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| - “Mister Estayo! Mister Estayo! Something's coming!” Roused from his sleep by the girl's pleas for attention, Ensign Omaar Bradli threw off the thin blanket he'd been given to sleep under for the night. Motioning for the girl to hush, he made his way through the gloom of the Lower City warehouse where the unit had set up shop the previous evening to where Aurek Team's leader had curled up. Leaning in close, he whispered to his captain. “Sir, the Vao girl is back.” Nor Estayo tossed his own blanket aside as he stretched within the Mandalorian armor he'd appropriated within an hour of landing on Taris a week prior. Around him, the rest of Viridian Squadron's members cast off their nocturnal slumber, rising from whatever sleeping arrangements they had been able to make and gathering up their weapons. “What's up, Cap?” a Marine corporal asked after releasing a huge yawn. “We moving on?” “Depends on what our little friend has to tell us, kid,” Omaar said instead. “Where to, Mission?” “Up this way, Mister Bradli!” the young Twi'lek said, excitement shining in her luminous brown eyes. “Alright everyone, let's get ready to move out,” the captain said as he and the ensign got up to follow their guide. “Either this place is about to be liberated, or the Mandos are about to descend on us like a hive of stinging insects.” Omaar knew that, strictly-speaking, Mission Vao wasn't really their guide. She was, in reality, a nine-year-old street urchin who seemed to have found a protector among the Hidden Beks swoop gang, led by Gadon Thek. A quite reasonable Tarisian native, he had earned extensive experience engaging in partisan warfare with the planet's Mandalorian conquerors. He suspected that her lookout was in fact the gang's second-in-command, a hard-bitten member of the girl's species named Zaerdra, who was a fiercely loyal fighter and a good shot with a blaster pistol. Vao claimed to have known a few Jedi during the initial battle for this world and the first weeks of the occupation, but most of the squadron had dismissed her tales as childhood fantasy. Not to her face, of course; none of them were that crass. As the two officers ascended a stairway to an upper-level catwalk, the sound of airspeeder engines could be heard off in the distance. The noise was faint at first, but became steadily louder as they neared the door to the roof. Motioning for the Twi'lek girl to stay back, Captain Estayo cracked the durasteel hatch by a hair and peered through. Then, he slammed the door open. “Get the squadron up here, m'lady,” he said to Mission with a big grin on his face. “Our deliverance is at hand.” “Yes sir!” she piped up, throwing the man her best imitation of a military salute. As she scampered off in exuberant compliance, Nor and Omaar shouldered their carbines and approached the trio of assault speeders that had alighted on the roof. All around them they could see the presence of Republic military craft, including dropships and the ubiquitous Aurek-class starfighters. Out of the flanking vehicles spilled a half-squad each of Marines, who promptly dashed off to the edges to provide overwatch and covering fire for a pair of passing shuttles. The central speeder's hatchway, however, did not open until some unheard all-clear signal had been sent. When at last it did open, out from within strode Commander Laera Reyolé, confidence evident in her visage and gait. “It took us a while to find you, Nor,” she said with a half-smile after the three officers exchanged formal greetings. “Your signal was a little sketchy on details.” “My apologies, Commander,” Estayo replied. “But we couldn't risk giving out any further details in case any lingering Mandalorian units intercepted our transmission and decided to get some last-minute killing in.” “A prudent course of action, of course. You've both done a good job Captain, Ensign,” Reyolé began, but then she uncharacteristically hesitated. After a moment, however, that roguish grin returned in force. “Or should I say, Major and Lieutenant.” “Thank you, ma'am,” Nor and Omaar said at the same instant, throwing their best salutes to the commander. “From what I understand, I should be thanking you,” Commander Reyolé replied. “So tell me, how's the rest of the squadron holding up?” “Aurek Team has three KIA and six wounded, all from the first few hours after insertion,” Major Estayo said, his light tone laced with a hint of grief. “We had a bit of trouble getting suitable disguises; fortunately, our friends didn't realize who we were and dismissed us as partisans.” “Besh and Cresh teams had no KIA, but we got some broken bones and a few blaster wounds from running skirmishes,” Omaar added. “We successfully made contact with the local resistance, which was formed from a coalition of Black Vulkars, Hidden Beks, and a few surviving members of the Tarisian Constabulary. The Beks are the best-equipped in this area, and they helped us to hump the wounded to a secured location.” “That's good news,” the commander replied, nodding her head in acknowledgment of the casualties. “It also proves what General Sunrider suspected about the Mandos' ability to control large urban centers. We'll have a transport down within a quarter-hour to pick everyone up and leave a recovery crew for the Q-carrier...that is, if you managed to keep it in one piece.” “Oh, there's no worrying about that,” Omaar said with a grin. “She's parked in the sub-subbasement of the old Jedi Tower, ready to be retrieved.” Reyolé patted both officers on the back in turn. “The squadron has done an excellent job gentlemen, I look forward to your full reports.” — — — A couple of weeks later, Viridina Squadron was back up to speed; though those who had been wounded during their initial sortie were now fit for duty, there were no immediate replacements available for the dead. Lieutenant Omaar Bradli wasn't too concerned, however, as he made his way through the fleet's flagship to the briefing room in the company of Major Nor Estayo. The soldiers and officers of the unit had been summoned there by a prearranged series of beeps and whistles, broadcast over their comlinks, so that they could get out of whatever task they might be engaged in by claiming to have a broken device. It was one of those fun little touches that General Sunrider had come up with, and Omaar liked it. “Scuttlebutt says this one's gonna be hot,” the major said as the two walked confidently down the corridor. “Scuttlebutt also says that Commander Reyolé might make captain if we pull it off like last time,” Omaar replied sardonically. “I wouldn't trust such idle rumors if I were you, sir.” Nor chuckled. “Duly noted, Lieutenant.” “And let's hope things don't get too hot,” Omaar added. “I still say we got lucky on Taris; if the Mandos had had any idea that our arrival was a precursor...” “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Nor said quietly, so that a gaggle of crewers going the other way couldn't hear. “Holding an ecumenopolis without the voluntary cooperation of the populace is next to impossible anyway. I wonder why they even bothered to conquer Taris when they could have just as easily bypassed it after nuking the place like they did with Serreco.” “If I didn't know better, sir, I'd say you were trying to get into War College,” Omaar said, shooting his friend a smug look. Despite the disparity in their rank and the fact that Nor was an academy boy while he had come up through the ranks, Omaar had found himself liking the man. He was cool under fire, knew his way around the galaxy, and seemed to respect everyone else within the squadron. They both held Commander Reyolé and General Sunrider in high esteem, and had seen their trust vindicated in how the liberation of Taris had played out. Before the major could summon a snarky reply, however, the two reached the hatch to the briefing room and entered. As it happened, they were the last to arrive. “Sorry for holding you up, ma'am,” Nor said as he saluted the two women standing at the holoprojector. “Not a problem, Major,” General Sunrider replied, nodding politely. “Just don't make a habit of it,” Commander Reyolé added, her tone and the glint in her eye softening the words. “Well, now that everyone's here, we can begin.” “We've been given our next assignment,” the Jedi Master said, activating the projector as Nor and Omaar took seats. “Thanks in large part to your work with the resistance, the Republic was able to secure Taris swiftly, with the last pockets of Mandalorian resistance eliminated three days after your extraction. Given this turn of events and the recent loss at Jaga's Cluster, Revan has decided to up the timetable for the final push, and that means we're going in a bit short.” The commander fiddled with the control panel, and the starfield that represented Taris and the surrounding systems was replaced by a large, green orb. “Our next target is Onderon,” she said grimly. “They've had a rough half-century, starting with the Beast Wars and including Exar Kun's little scrap. While Taris was being subdued, Mandalorian forces fortified Dxun, its moon, and used it as a staging area to once again descend upon that world and occupy its only city, Iziz.” She tweaked the controls again, and the rotating simulacrum was replaced with a holograph of the ancient walled fortress. “I had the privilege of serving there during my early career—” she paused as a couple of the younger enlistees exchanged subdued laughter “—which means that I will be accompanying the squadron. There will be other complications as well, chief among them the simple fact that, unlike Taris, Iziz is small and well-defended from outside attacks. It's also very difficult to remain undetected, which is why we're going in only a few hours prior to the actual invasion.” A worried silence fell on the room. “Any questions?” the commander asked after a beat. “What's our goal here, ma'am?” one of the Marine sergeants asked. “Your primary objective will be to infiltrate the defense grid and eliminate any power generators you can find that link to it,” General Sunrider said grimly. “I won't lie to you; this mission is very dangerous, and there is a strong possibility that many of you will not be coming back. However, we have taken steps to try and even the odds.” “First of all, there's myself,” the commander said, not missing a beat. “I served there for quite some time and know the city well, plus the Onderonians have a severe aversion to messing with the architecture. Second, General Sunrider has successfully made contact with the resistance in Iziz and has, through them, obtained a basic layout of the Mandalorians' improvements to the already formidable defenses. Third...well, let's just say there'll be plenty of locals willing to take weapons off corpses and join in the fun.” Omaar exchanged a glance with Nor, and the two nodded in agreement. While the operation was risky, they had a lot going for them. And it would be good to finally be able to see the commander in action. “Are there any other questions?” the general asked. After several moments of silence, she concluded the briefing. “You will all find the customary briefing bytes uploaded to your personal datapads. We're already on course for Onderon, so you'll be boarding the infiltration vessel and disembarking at 0930 hours tomorrow morning.” “Remember, the rest of the crew does not know where we are going,” Commander Reyolé added as the soldiers and officers of the squadron rose to their feet. “For the sake of operational security, keep chatter to a minimum. Dismissed.” — — — The cockpit of the captured Q-carrier still reeked of Mandalorian despite extensive cleaning and rewiring, but Omaar had gotten used to it. With so much riding on his ability to convince the bucketheads below not to blow them out of the sky, he could afford no distractions. Though the initial part was over, that did little to ease his mind; in fact, he was now more worried than ever. “Whatever it was you said, sir, it seemed to work,” the chief piloting the carrier said through his Marine-issue helmet. Omaar, oblivious to the pilot's comment, was activating the internal comm. “Commander, I managed to get us clearance to where you wanted to land, but they're going to have a welcoming committee waiting for us.” The comm unit crackled with static through the terse silence that followed, during which the lieutenant suspected that his commander was doing some hard thinking. “Well, that certainly throws a spanner into the works,” she finally said, her tone guarded. “Alright people, we can still do this.” “What are your orders, ma'am?” Nor asked from somewhere else in the back compartment. “Chief Ronnell, there should be a garbage disposal chute to the left of where we're landing, about a dozen meters from the pad,” Commander Reyolé instructed. “Cresh Team, as soon as we land, blow the portside hatch and make for that chute; do not look back, do not stop to fire, and do not wait for the rest of us. Aurek Team, we take the Mandos head-on while Besh Team provides covering fire. If we survive, we make for the chute and rendezvous with Cresh Team at the first juncture. The area is exposed but not too well-defended; if we act fast we should be able to count on the element of surprise.” “Did you work this out with the Mandos ahead of time, Commander, or are you just clairvoyant?” one of the Army noncoms asked cheekily. “Focus, people,” the commander admonished gently. “How long until we're down?” “Settling into their holding pattern now,” the chief replied nervously. “Should be only a minute or two...” “Good. Chief, you're with Cresh Team. Everyone else, you have your orders.” As leader of Besh Team, Omaar detached himself from the co-pilot's seat of the Q-carrier and entered the back area, which was filled with troopers decked out in Marine assault armor. All of them had their helmets on and sealed, but he knew his people well enough to recognize them by their height, build and how they carried themselves. Taking up a position near the starboard hatchway, he drew his BR-12m from the blaster rack and flipped off the safety. And then he waited. “Touchdown in fifteen seconds,” the pilot warned. “Looks like about a dozen bucketheads, loosely organized—I see the chute!” The craft hit the ground hard, bouncing slightly. Even as it settled, the safety ejectors on both hatches were pulled, causing them to burst from the hull. The starboard hatch slammed bodily into the nearest Mandalorian, crushing him flat before he had even realized what was happening. As Omaar slipped out of the carrier and off to the side, he realized that the dead Mando's fellows were slow to recognize that they had been had. Raising his blaster to shoulder arms, he took a knee and began blazing away at anyone he could see who was not wearing Republic-patterned armor. His blasterfire was soon joined by the rest of his people, who quickly had the eight or so survivors pinned down while Commander Reyolé led Aurek Team in a charge on their position. Barely half a minute after touchdown, the fight was over. “Cresh-One, check in!” the commander barked over the squadron channel, her voice slightly breathless with exertion and adrenaline. “I read you, Commander,” the Marine junior lieutenant leading the third team replied. “That chute's a long ride, caution is advised.” “Noted. Did everyone make it?” “We're clear ma'am. Waiting on you at the first intersection.” “Good,” the commander replied, then began waving for the other two teams to rally on her. “Alright Viridians, let's head out—it's time to get very lost very quickly!” She led the way to the chute, which from the outside looked fairly innocuous. When she opened it, however, it was readily apparent that it lead right to the city's sewer network. Omaar caught sight of Nor as he was tallying up his team and exchanged a knowing nod, realizing that both were thinking the same thing: Whoever designed this armor should get a medal. As Cresh-One had pointed out, the ride down was precarious, due in large part to the chute being slick with who knew what kind of fluid slurry. Fortunately for the squadron, it was large enough to accommodate a rapid descent in twos and threes, so that after another minute everyone had met back up at the designated site. “What is this place?” one of the noncoms asked uncertainly. “It's...like an oven in here!” “That's because the sewer lines run above the power conduits,” the commander replied. “The heat generated from them rises into these pipes and makes for an uncomfortable trek.” “Where do we go from here, then?” Nor asked. “Just follow me for now,” Reyolé advised, then began marching off along the left branch of the intersection. For nearly an hour the members of Viridian Squadron marched, tracking their leader by her thermal signature due to the almost nonexistent lighting. Unfortunately, this necessity also meant that they got to see first-hand what kind of animals lurked in the Onderonian sewer network; about the only good thing about this was the fact that none of them were capable of attacking anything larger than a nek. Finally, the commander came to a halt at a T-junction whose ends were capped by cast iron hatchways. “Shaped charges, there there and there,” she said, pointing at the right hatch in a pattern that formed an equilateral triangle. A pair of the unit's demolitions specialists began withdrawing components from each others' packs, setting the constructs at the indicated positions. They beckoned for the rest of the squadron to back up before setting the detonators. “Ten seconds,” one of them said as they too retreated. “Viridians, go on the blast,” Commander Reyolé advised as the timers ticked down. “We're in the sub-subbasement of Defense Nexus Three, which means the place will be crawling with Mandos very soon after. Hit hard and hit fast, and don't stop for anything.” Any verbal acknowledgments that were on offer died as a sonorous ka-rump rent the still air of the sewer pipes. Even as he sprinted toward the jagged metal hole where the iron hatch had been, Omaar knew that they were well and truly past the point of turning back. Defense Nexus Three had been identified by the Onderonian resistance as the least-protected of the seven bunkers that made up the core of Iziz City's defenses and, therefore, the weak link in the chain. That was, however, of small comfort to a man who had known the full capabilities of the Mandalorian clans long before this war had officially started. “Aurek Team, secure this area,” the commander ordered once everyone had exited the sewer. “Major Estayo, you must hold this position no matter the cost, it will be our only way out. Understood?” “Yes ma'am,” Nor replied, nodding soberly. “The rest of you are on me,” she continued, and Omaar could sense that she was building up to a battlefield proclamation. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are the point. The fleet will be here in three hours to launch the main assault, but if we fail to knock out this position, a lot more of our fellows are going to die. Our sole reason for being here, even though we're cut off and with the element of surprise lost, is to disrupt the enemy's ability to fight. Every Mandalorian you kill in the next few hours will save the lives of ten Republic troopers.” Commander Reyolé paused for a moment, looked around the gloomy basement as though contemplating something otherworldly, then moved toward a hatchway. “Besh and Cresh Teams, you're on me,” she said as she opened the hatchway. “May the Force be with us all.” — — — “Flash out!” Omaar called as he tossed a flashbang into a room on the second floor of the complex. A loud ka-RUMP rattled his helmet as he backed away from the entryway; in the silence that followed, he and three of his troopers rushed the room and gunned down its dazed occupants with repeated blaster shots. “Clear!” “Move up!” the commander ordered as she entered what turned out to be a computer access room. “Cresh-One, secure the outer corridors and prepare for another counterattack.” “Yes ma'am,” said the gunnery sergeant who had taken over the team. In the time between entering the sub-subbasement and ascending to this level, the squadron had taken heavy losses. The lieutenant who had led the third team had been killed in a fierce crossfire one level below, along with two of his men. Omaar himself had been hit in the lower leg, but his Marine-issue assault armor had ablated enough of the impact so that he was able to continue fighting. “You, you, you and you, go help them out,” he said, pointing to four of his troopers and gesturing toward the Creshers. Walking with a slight limp, he joined Reyolé in consulting one of the monitors. “Can you make anything out from here?” she asked, gesturing toward the Mando'a script flashing across it. “Yes ma'am,” Omaar said. He removed his helmet and began tapping at the terminal, bringing up a series of files. “It looks like we've still got another floor to go before we get into their vital systems.” “Is there anything you can do from here to help us?” the commander asked, removing her own helmet as well. Her auburn hair was slick with sweat and plastered to her forehead and neck, and she seemed to be enduring a good deal of combat-related stress. Omaar wished that he could offer her something more. “No ma'am, this terminal is only connected to the network via a basic info-retrieval line,” he said. “I'm no slicer, and even if I was, there's no way to do anything beyond calling up systems maps and general status reports.” “Then we do this the hard way,” she replied, replacing her helmet. “Let's mov—” “Incoming Mandos!” Cresh-One yelled. “They're coming up the north corridor, take cover!” “I guess that's our cue,” Omaar offered as he shot the terminal in frustration. The commander wasn't listening, however. “Aurek-One, status report!” “We're okay for the most part,” Nor's voice came back over the squadron channel. “The bucketheads tried hitting our perimeter once, but we had set up a barricade. From the sound of their chatter, they don't seem worried about us for now.” “If they change their minds, you know what to do,” Commander Reyolé replied as she and the rest of Besh Team hurried out from the computer room in order to flank the incoming Mandos. “We're counting on you to hold the door open for us.” Omaar slipped his helmet back on as well as he trotted alongside his commander, his carbine ready. “We're sure in the middle of it now,” he growled. The whine of blasterfire could be heard throughout the complex as the ten of them trotted around a corner. As they did so another squad of Mandalorian warriors appeared, with the Viridians opening fire into the side of their formation as they sprinted past one corridor ahead. One of Omaar's troopers tossed a grenade, which bounced off a corner of the intersection and went off with a bang! as it landed among the enemy's back ranks. No charge order was needed as the Republic troopers moved ahead to finish off the enemy reinforcements. They weren't out of the woods yet, however, as Cresh Team still had incoming. Pausing only momentarily, Reyolé led the remains of Besh Team down another corridor and right into the rear of the attacking Mando platoon. Shouldering his carbine, Omaar unsheathed his vibroblade. Flicking it on, he grabbed the helmet of the nearest Mando, pulling the man's head back to expose his throat and slashing it open. The buckethead went limp and Omaar, already focused on his next target, kicked the body aside. As he thrust his blade below the warrior's breastplate, he caught sight of his commander from the corner of his visor. He watched as she pressed the muzzle of her sidearm into the nape of another Mando's neck and pull the trigger, decapitating him with the power of her DL-3's blast. Before the headless body hit the floor, however, something heavy knocked into Omaar's knife arm, knocking the weapon out of his grip and sending him reeling. Slightly dazed, he attempted to go for his carbine, but was interrupted by a blood-curdling war cry. Armored hands wrapped themselves around his throat and began to squeeze, the struggle to remain conscious sending Omaar to his knees and eventually the floor. Eyes shut tight against the pain, he could not get a bead on his attacker, and his brain was becoming foggy due to lack of oxygen. As he choked and gasped in one last desperate lunge for air, the war cry ceased abruptly and he was suddenly able to breathe. A body fell atop him as he attempted to suck in more air, but he lacked the strength to push it from him. Finally, the corpse too was pulled away. “Lieutenant Bradli, are you alright?” a distant female voice asked. “Lieutenant, answer me!” Someone pulled off his helmet, and it was only then that he recognized Commander Reyolé standing over him. “M'alright,” he spluttered, his breathing shallow. “Help me up...please...” The commander's grip was surprisingly strong as she took his arm and eased him into a sitting position, from where she hefted him to his feet. “Are you able to continue the mission?” Omaar took a few moments to regain control of his breathing. Massaging his neck, he nodded in reply. “If I don't fight, I'm useless to you. I might as well be dead.” “If you can't fight but try to, then you are worse than useless,” Reyolé admonished mildly, the warmth in her expression taking the sting from her words. “Come on. We're down to half strength, but we still need to get to the main control room.” Omaar didn't follow right away as the commander strode off. All around him lay the bodies of dead Mandalorians and Republic soldiers, among them Cresh Company's gunnery sergeant and interim leader, who had taken a heavy slugthrower shot to the chest that had exploded his armor's thick plating. The number of enemy dead was significantly larger, but the way they kept coming it seemed as though no one would be getting out of this assault alive. “Alright boys and girls, you heard the commander,” he finally said, trudging through the carnage. “Let's get to it.” — — — Blood soaked the armor worn by Lieutenant Omaar Bradli, and a few more gashes had been carved into it by Mandalorian heavy slugthrowers. As the remnants of Viridian Squadron dealt with the last of yet another enemy squad as they fought to gain ground on the uppermost floor of the complex, he was half-tempted to call Nor on their private channel and ask if he could spare a few more troopers. The possibility was soon quashed, however; if anyone was going to make it out of this deathtrap, it would be his friend and comrade, and he wanted someone to survive who would look upon his contribution to the war effort in a positive light. The combined strength of Besh and Cresh Teams had been whittled down to a handful of soldiers now; they weren't even up to squad-level strength. Omaar himself was nearing exhaustion, and he could tell that many of the survivors were also close to the breaking point. Commander Reyolé's shoulders were slumped with fatigue, and the normally composed and confident officer was showing definite signs of having been wounded. As he looked her over while she was momentarily distracted, he noticed that her armor bore signs of multiple scrapes and furrows, as well as an impact hole on the back of her thigh that had to have come from a ricochet. The small formation, every soldier within it panting hard within their helmets, marched slowly down a side corridor in the direction of the central control complex. “Estayo, report,” Reyolé said again into the squadron channel. “The Mandos are focusing on us now,” the officer replied. “But their probes are half-hearted, they're only sending a few men into each of our checkpoints at a time. I was just about to pull the team back to a more defensible location.” “Do it,” the commander advised briskly, managing to keep the weariness from her voice. “If you've got any grenades left, see if you can improvise a few triggers and then rig new barricades.” “Will do,” Nor replied, his voice sounding to Omaar as though he had realized just how strung out his commander was. “How are the rest of you holding up?” “It's bad, Nor,” Omaar replied before Reyolé could muster the words. “The fleet will be here in a few minutes, but it's looking like your team will be the only Viridians they pick up.” “Give'em hell, then,” Nor said, understanding in his voice. “We're falling back now; may the Force be with you.” The chatter ceased as the combat-depleted squad continued onward. They hadn't gone ten meters, however, when all hell seemed to break loose—not within the building itself, but from outside. The clamor was so loud that it could be heard even through the thick outer walls of Defense Nexus Three, and the entire complex shuddered violently as if it had been the anvil to a massive cosmic hammer. “Looks like the Navy started things off a little early!” an Army noncom barked scornfully. “It's just as well,” Omaar replied hotly. “With them here, that means less Mandos for us!” “It also means we've run out of time,” Reyolé barked, ending the banter. “Now get the lead out!” Another blast rocked the city, sending the entire squad falling to the floor as a cloud of dust washed over them. As the floor settled, Omaar was among the first to rise, and the first to realize that a five-meter hole had been blown in the wall not twenty meters ahead, admitting daylight into the building. There was no time to stop and contemplate the view, however, and the squad moved on, finishing off a quartet of Mandos rendered senseless by the blast's concussion. The sounds of battle, it seemed, were everywhere in the city of Iziz: the spitting whine of blasterfire; the screams of the dying, the pounding of concussive shockwaves slamming into walls and floors. Smoke continued to drift through the corridor as the squad of soldiers stacked up along an inner wall. Deep within the Mandalorian-held strongpoint, the din was a cadence that gave voice to the grim business of war. “Come on, just around the bend!” the commander all but shouted. “Ma'am, we've got Mandalorians on all sides!" one soldier pointed out. "We'll never make it without support!” “If we make it, Corporal, we won't need support!” Reyolé bellowed back. "We destroy this power generator, the defense turrets go dead and the whole Mando line collapses!” She gripped her blaster with purpose, then turned back to the junior noncom and the remnants of her unit, her countenance grim. “We're dead if we leave, but just as dead if we stay! D'you want those dogs to sing songs about how they gunned you down?” The combat-reduced squad, their armor chipped and scorched by shrapnel and blasterfire, their faces stained with blood, sweat, and grime, looked at their commanding officer one more time. The eyes of each man and woman spoke of many things: fear, admiration, pure unbridled grit and determination, as well as an overwhelming sense of trust. They knew that, whatever happened, they were serving and fighting alongside brothers and sisters. Barely a moment passed as their commander asked for, and got, their assent to one last, grand effort. As one, the soldiers raised their weapons, prepared themselves, and tore through the accessway into the inner control area. Omaar Bradli, his carbine leveled and spewing out packets of coherent light, watched in horror as the Mandalorian he had just shot lobbed a grenade. Diving for cover, he witnessed the explosive orb as it detonated, tearing into the breastplate of his commander. The universe seemed to grind to a halt in that moment, a silence like the depths of space falling onto the command center as the last Mandalorian warrior clattered to the ground, smoke rising from a hole in his helmet. Blood thundered in Omaar's ears as he tried and failed to come to grips with what was happening; the logical part of his brain was screaming for him to move, to finish what they had come here for and set the charges that would blow the command and control section to smithereens. But his emotions were getting the better of him as he glanced back to the limp form of Commander Reyolé, her armor perforated, her helmet knocked away by the blast's concussive wave, a dribble of blood oozing from the corner of her mouth. "Sir, we have to move!" the doubting corporal shouted, kneeling beside Omaar. "The charges..." "I know!" Omaar bellowed back over the noise that had suddenly returned in full force, "Are we clear?" "Yes sir, we just need to get the kriff out of here!" "We need to get the commander out!" Omaar insisted, letting his sentiment get the better of him. "She's dead, sir!" the corporal yelled urgently. "The Mandos are closing—" "We're not leaving her!" Omaar, defiance in his heart, said as he resumed his feet. "Help me lift her out, or so help me..." "Yes sir!" The two soldiers, working in unison, hefted the body of their fallen leader in a rescue carry. Dragging her away, they made it to the turbolift back to the basement just as the charges went off. The mission had been a success, the defense nexus was effectively neutralized, and now it was time to depart. However, in Omaar's opinion, the cost had been far too high.
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