General Owen Dericote, he could never quite believe that, was marching through the inner workings of the warship. The old Hammerhead cruisers were almost a thing of pride for the Fondorian Planetary Defense Fleet. All hundred and twenty of the, almost two thousand year old, ships were a vital piece of Fondor’s pre-war defense strategy. A strategy which had morphed into the current wartime strategy of massed production and outsourced crews from various more militant peoples from the Rimma Trade Split. The shipyard world had secured quite a few license productions for warships over her time after all. One of which was exactly the type of ship Owen was about to seize.

  The Hammerhead class cruiser, or just Hammerhead, had originally been bought as a license from Rendili Stardrive during the first years of the Great Sith War, when the class had been brand new. However as time marched on, small improvements, adjustments and divergences had been made from the traditional Rendili models. Over the course of almost three thousand years of warfare the Fondorians had changed this staple vessel. Turning the two medium dual turbolaser cannons at the tips of the ships into full batteries instead of poorly defended swivels seemed a no brainer to the engineers, even if it increased the profile and required more durasteel and the various materials required from making a bit of enclosed space habitable within the void. Then mounting a duet of tri-heavy lasercannon turrets behind the head of the ship alongside a handful of jutting dual light laser ball-turrets after the engineers found the losses from fighter and bomber strikes to be too high. It was reasonable, after all, to improve the maneuverability of the weapons at the same time.

  Finally the Fondorian shipwrights had mounted five missile tubes just below the bridge. The weapons platform could be jettisoned if necessary, as the Ruusan Reformation had demanded of them, but for removing a couple spare rooms and shuffling around some others, the Fondorian make of the iconic old Republic vessel became something worth dreading for its slightly up-sized length of about 350 meters. However these many changes made it almost completely foreign when compared to its more economical Rendili siblings. So the modified ships were rewarded with a new model designation. The Hammerhead model 7-F-T-Aurek-NS class cruiser, colloquially named AFTANS, though finding anyone outside of the shipyards proper referring to them as such was as likely as finding water in a desert. Not that the history mattered to the newly minted General, but after hearing his son ramble about it once too often, it was ingrained in his mind.

  Though in all honesty his promotion still felt unreal to the middle aged man. He supposed it had to do with the rest of his department either deserting to help fight in the streets against the Seps, or being incredibly incompetent nepotistic plants. Just from that alone a plan had started brewing. The syndicates, along with the help of his increasingly terrifying and darling wife, had successfully assassinated his old boss, General Burdo. Suddenly the idiots running Fondor found themselves in need of someone who could actually conduct all the logistical work they needed to win their war against Fondor herself.

  The General scoffs at their naivety of his so called superiors. His son was fighting against them. His wife was leaking information to the syndicates and unions. His soon to be son and soon to be daughter in law had been smuggling people out of Fondor since the war started. He was actively harboring half a dozen children in his house as favors to cousins who had dismissed him ages ago for marrying his darling wife.

  And now, family knife in hand, he would make the fools realize their mistake. A mistake they hadn’t known they’d made. Like a novice hunter, they hadn’t known the aged sandgator was hiding near the rocks, waiting for them to make a small step onto the sand. To allow it to easily snatch its prey and drag it into the desert, never to be seen again.

  The doors to the bridge opened up for him, each and every B1 already either turned to slag or reprogrammed to serve their purpose. The General smirks at that. Too easy. The bastard Skakoans were too preoccupied with the surface occupation to see the dangers they had inherited by making Fondor their home. The Fondorian Planetary Defense Force Fleet was almost entirely staffed by the desperate, but even the desperate have families below and no amount of improved rations and ‘security’ was worth it when said ‘security’ was about to be moved to attack a syndicate headquarters. A fake headquarters with only a semblance of suicidal maniacs and their reprogrammed droids to hold off the attacking droids long enough for the families below to be secured and moved to actual safety by a coalition of union scabhunters and syndicate gangsters. After all, the Republic was almost here and like hell were the Fondorians going to be rescued again. They’d earn their freedom.

  “The bridge is yours, General.” High Commodore Dafavid Luxerite says, snapping a salute as he does.

  “Damn fine. Hail our co-conspirators. Finish moving into position and await the signal.” He orders.

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  Co-conspirators was right. They had had to … ugh, work with a good dozen ruling families directly and another hundred or so indirectly to get this working. There had been a whole lot of compromising. Senator Rodd, the fuckfaced son of a bitch who keeps propositioning Owen’s love, would be keeping his position of ambassador, though his former Senate seat in the Republic was gone. The Mrlssi had apparently sent their own delegate to take over for the sector recently. A couple other bastards had garnered leeway and promises of safety after the revolt was done. On the bright side Owen’d be allowed to keep his promotion and Naomi would be given a much better pension for whenever she decided to quit.

  “Ships’re in position, sir.” One of his men said.

  “Wait for it. The Republic should show in a couple minutes, we’ll strike the second we detect their Cronau radiation.” Owen admonishes.

  “You never did say how you know they’ll be here.” The High Commodore says, slowly getting cold feet.

  “My son told me.” He answers simply. Elix had basically stumbled upon the fleet making final preperations for their jump. Lucky for him, his quick surrender to Republic authorities had bought him enough time for him to use his emergency comm channel to get the information to Owen at great personal risk.

  “We’ve got a minor spike in Cronau radiation, sir.”

  “Wait for it.”

  “Incoming transmission, sir. It’s Admiral Namoor.”

  “Take it.”

  “All members of the Fondorian Planetary Defense Fleet and all squadrons of the Separatist Navy. Enemy ships incoming. Move to prepared positions and prepare for combat.” The voice of the Techno Union mercenary says over the transmission.

  “Well you heard the man. All ships of Fondor. STRIKE!” Owen barks.

  “Hooya!” The bridge crew bark in reply as the chaos begins.

  Almost simultaneously every ship of the conspiracy fires at the surrounding Separatist ships.

  It was the most coordinated maneuver the Defense Force had attempted in known history, yet as each and every capitol ship, be it the sole Invincible class dreadnought ‘Fondor’, or the dozen up-armed and armored Captor class cruisers, unleash their turbolaser fire upon the surrounding Separatist warships. It goes off without a hitch. Almost immediately afterwards the twenty four Dreadnought heavy cruisers and the hundred and twenty Hammerhead cruisers unleash their second and third salvos of turbolaser fire upon the Separatist warships, following their barrage of tibana fire with one of proton torpedoes, being joined by the capitol ships as they launch over a hundred high explosives on the unprepared Separatist warships. Finally the two hundred Sphyrna class corvettes and forty Carrack class light cruisers charge towards the Separatist warships, unleashing laserfire into their hangars when possible and destroying the Separatist’s own corvettes.

  “All true Fondorians have joined, us sir.” Luxerite reports.

  “Looks like we were right. No one joined in the defense of the Seps.” Owen muses, “Push them towards the hyperspace egress point to our north, we cannot allow them to retreat into the arms of their vile comrades to our south!”

  “As you command, sir!” The High Commodore answers easily.

  Owen wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. He was a logistician first and foremost. Not a battlefield commander. It was why he had left most of the fine tuning to his co-conspirators in the actual naval arm of the Defense Force. Instead he had re-directed, destroyed or misplaced as much Separatist supplies as possible. Some of it was now being used to fire upon the bastards ahead of them, that made the man chuckle. Using the enemy’s weapons against them.

  He nervously taps the knife sheath as he watches enemy ships explode in balls of flame as they sustain massive punishments of damage. One Hammerhead cruiser Captain gets overeager and rams through one of the enemy Gazonti corvettes before unleashing a salvo of torpedoes through the broken wreckage.

  “Sir, Republic ships have exited hyperspace to our north.”

  “Hail the man!” Owen barks as he marches away from the bridge windows and towards one of the smaller communications stations. Best not to take up more space than needed from the actual competent people.

  A moment later reveals the visage of an older Duro standing proudly, though leaning on a cane as he does: “Who would you be?”

  “General Owen Dericote, sir. Head of the Fondorian Planetary Defense Force’s Logistical Department and temporary commanding officer of the entire Fondorian Planetary Defense Force, sir.” Owen answers easily, refusing to snap a salute just yet.

  The Duro slowly blinks in surprise before speaking: “Would you happen to be a relative of one Thraken Deicote?”

  “My son.” Owen answers.

  “That explains the resemblance, I suppose.” The Duro says, “I am Fleet Admiral Mal Sentul of the Republic Taskforce Redoubt. I am also the proud commanding officer of the 3rd Battlegroup, ‘Old Ironside’ and temporary flagship the Praetor class Star Destroyer ‘Excellency’. I have come under orders to liberate Fondor, yet it seems you have already done a wonderful job of it yourself.”

  Owen nods in acknowledgment of the praise: “You honor us. We would however request the Republic intervene on our behalf and assist us in liberating our homeworld.”

  “Any requests in how we are to do so?” The elder Duro asks.

  “We wish to destroy the Separatists in detail. Our plan was for us to be the hammer, and your forces the anvil on which the Separatists break.

  Something twinkles in the elder Duro’s eyes as he speaks: “In that case I believe the more simplistic approach will suit us best. Commodore Ozzel, please begin our advance. I believe our second prepared strategy shall suit us best.”

  A Carida accented man answers him from beyond the holoprojection: “As you command, sir.”

  Owen smirks. Fondor would be free again.