The sounds of blaster fire echoed like thunderclaps across the towering chamber of the security foyer, a massive circular corridor wrapped in steel and fire. Shaped like a wheel, the foyer had concentric walkways that encircled the central battle zone, broken only by sealed emergency doors and a few shattered control panels. Makeshift barricades had been fashioned from overturned crates, scorched consoles, and the fallen bodies of comrades. Behind these improvised bulwarks, 35 Imperial crewmen—naval staff, engineers, security officers—and four stormtroopers held their ground. Desperation etched into their soot-covered faces.
Across from them, the rebels came charging. Forty strong. Fierce. Relentless. Their boots pounded across the durasteel, each step a promise of vengeance. General Jarik led them personally, having left behind a small rear guard to delay the pursuing Major Catcher and his squad. That delay, however, came at a cost.
Of the original assault force, only thirty-seven rebels now stood alongside the general and his three elite guards. Their pace was brutal, unforgiving. General Jarik marched at the vanguard, his A-180 blaster rifle singing its deadly song as he advanced with surgical precision. His shots found their marks again and again, felling Imperial defenders who scarcely looked like soldiers. They were technicians in uniform, glorified button-pushers in pressed caps, not warriors. And yet, to Jarik's begrudging surprise, they fought like zealots.
They held the line far longer than expected—longer than most trained squads would. They didn't flee. They didn't hesitate. There was no cry for mercy. They fired until their hands blistered, until their guns overheated, until they themselves fell. For Jarik, this wasn't bravery—it was fanaticism. Stormtroopers were trained to kill and die without question. But bridge crewmen? They weren't supposed to have such conviction.
Still, resilience couldn't stand against numbers. Rebel bolts found their targets, tearing through flesh and armor alike. One after another, the defenders fell, their ranks crumbling beneath the tide of the Rebellion's elite. The last of them collapsed beside a scorched bulkhead, and then—silence. The blast doors to the bridge slammed shut with a metallic groan, locking the rebels out. A final, futile gesture of defiance.
Jarik almost laughed. The bridge was doomed—no door would stop him. He'd seize the controls, cut the boarding tubes, and save the capital ship from falling into Imperial hands. Luthan would escape, and this sacrifice would be remembered as victory.
But as Jarik raised his hand to signal the advance, a cold twist of dread bloomed in his gut. Instinct? Premonition? He couldn't say. He slowed, falling behind slightly, and his three guards mirrored him, covering their general as the rest of the squad pressed forward.
Unbeknownst to them all, beneath a mound of Imperial dead, a hand twitched.
Bonar Car, crewman second-class, lay beneath the broken bodies of his comrades. His uniform was scorched. His face was smeared with ash and blood. A blaster wound had torn through his side, and every breath was agony. But he clung to consciousness through sheer will. Clutched in his trembling hand was a thermal detonator.
One of the few issued to the bridge crew.
He'd waited. Listened. Let the rebels pass overhead. They thought he was dead. That was their mistake.
"It was an honor to serve you, Captain," Bonar whispered, vision blurring. "May my death serve as a foundation for your victory."
Then he pressed the trigger.
The explosion was deafening.
A wave of searing heat tore through the corridor, engulfing the central rebel force. Jarik was hurled backwards, his three guards and seven other rebels flung aside like ragdolls. Screams echoed through the chamber, punctuated by the crackling fire and the splatter of shrapnel against walls and armor. Where once stood a unit of hardened rebels, there was now carnage—bloodied bodies, shattered limbs, and silence once more.
Thirty had entered the center.
Only ten remained.
Jarik staggered to his feet, his ears ringing, vision swimming. A protective circle of guards surrounded him, their eyes scanning the smoke and debris. One of them knelt beside him, shaking his shoulder.
"Sir, are you alright?"
Jarik clenched his jaw, forced himself upright. His ribs ached. His head throbbed. But he was alive.
"These goddamn Imperials," he spat, brushing ash from his coat.
The surviving rebels—seven soldiers and three personal guards—regrouped at the foot of the sealed blast door. Jarik approached it, his fingers curling into fists.
"They're getting desperate. Let's finish this." He turned to one of his guards. "Get this door open."
The guard nodded, pulling a compact plasma cutter from his satchel and activating it with a hiss. A bright beam began carving a slow circle through the thick metal, sparks cascading to the floor.
On the other side of the door, Captain Aaron Rysell stood silently. Watching.
Twenty Imperials waited inside the bridge. They were not many—but they were ready.
Two were posted directly beside the blast doors, weapons raised. Four crouched in the recessed pits behind angled control panels, their bodies hidden save for helmeted heads and ready rifles.
Two more stood in the central windows on the starboard side—Luca and Cedric—while another pair crouched between consoles further down. The final two manned the deep corners of the bridge, half-hidden in shadowed nooks.
And Aaron?
He was calm. Positioned by the windows on the port side, one hand gripping his ISC Pistol, the other braced against the wall. His gaze was fixed on the circle forming in the blast door. Each second that passed brought it closer to falling.
The tension in the room was suffocating.
Aaron said nothing. Neither did his men.
Then, the cut was complete.
The circular section of the blast door dropped to the floor with a heavy clang. And the rebels charged.
Two commandos leapt in first, rolling to disperse enemy fire. One was shot mid-roll—an instant kill. The second managed to pivot and fire on the two crewmen stationed by the door. His blaster bolt struck one in the head, sending him tumbling. The other missed three shots in his panic. He never got a fourth. The rebel gunned him down, only to be cut down himself by four bolts from the pits.
Two more rebels entered immediately after, darting left and right toward cover. They unleashed suppressive fire, forcing the Imperials in the nooks to take cover. But Luca peeked from his window position and dropped them both with precise, cold efficiency. Their bodies collapsed just meters from the threshold.
Then came a seventh rebel—he didn't hesitate. He hurled three grenades across the bridge before being shot down. The first two landed inside the pits—shatter grenades. Screams rang out as splinters tore through the Imperials huddled there. The third grenade—a smoke canister—erupted, blanketing the bridge in thick white fog.
And from that fog, four shadows emerged.
Jarik's guards.
Two charged the port-side nook. Vibroblades flashed in the haze as they struck the lone crewman down. They expected fear. Instead, they were met with a grin.
"Rebel scum," he hissed, and a metallic clink rang beneath them.
A fragmentation grenade rolled between their boots.
The explosion consumed them all.
On the starboard side, Jarik himself led the charge. Baton in hand, his guard by his side with a vibrosword. The crewman was decapitated in a blur of motion. They turned toward their targets.
Cedric and Luca never stood a chance.
Jarik dashed forward with lightning speed, baton crackling with electricity. He knocked Luca's pistol aside, kicked him into Cedric, then brought his weapon down into Luca's chest. Sparks flew as the voltage surged, and Luca collapsed.
An elbow to Cedric's jaw staggered him. Jarik finished the job with a precise pulse from his baton, dropping him like a puppet with its strings cut.
The guard turned to face Aaron.
Aaron faced him right back.
The vibrosword slashed through the air. Aaron dodged, weaved, countered. The commando was faster, but Aaron was calculating. Disciplined. He waited for the overreach—then exploited it.
A sudden lunge.
Aaron stepped in instead of back, trapping the guard's foot. He ducked under the blade and slammed his fist into the commando's face. The vibrosword fell. Aaron seized it, twisted, and drove the blade into his attacker's gut.
Dead.
But it wasn't over.
Footsteps thundered through the smoke. Jarik.
Aaron didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and stabbed.
The blade pierced Jarik's stomach, clean through. The general's baton raised, a breath away from delivering a killing blow.
But he faltered. Blood spilled from his lips. And he crumpled.
Silence returned.
The smoke cleared.
And Major Catcher and Captain Lux stepped into the bridge, weapons raised, surveying the carnage.
Aaron looked up, covered in blood, weapon trembling slightly in his hand.
"You're late, Major," he said hoarsely.
Catcher raised an eyebrow.
"Nice to see you too, Captain."
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