Striking at Shadows - 9.057 ABY

[Tukphen]

Sullust

Though scarred and battle-scorched by years of service, the coral white hull of the Mon Calamari Cruiser Defiance stood in stark contrast to the blackness of space as it floated peacefully in high geo-synchronous orbit. Miles below however, the surface of Sullust burned.

Admiral Tukphen had only set foot upon it's disagreeable surface a handful of times before, and even then the volcanos and smokestacks of the geologically active industrial world had spewed smoke into the fettid yellow air. Today however, the plumes and smoke clouds that spiralled their way into the upper atmosphere came from the burning of factories and homes, half-melted and smashed into craters by the ferocity of the recent Imperial assault. Even here in orbit, wreckage drifted amongst the stars like icebergs on an eerily calm sea, debris from shattered vessels and broken shipyards that the Alliance hadn't yet had time to clear away.

Tukphen was not a cold or heartless man; and he knew all too well the extents of the damage that the Imperials had wrought. The Sullustans had survived yes, fortunate in a way that the warrens and bunkers that they inhabited had left them with so few casualties from the assault itself. But while the Empire's attack lacked the full devastation and genocide that the galaxy knew they were more than capable of, they had left Sullust a wounded beast. Industry and infrastructure would take months of manpower and a fortune in resources to repair; and the injuries suffered by economy - not to mention the military - by the loss of the SoroSuub shipyards would take far longer to heal.

Tukphen had done what he could: the 613th Supply Group had already landed it's flotilla of gargantuan transports on the surface, and was unloading relief supplies and humanitarian aid, while the 643rd had spared what medical frigates and hospital ships it could to care for the injured; but it was a bandaid on a gaping wound. Pirates and opportunists would flock to the system, trying to exploit the Sullust's weakened state like carrion birds feeding on an injured whaladon; and the Alliance would be forced to dedicate more and more of it's already stretched forces and resources to protecting and healing the wounded world.

Perhaps it was not entirely what the Empire had intended, but it would be effective none the less. They had struck a vital blow, and had hurt the Empire hard.

It would only be a matter of time before they struck again; a bolder move this time perhaps, softening up the likes of Bothawui or Dac, forcing them to recall and retreat forces from the rest of the galaxy, until the Alliance to Restore the Republic hid inside the protective shell of it's homeworlds: safely contained, and robbed of the mobility that had made them such a persistant thorn in the Empire's side until now. It was what many had feared when the Alliance first proposed the liberation of Sullust: lacking the kind of home-grown military assets that the Mon Calamari or the Bothans posessed, the Alliance had not been able to secure and fortify the entire Brema Sector; and now they faced the prospect of the planet becoming another Chandrila, held hostage by the Empire in a contested region of space.

Admiral Tukphen's eyes hunghalf closed as he reluctantly imagined what the outvoted Torrsk Oruo'rel might say at having been proven right all along.

For the sake of the Alliance, and for the sake of his sanity, they needed a plan: some reaction or retaliation that would restore the reputation of the Alliance military in the eyes of it's people and the rest of the galaxy, and make the Empire think twice in the future about being foolish enough to provoke the Rebellion again.

His eyes widened again, the reflective pools of his convex vision drinking in the faces of the men he had summoned for this meeting, seated around the conference table before him. There was Admiral Tukphen, the hero whose Third Fleet had liberated Sullust, Bothawui, and Sluis Van. There was General Meirs Brecklin, the Supreme Commander of the Alliance Starfighter Corps, headquartered on the planet below; and General Dan Thule, the grizzled Alliance veteran and most senior officer that the Fourth Fleet had left to offer. There was Niev Minetti from Sullust, and Sekaj L'vehl from Sluis Van: the representatives of their respective worlds, here on Council business with Tukphen and whose council he trusted. The others he did not recognise by name, but each had been invited for their tactical insight, or their actions during the Battle of Bothawui.

His mouth hung open, words tumbling out in the warbled Mon Calamari approximation of human speech. "I'll get right to the point, gentlemen. The Empire hurt us, and hurt us badly. No one leaves this room until we've worked out how to hurt them back."