Commodore Aaron Rysell's boots rang out across the floor of his Imperial Star Destroyer, the Leviathan. He was inside his personal ship quarters, a massive section within the Officers' Quadrant, and was heading toward the only meeting room contained within.
He had been informed that Moff Delros desired his presence—and that the man was already waiting inside. Rysell did not know why, but Delros had been a trusted partner many times before. Always paid his debts.
Rysell had recently cleared several cells in the sector, mostly minor threats. The Moff had maintained a tight grip on his territories but knew when to loosen it slightly. He walked the grey line between enforcing the Emperor's standards and avoiding the kind of oppression that made rebellion appealing to common folk.
Delros was cautious and never underestimated rebels. Which was why Rysell had completed multiple missions for the esteemed Moff. Whenever viable intelligence pointed to rebel cell activity within the sector, the man would summon Aaron.
But something—a gut feeling—made Rysell uneasy about this meeting. The Moff usually made his intentions clear before calling for a conference, as standard protocol required. This time, Aaron had received no information or indication of intent. Just a summons.
Now, standing before the blast doors, Aaron retrieved his code cylinder from his chest pocket and inserted it into the scomp link. With a click, the doors hissed open. He removed the cylinder and stepped forward.
Inside stood Moff Delros.
A man of relative strength, clearly committed to maintaining his physical conditioning—especially in his arms and legs. His hair had turned white, but he didn't look a day over forty. He wore a mustache, nothing extravagant, just a mustache.
"Ah, Commodore Rysell!" the man exclaimed with a wide grin as Aaron entered. Aaron returned the smile—barely. It wasn't genuine, but no one forced Aaron to smile. Their friendship, however, more or less required it.
"Moff Delros. What can I do for you?" Aaron asked, getting straight to business.
The Moff's grin deepened. "It seems you haven't changed, Aaron. Not even after your promotion—or the dreadful tasks you've been assigned."
His expression darkened for a brief second before recovering. "Luckily for you, I have a far more enjoyable and challenging assignment. One that requires your expertise in naval combat."
Aaron's right eyebrow rose slightly, but he said nothing.
"The Imperial Governor on Riflor has fallen victim to a coup staged by the local government. He and the entire Imperial convoy have been eradicated. The planet has risen in open rebellion."
Aaron considered this. Riflor… isn't that the planet plagued by earthquakes and natural disasters? A population of around 5.6 billion… known for engineering.
"I would've handled it with my own forces," Delros continued, "but a delegation of Senators and a pair of Grand Moffs will be passing through my sector within half a rotation. My entire reserve fleet has been assigned to escort them."
Rysell nodded. "So you need the planet liberated?"
Delros shook his head. "No. I can spare sufficient ground forces. What I need is for you to handle their naval assets."
A holographic display flickered to life between them, revealing the enemy fleet. Aaron's eyes widened for a fraction of a second—he instantly recognized the classifications.
"Separatist ship classes? Where did they get those? I thought all Separatist cruisers were accounted for," he asked, recalling a presentation he'd given back in the Naval Academy about the eradication of Separatist warships.
"I don't know. Reports suggest that droids are operating the vessels. Perhaps the local government made contact with a hidden Separatist holdout, but it doesn't matter. I need them destroyed. Your fleet should be more than sufficient."
Aaron refocused on the strategic projection.
1x Lucrehulk-Class Battleship, 3x Providence-Class Dreadnoughts, 5x Munificent-Class Star Frigates, 3x Recusant-Class Light Cruisers
A formidable fleet.
The biggest threats would be the Lucrehulk and the Providences. There's no formal record of a Providence going toe-to-toe with an Imperial II-Class Star Destroyer, but I suspect two of them could easily overwhelm one.
He remained silent for a few moments more, then turned to face the Moff.
"I will handle the naval fleet for you, Moff Delros."
The Moff nodded appreciatively. "Very good. Ask for anything, and I will supply it."
The projection flickered out, and Aaron was left alone in the room.
He retrieved his comlink, brought it to his mouth, and activated it with a button press.
"Captain Luca, prepare the Leviathan and Swift End for hyperspace. Set a route to Beltire."
The answer came back sharp and immediate. "Yes, sir."
_______________________________________
Captain Hawk stepped into the cantina aboard the Leviathan, flanked by both Oddball and Jag. They wore black pilot armor—standard for TIE pilots—but their helmets had been left in the hangar.
Hawk and his squadron had been recalled to the Star Destroyer Leviathan to serve under Commodore Rysell for a new operation. One that, they were told, would be over quickly.
Yet, as soon as he entered the ventral hangar, he noticed something odd. Instead of the standard fighter-heavy complement expected aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer, the hangar was filled with TIE bombers.
Forty-eight, to be exact. Four squadrons. The two remaining squadron bays were occupied by elite TIE Defender squadrons.
Hawk had never seen such a loadout used in a combat mission before.
I have faith in my fellow TIE Defender pilots, Hawk thought, but we'd be outnumbered by any force with even half the carrying capacity.
His fellow pilots seemed to share the same questions, their expressions uncertain. But nobody dared speak up.
Unlike the Jedi—who clones had often whispered about, murmuring rumors of incompetence—Commodore Rysell had shown not even a hint of poor judgment. The man always knew what he was doing. He had the full faith of the crew.
Hawk's sharp eyes—eyes that had earned him his callsign—also noticed subtle changes in ship security. Small things. Minor details. But they added up.
Extra patrols. Heavily armed.
Additional security around the food storage and kitchens—overwatch on the cooks.
Mouse droids scurried through the halls in numbers far greater than typical.
Several sections of the ship were off-limits, which was normal. But the consistent presence of Imperial Intelligence officers around those zones raised quiet suspicion among the crew.
Hawk, however, saw no real issue with the additions. He knew of the I.I. Department Chief stationed aboard. It wasn't surprising to see more I.I. activity, especially when it came to their assigned task. Intelligence was a vital factor when it came to hunting down rebels, and counter-intelligence was also important.
What would the intelligence they gathered matter if the rebels knew we had it?
He also knew the rebel doctrine well. Small commando squads, surgical strikes—strategies that reminded him of clone tactics from the war. And considering Rysell's recent rise to fame—and the destruction he'd inflicted on rebel property—it made sense the Commodore feared retaliation.
If Hawk was being honest, he hoped such rebel units would come after Rysell. Just to see how his commander would fare.
Legendary units like Rogue Squadron… with commanders like Wedge Antilles and Luke Skywalker. I wonder how they'd do against us. Hawk's thoughts shifted. Skywalker… could he be related to General Skywalker? That would explain his talent. Rumors say he's a Jedi. Perhaps his son? The General wasn't exactly known for following Jedi rules.
He pushed the thought aside as he joined the conversation.
"Did y'all hear about Omega?" Warthog asked, drawing curious looks from the twelve clones in the squadron.
"She's a female clone. After Order 66, the Bad Batch took her in," Warthog explained.
"The Bad Batch?" Hawk frowned. "I remember working with them on Anaxes. Skilled, but... unorthodox."
"Aye," Oddball added. "I served with them in the 7th. Heard about their desertion. Not surprised. Discipline wasn't exactly their strength."
"Yeah, but rumor is she joined the Rebellion. Serving aboard the Home One, according to reports," Warthog continued.
Hawk exhaled slowly. It felt wrong. The thought of their sister—their only sister—on the other side of the war was hard to stomach.
But he knew there was little he could do. She had made her choice. He understood it. The Empire wasn't sunshine and flowers. But Hawk believed in its strength—and believed Commodore Rysell could change it for the better.
That belief kept most of the squadron together. Loyalty to Commodore Aaron Rysell. Loyalty earned not through fear or duty, but through competence, belief, and trust.
He was the reason they were still here—one of the most elite squadrons in the fleet. And the reason they endured, even under the pressure clones faced in the Empire.
Though Commodore Aaron's own fleet has always treated us well. I guess it depends on the commander, Hawk thought, as the conversation turned to lighter, more enjoyable topics.
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