Calros quickly stood up, as Dren's eyes widened slightly beside him."Are we under attack?" he muttered to himself, yet Calros did not respond—he was already moving toward the center of the container, where the residents seemed to have gathered.
In the center was a large lobby—the only spot not covered in beds, and the only place capable of housing one hundred individuals.
Nobody dared speak as the alarms rang across the hangar. A few minutes of tense silence enveloped them all. No one spoke—not even Calros. He knew acting too early was the same as not acting at all.
So he waited.
Then, a voice rang across all containers in the Class Four Cargo Transport.
"We have been ambushed by terrorists. Please maintain your calm. The local Imperial forces are engaging the rebels as we speak. Do not act rashly."
A few more seconds passed in silence before Calros spoke up. His voice carried across the container.
"You feel that?
That shake — that rumble?
That's not the generators failing. That's war outside these walls.
That's fire hitting steel. That's someone, somewhere, tearing chunks out of the people who locked us in this box like animals.
I don't know who they are. I don't know what flag they carry or why they're here.
But I know one thing.
If we sit here like cargo, we will die like cargo.
I've heard what they did to us isn't unique. That the same boots that marched through our streets stomped on other worlds too. Whole cities, emptied. Names, erased. Voices, silenced.
But I don't need proof of that. I don't need statistics.
I remember Vireen.
I remember the screaming. The cold. The checkpoints. The way the sky was always gray because they burned the trees to build landing pads.
I remember what they took from us — our homes, our choices, our dignity.
And now here we are.
Packed into a steel box, waiting to be moved. Or executed. Or forgotten.
But I will not die in a cage.
Not like this. Not with my hands still. Not with my voice silent.
You want a reason to fight?
Look around.
Look at each other. At what we've become. Hollowed out. Shaking. Hoping someone else will act first.
Well, I'm acting.
If that blast was close — and it sounded close — then the guards are scrambling. Maybe they're dead. Maybe they're running. Maybe they're distracted.
That's our chance.
We punch through this wall. We rip up the floor. We snap a pipe and use it as a blade. I don't care how. But we don't wait for someone else to decide if we live or die.
We decide that.
Right now.
Not for a cause. Not for an army. Not for some distant dream.
For ourselves.
For the families we lost. For the names they tried to erase. For the voices they tried to choke.
For Vireen.
And for what comes after Vireen — the part we get to write ourselves.
You want freedom?
Take it.
With me. Now."
A tense silence befell the hundred Vireenians in the container, mostly young and fit men. Then, the water seeped over the barricade—and a thunderous roar rang out amongst the Vireenians, a roar of freedom. Calros realized.
Without hesitation, he marched toward the exit. At the container's entrance, two stormtroopers stood on patrol, albeit outside the container.
He smashed against the walls—ruthlessly, yet with control. Just three knocks. For some ridiculous reason, they answered—orders from Aaron, perhaps.
The door opened, revealing 100 angry, fit, and young Vireenians. They rushed forth. Calros was first, grabbing both stormtroopers' helmets and slamming them together, knocking them out cold.
Calros and Dren seized their E-11 blaster rifles and turned toward the guards outside the other containers, shooting down the two stormtroopers standing watch there.
The hangar wasn't particularly large, and there was really only one entrance—aside from the floor, which could open to transport large materials into the cargo bay.
"Free the others," Calros commanded. The Vireenians ran to the containers, intent on freeing their brothers and sisters and assimilating them into the growing rebellion.
"Search the crates!" Calros shouted, glancing at the dozens of large containers. He and Dren headed for the exit to ensure no stormtroopers would come waltzing into their uprising.
"Are you sure this is the right way, Calros? What if the rebels win?" Dren asked, as they leaned against the wall by the only entrance.
"We need to hope, Dren. This is our best shot—and I'd take it any day," Calros replied, steadfast. Dren nodded, his expression hardening with determination. Joy surged in them both as one of the Vireenians shouted:
"Weapons! Hundreds of blasters!"
Both turned toward the source—a Vireenian stood outside a large crate he'd cracked open, and E-11s spilled out.
"Grab a weapon! We go forth in a few minutes!" Calros called back. He remained by the door while the Vireenians distributed the weapons—including to the 200 or so newly freed Vireenians from the other containers.
Calros knew the layout of this ship like the back of his hand—but he could not reveal that. His knowledge would turn from an advantage into suspicion, something he had to avoid at all costs.
It took only minutes before all 300 Vireenians were armed—ruthless survivors wielding E-11 blasters.
"Alright," Calros shouted. "This is unmapped territory. We don't know this ship, so we focus on one thing: taking the bridge. We enter the first turbolift we find, take it straight to the top floor, then work our way down. Understood?"
A deafening roar of agreement followed. Calros slammed his hand on the door panel, and it opened.
He and Dren ran in first, followed by the Vireenians. They sprinted through the relatively empty ship.
The Commodore made sure it ran on a skeleton crew, he thought as he ran.
Calros made a lucky right turn—and there they were. Five massive turbolifts, capable of holding ten each.
"Alright, 50 at a time. The rest remain here until the lifts return," Calros ordered. He stepped into one of the lifts, followed by Dren and eight others.
He pressed the top floor, and the lift surged upward.
"We use our advantage—surprise and numbers—to overwhelm them. Stop at nothing. We must take the bridge before they contact the fleet," Calros briefed them. They nodded.
"Finally—for our ancestors!" one exclaimed.
Calros smiled slightly and joined in the chant.
"For our ancestors!"
The doors to the lift opened—and Calros surged out. He slammed the butt of his E-11 into a stormtrooper's face, knocking him to the ground before finishing him with a shot to the heart.
He didn't enjoy killing Imperials—but at least these weren't the best kind. Commodore Rysell had told him: these men were either suspected ISB spies or soldiers with war crimes swept under the rug, then transferred.
That made it slightly easier to live with—but still, it was killing.
Dren had taken down the second guard, and the others charged forward, overwhelming the shell-shocked Imperials in the hallway.
Calros knew this lift led directly to the room behind the bridge. The eight stormtroopers guarding it were quickly dealt with, just as the other four lifts arrived—unleashing more rebels.
Calros stormed into the bridge, followed by his group.
The bridge crew tried to seal the blast door—but they were too late. All ten had already made it inside.
Calros felt a warning in his gut and instinctively rolled to the side, narrowly dodging a green laser blast. The bolt struck one of his comrades—who, despite the pain, lifted his blaster and shot the trooper twice. Both men collapsed.
The remaining rebels leapt onto the remaining five stormtroopers. Calros turned his blaster toward the unarmed crew, gunning them down without hesitation.
He didn't enjoy it—but it had to be done.
The bridge crew—barely eight officers in total—stood no chance. A commander. A pilot. Two cargo administrators. Three gunners. A navigator. None had time to resist. Their backs were turned, their stations exposed, and Calros' blaster smoked as he released the trigger.
A few seconds of silence settled over the bridge. Just fifteen seconds—that's all it took. But for these young Vireenians, it would be one of the most defining moments of their lives.
Calros broke the silence with orders.
"You and you—get this blast door locked down. You—find a map of the ship. Dren—contact the Rebel Alliance. You three—move the bodies. You—show me the scanners."
The insurgents snapped out of their trance and rushed to follow his commands, while Calros strode to the bridge's viewing windows.
And as he stared into the void of space, his eyes widened slightly—then narrowed.
For the scene before him was surprising indeed.
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