Episode I: Tie Fighter

Space is something that few can begin to comprehend. Trillions upon trillions of stars expand outward across a vast field of black vacuum. The edges of space have never been—and possibly may never be—defined into an accepted boundary. The most scientific answer available was that it was big. Really big.

And now it was turning.

Captain Civé Rashon yanked hard on her controls and felt her tie respond in kind. The vessel was moving at just over ninety mph—megalight per hour—and Civé felt it as she burned into a hard roll followed by a straight dive. Her ships instruments indicated that her "eyeball" had just shot up to 100 mph, the starfighter's maximum speed.

Civé always enjoyed this part of the elaborate dance that was naval combat. While it was true that she was strapped into a tight metal ball that was literally made up of the bare minimum number of parts that were required to fly through space, she was still having the time of her life. To her, the craft responded to her thoughts rather than her physical movements.

Spiraling up again, she directed the starship's reserve energy into the engines and felt the speed of her vessel skyrocket. The lights dimmed and then ultimately switched to the low red light of the emergency power generators as the warning lights went off on her console. The mph gauge showed her accelerating from 100 mph to just under 120 mph—that speed was both illegal outside of the armed forces and considered a highly dangerous speed for such a lightly armored ship.

A warning klaxon went off behind her helmeted head alerting her to her persuader's continued presence of her seven 'o clock. Banking hard, Civé dove at an awkward angle again as she once more tried to lose the ship on her tail.

Luck would seem to be on her side, as the klaxon slowly died off as the ship above her vanished from her radar. Apparently its pilot could not keep up with her superb flying skills.

The twin P-S4 ion engines groaned as the tie continued to maneuver like it was a planetary-based 'hopper until its pilot suddenly realized she was literally flying into a trap.

"Gotcha!" Major Navisha Zola cried out over the ship-to-ship com system as her fighter came down upon Captain Rashon's. The tie unleashed a barrage of invisible ray bursts that effectively blew off Civé's right wing. Her craft spiraled through the blackness of space for a considerable time until Major Zola unlocked the training program restrictions inside the computer console.

As if the switch of life had been switched, the tie suddenly began to correct its descent and Civé was able to redirect her starship towards Zola's.

"I would have had you earlier if you hadn't broken all of those regs," Zola informed her over the radio as the two linked up in the depths of space before turning together and flying in formation towards the Imperial Star Destroyer Asylum.

"I have no idea what you're referring to ma'am," Captain Rashon said with a slight smirk on her face as their ships came closer to the destroyer and its hanger bay.

"I'm serious Civ," Zola said softly, "you fly like that and you could get yourself killed one day."

"Noted commander," Civé responded, touched, as her tie banked up towards the underbelly of the Asylum. The Imperial destroyer's bay shielding dropped and the two ties came up and docked in the large airlock. As the shields came back up and the pilots began to power down their ships, a tech crew came in with two large transport shuttles.

The support vehicles would load the tie fighters and then transport them through the large passages of the destroyer to the nearby main hanger. The entire process was arduous and stressful for the technicians, but it was a thousand times easier than the process of trying to land in the main bay and maneuver around all of the other docked starships there.

"I'm going to catch a few winks, wake me for chow," Zola said as she walked with Civé into the mammoth of hallways that was the Aslum.

"Will do," Civé replied and the two remained silent—it was frowned upon by command to engage in social conversation in sight of the enlisted personnel—until they reached the officers' shipboard housing. They exchanged goodbyes again and headed to their private rooms, which in Civé's case was a trio of rooms that served as what she viewed as her only home.

Her quarters—the same quarters issued to all O-3s—consisted of a spacious bedroom, a tight kitchen, and a space conscious fresher. The fresher had little in the way of feminine products or any products at all. Civé was a minimalist and refused to hunt down and restock a pharmacy of healthcare products like the females from her homeworld would. The kitchen was in the same order, she mainly took her meals in the officer's mess.

The bedroom was a different story though. The floors were strewn with clothing items and what personal affects that she had were scattered around her desks and drawers as well. The bed was unkempt as well. The only reason Civé had escaped a court martial for "gross lack of military discipline" was that Zola never inspected her room.

Sighing, Civé slipped out of her uniform—adding to the pile on the floor—and headed towards the fresher.

She had come into the Corps from Cardia, the bastion world of Imperial discipline and loyalty. Her family was well connected with the local government and when heiress Rashon had stated she wanted to commission into the Stormtrooper Corps—as opposed to the Army or Navy—her father had all but disowned her. The only reason that he hadn't was that the Empire had been in a desperate need of pilots at the time. Civé's above average scores and "modest donation" of funds to the Empire had seen her put into a fighter cockpit.

The only problem with that was that Civé was not as disciplined as she should have been. Being a woman made it worse; any mistake she made was instantly amplified to an exaggerated level. Captain Rashon had gone up and down the officer level one board on more than one occasion.

Major Zola, on the other hand, had commissioned by direct appointment from Coruscant. She had proven to be a truly superb fighter pilot as well. Her desire for order and her strong loyalty had seen her promptly promoted through the Corps.

Some said the only reason she wasn't a commander at this point was that she kept denying the promotion until Civé was capable of taking over the 5th Tie Wing. In reality, it was because command refused to see a woman placed that highly on the organizational table.

Finishing her shower, Civé grabbed a dark towel off the rack and dried off before securing a second towel in her hair. Moving slowly through her messy room, the pilot found a fresh uniform and laid it out on her bed. She then went and sat down at her desk and checked her computer for any recent mail.

Her father had yet to respond to any of her holos.

Sighing, she sat up and began to get dressed in her uniform, along with the station pin and code cylinders and other equipment that an Imperial officer had to wear. Intending to head to the ships datalibrary for a quiet period of relaxation before the evening meal, Captain Rashon had just opened her doors when the klaxon went off.

"All hands, battle stations!"

Mother of the Emperor...

Civé sprinted down the corridor and out into the main hallways of the ship's central structure. The entire passageway was jammed with personnel trying to reach their stations and because of this it took Civé far longer than she would have liked to reach the hanger bay.

"Captain, I trust you enjoyed your downtime!" Major Zola snapped from her spot by her tie. The commander of the fifth was suited up and waiting for the pilot hatch to open so that she could board her vessel.

"Yes ma'am!"

"Then I suggest you board your vessel, we have hostiles!"

Civé was almost to her tie—which was next to Zola's and marked with the identifier AS-05-2—when the ship shuddered as the heavy turbolaser batteries began to fire. That meant there was something out there that the ship felt threatened by.

Great.

"Fifth Flight, this is Five One," Major Zola said over the coms as Civé slid into her cockpit and began to warm up her systems, "I want a fight check, over."

"Five Four, hot."

"Five Three, hot."

"Five Five, hot."

Civé was late and she knew it, once her systems all read green in the thinly lit interior of her fighter she hit the com button, "Five Two, hot."

"Five Six, hot."

"Five Seven, hot."

"Five Eight, hot."

"Five Nine, hot."

"Five Ten, hot."

"Five Eleven, hot."

"Five Twelve, hot."

"Fifth Flight, dust off and lets go hunting."

The wine of ion engines could be heard all over the hanger as dozens of tie fighters and bombers began to lift off into the upper levels of the bay. Below them, Stormtroopers were forming up by rank and unit to board shuttles that would let them board whatever it was the destroyer had come across.

It's gotta be big to need those jarheads...

The starships began to fly out of the hanger by squadron and designation. The expendable fighters went first, followed by the bombers, and then ultimately the transports. After the third squadron had sailed out, the Fifth was right behind it.

Holy Force...

A pair of large starships were floating just off the bow of the Asylum. They were coated in weapons and a massive black ball surrounded by sun rays was painted onto the hulls of both ships. Surrounding them were clouds of Starviper Assault Craft.

Black Sun's attacking an Imperial man-of-war?

A loud beep drew Civé attention to her console, which showed her the current plan of battle and the operation order for the Fifth. Zola got on the comline a few seconds later and confirmed the orders before ordering her squadron into action.

The ties accelerated to 85 mph—attack speed—before breaking off into their separate attack groups. Zola led two fighters down one trajectory, while Civé, Five Three, and Five Four led their own trio of ties into the laser fire filled fray.

The blackness of space was intermixed with clouds of Tie Fighters and swarms of Starvipers. The smaller, eyeball resembling craft were more numerous, but they were not as fast or as powerful as the vipers. The golden X-shaped vessels tore apart numerous ties—though several of their own number became clouds of hot ionized gas as well.

Civé was fighting for her life as she maneuvered around the battlefield—Five Seven had just gone down and Five Eight was having trouble staying on her flank as they maneuvered—trying to take down as many vipers as she could.

Seeing an opportunity, she dove right—Five Eight staying loyally behind her—and locked onto a viper that was just about to complete a full 360 degree spin. The viper came out of the spin with its guns pointed straight at Civé's tie, but the pilot was too stunned to pull the trigger.

Screaming, Captian Rashon jammed her thumbs down on her controls fire pins and watched as green laser energy spat out from her cannons and blew the starcraft into a billion heated bits. Behind her, Five Eight broke off to avoid oncoming enemy fire. The laser fire brushed Civé's wing and her ship fumbled slightly, but she regained control in time to dive after the viper now chasing down Five Eight.

The viper fired off another barrage at Five Eight, this time nearly scoring a hit, before Civé locked onto the ship and sent it a healthy dosage of laser energy as well. The viper exploded colorfully and Civé linked back up with Five Eight. The two fighters then preformed a 280 degree spiral turn back towards the main action.

Laser fire streaked in every direction and explosions seemingly blossomed wherever free space existed. The two heavy duty frigates—Gozanti Cruisers—were in the middle of it all and they seemed the worse for wear too. Smoke and oxygen seemed to be leaking out everywhere while what few on board weapons that remained operable continued to spew out laser fire. A lucky turbolaser round from the Asylum hit the leftmost frigate in the center and the entire starship cracked in half in a brilliant flash of heat and light.

The effect was almost instantaneous; the few remaining vipers began to pull back towards the now sole frigate as anti-fighter weaponry picked up in an attempt to divert Imperial pursuers.

A fresh beep popped up on Civé's console and she saw that the Imperial naval forces were being withdrawn back to the Asylum. This struck her as odd, but like her fellow pilots she obeyed without question. The tattered remains of the Fifth were almost to the docking bay when they saw—rather than felt—a massive bloom of heat radiate outwards from the remaining frigate. The vessel of war slowed to a stop before completely detonating into several dozen chunks of heated metal and ion fumes.

The Stormtroopers must be proud of that little trick...

Cive looked away from the carnage just in time to see a new notice on her board. They were being sent back in to mop up.

Here we go.

The Fifth reformed and began to fly towards the debris field that had once been a Black Sun fleet. There was maybe half a dozen fighters still operable, but only three or four looked like they could fight. Looking around, she saw that they had lost four ties—a fourth of the unit—and orders came out over the console dictating the new order of battle.

As the squadron broke into three groups of three, Civé felt at ease. The vipers turned towards them and laser fire once again lit up the darkness of space.