if they catch us there, ma’am. However, once inside we can take the auxiliary defense control room, hack in and disable the local defenses, then destroy the room with explosives, but we’ll need speed to avoid getting caught in the kill zone.
John leaned in, hand brushing the faded scar on his cheek. “This could be a trap. Going in with so many untested crew is asking for disaster.” His gaze hardened on Sonya. “And that’s not even factoring in that the intel could be compromised.”
Greg’s jaw tightened. “Commander, Sonya freed me and two hundred and three others from those docks. Her intel is solid. Let’s focus on the mission.”
Sonya’s hands clenched. Traitor, always a traitor. She kept her tone even. “Understood, sir. I’ve cross-checked everything with the Grand Admiral. It’s clean.”
Thrawn assessed the room. “The garrison is understrength after my defection. Lieutenant Blade will lead the marine team through the shaft. The Avenger draw away their patrols. My fleet will hit their flanks once you create the opening.”
The room shifted into motion. Jan Devereaux drummed her fingers on the console. “Squadrons are prepped, but we’ve got a lot of rookies.” Roslyn gave a tight nod beside Jan. Chief Maria’s gruff voice cut in about power fluctuations with the main gun. Greg turned to Martines and Hammerly as they voiced concerns about jamming and sensors.
“Striker will assist,” Greg said. Security Chief Lazarev and Marine Commander Bradley both confirmed their teams were ready.
Thrawn stood. “You have your orders. Good hunting.” She strode out, the command staff quickly dispersing to their stations, the air thick with the weight of their first real fight.
Minutes later in the Avenger’s CIC, Greg settled into the captain’s chair, his cybernetic eye scanning the tactical display as the ship dropped out of hyperspace into the Ta’charin system. The main viewscreen framed the dry-docks’ shipyard’s skeletal sprawl, Nathal patrols weaving through the rings like predators. His pulse quickened—every order now carried the lives of his untested crew. “Launch fighters,” he ordered, his voice steady despite the knot in his gut.
The CIC dimmed as the reflex cannon powered up, its hum resonating through the deck. Jan Devereaux’s voice was shaky but resolute. “Air group away, sir. Rookies are holding formation.” Greg nodded and turned to the weapons station; the officer replacing Sonya was waiting for orders. “Weps, target the lead cruiser with the main gun, tight beam, low power.”
“Aye, aye. Firing!”
The cannon fired, a low-energy pulse striking a Nathal crusier, its hull buckling under the untested force. Striker’s voice chimed, “Power fluctuations detected. Recommend minimal use.” Greg nodded. “Noted. Helm, evasive pattern Alpha-2. Keep their eyes on us. Weps, you are free to engage targets at your discretion. Set primary and secondary energy turrets to local control.”
“Aye, aye sir.” He fumbled a little with the controls as he relayed the order to the gunners.”
Roslyn’s voice cut in, tight with focus. “Fighters engaged, sir. Losses minimal so far.” The viewscreen flared with explosions, the Avenger weaving slowly through return fire, its rookie gunners fumbling but managing to quickly correct.
Greg glanced at the tactical screen, it looked like they had created the opening for the dropship, “Jan, launch the dropship at your discretion. Weps, be mindful of the flight path and remind your gunners to do the same.”
Sweat was starting to form on the weapons officer neck and forehead as he tentatively adjusted his targeting orders, “Uh…Aye, aye sir.” He quickly relayed the order.
Jan nodded taking one last look at her screens as she activated her connection to the main hanger deck, “Launch dropship.”
The dropship shot out of the bay banking sharply, its engines roaring as it streaked toward the dry-docks, the team’s nervous chatter filtering through the comm. Irena Bradley’s steady authoritative tone cut through the chatter. “Lock it down, marines! Fight’s ours to win.”
The Avenger registered solid hit from the defensive weapons of the ring, a distant rumble echoing through the hull’s massive frame. Greg gripped the chair. “Tactical, secondary weapons on that approaching patrol. Buy the drop team time.” The officer scrambled, his inexperience showing in his hesitant movements, but the gunners had settled their nerves, shots were hitting with increased frequency, scattering the Nathal ships out of their formation unwilling to face the massive secondary weapons head on.
The dropship maneuvered around the dry-dock’s outer hull, landing in the neglected small docking bay near the maintenance shaft. Sonya led the team out, the air shifting to the acrid scent of coolant as they prepared to infiltrate.
Sonya led the marine team into the maintenance shaft, forcing them into a narrow, rusted corridor. The air bit with the acrid sting of coolant leaks, illuminated by stuttering panels that cast jagged shadows across the walls. Irena Bradley flanked her, rifle ready, her steady presence calming the novices’ ragged breaths behind them. “Stay tight,” Sonya commanded, her voice a low growl, her piercing sapphire eyes scanning the gloom for threats. The outdated sensors, per her intel, masked their approach—until a metallic clang and the sound of the station’s general alarm ripped through the silence.
Nathal guards erupted from a side tunnel, blasters flaring with energy. Sonya dropped low, her muscular frame rolling with agility as blaster bolts seared the walls. A rookie froze, his gasp sharp, but Irena hauled him aside, laying down cover fire. Sonya lobbed a grenade, the explosion shredding the ambush, debris clattering as two guards crumpled. The rush surged within her—raw, disquieting, yet she harnessed it, her focus unyielding. “Push through!” she snapped, her exceptional strength heaving a fallen beam aside to clear the path.
James Hunter darted forward, his red stubble catching the light, peppering the tunnel with suppressing shots. “Bloody hell, keep it moving, ye greenies!” A guard charged with a vibroblade, and Sonya sidestepped with precision, her steely grip twisting his arm until it snapped, disarming him with a fluid motion. Some of the Marines stared, wide-eyed, as she flung the guard down like a broken toy.
Irena signaled, her voice taut. “Control center ahead—two more guards.”
Sonya motioned Alex and Blasius to flank. They advanced in sync, Alex’s shot felling one guard while Blasius grappled the other, but the guard was stubborn and pushed Blasius against the wall. Sonya moved in fast, grabbing the man’s helmet with both hands, twisting with savage strength. A wet crack echoed in the room.
Blasius pushed the limp body aside, breathing hard. “Thanks.”
Sonya’s expression was stoic, her sapphire eyes already scanning for the next threat. “No problem.” She seemed to thrive in close combat even when it got savage. Was that what caused the rush?
“Hold this room!” Sonya ordered, positioning the team at the corridors leading in. Blaster fire echoed from both ends as Nathal reinforcements swarmed, their shouts mingling with the alarm’s wail. James and Alex took one corridor, laying down a barrage to pin the advancing troops, while one of the marines fumbled his reload. Irena snapped, “Focus, kid—slow is smooth, smooth is fast!” She turned to another inexperienced Marine, “Don’t ‘spray and pray’, suppress! I want fire superiority! Keep their heads down!”
Blasius dashed to the central console, his security knowledge kicking in. “Overriding blast doors—cutting off their reinforcements!” His fingers flew over the controls, sealing sections with heavy thuds, bringing down the station’s inner and outer defenses in a cascade of failing systems. “Done! Weapons off-line! Shields collapsing!”
Irena, set the explosives, and wired the charges with steady hands. “Two minutes to detonation—cover me!”
Sonya nodded, her rifle barking as she defended the main corridor, blaster bolts scorching the air, some of the bolts grazing her armor. A Nathal elite trooper lunged through the chaos, his cybernetic arm gleaming, shock baton crackling. “The Emperor wants you alive, Blade.” He sneered, his voice like Seti’s. Her PTSD surged—never again. She dodged his strike, her exceptional strength cracking his armor as she slammed him into a wall console, wrenching the shock baton from him. The rush hit hard, unsettling her. Why’s it so good? She slammed the shock baton across his helmet, cracking it and dropping him unconscious. Part of her screamed to finish him, to make sure he could never threaten anyone again. But she shoved that voice down. It was one thing to kill in the heat of combat. It was another to execute a defeated man. With a grunt she dragged his limp form into a side compartment and secured him with restraints. I’m better than they were.
Irena activated the explosives. “Charges set—fall back!”
The team scrambled back toward the dropship, the control room trembling as the charges detonated, a deafening roar shaking the shaft. Debris rained from the ceiling, forcing Sonya to shield a stumbling Marine as they navigated the buckling corridor. Her voice calm and controlled, “You’re ok, keep moving.” Blaster fire erupted behind them, Nathal pursuers breaking through a now breached blast door, their shouts growing louder. Ahead, James took point, his rifle flaring as he engaged Imperials emerging from the shaft, their blasters lighting the dark. “Keep ‘em back, ye greenies!” he shouted, buying time. Alex helped a limping marine, “Come on, no one gets left behind.”
Irena covered the rear, her authoritative voice cutting through. “Double-time, marines—don’t look back!” A Marine tripped as the shaft shook violently, his blaster skittering away, but Blasius hauled him up, the Marine’s nerves steadying under pressure. The shaft’s walls groaned, cracks spreading as secondary explosions chased them, the air thick with dust and heat. “Frack, you might have been too good at your job!” Sonya’s exceptional power kicked in, quickly lifting a collapsed beam to clear their path; her breath ragged but determined. They burst into the docking bay, Nightowl’s ramp lowering just as the shaft collapsed behind them, sealing off the pursuit in a cloud of rubble and smoke.
In the Avenger’s CIC, Greg monitored the tactical display from the captain’s chair, the main viewscreen flickering with the chaos of the Ta’charin dry-docks. The ship vibrated with the main cannon’s low hum as Nathal frigates closed in, the patrols drawn by the diversion. His cybernetic eye tracked the blips, as he suppressed the urge to relinquish command and jump into a fighter. “Status report,” he called, his voice firm yet laced with the weight of command.
John Wilson, leaned over the tactical holo, his faded cheek scar catching the light. “Remaining frigates are engaging, sir. Rookies are following the lead of Roslyn’s vets and holding their own, looks like we lucked out and got a bunch of diamonds in the rough.”
Greg nodded, his grip tightening on the armrest. “Keep the pressure on. Tactical, ready the reflex cannon—low power, target that lead frigate.”
William Martines, the Com Officer, adjusted his glasses, his voice steady as he instructed his team, “Randomize the interference noise don’t give them a pattern to break and watch for bleeding over into our frequencies, we’re having a hard enough time as it is countering their jamming.”
Lieutenant Commander Hammerly, the Sensors Officer, frowned at her readouts, directing her crew. “Cross-check sensor hits, we can’t chase decoys! You have to compensate for the station’s background clutter.” She twisted her head back towards Greg, “4 bombers just came out of the station’s sensor shadow on attack runs! Bearing two-zero-zero, mark negative four-five. Range 200 meters.”
John snapped, “Blast it, Hammerly! Your people have to pick up these contacts further out!”
The CIC dimmed as the reflex cannon charged, its pulse resonating through the deck. “Fire,” Greg ordered. The viewscreen flared, the frigate’s hull vaporizing in a silent burst, Striker chiming in, “Power fluctuation detected again. Recommend diagnostics post-mission.” Greg exhaled. “Noted. Helm, adjust course—draw them further out.”
Jan Devereaux’s quickly updated CIC. “Dropship’s preparing to return, sir. Blade’s team reports control center captured and destroyed.”
Greg’s tension eased slightly. “Time to extraction?”
“Two minutes,” Jan replied.
Hammerly’s voice started sounding less frustrated as her team finally started to settle. “Sir, new contacts out of hyperspace. Bearing eight-five, mark one-five.—cruiser and escorts, possibly part of the 45th task force. I think they’re going to try and intercept the dropship!”
Greg’s jaw set. “Target the cruiser with primaries, secondaries on the escorts. Buy them time.” The officer at the tactical station fumbled with the controls, his voice stuttering as he tried to give corrections. John switched his coms to the gunner’s stations and called corrections directly to them. The shots were now landing and the 45th taskforce began trying to break off, the viewscreen lighting with brief explosions.
“Sensor update, dropship’s route back is clear.” Hammerly called.
Greg leaned forward, his voice steady. “All stations, stand by. We’re not losing them now. Helm, move us closer to the docks.”
Hammerly called out, “We’ve got the dropship inbound, no enemy contacts between it and us.” Greg allowed a faint smile as he checked the mission timer. “Well done. Prep for Thrawn’s flank attack.”
The Avenger’s CIC hummed with renewed focus as Thrawn’s fleet materialized on the tactical displays, launching a precision strike against the Nathal flanks. Greg watched the viewscreen, the main display lighting with the dance of capital ships and fighters, their coordinated assault overwhelming the Imperial forces. “Status?” he ordered, his voice steady.
John Wilson scanned the readouts, his tone clipped. “Nathal frigates breaking off, sir. Thrawn’s escorts are mopping up—seems like the first combat jitters are starting to fade for the rooks, if we can even call them that anymore.”
Greg allowed a faint nod, the tension in his shoulders easing, but it was being replaced with that same question. Should I really be in command? Right now they needed their captain to show no doubt, “Keep the barrage on the stragglers—don’t let up until they’re routed. We’ll coordinate with Thrawn’s fleet.”
Martines called out, “I’ve got my people logging their signals for Intel.”
Hammerly called out as she adjusted the controls at her station. “Imperial ships are spinning up hyperdrives, they’re attempting to jump out.”
The viewscreen shifted, showing Thrawn’s fleet tightening the noose on the enemy, the Nathal forces dwindling under the barrage before they could jump away. Hammerly quickly called out, “The last of the surviving enemy ships have jumped to hyperspace. Scopes show clear, no enemies in threat range.”
Jan Devereaux called out. “Roslyn’s air group reports victory. Recalling them now.”
Greg exhaled, a rare smile breaking through. “Stand down to Condition Two. DC, assess damage.”
Thrawn’s voice crackled over the comm. “Well done, Captain. The Ta’charin have expressed their gratitude.”
Greg frowned, leaning forward. “Could they be open to an alliance?”
“Possibly,” Thrawn replied. “Your crew did adequately for your first engagement.”
Sonya strode onto the CIC, her combat armor scuffed from debris and scorched with blaster bolt grazes, her breath still uneven from the shaft and the run. She headed straight for the weapons controls. The officer at the station looked grateful to be relieved. Greg met her gaze, his tone softening.
“You okay?”
She nodded, adrenaline starting to fade. The bruises settled in, and with them that familiar hollow quiet. The automatic response rolled off her tongue.
“Yes, sir. Just need to catch my breath.”
John glanced at her, his voice gruff. “Solid work, Lieutenant.” For a split second his expression softened—almost showing respect—before the anger over what she did slammed back down.
Sonya’s eyes flickered over the controls, her voice professional. “Thank you, Commander.”
Greg allowed a faint nod, the tension in his shoulders easing, but it was being replaced with that same question. Should I really be in command? Right now they needed their captain to show no doubt.
“Keep the barrage on the stragglers—don’t let up until they’re routed. We’ll coordinate with Thrawn’s fleet.”
Greg gave a sigh of relief. “We’re done here. Prep for repairs. If we’re lucky we might get some shore leave before the Imps try to take the system back.”
A day later, Sonya took a brief shore leave on Ta’charin going to one of the few places she knew well on the planet, the Nalcarith temple. Sonya sat on the edge of the overlook and watched the thunderstorms on the horizon intensify. High Priest Detua walked over to her and handed her a weathered tome, his eyes glinting with intent. “I thought you might like to look at this, Lieutenant. Raiden and Elune guide us.”
Sonya frowned as she took the tome, flipping through the pages, her disdain for “capes” flaring. Mom’s stories—thunder gods, Earth’s protectors. More costumed nonsense. Sonya stood up and held the book back out to him, “You know they’re just myths, legends to explain things people didn’t understand at the time.”
Detua’s smile was cryptic as he gestured for her to keep the tome. “Yet there is history to be learned from myths and legends. Some of them even state that warriors from the stars will decide our fate.” He pointed up to the sky, “Did you not just battle the Nathal Empire?”
Her hypervigilance spiked. A setup? “Prophecies are often made by people who were probably high on something.” Sonya’s expression softened as she realized what she was saying. “I’m sorry, I don’t do religion.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yet you’ve returned to this temple several times.”
Sonya stood up, dusting herself off with her free hand, “It’s usually peaceful and quiet here.”
Detua nodded and gave a polite bow, “I’ll leave you to your meditation then.” Sonya watched him leave before sitting back down and opening the book. She had a bit before the storm made its way to the temple and was going to enjoy it while she could.
When she returned to the Avenger, Sonya found Greg in the CIC talking to Thrawn on the coms, “Ma’am, sorry to interrupt, but High Priest Detua may be up to something. The tome he gave me felt… personal.”
Greg frowned, his voice measured. “Keep your eyes open. You did good out there, Sonya. Irena and Blasius said you performed exceptionally.”
Thrawn’s voice crackled over the comm. “Well done, Lieutenant. I have no doubt the Empire will retaliate soon. We must prepare for their response.”
Sonya’s fists clenched, her resolve hardening. Let them come. We’re ready.
