This is the scene I'm having the most trouble with, specifically with the sudden event towards the end of it. I don't want to do it, but when I thought it up, it seemed...well, it seemed right--it fit perfectly, that is, with this particular story. I'm worried about how to make it convincing with the plot in Specter and Vision... Well, I'll post it anyway, but I need as much feedback about the following scene as possible, after which I will ultimately decide whether or not to keep the scene or scrap it. Oh, and as always, just because it's posted in a certain order doesn't mean that I won't add, crop, change, or delete scenes later since I am nearly certain that should be a scene between this one and the last one... Don't worry, I'll post the "final" version at the conclusion. For now, I am using all of you as "forced" audience and reviewers. Oh, and if it's bad, just tell me so. I had a hard time getting my thoughts into writing this time around... ------ Klaxons sounded, telling of the Star Destroyer's pain. The Chimaera was sinking and soon she would be dead, but despite the screaming of alarms and the flashing of emergency lights, the crew behaved themselves as though nothing out of the unusual clatter of combat were occurring. They knew just as well as he, though, what was coming. "Admiral, we have a breach along the ventral side fire control station aft of the forward hangar," an operator called from the crewpit. "Nemesis signals its availability to pick up. Stormhawk is moving into covering position," another reported. The damage control reports kept flooding his command station as they continued to fight a losing battle to keep their ship from dying. Already Chimaera was beginning to speed up as its orbit continued to decay. To the lower starboard side, the otherwise lifeless hulk of the Mon Calamari battlecruiser continued hammering away with its oversized turbolasers and ion cannons, ripping more and more of Chimaera apart. It'd come out of hyperspace very suddenly and, what seemed on purpose, collided with their rear, crippling their engines, then limped underneath and along side the Star Destroyer and opened fire. It had been a desperate move, but it'd worked. Commander Quintal, the Chimaera's commanding officer, gave Pellaeon a pained look. So he'd realized it, too. With a deep, burning anger...and resignation, Pellaeon turned to the bridge officer. "Lieutenant Tshcel," he called, the not-so-young officer looking up from his board with concerned eyes. "Give the order to abandon ship." Pellaeon woke with a start, a near-scream escaping his lips. It had happened too many nights, and it happened the same way, always with the Chimaera abandoned, nearly annihilated, just as had happened some eight years ago at Duro. So much lost for the glory of a mere victory, a victory abandoned when the Emperor had died his second and final death. He looked around the darkened room. The VIP living quarters were the same Thrawn had used during his time aboard Chimaera, though then it had served as a sort of secondary command center. Now it was nothing more than personal quarters, and an office. He jumped when the comm at his nightstand chirped. Angry with himself, he pushed the button. "Pellaeon." "Admiral, this is Major Tschel on the bridge. We have a priority signal from the Star Destroyer Death's Head." Harbid. What could he want at this hour? "I apologize for waking you, sir, but the message came over your private frequency, so I assumed--" "No apologies necessary, Major," Pellaeon said towards the comm's voice pick up. "Have it relayed to my office." "Yes, sir." The comm clicked off. Pellaeon swung his legs out onto the side of the bed and worked stiff muscles in his back and shoulders. The chrono at his bedside told the time at a few hours before dawn on Coruscant, Galactic Standard Time. He would have been awake in an hour and Harbid knew that. Whatever was the matter was important, or at least had better be. He pulled on his pants and walked to the mirror, fixing his blouse. The eyes that stared back startled him. They were the eyes of a tired, shamed man. Amidst all those battles and all those defeats, the boy who'd lied about his age to join the Navy was gone, and now an elderly man stood in his place. The fire that had once blazed in those eyes was gone, and as much as he tried, he could not recall when it'd disappeared. Gravely, he walked into the outer room he used an office and keyed the comm on the desk. A hologram materialized, but the face that appeared wasn't what he'd expected. The face that appeared was round and considerably younger than Harbid's grizzled own. Pellaeon's brow furrowed. "Report." Captain Madej, commanding officer of the Death's Head, shuddered away from Pellaeon's strong and commanding tone, but recovered quickly and straightened. He noticable set his jaw and began, "Sir, I apologize for calling you on your private frequency, but it was an urgant matter, so I--" "Then why isn't Admiral Harbid contacting me?" Pellaeon purposefully made his tone low and irritable. Madej swallowed, noticably unsettled. "Sir, it's about Admiral Harbid." He closed his eyes. "An orderly was the first to discover it, and by the time the medtechs got there--" "Captain, what has happened?" Pellaeon was nearly out of patience. Madej opened his eyes and gazed back at Pellaeon, eyes serious and pained. "Admiral Harbid is dead, sir." An icy knife stabbed into Pellaeon's side. "He shot himself with his blaster and died instantly. There was nothing the medics or anyone else could do for him." Pellaeon felt his legs want to go underneath him and collapsed into his chair. He looked past Madej at the repeater display at the front of the room, showing a transmitted image of the starscape outside as though his office, deep in the bowels of the Star Destroyer, had a viewport. The nearest star shown brightly, the image dimming as it came into view on the warship's horizon. He couldn't explain what he was seeing, but in that moment, for some reason, he was far from here. "I'm sorry for being the barrer of bad news," Madej finished. Pellaeon waved the holo away and switched off the comm, not caring if Madej had anything more to say. Harbid, loyal servant of the Empire, too loyal to ever accept defeat. In the terms of the noble and royalty of the galaxy, he'd chosen to fall on his sword than suffer the disgrace of surrender. Which made Pellaeon wonder. Sitting on a pedestal along the wall was the single piece of artwork he kept in the room. The wall directly behind it was discolored in various places where the bulkhead had been repaired, patched, and replaced following the Chimaera's recapture. There had been those of the reassembled officer cadre, those who had survived those years of chaos following the Emperor's final death, who had wanted all of the battle scars removed and replaced, but Pellaeon had held firm. Ardiff, the new commanding officer, had agreed. "Abandon ship! Repeat: all personnel, abandon ship!" the intercom system blared on the shipwide broadcast. Officers and crewers, in a huddled mass of organized confusion, shuffled past him, all heading for the various escape pod sections and what remained of the shuttles. "Admiral Pellaeon, this way, please!" Quintal called to him. "Admiral!" Pellaeon ignored the calls and continued down the corridor, toward his living quarters. "Admiral!" Quintal caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "Sir, we have to leave now! We've lost the helm." Pellaeon turned on the ship's commanding officer and gave him a venomous glare. Quintal let go. Pellaeon turned away and continued. He entered his quarters, and for a moment half-expected to find Grand Admiral Thrawn sitting in the center of the room. He half-expected the great commander to stand and suddenly give an order and fix everything. But there was no one there, just the ghostly images of holo-projected artwork and very few tangible pieces. Pellaeon crossed the room to his desk and took the datapad from the top drawer. The ship shuddered as though something had slammed into the side. "Explosion, starboard side," an automated voice reported over the intercom. "All personnel, abandon ship. Repeat: all personnel, abandon ship..." Pellaeon shut the sirens and alarms out, and turned his attention on the room. Slowly, deliberately, he looked around the room, taking in every detail, recalling every moment, every memory. Since the Grand Admiral's death, he'd purposefully kept the room unchanged, but, now, it was over, and the Chimaera would soon be dead. He clicked off the artwork and it disappeared, forever, all but a single piece. An ancient dagger, one of Thrawn's mystery pieces from somewhere in the Unknown Regions. With only a moment of hesitation, Pellaeon grabbed the dagger and made his way from the room to this level's escape pods. And now it sat on a pedestal precisely where it had then, eight years ago, when the Empire had won the Battle of Duro, but lost the Chimaera, and in the process lost the great majority of Thrawn's artwork and, worst of all, the Grand Admiral's memoirs. And now Harbid was dead, one more casualty to the defeats, retreats, and losses they'd suffered. Harbid, the man who'd been so strong that if not for him, the fleet in the Outer Rim would have surely been lost to factioning and infighting like the Core. Harbid, his most loyal supporter and friend, was gone. Pellaeon leaned back in his chair and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For some strange reason, his practical side surfaced, and he wondered what would become of the Fleet now that it's cornerstone was gone. His support was gone and, as terrible as this sounded, he would have to find someone to take Harbid's place. Duty called. The time for grieving would come later, when this was all finally and completely over.
