Rebel Bunker - Cormond, Brentaal "You, wait here for Captain Layor and his team." He told one of his men. There was no sign of the Rebels, except those whom his other commandos had killed only moments ago. Wolfe crept at a crouch to the nearest door and upon activation of its control panel, the door swooshed open with a hiss. He peeked around quickly and found it empty of hostals. "Clear." He said and the commandos pressed forward. They soon discovered there was an extensive tunnel network underground and Wolfe knew he and his men were going to earn their pay today. He updated the other commando on intel as they proceeded. The commando at the entrance of the bunker did not have to wait long for Layor's team to arrive. "The others are inside, so far we've only encountered two hostals--now dead. Cap' says proceed with caution, the place is littered with passegways going every which way and no telling how many rebels are down here." The commando warned and then left Layor to lead his own team in search of rebels.
Rebel Base - Cormond, Brentaal On the eastern side, Field Marshal Veers watched in dismay as the foot of one of his Walkers was suddenly blown to shreds. The massive machine quickly lost balance as the leg followed through with its motion and buckling underneath. The AT-AT tilted to the side and tumbled forward, crashing with a loud rumble and crushing several stormtroopers who were unlucky enough to be in the way as it fell. "Cormond One to Three, do you copy?" He called to the commander of the downed Walker and received no response. "Veers to Drenall, come in." Static. "Veers to Drenall, answer me!" He heard a groan after that and was relieved to hear Commander Drenall's voice over the comlink. "I'm here...just a little banged up sir." "I'd say." "Sorry for losing another of your Walkers." Drenall apologized. "Ach, it can be replaced." Veers reassured and quickly gave instructions to his driver to turn the Walker toward the entrance of the base. "See to it you get medical attention and set up a perimeter around the Walker." "Yes, sir." Drenall signed off and Veers turned his attention to the smoking compound. On the western side of the battlefield, a lone ULAV fired at a AT-ST and flew straight for it on a head-on collision course. The insuing explosion ripped through the air, destroying both vehicles and sending shrapnel everywhere, taking out a few stormtroopers and scattering the others. The Imperial Walkers turned their guns on the remaining ULAVs and the Tramp Shuttle with the intent on destroying them quickly before more of the infantry died at their suicidal tactics. Inside the base, Colonel Dyer was being briefed on the discovery of trap doors and an elaborate tunnel system underneath the base. "Find them and root them out. I want every last rebel either captured or dead, I dont care which." He seethed with anger. He had lost too many of his men to these criminals and he would make them pay. Stormtroopers upon stormtroopers entered the tunnels and began searching for the rebels. Very few of the Imperials had intentions on capturing the fleeing cowards...
In a makeshift command center, Wilhad Cransin stood before a holographic representation of the Coruscant system with several datapads and temporary two-dimensional screens feeding information on damage, traffic control, and other necessaries of the system. A few crewers and one officer accompanied him to run the auxiliary communications center; and if the damage had been much more significant Wilhad would have needed many more. Perhaps even an entire Communications Ship to handle the traffic flowing in and out. Several minutes ago the rebel jamming blackout had ceased and this terrorist Admiral had made his broadcast. Now he and his fleet were gone and Wilhad was trying to assess just how much was needed and what he could do. Presently, the damage was light. The Golans had been trashed far beyond repair and debris was falling toward the planetary shields. Moff Cransin made his first big decision. “Commodore, task several of our ships to tractor the Golan debris in and ready it to be packaged into freighters and shipped out.” “Yes, sir. The rest of the fleet will hold defensive positions around the planet until the Emperor returns.” “That is fine, Commodore,” Wilhad responded, rubbing his reddened eyes. It had been a great number of hours since he had last slept. And his stomach had been turning since then as well. He popped another indigestion pill to quell his pit and to focus his attention on the holograms and readings. The planet was fine, the shields hadn’t been damaged and nothing unusual had occurred. The planetary mirrors were still functioning properly. Communications was being restored through Coruscant’s own system. Only the planetary traffic had been affected. A huge queue had formed near the edge of the system. Many ships had seen the rebel fleet on the arrival and hid away, hoping not to be damaged in the fighting. Now they all needed to be reprocessed with extra attention to ensure this wasn’t a rebel attempt to bring down the shields after Coruscant’s most powerful defenses had been, generally, eliminated. As one of the highest-ranking political officers in the immediate area, Cransin sent a formal request of Courscant Traffic Control to double their efforts on the customs front. Every box scanned. Every person triple-checked for credentials. It would have to be enough. Anything more and Imperial Centre would be locked out from the rest of the galaxy. The chronometer turned over and Wilhad realized he had been awake for three days now. Slipping a stimulant hypo out of his pocket and into his arm, he felt slightly invigorated—but it wasn’t like a good sleep. It was hollow and empty, like a house built out of flimsiplast: destined to fall apart. Entropy was the only force the universe really respected and Cransin would learn that in time. For now, he waited on the Empire and the Emperor to return to Coruscant. The traffic flow was operational now and the debris was slowing being pulled into a high-orbit as freighters were being tasked. As few more details and the Moff could sleep. A little lest than a day had passed, enough time for the toxins of the caf, the stimulants, and pills to catch up and break down Cransin’s constitution and wrench him into fits of vomiting and diarrhea after his bit of sleep. His system was trying to purify itself as best it knew how. And now the Emperor was back in-system. Thankfully he had more important things to deal with than Cransin and he was allowed to leave. He was certainly in no condition to face the Emperor. Glady Wilhad retook command of the fleet and ordered them back to Chandrilla. A short trip. Cransin hoped for sleep. He found none. The large fleet reached home at last. And the Moff of Chandrilla and Brentaal had ceased to soil himself every five minutes. He considered it a victory. But he was home. A listless hour long shuttle-ride from the mid of the system to the Hanna Spaceport and he was finally a bit at peace. But only a bit. He needed to conclude some business on Chandrilla and then immediately return to Brentaal to start reforming the whole of the planet and start issuing mandates to ensure the planet’s protection as best he could. All it would take was time: lots and lots of time. Right now, Cransin threw a light Chandrillan-made overcoat, muted browns and deep greens, over his Imperial Moff’s uniform and started into the spaceport to leave for the Government Building. TAG: exodus- for your message
Cransin got his way up the stairwell with relative ease, not much traffic coming through the civilian port at this time of day. In the pavilion, Wilhad spotted the exit and began arching toward it. At the apex of that arch, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A short fit of terror ran through his spine as he turned to see…an Imperial, certainly. “Greetings Moff Cransin. I am Agent Juno Gradin of Imperial Intelligence,” the younger man said to him.” Intelligence? Odd. Cransin hadn’t seen an Intelligence agent in a great long while, not since before he could remember. Why was he here?, Cransin wondered. And more importantly, would this take more time than Wilhad cared to give. He’d just spent a few days leading a charge against a huge rebel fleet at Imperial Centre and the Moff wasn’t feeling all that up to anything to more than a handful of minutes. “Agent Gradin, I’m afraid I don’t know you. What does Imperial Intelligence want with a lowly Core-Moff?” TAG: exodus