"That had not, in fact, been it."
When outgunned, outnumbered, surrounded, low on cover, and with his goals steadily slipping further and further out of his reach, Darth Angral was starting to wonder if maybe it was time for Plan B. Damn it all, all he had wanted was to bring justice to his son's murderer. Was that so much to ask?
A blast rattled the bridge of the Oppressor just then, sending junior officers tumbling while senior officers held on to something for stability. It certainly answered his question.
"Damage report," the captain of this ship ordered, and a rattled-looking ensign hastened to comply.
"Bridge shields at 35 percent," he announced, his voice surprisingly steady for someone looking like all the blood in their body had migrated away from their face. "Dorsal shields at 40 percent. Starboard and port shields both at 38 percent. Ventral shields at 20 percent. Rear shields gone. Hull breaches on decks 17 through 19. All weapons still operational."
A quick glance at the tactical display revealed why one area was faring so much worse. While the top sector still had all three slave barges intact to block the enemy's line of sight, the bottom sector was clear of everything except debris. That Terminus-class destroyer had not even hesitated to destroy them if it meant getting a clear shot.
"Begin rotation," Darth Angral ordered, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage. More traitors who had crawled out of the woodwork to oppose justice. They would escape his retribution Darth Angral could feel it. But that did not mean the Monster and the Traitor had to escape, too. All he had to do was find a way to get them to come to him without sounding desperate. Once that was done, the Oppressor could crash into the planet for all he cared. "Ventral sector in line with the slave barges. It'll buy us some time."
And time was all he needed. Only a little.
"Incoming transmission from the planet's surface," the communications officer called out from her station. "Sound only."
"Put it on," the captain ordered.
"If the alleged Sith Lord in orbit is done throwing a temper tantrum, the proper Sith Lord on the surface would like a word," the obviously artificial accent of Nestor, that so-called Sith Lord, filled the bridge.
"Lord Nestor," Angral greeted him with all the courtesy that he most certainly had not earned. "Would that word be surrender?"
"Yours, perhaps." There was an edge to the younger man's voice that Angral had not noticed earlier, a barely suppressed tension that made every word sound overly enunciated. "But that is only if King Bouris Ulgo's message has not yet reached you."
"What message would that be?"
"That you, oh Father-of-the-year, are a clown," came the answer, and every muscle in Angral's body clenched at once. The small barbs that had punctured most of his upper body, and the parasites he now hosted, tore a bit more into his flesh at the motion, but he paid it no mind; the pain would only fuel him. "A fool. A buffoon. A complete idiot. A message my friends have been generous enough to deliver by the megaton."
"Send me your location, you sorry excuse for a Sith, and I will show you what a fool can do to a man with a tongue faster than his mind," he growled, his fists clenching into fists so tight he could hear the armorweave of his robes creak under the strain.
"The ruins of the Jedi Temple, of course," came the answer. "Although, it's more a pile of rubble than a proper ruin. It's a good thing we evacuated this place before you came here."
We? He knew that Nestor had sunk low, but to work to actively help more Jedi survive… the very thought disgusted him. That man was a cancer in the heart of the Empire. Best to excise him quickly. Over the corpse of the Monster, preferably.
"Prepare yourself, traitor," he growled, gesturing to the communications officer to cut the transmission. Instantly, the static that accompanied a speaker transmitting silence cut out. "Did you get a trace on that transmission?"
"Yes, my lord," came the answer. "It came from the location we identified as the Jedi Temple."
"Continue the fight," he ordered. "I will be heading down to the surface. Should the worst come to pass, overload the reactor and take out as many of them as you can."
"Your will be done, my lord," the captain said before turning to the tactical display with its steadily decreasing number of friendly contacts. Starfighter combat was proving volatile, it seemed.
"My lord, a moment of your time?" the red-headed intelligence agent asked, falling into step beside him. Angral did not spare her a second glance.
"I will not be taking you down to the surface," he said, reaching for the personal commlink on his belt. "Apprentices, meet in the dorsal hangar bay. Anyone who isn't there by the time I am will be left aboard the ship."
Lesser apprentices, the lot of them. Pawns for the games played in the halls of power, backup for real fighting, proxies, and messengers, they were never meant to be successors. It was rare for one to become a Sith Lord, but it occasionally happened.
His would all die on Tython. But if it slowed down the Monster, it would all be worth it.
"My lord, I would like to offer some advice in dealing with Lord Nestor," she said, not discouraged in the least. Bold, this one. Exceptionally bold for an intelligence agent.
"I'm going to throw lightning at him," he deadpanned. Honestly, dealing with Nestor was hardly going to be a challenge. He was half-trained, reluctant to draw upon his full potential, and content to hide behind others. Better yet, others were eager to shield him. He could use that to narrow the field somewhat. "If that doesn't kill him, the toxins from the dying orbalisks will."
"It might," she said. "But instead of walking into his trap, you could draw him to you."
"I have no need for traps," he countered, not slowing his pace toward the turbolift in the slightest. "I will triumph by the strength of my will, or I will die."
"Very well, my lord," she acquiesced. "Just know that Nestor has proven himself to be quite protective of complete strangers."
"Noted. Now return to your station," he ordered, stepping into the turbolift. Alone, thankfully. The red-headed intelligence operative thankfully did not dally and already strode back to her station on the bridge. There was little she could do to help the battle, but at least she could go down with the ship.
Honestly, was that too much to ask?
The turbolift, though filled with the buzz of electronics and motors, did not answer his mental question. And that was fine. It gave Angral a rare moment to himself. To think, as drummed his fingers at this chest, but he felt only the hard chitinous layer beneath his robes.
Orbalisks. Unmodified and unleashed upon himself shortly before he had reached Zyg Prime. They would allow him to seize the power he needed to see his vengeance completed, even if he would not survive to enjoy it for long. Perhaps another month or two, no more. But if it meant he could die knowing he had found justice for his son, that would be fine.
It would all be worth it.
The turbolift ground to a halt, and Angral returned to his imperious posture. Straightbacked and scowling, he strode to the nearest shuttle with a dozen Sith Apprentices arrayed in front of it. They would do no more than slow down the Monster and his allies, but that was fine. They could do nothing to contribute to the battle in space.
Besides, what kind of Sith Lord went to his death alone?
"Apprentices, we're heading down to Tython," he announced, not slowing down as he approached the boarding ramp. The shuttle was the standard Kaas-pattern, a broad and flat triangle with wings that folded up to form a tall fin at the top. "Our objective is a Jedi Knight and his entourage. Do not fail me."
...
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