"Look o'er there, commodore! What's that?"

"Unregulated jumps...Is that...FIRE UP THE ASB! THE REBELS ARE HERE!"

"HOLY SHI-"

A blast from one of the enormous Rebel gunships, followed by several small lasers from auto-assault crafts trailing behind, sent the small outpost station reeling, its center of gravity disrupted. The commodore's cabin was reduced to smithereens, desiccated scrap raining down on the station. Soon after that, the outpost retaliated with the station-mounted Anti-Ship Battery, rending through several auto-ships and clipping a gunship on the wing, forcing it to cease fire. Meanwhile, several sleek Federation fighters launched from the hangar began to rain missiles and lasers on the emerging enemy fleet, beating back the ever-advancing horde. The Rebels, however, gradually overwhelmed the resistance using their numbers, the orange and turquoise ships bringing down one after another of the grey and orange fighters. Those that remained turned tail and fled; some back to the outpost, some simply flew away into the infinite depths of space. They were closely pursued by the advancing swarm of auto-scouts emerging from the many more gunships that had jumped in. More spacecrafts, this time tiny escape cruisers, were launching thick and fast from the outpost's rear ports, carrying important personnel away from the fray, disappearing into the distance. Just in time too; the empty outpost finally buckled under the constant Rebel fire, explosions rocking the station as it collapsed in on itself.

One final ship pulls itself, barely functional yet still fighting, from the burning hangar, smoke and flames trailing from its hull as it painstakingly tears itself from the wreckage of the outpost, leaving deep scratches in the hull paint. The tiny ship manages to clumsily bring out its Artemis missile launcher and Burstfire Mk.2 to fire a few missiles and a laser salvo into a Rebel auto before it sent out a pursuit broadcast. The mass of auto-ships turn sharply and reroute to pursue the escaping ship, lasers and missiles glancing over the shields and hull as it boosts into a jump, leaving the black autos running fruitless scans in its wake.

"We lost it, sir."

"No matter. What's its ID?"

"The Federation Kestrel Number 1293, sir..."

Several lower-class Rebel navigators and marines stifled chuckles and giggles. Really? Was that museum artefact all the Federation had left?

"Huh... Call the fleet navigators in to check for jump signatures. Push the auto front into deeper space, and send out a wideband broadcast to all our stations. The Flagship commander wants their heads on a silver plate, no doubt. Ready the FTL drive on all ships."

"Yes, sir! LISTEN UP! ALL SHIP NAVIGATORS, GO IN AND CHECK FOR JUMP SIGNATURES! SEND THE AUTOS INTO DEEPER SPACE..."

The three distressed and dishevelled humans on the battered Kestrel cruiser let their locked muscles relax, and began to discuss the assault in the living quarters. The roughed-up Engines operator spoke up first, ruffling his raven hair to clean it of any cinders or ash. His chocolate eyes were still wide with residue panic from the outpost siege.

"Holy crap, that was close...Where are we now?"

The blonde pilot, who moonlighted as a navigator, directed his piercing azure pupils to the navi-com, scanning the installed starmaps for a heading. He lifted his head as he finally found where they had ended up.

"Civilian sector A-18, just eight sectors away from base..."

Upon hearing this, the weapons operator, who was the sole woman on the cruiser, swivelled her head around to face everyone else, making her navy blue bun of hair bob up and down. Her green eyes were dull with exhaustion.

"I can't believe it...they knew the whole time?"

"The Rebels were planning this all along, just waiting until today..."

"They must have known about that sensitive info."

Everyone stopped talking at once. Yes, sensitive indeed...their outpost had held the key to the Federation's victory up until its recent destruction; an analysis of the Rebel Flagship, the collective result of countless dedicated loyalists and spies working, bleeding and dying for the Federation. Blood money, you could call it. All information relays had been intercepted save for the single Engi ship, the Torus, that had limped within broadcasting range of this particular outpost, sent out an encrypted message with its final energy reserves, and silently collapsed due to excessive hull damage.

According to the records sent, the Flagship was the ultimate spacecraft, designed and built by the Rebels, to carry and transport the most elite commanders of their fleet. It was described to be a gargantuan, station-sized monstrosity, toting superweapons of mass destruction and a dangerously competent crew; the elite commanders of the entire Rebel fleet. Not only that, but the signal emitter that was used to control the auto-ships was also on-board; if that was destroyed, the Rebel fleet would lose up to sixty percent of its firepower, throwing the entire fleet into disarray. Their cruiser, along with the many other decommissioned cruisers vacant of any duty on that single outpost, had been assigned the task of delivering this intelligence to the Federation home base. Now they were the only ones left...

Fex Garret, Avery Mortlake and Tiera Fontaine; the ragtag crew of one of the three-person squads selected to deliver this valuable intel back to home base. The problem was, although they had temporarily averted destruction, the three of them and their tiny, refitted-at-the-last-second Kestrel were up against the enormous, technologically superior Rebel fleet, or, as they called themselves, the Intergalactic Liberation Front.

"This is going to be a suicide mission." Avery quietly stated as he continued to peruse the various starmaps, studying the sectors carefully.

"There is a roughly...a very high chance of us perishing in a multitude of terribly, horribly painful ways. Being vented. Suffocated. Incinerated. Flash frozen. Irradiated. Eaten. Exploded. Imploded. Even space dementia. The list goes on." He was almost emotionless as he stated their possible deaths. His blank expression was nigh unreadable.

"If we're dying, the least we could do is to take a few of them Rebels to Hell with us! It's on!" Fex was getting increasingly fired up, raising his voice, throwing air-punches and swivelling around in his ancient swivel-chair, which squeaked from the strain of taking weight after decades of decommission.

"I reckon we're procrastinating. We should get to work now if we want to get anywhere..." Tiera left her chair and opened the bulkhead to the weapons room.

"Alright Fex, you heard the lady. Shoo." Avery lazily spun around in his chair and shooed Fex out of the room.