Contrary to what the officers had told him, there was no Imperial fleet outside engaging the Rebel Alliance.
No. The Class Four Heavy Cruisers were instead attempting to desperately ram into the rebel ships. It was chaos. And beyond that, he saw it—the capital ship of the entire Rebel Alliance.
Home One.
Flanking it were a pair of MC75 Cruisers, and surrounding them, dozens of smaller vessels—corvettes, frigates, patrol craft. All of them keeping their distance. Admiral Ackbar wasn't commanding the flagship for nothing. He had deployed squadrons of X-Wings and boarding craft to intercept and capture the convoy's cargo transports.
The boarding ships were reminiscent of old Separatist technology, though lacking the signature octopus-like shape and tentacles. Still, their intent was clear—and their effectiveness undeniable.
Several of the crafts had already pierced the hulls of at least five transport ships. And there were more on the way, bearing down on their targets with precision and alarming speed.
Calros turned toward the man he had placed on comms. "Can you get us into the open feed?" he asked. The Vireenian nodded, fingers flying across the console.
"Almost there," the man replied, voice strained with focus. "Just a bit longer."
At that moment, the rest of the Vireenians arrived at the bridge, panting from exertion. Calros spun around to face them, his voice rising with command.
"Scour the ship. Every corridor. Every airlock. Every chamber. We must eliminate any remaining Imperials aboard. We cannot risk them transmitting our location. Deactivate every Imperial droid and secure the ship's vital components—engines, reactor, hyperdrive, the AD-Chamber. Go!"
The group responded without hesitation, sprinting back the way they had come, toward the elevators that would take them deeper into the vessel.
There was no proper structure among them. No solidified chain of command. Calros knew that coordination was essential—but he didn't have time to forge a military hierarchy. Not yet. For now, they needed speed more than order.
The Vireenian at comms turned back to him, eyes sharp. "I've got it. We can broadcast now."
Calros hurried over to the console where the microphone had been mounted.
"Do it," he said.
The operator pressed a button, nodding toward Calros in confirmation. They were live—open feed.
"To any Rebel vessels in-system," Calros began, voice firm, "my name is Calros Ren. I have assumed command of our cargo transport, but we lack the experience to properly operate the bridge. We require technical assistance."
The bridge fell silent. No one moved, no one spoke. They waited in tense anticipation, unsure whether their plea would even be heard. Seconds dragged on like hours.
Then—after exactly thirteen seconds—a voice crackled through the speakers.
"This is Admiral Ackbar. We will dispatch a team of naval technicians. Please secure the docking bay and await their arrival."
Calros allowed himself a small smile. To have reached Ackbar himself so quickly—it was more than he'd hoped for.
"Understood, Admiral," Calros responded. "We will prepare for your team's arrival."
He turned back to his crew.
"You heard him," he said. "Stay away from the controls until the professionals get here. We don't want to make their job harder."
His team nodded in agreement. Some backed away from their stations entirely, grateful for the excuse. None of them were truly comfortable manning the consoles—every wrong input could potentially result in catastrophe. It was better to wait.
And so, they waited.
Meanwhile, the Rebel forces made quick work of the remaining resistance in the system. Calros vaguely remembered a message they had broadcast across open frequencies—something about not harming prisoners. It had seemed odd at the time, but now it made sense.
These Imperials—part of the 32nd Squadron—were the worst kind of scum. They treated prisoners like animals, civilians like tools, and abandoned their posts the moment danger arose. Calros could hardly stomach it.
They had surrendered the moment survival became uncertain. So much for the glory of the Empire.
Still, he kept his revulsion to himself. The rebels had work to do, and the enemy's cowardice only sped the process.
Rebel crews arrived swiftly on his bridge, taking over the navigation and operational systems. The main navigator began entering new hyperspace coordinates while technicians evaluated the transport's overall condition.
The remaining Class Four Transports had already been boarded and captured. Those few Imperials who had retained some loyalty had attempted to crash their ships into rebel vessels—futile efforts, easily countered. They were the first to fall.
And thankfully, none had managed to activate the overload protocol on their reactors. Imperial doctrine dictated that if a ship carried "precious" cargo and all was lost, the reactor was to be detonated—destroying both vessel and payload to deny it to the enemy.
The cargo, in this case, consisted of nearly 300,000 foot soldiers.
Calros had been apprehensive about handing over so many potential fighters to the rebels. It felt like offering a sword to the enemy with one's own throat bared. But Rysell had countered effectively.
"The Rebellion thrives on speed and evasion," Rysell had said. "What use are 300,000 infantry when they can't run or disappear? They'll become a burden, not a strength."
Maybe he was right.
"Calros, we're preparing to jump," said Grung, the ship's pilot—an older rebel with a steady voice.
"Good. Cargo Administrator, please inform the Vireenians onboard. Let them know the ship is secured and we're heading toward safe space. That includes those in the container-web," Calros instructed.
The man nodded and moved to obey.
For now, Calros had semi-command of the bridge. But once they reached their destination, it would be time to formally coordinate with the Rebel Alliance. The real work was just beginning.
...
Leia stood beside Admiral Ackbar aboard Home One, surrounded by the blue blur of hyperspace.
"So, Princess," Ackbar asked, eyes on the starfield, "what do you suggest we do with these Vireenians?"
Leia knew he didn't truly need her advice. Ackbar was more experienced than she in matters of military integration—but he valued her opinion.
"We could place them under General Dodonna?" she offered, not particularly invested in the suggestion.
Ackbar turned, giving her a look that was less than enthusiastic.
Leia sighed and offered a more thoughtful answer. "They need to choose a leader from among themselves. Someone who can unify them. Someone capable, but also charismatic. They're about to become the largest organized military group within the Rebellion. We can't just assign a general to them."
Ackbar's expression softened. "My thoughts exactly. And I believe the choice is obvious."
Leia narrowed her eyes. She knew whom he meant.
"Calros. The rebels aboard his cruiser say he's sharp. Disciplined. Commanding," she said slowly. "He's a natural leader."
And yet… something didn't sit right.
"Still," Leia added, "I've got a feeling. Something about him—it doesn't line up. I don't know what it is, but we should be careful."
Ackbar nodded thoughtfully. "You're not wrong to be cautious. But we have few other options. And I remind you, Leia, not everyone in the Alliance shares your idealism. This rebellion is built from ambition—ambition in many forms. You'd do well to remember that."
Leia didn't reply. She simply stared out at the stars, the weight of what was to come settling on her shoulders.
...
Aaron sat in his office, a large oval room adorned in cold steel and darker decor. His desk stood near the far wall, directly opposite the entrance. Hannah stood before him—Datapad in hand, clad in her black Imperial Intelligence uniform, sans cap.
"The convoy was ambushed," she said, tone clinical. "All 279,000 prisoners and twelve cargo haulers were lost. Initial reports suggest voluntary surrender by the Imperials. One hauler even experienced an internal uprising—Rebels didn't need to intervene."
Aaron smirked.
"So they took the bait. I wonder how Calros is doing," he mused.
Hannah chuckled softly, her bright blue eyes locking with his. "You're acting, but I know you too well. You're not reallysurprised."
"Of course not. But the Rebel Alliance is unpredictable, Hannah. You of all people know that. And with so many retired Imperials entering their ranks, Rebel High Command is growing more professional—more dangerous."
"You think they're becoming ruthless?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
"No," Aaron replied. "But their days of naivety are numbered. We won't be able to use tricks like this forever."
She considered his words, then frowned. "Still… the Home One appeared. Why didn't we act? We could've crippled the Rebellion's core fleet. Instead, you gambled it away for infiltration."
Aaron's gaze turned cold.
"If I knew Home One would be there, of course I'd have acted. But I didn't. The odds weren't high enough. But placing SC-1—Calros—in the Rebel High Command? That could be worth more than even Home One. If he gains their trust, the damage he can do will be irreversible."
Hannah's eyes narrowed, but she nodded slowly. He was right. She had expected perfection from him—omniscience. But no one could predict the movement of Home One. Most likely, it should've only been small boarding parties.
"I suppose you're right," she murmured. Then, she smirked. "Still. I hate losing ships. How can I make it up to you?"
She stepped forward, fingers tracing the edge of his desk.
Aaron's grin returned.
"Oh, I believe you already know how."
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